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Midnight musings: Spring break

 

JO ANN KIRKLAND
JO ANN KIRKLAND

If you’re not doing anything this weekend, why not head down to Virginia Beach for the annual descent of 40,000 college kids? For two weekends in April, there’s a bacchanal of frat boys and Girls Gone Wild, lorded over by the 20-foot stone statue of Neptune, god of the Atlantic Avenue boardwalk.

Maybe that’s not your idea of a vacation.

It wasn’t ours either, which is why we hit the beach a month and a half ahead of the season. Our son attends college in Richmond, Virginia, so we decided to piggy-back onto his spring break at the beginning of March and go to Virginia Beach.

Our vacation began as soon as we left the gray sandy snow piles of the Island. It took us 422 miles to drive to spring. When we stopped at the Russell Stover candy factory in Caroline County, Virginia, there was no snow. Anywhere. Not even in the shade.

We pulled into Richmond, picked up our son and headed south. Our hotel room overlooked the ocean and the boardwalk. We were seven floors up, giving us a bird’s eye view of the constant happenings down below. Runners, walkers, little kids learning to roller skate or ride a scooter, a tiny boy and his mother, blowing bubbles.

The only frat boys we saw were far down the beach, tossing a football and staging their own Polar Plunge in the 45-degree water. “Dudes, my whole body went numb when I hit the water. Total brain freeze,” one guy shouted as he emerged from the water, a hotel towel draped over his shoulders.

Every morning, we woke up to watch the sunrise. I lay in bed, letting the sun shine on my face, dozing, my mind floating. No work, no laundry, no bills. I was as blissed-out as a cat in a patch of sun. Still awake at 1 a.m., while everyone else slept, I listened to music and watched the full moon as it shone on the glassy surface of the waves. I tried to capture that feeling of calm, as if I could bottle it and open it at home, letting it swallow up a stressful day.

Most days, the air temperature was a damp 55 degrees. We didn’t care. We wore fleece and sweatshirts as we walked along the boardwalk, liberated from the down jackets we’d worn all winter.

In every store and restaurant, people complained about cabin fever from the rough winter and its unseasonable cold. They’d had two inches of snow the week before that melted the next day.

Because our hotel had a kitchenette, we didn’t have to eat out every meal. Good thing too, as most of the food seemed to consist of “hangover food.” Burger King and pizzas with free delivery after midnight.

The first night we steamed Alaskan king crab legs and ate them drenched in butter. Another night we ate someone else’s pizza. My son and husband had studied the menu from California Pizza Kitchen and decided on an exotic-sounding penne à la vodka pie.

What we got was a pizza topped with barbecued chicken and cubed canned pineapple. We ate it anyway, hoping the other person liked our choice.

When we ate out, we ordered fresh fish since we were so close to the water. It was disappointing — deep-fried or broiled and finished with a sprinkle of 1950’s style paprika.

Our most memorable meal was the last night we were there. Following the advice of a shop owner, we walked next door and reserved three freshly caught lobsters for that night. The place wasn’t big on atmosphere but the $14.95 dinner couldn’t be beat.

Virginia Beach has a funky vibe, maybe because it’s home to the Edgar Cayce Association for Research and Enlightenment. Dr. Cayce is considered to be the forefather of holistic medicine and mind/body healing in the 1920s. He introduced colonics — a colon cleanse that involves rushing water — you can imagine the rest. A friend suggested we visit and joked that maybe I’d want to try that. I declined, but decided to get a foot reflexology massage.

In the pink glow of a Himalayan salt lamp, the therapist blessed my feet, rubbed Palma Christie oil and massaged them, describing each point on the foot that corresponded to a part of the body. When I stood up afterwards, my whole body felt infused with light.

After my massage, I went to the Visitor Center and bookstore. I looked at tarot cards, crystals and a purple and blue mandala that was supposed to help with communication — what writer doesn’t need help with that?

I read the flyers for the psychic fair the following weekend. You could have your aura read, dreams interpreted, your chakras aligned, you could communicate with deceased relatives in a psychic reading.

The entire time I was at the Institute, I vacillated between feeling a strong sense of spirituality and “Drink the Kool-Aid.” A skeptic believer.

As every vacation must, ours came to an end. We took a family photo in front of King Neptune and walked once more on the boardwalk as we headed to our car. As I turned my back on the ocean, I had to drag myself away, trying to break its force field.

After we dropped our son back in Richmond, we began the long trek home. Our euphoric vacation bubble burst somewhere around Newark, Delaware. We hit heavy rain with its blinding road wash, bumper to bumper traffic, heavy fog and potholes big enough to swallow our car.

Two unexpected acts of kindness buffered our return trip.

We pulled into a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike, the last stop for cheap gas. I was driving, feeling shaky and exhausted, my eyes gritty from peering out the steamed windshield. We waited in a long line. As we pulled up to the tanks, an older man, his name tag read “Fuzzy,” greeted us, “How is the happy New York couple on this fine day?” Without a trace of irony.

Rain streamed off the hood of his yellow slicker but he didn’t seem to notice. He chatted as he filled the tank. He must have noticed our Shelter Island beach sticker because as he twisted the gas cap back on, he said, “Have a safe and lovely drive back to Shelter Island!” I smiled as I tipped him and pulled away. Fuzzy, I hope they realize they’re lucky to have you.

More traffic, more rain and fog as we drove through Staten Island, the Belt and Southern State parkways, causing enough aggravation to bring any driver to her knees.

One hundred miles later, I stumbled out of the car at our next stop, a diner in Bellport off Sunrise Highway. Feeling like road kill, I walked through the crowded restaurant to the takeout counter and asked the waitress if she had any soup to go. No time to linger — I wanted to be home now. She took one look at my face and suggested home-style chicken soup. “I can put extra noodles in if you want,” she added. I nodded gratefully.

As she handed me the quart of steaming soup and packages of saltines, she patted my hand. “Here you go, honey. I hope you feel better.” I opened the soup in the car and gulped down a couple of mouthfuls.

Nothing could have tasted better.

When we returned to the Island, the rain was turning to snow, but our driveway was clear for the first time in two months. Our two cats greeted us at the door and then snubbed us for leaving them.

As I unpacked my tarot cards and mandala, I realized I’d brought a little serenity home with me after all.