Blog 18

Summer. We drive down the parkway and take exit 80. As we go over the bridge we are stopped so a large liner can sneak beneath us. I roll down my window and a smell of salt and fish fills my car. It’s a good smell. Now we continue. As we approach, we creep to avoid an accident with any small critters on two wheels. The streets are always noisy. For the next two months my wardrobe consists of only two small pieces of clothing—top and bottom and my new address is now 34 Ocean Avenue. I quickly trade in my car for something with two wheels, or I prefer to walk. We bake outside all day, but not food, and party all night. During the summer, we’re the city that never sleeps.


Winter. We drive down the parkway and take exit 80. As we go over the bridge there is nothing there to stop us. I neglect to roll down my window this time; although the smell is still present, the warmth is absent. The streets are quiet and dead and now, Ocean Avenue looks blank. I’m not planning on staying. The city that never sleeps is now a ghost town.