July 25th -- The Scene
So, the bed is a little hard and our backs ache, but otherwise we slept like mad in the darkest and most silent place we can ever remember being. Our first order of grumbly-tummy business is grocery shopping -- we head on into "town".
The town of Speculator is a collection of tourist-oriented shops and necessities, sometimes disguised as homes: post office, grocery, laundry, library, liquor store, gas station; there is a golf course across the street from the police station. Several small churches that look as if they sprung to life from the drawings of children. There once was a movie theater in what looked like an old saloon, but it's recently been converted into a "seafood buffet". Speculator also boasts three inn-style restaurants, a chinese carry-out, a soft-serve ice cream shop, pizza shoppe, and something called a "department store'. I've been to speculator roughly six times -- I have never had a reason to enter the "department store". A large portion of their inventory, visible from the windows, are of country kitch curiosity, which is not without it's charm, I'm sure. Michael defends it... apparently it is THE place for snowshoes and jigsaw puzzles. However, I'm here primarily to avoid two things: people, and stuff. And outwardly, it appears to be a clusterfuck of both.
All in all, Speculator is less of a tourist trap, more a place of minor tourist enablement. I get the vibe that the residents here could take or leave us, pleasantly tolerating our comings and goings, and would be here even if we weren't. And this I find honest and appealing.
We visit the grocery, purchasing things we should have, and things we shouldn't, because fuck it, we're vacationing. Green peppers, double-stuf mint oreos. Milk, big family bag of Doritos. We buy white bread for the first time in ten years, rationalizing that it was fresh-baked that day in the store, and you have to slice it yourself. And it really was fuckin' awesome.
We decide not to get beer... a family member left us some Corona in the fridge, which we hate and secretly know we won't drink, but it's free. In search of whiskey we drop by the liquor store, which I love. It's the size and color of a tool shed, and neatly crammed full with everything alcohol -- no room for pesky ads or meddlesome snacks. The place smells of cigarettes, and the counter is literally lost in the crates upon crates of very serious looking bottles. The proprietor is a woman who appears to be in her sixties. She is helpful, and clearly can't wait to be left alone. Her voice is rough, her shirt is pink. There is classical music playing from somewhere. We buy the smallest bottle of Jameson she has and leaver her to her smoking solitude. As we leave, I notice what is probably her home, located behind the store. It made me wonder about her story... I couldn't place her accent or gain any clues to her early life... but how cool it must be to retire out here, with a toolshed-sized liquor store by a lake, a boombox full of Mozart or Shostakovitch or whatever, and a case of beer on the porch.
We return to the house for turkey sandwiches and Doritos. It is days before I remember that I am allergic to Doritos. Michael is studying some sheet music, trying to apply it to concertina. I read B. Ruby Rich, marveling at how little the art world seems to change. This leads to a heady discussion, in which I bulldoze Michael on issues of capitalism and cultural production, while he avoids getting trampled -- it's really not fair of me. But ask I must, because that is what I do, and that's what I'm here to try and remember.
It's time for a walk -- we head out to Russian Beach. I have no idea why it's called that... I always forget to ask. It's tiny and private, and since it rained all last week, practically beachless. There isa woman down there already, sunning and reading, so we do some wading and try not to disturb her. We are joined by an army of flies, followed by a nice, nuclear family of people... so we leave.
Spaghetti for dinner on the porch that we can't get enough of. We try to have a romantic evening until I make the romantic discovery that I've started my romantic period. Nice. So, we open the oreos.
We did make three "friends" today. The first is The Monarch -- a large butterfly who hangs around the porch with us all day (or is it we who hang with him?). Another followed us home from the lake. I called her The Lavender Menace, although in truth, she is so pale purple as to be almost white. She's a dragonfly who enjoys a good dive bomb, but mostly hovers over my shoulder when I'm on the adjacent open deck. Finally, there was the large black spider with the yellow stripes we found hanging around the bed at bedtime. I captured her in a large glass and set her free outside the front door.
She was too pretty to squish. She is lucky that boys are sometimes too afraid of bugs to touch them. She is also lucky I was raised by a nice, Buddhist girl.
The town of Speculator is a collection of tourist-oriented shops and necessities, sometimes disguised as homes: post office, grocery, laundry, library, liquor store, gas station; there is a golf course across the street from the police station. Several small churches that look as if they sprung to life from the drawings of children. There once was a movie theater in what looked like an old saloon, but it's recently been converted into a "seafood buffet". Speculator also boasts three inn-style restaurants, a chinese carry-out, a soft-serve ice cream shop, pizza shoppe, and something called a "department store'. I've been to speculator roughly six times -- I have never had a reason to enter the "department store". A large portion of their inventory, visible from the windows, are of country kitch curiosity, which is not without it's charm, I'm sure. Michael defends it... apparently it is THE place for snowshoes and jigsaw puzzles. However, I'm here primarily to avoid two things: people, and stuff. And outwardly, it appears to be a clusterfuck of both.
All in all, Speculator is less of a tourist trap, more a place of minor tourist enablement. I get the vibe that the residents here could take or leave us, pleasantly tolerating our comings and goings, and would be here even if we weren't. And this I find honest and appealing.
We visit the grocery, purchasing things we should have, and things we shouldn't, because fuck it, we're vacationing. Green peppers, double-stuf mint oreos. Milk, big family bag of Doritos. We buy white bread for the first time in ten years, rationalizing that it was fresh-baked that day in the store, and you have to slice it yourself. And it really was fuckin' awesome.
We decide not to get beer... a family member left us some Corona in the fridge, which we hate and secretly know we won't drink, but it's free. In search of whiskey we drop by the liquor store, which I love. It's the size and color of a tool shed, and neatly crammed full with everything alcohol -- no room for pesky ads or meddlesome snacks. The place smells of cigarettes, and the counter is literally lost in the crates upon crates of very serious looking bottles. The proprietor is a woman who appears to be in her sixties. She is helpful, and clearly can't wait to be left alone. Her voice is rough, her shirt is pink. There is classical music playing from somewhere. We buy the smallest bottle of Jameson she has and leaver her to her smoking solitude. As we leave, I notice what is probably her home, located behind the store. It made me wonder about her story... I couldn't place her accent or gain any clues to her early life... but how cool it must be to retire out here, with a toolshed-sized liquor store by a lake, a boombox full of Mozart or Shostakovitch or whatever, and a case of beer on the porch.
We return to the house for turkey sandwiches and Doritos. It is days before I remember that I am allergic to Doritos. Michael is studying some sheet music, trying to apply it to concertina. I read B. Ruby Rich, marveling at how little the art world seems to change. This leads to a heady discussion, in which I bulldoze Michael on issues of capitalism and cultural production, while he avoids getting trampled -- it's really not fair of me. But ask I must, because that is what I do, and that's what I'm here to try and remember.
It's time for a walk -- we head out to Russian Beach. I have no idea why it's called that... I always forget to ask. It's tiny and private, and since it rained all last week, practically beachless. There isa woman down there already, sunning and reading, so we do some wading and try not to disturb her. We are joined by an army of flies, followed by a nice, nuclear family of people... so we leave.
Spaghetti for dinner on the porch that we can't get enough of. We try to have a romantic evening until I make the romantic discovery that I've started my romantic period. Nice. So, we open the oreos.
We did make three "friends" today. The first is The Monarch -- a large butterfly who hangs around the porch with us all day (or is it we who hang with him?). Another followed us home from the lake. I called her The Lavender Menace, although in truth, she is so pale purple as to be almost white. She's a dragonfly who enjoys a good dive bomb, but mostly hovers over my shoulder when I'm on the adjacent open deck. Finally, there was the large black spider with the yellow stripes we found hanging around the bed at bedtime. I captured her in a large glass and set her free outside the front door.
She was too pretty to squish. She is lucky that boys are sometimes too afraid of bugs to touch them. She is also lucky I was raised by a nice, Buddhist girl.