On “Awe.” One.
After several invitations to my family to vacation with me in my happy place, my sister said yes.
Having a specific “happy place” is, for me, a rather recent phenomenon. Vacationing on a regular basis is a relatively new practice, and certainly having a particular place where I like to vacation is a relatively new, “grown woman now” development. Started in the group chat a few years ago when a few of the girlies mentioned they were making their “MV” plans for the summer. “MV” ? I asked. Simultaneously “So DC” and so unhip to the game, I asked, "Is that Maryland and Virginia?”
They quickly schooled me on the wonders of Martha’s Vineyard and hooked me up for a visit that summer. Despite the relatively short timeline, I had a confirmed room in a share, a fly-ass wardrobe, and detailed travel instructions on how to get to the island.
That first visit was as magical as Facebook posts have described. In sharp contrast to the humidity of DC, the air was breezy and crisp, the sky blue, and the nights cool. The weather I love. Walking down crowded Circuit Ave or splashing in the Atlantic, I ran into friend after friend from home. At the famed Uptown Party, we jammed like college freshmen, except we’d traded up jeans and tees for linen and lace.
Earlier this spring, I mixed honey, lime, hot sauce into a delicious marinade and spread over chicken thighs. Wow, the skin’s crunch and saucy tanginess. The taste of that amazing first bite lingers. I wanted to share it with my family, who prize a delicious morsel. Solo in my kitchen, I instead texted a photo.
The natural inclination is to share something wonderful. Each summer since visiting MV, I’ve raved about it to my family. The photos of the beach, the sunset are like little morsels of the island’s delight. They reply, “Can’t wait to go!” “Let’s make a plan!” For one reason or another, that was the extent of our plans.
Edgartown has become my town of choice in MV. The bookstore, coffee shop, library, elegant restaurants. The slower pace compared to Oak Bluffs. “Renovated apartment on the bike path” sounded perfect for me, and I booked it for the week of this summer’s film festival, the only week it was open. Three weeks before my departure date, I remembered a conversation I’d had with my sister two years earlier: “Let’s go to the MV Film Festival. You love films!”
Early Saturday morning, we packed up her road-ready Subaru and hit 95. We spent a week together seeing films on hip-hop, politics, and judges with shady pasts. We were enchanted by the boisterous waves on South Beach, slurped buttery-garlicky oysters at the marina, and spread a blanket before a hazy sunset. Sister dipped with the Polar Bears, and emerged refreshed. I hugged an old friend’s neck and we danced exuberantly at Noman’s. Two different women boarded a night-time ferry the following Saturday.
“Awe” is the singular word that comes to mind as I think of this time together.