Revering the beach

I celebrated the first day of summer most traditionally — I went to the beach!

Stealing a page from ruthling, I took the Blue Line up to Revere Beach (the oldest public beach in the country), and found a pleasant three-mile crescent of beach that looked like it had been airlifted in from somewhere more Midatlantic. The sand was fine and white in most spots, becoming pebbly and mica-sparkly in others; the water was too cold for swimming but perfect for wading. I spent two hours with my feet in the surf, walking up the beach and back, and while I didn't solve the plot conundrum I aimed to, I did get 80% of the way to beach bum zen. I finished with a meatball sub and a soft-serve ice cream from beachside dives. I kept having to remind myself that I lived nearby — it felt so much like I was on vacation somewhere. (It only took about 75 minutes from front door to feet-in-sand, using public transportation (including some Red Line glitches), which means I'm closer to a real beach than I thought I was.)

I saw a trio of dead guitarfish, which was about the limit of interesting fauna — I figured it was a lover's suicide pact until I spotted the third. (Could still be; who knows about guitarfish?) Little black-and-white terns bobbed like corks as the choppy waves passed beneath them. Razor clam shells littered the sand, looking like pairs of record-holding untrimmed fingernails.

( I guess I'll post a few more pix... )

Yesterday's accomplishments: I cut back the shrubbery and planted most of the garden (cherry tomatoes, basil, and parsley beside our overlarge mint from last year), ate a cupcake in the rain (chocolate with a caramel center and some kind of crunchy coffee topping, from Kickass), visited the Museum of Bad Art (really the Gallery of Bad Art, but fun, and free with admission at the Somerville Theater) & watched Indy 4 (much more enjoyable than expected, but my expectations were low).