Pizza and Calzones
Yesterday, Peter and I went to the beach. Before doing so, however, we went off on a few tangents, typical of our times together: firstly, I got up late which set us back an hour; and then Peter forgot to pack for the beach; next, we had to drop by the mall where I purchased some nifty Nautica shorts and polarized Ray Ban sunglasses (they were cheaper than I had expected!); and finally, we experienced some difficulty in locating exits and names of roadways while making our way down south.
We treated ourselves to a massive lunch at Perkins, a verily American restaurant what with its American-sized portions and uniquely American food. There we gobbled prodigious quantities of vegetables and dairy; and I topped myself off with an open top (only one slice of bread) turkey sandwich. Suffice it to say, our bellies groaned yet our mouths slyly grinned, and we were better for having feasted on such delicious victuals.
Point Pleasant Beach welcomed us with open arms, on which, if imagined as though narrow boulevards, were lined Italian restaurants as numerous as the sands on the beach. The beach itself along with its girdling boardwalk, owned and operated by some captain of industry named Jenkinson, whose moniker appeared everywhere and who, it seems, controls the land as if an autonomous fiefdom, did nothing to dispel this delightful, cultural truth; with much alacrity we investigated both the north and the south of his Italian kingdom and concluded that Jenkinson reveled not only in kitschy diversions of the carnival sort, but also in economic inefficiency as well since Peter and I so desired to obey the imposing signs declaring entrance fees, yet could find not one person who would dare to take our sweating greenbacks - there is no point in creating an information gap that doesn't need to exist; if money doesn't need to be collected, then take down the signs!
The golden sands, gleaming in a late afternoon sun, warmed our feet and tickled softly like feathers from an exuberant bird - indeed, that wasn't too far from the truth since we shared the shore with what seemed like an armada of plovers who, mysteriously, sat snuggly on the beach and stared away from the sea. In the water thankfully, humans alone were granted free reign, and for about thirty minutes, Peter and I frolicked as though we had just been released from some terrestrial prison; we simply couldn't get enough of this salty, comfortably warm water! We floated in aquatic merriment, and let the waves break on our estatic backs; and then the lifeguards blew their whistles, thus sounding the end of our joyous moments in the azure waters. It won't be too long, I hope, before my next beach outing.
While we threw the frisbee, the sun dried us and afterwards left me thirsty for beer. So we strolled down the boardwalk again until we settled on the Tiki Bar at Martells where I downed a Bass, a brand - unavailable in Hong Kong - which I hadn't drank in years and whose inveterately fruity flavor refreshed; Peter had a Sam Adams Lager; and we both eventually succumbed to the seductions of Point Pleasant pizza, each slice of which sat as large and inviting as the ocean from which we we had just come. The pizza, like the water, did not disappoint, I think.
19:30 marked the end of our alloted parking time, so I bade farewell to the shore, not knowing when I would return. Nonetheless perhaps I had enjoyed myself just enough to inspire hope, to operate the psychic mechanisms in the vicissitudes of life that will eventually lead to another round of New Jersey's most unique cultural experiences.