September Gratitude by Barbara Quinn

Summer is drawing to a close here at the shore. The ocean is still warm and inviting and I would like that to linger, though I know it cannot. This is the time of year when the tourists no longer throng the beaches and restaurants. We shift back to being a sleepy beachside community. The economy needs the tourists, I understand that, and people need vacations so they flock here to have a good time. During the season I enjoy seeing the happy families enjoy the boardwalk and waves. And I appreciate how lucky I am to be here at the ocean all year round. I also appreciate how most people who live and visit here do take care of the place and keep it special for all.

There is another side to being grateful at this time of year. It's is not the usual way to be grateful, but I have to admit I am thankful when the disrespectful folks, the ones who grate like sand in your bathing suit, disappear. There is a local derogatory term for these tourists: “benny”. Some say that comes from Bayonne, Elizabeth, Newark, and New York, the places most likely to visit this area of the Jersey shore. These are the people who leave behind plastic bottles and litter when there are trash cans right on the beach, and the people who play their radios too loud, who bring large coolers with lots of illegal alcohol, who kick sand onto you when they pass, and most dangerously, the ones who are oblivious to the fact that they and their children must swim in lifeguarded areas or risk drowning in a riptide. I found a seagull chomping on a condom one morning.

Next week the tourists will be gone for the season. So will the lifeguards. I will swim wherever I wish without shrill lifeguard whistles piercing the air. The ocean's rumble and gulls cawing will be the predominant sound. I will go back to my favorite restaurants even on weekends, and chat with the staff again. The pace will slow everywhere. The underlying hint of fall with its cooler air and rustling leaves heralds the passing of another season. September is still warm and lovely, and oh so empty here at the shore. And for that I am slightly sad, but oh so grateful!

Slowing Down Mid-day by Barbara Quinn

In Sicily they still shut down mid-day for about a 4 hour break. Other than restaurants and bars everyone is at home enjoying themselves between the hours of 12 or 1 to 4 or 4:30. Then it’s back to work again till 8 PM. That means there are four rush hours. Outside the big cities it’s not very crowded and the tiny roads are able to handle the rush home. How wonderful to be able to be with your family mid-day for a meal, a nap, and a little love. Life has a different rhythm. The dinner hour often begins at 10 PM and afterwards there is a “passeggiata” – a walk around the town square or along the ocean where all ages take a healthy, long stroll. I enjoyed joining the crowd walking along, studying the shoes which are the best giveaway to nationality. (We left the sneakers and baseball caps at home!)

As tourists, the mid-day hours were a good time to take a drive out to the countryside. We drove past shuttered shops and were often the only car in remote villages. Even the gas stations were closed. Luckily some of them have machines that will take your cash and allow you to fill up. One day we put in more money than we needed. The machine spit out a piece of paper that we stared at. A young boy on a bike came over. Eventually we understood that he wanted to help us out. He took the receipt to a closed shop where he knew the owner and returned with our cash. We were more than happy to reward him with a tip. Then we headed off to a local bar for an espresso and a chat with the few locals who were hanging out.

It’s fascinating to see how different cultures approach life and to learn that there are many ways to fill the twenty-four hours of each day. We commute too long and far to adopt this lifestyle in the States. Could you imagine the local mall shutting down between 12 and 4? But what a thrill and pleasure it was to be a part of it for a short time.

Save me from the Touridiots by Kat Magendie

I’m not feeling very grateful right now. In fact, I’m feeling irritated and annoyed. With spring break near, it is time for visitors to our mountain. Some have already arrived, including the people above us, who have left their dog on their deck while they go touring. The dog hasn’t stopped yelping for almost two hours now; and who knows how long the tourists will be away, either oblivious, or uncaring, of what their visit has brought to our quiet little cove. I stomp about my little log house. I turn up the television (so that while I am writing this, Rachael Ray is also yapping excitedly right along with the dog). I try to tune it out, but doggie only becomes more frenzied, as no one is there to let it know it hasn’t been left for good.

“Touridiot,” I mutter. I’ve meanly named the people who visit our beautiful mountains and disrespect it, and us. The touridiots who decided to hold a screaming drunken party at two in the morning. The touridiots who threw their fast food empties along the road. The touridiots who left a bulging sack of garbage by the side of the road, too lazy to take it to the nearby garbage disposal site. The touridiots who shot firecrackers during a drought, and even onto our neighbor’s roof.

I grit my teeth. I grind out, “Tourists go home!”

I take a deep breath. I was once a tourist to Western North Carolina. A good tourist, a reverential one, a respectful one. Good tourists do exist: The phantom bagpipe player whose mournful sound filters through the mountain mists and calls to that part of me who is Scottish. The young men who played their acoustic guitars while singing with lilting voices. The family with children, who I heard laughing and playing while building a little fort by the creek; what nostalgia to remember my fort-building days. The older couple who waved to us, the happiness evident on their faces; joy and reverence. I feel calmer. Funny thing, just as I wrote those positive things, the dog has stopped—this isn’t a metaphor or analogy or “moral ending,” the dog really has stopped right at the moment I wrote: I feel calmer. I decide to be grateful while it lasts. The family will return. The dog will calm. All will be as it was, or how it will be when it isn't; either way, I live in paradise. Yes, I do. Ahhhh.