Martha’s Vineyard is supposed to be a place of peace, a little oasis of calm where you can rest and relax and get away from it all. You will go to sleep at night enveloped in the comforting silence of the island forests and wake in the morning to the sound of gleeful songbirds. Unless you are awakened shortly after sunrise by this:
“Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw!”
“Caw! Caw!”
“Caw! Caw! Caw!”
“Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw!”
Repeated ad nauseum for the better part of an hour.
Outside my window yesterday morning a band of crows had congregated to do whatever it is that crows do at 6 a.m. Apparently, they like to gather atop phone lines and exchange gossip or engage in a political debate or some other activity that involves non-stop, back-and-forth “Caw”-ing.
These were not ordinary crows, either. They were the largest, fattest crows you have ever seen in your life, the kind that probably run in packs and beat up scarecrows for cheap thrills. When they startled me from my slumber, I wished I had a BB gun; when I got a closer look at them, I realized these crows may very well eat buckshot the way we snack on M&Ms backstage at the Playhouse.
I looked out at one that had thoughtfully perched himself directly in front of my bedroom window, so that I wouldn’t miss a single word of his side of the conversation. He looked directly at me and didn’t move a muscle. Since I didn’t want to wake up the rest of the house by screaming at him, I merely scowled and waved my arms in a gesture that was meant to be menacing. He sat perfectly still. Then he deposited a glob of gooey crow poop on the front lawn.
So began a strange day.
After spending the morning helping out at WMVY, which is always a pleasure, I decided to go swimming at Mansion House. Unfortunately, I arrived to find the pool swarming with screechy little kids and their even screechier mothers. After about five minutes of fruitlessly trying to stake out a place for myself in the pool -- it never ceases to amaze me how many of the adult “guardians” don’t even watch the children as they venture out into the deep end, smack each other with kickboards and run around the slippery tile on the edge of the pool; is “Eat, Pray, Love” really so absorbing? -- I retreated to the locker room.
Just as I had slipped out of my bathing suit, I heard the poolside door open and the sound of footsteps. Seconds later, there was one of the mothers, looking around curiously. I reached for a towel, but she was already staring at me. “Ooops!” she said, although she didn’t sound particularly surprised. “I must have gone through the wrong door!” She turned and started to walk away, but before she opened the door she called back, “It’s OK. I didn’t have my glasses on!”
Well, that doesn’t make you any less of a Peeping Thomasina, sweetie. Wasn’t the, uh, aroma of the locker room enough to tell you it might have been a masculine domain?
Clothed and disgruntled, I headed out to Che’s Lounge, the absolute best coffee place on Martha’s Vineyard, which is conveniently located on my way to the Playhouse. I ordered a black coffee to go and asked for a sprinkling of the cocoa/chili powder mix they use to spice up their drinks. The woman behind the counter grabbed the cocoa/chili container, opened it and proceeded to dump about half the bottle into my drink. A mound of cocoa/chili powder began to quickly sink into the dark depths of the coffee, like Atlantis disappearing beneath into the ocean.
“Oh my God!” the barista screamed. “I am so sorry! This thing must be broken!”
In this sort of situation, what traditionally happens next? Would you think a new black coffee would be quickly poured and served as a substitute? Yes -- and maybe those crows would have started singing the best of Gilbert and Sullivan if they’d stuck around long enough.
Instead, the barista grabbed an extra cup and began frantically trying to scoop the now-sludgy powder out of my drink, while apologizing at a rapid-fire pace. I have to say she did the best job she could have, given the circumstances.
“Taste it,” she ordered and I took a sip. It tasted like coffee with a hint of cocoa and chili powder, but it was hard to tell how strong the “hint” was since the coffee was still steaming. Since I was in a bit of a rush to get to work, I didn’t demand a new brew. And she certainly didn’t volunteer a refund.
Tasting it again a few minutes later, I realized even though the coffee itself had cooled, that chili powder was definitely lingering around. It felt as if a small heat lamp had been turned on inside my tongue. Thankfully, I was able to tone it down a bit with some of the coffee we serve to Playhouse patrons, although the concoction still cleared out my sinuses quite effectively; it was like a Mexican meal in a cardboard cup. Coffee verde.
“Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw!”
“Caw! Caw!”
“Caw! Caw! Caw!”
“Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw!”
Repeated ad nauseum for the better part of an hour.
Outside my window yesterday morning a band of crows had congregated to do whatever it is that crows do at 6 a.m. Apparently, they like to gather atop phone lines and exchange gossip or engage in a political debate or some other activity that involves non-stop, back-and-forth “Caw”-ing.
These were not ordinary crows, either. They were the largest, fattest crows you have ever seen in your life, the kind that probably run in packs and beat up scarecrows for cheap thrills. When they startled me from my slumber, I wished I had a BB gun; when I got a closer look at them, I realized these crows may very well eat buckshot the way we snack on M&Ms backstage at the Playhouse.
I looked out at one that had thoughtfully perched himself directly in front of my bedroom window, so that I wouldn’t miss a single word of his side of the conversation. He looked directly at me and didn’t move a muscle. Since I didn’t want to wake up the rest of the house by screaming at him, I merely scowled and waved my arms in a gesture that was meant to be menacing. He sat perfectly still. Then he deposited a glob of gooey crow poop on the front lawn.
So began a strange day.
After spending the morning helping out at WMVY, which is always a pleasure, I decided to go swimming at Mansion House. Unfortunately, I arrived to find the pool swarming with screechy little kids and their even screechier mothers. After about five minutes of fruitlessly trying to stake out a place for myself in the pool -- it never ceases to amaze me how many of the adult “guardians” don’t even watch the children as they venture out into the deep end, smack each other with kickboards and run around the slippery tile on the edge of the pool; is “Eat, Pray, Love” really so absorbing? -- I retreated to the locker room.
Just as I had slipped out of my bathing suit, I heard the poolside door open and the sound of footsteps. Seconds later, there was one of the mothers, looking around curiously. I reached for a towel, but she was already staring at me. “Ooops!” she said, although she didn’t sound particularly surprised. “I must have gone through the wrong door!” She turned and started to walk away, but before she opened the door she called back, “It’s OK. I didn’t have my glasses on!”
Well, that doesn’t make you any less of a Peeping Thomasina, sweetie. Wasn’t the, uh, aroma of the locker room enough to tell you it might have been a masculine domain?
Clothed and disgruntled, I headed out to Che’s Lounge, the absolute best coffee place on Martha’s Vineyard, which is conveniently located on my way to the Playhouse. I ordered a black coffee to go and asked for a sprinkling of the cocoa/chili powder mix they use to spice up their drinks. The woman behind the counter grabbed the cocoa/chili container, opened it and proceeded to dump about half the bottle into my drink. A mound of cocoa/chili powder began to quickly sink into the dark depths of the coffee, like Atlantis disappearing beneath into the ocean.
“Oh my God!” the barista screamed. “I am so sorry! This thing must be broken!”
In this sort of situation, what traditionally happens next? Would you think a new black coffee would be quickly poured and served as a substitute? Yes -- and maybe those crows would have started singing the best of Gilbert and Sullivan if they’d stuck around long enough.
Instead, the barista grabbed an extra cup and began frantically trying to scoop the now-sludgy powder out of my drink, while apologizing at a rapid-fire pace. I have to say she did the best job she could have, given the circumstances.
“Taste it,” she ordered and I took a sip. It tasted like coffee with a hint of cocoa and chili powder, but it was hard to tell how strong the “hint” was since the coffee was still steaming. Since I was in a bit of a rush to get to work, I didn’t demand a new brew. And she certainly didn’t volunteer a refund.
Tasting it again a few minutes later, I realized even though the coffee itself had cooled, that chili powder was definitely lingering around. It felt as if a small heat lamp had been turned on inside my tongue. Thankfully, I was able to tone it down a bit with some of the coffee we serve to Playhouse patrons, although the concoction still cleared out my sinuses quite effectively; it was like a Mexican meal in a cardboard cup. Coffee verde.
After the show, Christian and I took a couple of his visiting friends to Offshore Ale in Oak Bluffs, where we enjoyed a pretty amazing cheeseburger pizza (mozzarella base, topped with ground beef and a coat of aged cheddar) and several of the micro-brewery's specialties. Afterward, we found ourselves almost magnetically drawn to Back Door Donuts, which is kind of the center of the Oak Bluffs whirlpool. There's no point trying to resist: Sooner or later, you will be standing at the screen door, ordering an apple fritter the size of a placemat as a pre-bedtime snack. I'm reasonably sure it's an unwritten law.
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