Mystical Lands

It was 10:45 p.m. and I was atthe only place that any lover of cheap drinks, beach-front dive bars, and mellow reggae vibes should be on a Tuesday night: the Ocean Mist.  I had come to know Matunuck’s shack of a watering hole throughout my four year s of college. 

But standing there, at 10:45 p.m., in a line that curled down the sandy street and with an entire uber-tanned, stilletoed sorority at my back, I felt that the Ocean Mist that I had known and loved had changed. 

My freshman year, I had discovered Matunuck, Rhode Island for the first time.  It was a far-away, magically misty land compared the well-worn roads of Narragansett and South Kingstown.  Growing up in RI, the place had never even registered on my geographical radar.

Back in 2007, the seaside houses were abandoned by the summer, while only the die-hard locals remained.  There was a small contingency of URI students who inhabited the area, adopting the flannel-clad, Sea View sandwich-eating local status.  They road skateboards barefoot and frequented the Joyce Family Pub, along with an old, mainly toothless truly local crowd.

The Ocean Mist was an under-age freshman’s haven.  A place where you could slip in unnoticed and use your aunt’s ID as long as you bought the beer of the month and became a wing-night regular.  It was an ideal hangover breakfast spot, as long as you didn’t look around enough to notice the stapled walls and exposed wires (questionable at best).

By my sophomore year, it was still a hidden oasis, far from Bon Vue, where the view at night was far from good, and Charlie O’s, where people love to stand on chairs and sing “Sweet Caroline.”  However, the word began to spread and Tuesday nights became more and more of a late night destination.

By the spring of 2009, you could no longer saunter in with your friend’s scratched out student ID.  There were bouncers!  At the front and back doors!  What was this officiality?  I remember trying to climb up the high beach-side deck, but to no avail.  A legendary few had succeeded, but it was not for the faint of heart.

Flash forward to the spring of 2011 and if you get to the Ocean Mist’s wooden stairs just a moment too late, there is a serious danger that you will have to wait in line for upwards of 30 minutes. 

The more imminent danger, though, I felt this past Tuesday: after forgetting something in his car, my friend was nearly clawed by the acrylic nails of one of the high-heeled, belly-shirted J Wow look-alikes that have gotten word of a new place other than Bon Vue to bump and grind. 

As my group of friends was verbally berated in accents that rivaled Janice on “Friends,” we reminisced about the good ol’e days when the dance floor was filled with drug-rugs and the random guy who sold you a car once. 

I had the distinct feeling that my best friend in high school had sold out for the cool crowd ala Patrick Dempsey in “Can’t Buy Me Love.”

 Ocean Mist, I have fond memories of you, but now it’s just too crowded to use my two tickets and bust out my signature dance moves.

My mom's side of the family is from Italy.  I grew up with the mantra, "food is love!" (This did not well for me, the domestically inept.  I could not give love, but I could ingest it).  Cannolis were painstakingly filled with delicious cream.  Pasta was rolled out and sliced carefully, pinched together by loving hands.  Holiday meals were taken at a makeshift table that stretched so far, Nana appeared to be a small child.

When I moved to Florence last fall, I embraced the time taken to prepare food, and more significantly, to eat it.  If I was running through a piazza, late to class, someone (as if cued by the Italian gods) would stop me.  Piano, piano they would say, gesturing for me to slow my place.  Everything was beautifully glacial and deliberate.  They took time to smell a beautiful leather bag or choose which cheese to put on a panini.  These things matter.

One night my roommates and I were at a beautiful outdoor club on the Arno River with our new-found local friends.  Heels were worn down, feet were on the verge of collapse, and the only sustenance had been the strawberries in our champagne.  At 4 a.m. the place had no sign of slowing down.  Even the 70-year-old men were still shaking their soon-to-be-arthritic hips.  After complaints from us Americans, our entourage said they would bring us for food.  Expecting a nice slice of pizza and a seriously large botiglia di aqua, we followed ravenously.

Piling into cars, we zigged and zagged around Florence, passing one pizza place after another.  Finally we arrived.

"McDonald's!" they said as if they had discovered the Statue of Liberty holding an apple pie in the heart of the city.

It was at the wee hours of the morning in a country known for its cuisine, that I had my first Big Mac.  And let me tell you, that thing was damn good.  We walked out of the restaurant, to see a small cart roll up with the day's order of fresh vegetables.  And that is why I have never tried a Big Mac in the U.S.

I find it oddly refreshing to know that when I hit up the local late-night pizza joint on Thames St. in Newport, Rhode Island, that my Italian friends are getting a little American culture after their own night of debauchery.

Parisian Psycho

One of my most vivid/terrifying/later hilarious experiences during my travels was on a night train from middle-of-nowhere Switzerland to Paris with my roommate.  The midnight trip disastrously begun when train officials could not find our reservations on the full train.  After begging to sit up in the dining car, they let us on with another (seemingly crazy) woman who was ranting about the flaws of French government.  After a day of skiing ungroomed trails on the Swiss Alps, we were both about to collapse.  

In short, the conductor threatened to kick us off the train at the next stop, the crazy lady found us empty bunks to sleep in, we made it to Paris, and ran off the train with train officials dashing after us screaming in French.  

The crazy lady asked to take pictures of me for a documentary she was making about colors that was being made in Hollywood by Martin Scorcese.  I said no, and went to look for a croissant.

Movie Theater with couches? Yes, please.

Slalom around hunched RISD students, weighed down by canvases and creativity, and make your way to the striped awning of the Cable Car Cinema on South Main Street, Providence.  The tiny store-front lacks the pomp and circumstance of a 20 screen multiplex, as well as the main-stream movies, and the teenagers giggling at the latest Katherine Heigl catastrophe.

The cinematic treasure trove offers unusual films in an unusual setting. Enter the cafe area to find every indulgence you could possibly imagine...Vosges chocolates, Silver Star Bakery croissants, PB&J, fresh squash soup, grilled cheese.  The mind reels!  No need to ruin your handbag sneaking in last nights pasta or a Starbucks latte.  The Cable Car Cafe runs the gamut of fancy coffees AND beer and wine.

The black and white checkered floor gives a retro vibe, as does the large texaco sign above the tables and chairs in the little dining area.  One might even divulge in some reading (nonchalantly perched on a book rack) while waiting for a flick to begin.

The Cable Car has been dedicated to quality obscure films since 1976.  It shows films that will give you the conversational edge in the realm of art, culture, and existentialism.  The coolest part?  Sinking into the black leather couches with your Brooklyn Lager in the cup holder.  Grab an early seat and check out the murals - 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea meets the Wizard of Oz? - you decide.

The Avon Theater...Providence, RI

"There is no geographical solution to an emotional problem," my friend told me as we drove off of the URI campus and headed east toward the towers.  "You know who said that," he asked.  "Tony Soprano."

I mulled this over, and as it did at first seem profound in a simple and slightly rhyming way, my mind gradually came to reject it.  I did support that this bold statement could be true for the brokenhearted.  Whether a broken heart resides in the frozen tundra, or basks on under an equatorial sun, it will not be mended based on its longitude and latitude.  However, in the past year, I have learned that my emotional problems are, in fact, in direct correlation to my geography...

This very day, I had woken up in my oversized colonial in the suburbs of Narragansett, Rhode Island.  While many people (especially middle-aged house wives) would leap out of bed everyday to cook breakfast in my brand-new granite counter-topped kitchen, the quiet drives my mind into a frenzy.

Where my suburban environment induces feeling of boredom and depression, it takes only a drive to Providence to elevate spirits and renew inspirations.

"I need cities," I told my friend.

"They are like drugs," he said.  "You keep going back for a fix."

"Well, Tony, I do have a geographical solution to my emotional problem." I said.  Ha!"

Tyson grabbed an old record company flyer that was plastered to the floor of my car and wrote down the Tony's saying.  Writers always carry pens.  Each writer has their own tick - the mid-sentence chew, the finger twirl, and then there's always the nervous tap.

Our Monday evening destination was the Avon Theater on East Providence's Thayer Street.  The old single-screen movie theater is just a stone's throw from the coffee snob's haven of Blue State cafe and the Providence youngster's uniform shop - Urban Outfitters.

As we slipped, glided, and slid our way from the car, Rhett Butler, Marilyn Monroe, and a few of their friends gazed down at us in black and white from the brick side of the building.  Inside, the price is written in white on a small black sign that sits on the counter.  The $9.50 admission did not cause grumbles from patrons, as it does at huge cinema multi-plexes.  Perhaps this is because the Avon takes a movie and makes it into a nostalgic viewing experience - complete with old-fashioned tickets (the kind that come in huge rolls and are still used for raffles) and glass coke bottles.

The theater itself boasts red velvet seats, a shade or two brighter than the curtain on the stage.  Pre-show piano music invites you to sit down and take in the surrounding conversations.  The exquisitely miss-matched couple behind us discussed their favorite Jane Austen and J.R.R. Tolkien novels, girl and boy respectively.

Before the feature began, dancing popcorn cartons appeared on the screen, singing that "the popcorn can't be beat, so let's all go to the lobby to get yourself a treat!"  There was a slight shakiness to the picture to remind you that this place does not embrace the modernity of most theaters.  We sat back against the plush velvet, and enjoyed The King's Speech.  I would go into the wonderfully endearing and inspiring film, but that's for another time...