Another day at the beach

This follows on from It was no day at the beach part i and part ii.

I’ll skip the long and fascinating part about meeting up with Angel at the ungodly hour of 11.00 am on Sunday, and go right to… well read on and you’ll find out. You might even enjoy some of it. Don’t blame me if it doesn’t work out for you. I just write the thing.

We’d gone through exotic train stops such as Avenues N, P, U and X, but there didn’t seem to be an Avenue Q. I was sure that the puppets who perform in the Tony Award® -winning best musical of 2004 were simply creations of the show’s writers and technicians. I now take a rather different view, because there was an Avenue Q -type puppet on the boardwalk at Coney Island, performing with the assistance of his human handler. I guess he auditioned for the show and didn’t get a call-back. He needs to find a new agent, or better yet, a new handler.

As we ventured down the boardwalk, we were amazed by the number of women who were wearing high heels. It’s a surefire way of ruining a pair of shoes and getting a twisted ankle. Angel assured me he never wears high heels on the boardwalk. I regarded him and raised an eyebrow. Hmmmm.

I generally avoid sunbathing due to my decidedly Scottish complexion, so it became an urgent necessity to find sunscreen if the day was not to end in tears. Chances were of that the day would end in tears anyway, like it often does after having a ‘good lunch’, when the evening concludes with my being tired and emotional. But that’s a whole other baggage. Angel offered his lotion-of-choice, an oily substance designed to turn skin into a human version of pork scratching. It came with the warning “contains no sunscreen”. I declined.

At a Brighton Beach pharmacy we purchased what we hoped was a small bottle of high factor sunscreen, though we couldn’t be absolutely sure what it was, due to our abysmal ignorance of the Russian language and Cyrillic in particular. Lotions at the ready, we ventured forth. The beach, like real estate, is entirely location, location, location, and so we spent a goodly amount of time finding a prime spot, and made camp. Our first task was to attend to skin by applying the appropriate lotions. Angel coated himself in cooking oil.

“Shall I sprinkle you with some rosemary?” I asked helpfully. “How long do you cook for? Twenty minutes a pound?”

Angel replied, “I’m like one of those turkeys that has the little plastic thing that pops out when the bird is cooked. I’ll pop when I’m ready.”

I resisted making any comment on that, offered to baste him later, and began attending to my own sunscreen needs. I poured a small blob about the size of a quarter into my hand and started to spread it over my left leg. It seemed that that one small blob would be enough to coat my entire leg, which was now completely lotion-white. Soon my previously-exposed skin was coated in white mud. There was no way any rays were getting through that mud pack. Or so I thought. (By next morning I had second degree burns on my lower left leg.)

A handsome young Russian arrived and set up camp directly ahead of us. Thanks to cell phone technology, he was able to keep in touch with his important life off the beach, but we became concerned that his ability to communicate was interfering with our urgent need for him to dress down. After about fifteen minutes he ended his call and removed his shirt. Yummy. Just as things started to look up, his phone rang. “Will he never get off the phone?” I asked Angel. “You just want to see him in his Speedos,” he responded. “You got that right,” I conceded. Eventually the call ended and he revealed a beautiful pair of Russian legs attached to a perfect body. And, yes, he was wearing Speedos. We enjoyed the view for about five minutes, when, wouldn’t you just know, the phone rang again. Seconds later, our Russian friend with the legs and the body and all the right attachments, began dressing at high speed. He packed and went tearing off in the direction of the boardwalk. That must have been quite a phone call!

“I hope it wasn’t bad news,” said Angel.

“Bad for us,” I grunted with disappointment and applied another thick coat of white mud.

Angel rolled over and I basted him some more. He’d be ready to pop soon, I thought, and that was something that should be recorded for posterity using the digital camera that I had brought with me. I fumbled with it as the sun beat down. “I can’t see anything in this light... oh, there you are,” I said and pushed the button. Angel then tried taking a picture of me. Neither of us could figure out how to view the images. Several days later, when I downloaded the pictures, I discovered that we had actually taken video of each other, which ended we pressed the button. Duh!

Angel had told me several times that Brighton Beach was ‘Russia with a Mexican twist’. I knew exactly what he meant when we witnessed a gentleman from south of the border who had had such a ‘good lunch’ that his two companions had to support him physically in his efforts to walk from the beach. He’d also had an unfortunate accident that was evident in his crotch area. Or perhaps he’d simply spilled his drink into his lap. As the Mexicans made their way off the beach, who should come driving along in a beach buggy but two of New York’s finest. Timing is everything. Instantly, the two supporters disengaged themselves from their friend, who then struggled to stay upright. He looked as if he didn’t know which way was up. The beach buggy came to a stop and the policemen asked if there was a problem. Happily, as our Mexican friends were heading homeward, the nice policemen did not make an issue of the encounter, and the merry trio staggered off.

Time had marched on with a steadiness that our Mexican friend did not possess, so we decided to rinse, dry and refresh. Angel found a beach shower and I insisted that he go first. “Eeoww, it’s so cold!” he screamed as he sprayed water from a shower that seemed to be designed for use during a drought. Just before it was my turn, a couple of old Russian gentlemen arrived and helped me by making sure there would be a constant spray of cold water. It’s wasn’t horribly cold and it soon felt refreshing. I looked down into the sandy pool of water in which I stood. The water was white. The lotion that I had spread over my body was being diluted and had formed a white pool. No matter how much water was sprayed on me, I was still covered in white stuff, to the great amusement of my Russian helpers. After a while, I gave up and dried off because getting to a bar/restaurant was now the top priority.

As a result of careful research the previous week, we knew what was available nearby, so we decided to give Tatiana a try, if the waiting staff could give the correct answer to out first question. “Is the bar open and when does it close?” we demanded of the maitre d’. “It’s open and will stay open for as long as necessary,” she replied. We recounted our experience of the previous week at Winter Garden. The maitre d’ couldn’t believe it. Neither could we at the time.

Our waitress approached and said, “There’s a fifteen dollar per person minimum.”

“Don’t worry; we’ll be here for a while. We’ve got a lot of eating and drinking to do,” Angel assured her.

We ordered food and drinks and settled in for the rest of the afternoon, enjoying the opportunity to people watch.

“Look. More high heels,” said Angel pointing out a couple as they passed by.

“Oh, dear!” I said. “I don’t care for his girlfriend’s shoes either.”

The food was unquestionably excellent to the point that it made us thirsty, so we forced ourselves to have several more drinks. We then had no hesitation in making food recommendations to the couple at the next table who seem convinced that I was South African. White South African. Extremely white, but about to turn pink.

There were many other things that went on that I could set out here, but why bother. That’s what I’d be thinking if I were you. It’s been no picnic writing this and I can only imagine the hardship of reading it. So I’ll finish up and say that the next exciting adventure involving Mark and Angel will be about Little Italy because we’re just about to meet up and go there for some sort of thing that’s happening. That’s all I know for now. Catch you soon, dolls.

UPDATE

We didn't make it to Little Italy but will probably catch some of that culture during the week. Watch this space.