We went to the beach yesterday. New Hampshire has one of the shortest coastlines in the US, and we have but one “beach” that most people would recognize as such, and that’s at Hampton. When I was growing up, Hampton Beach was a disgusting mess, with the coastline covered in trash. I guess we have increasing environmental awareness to thank because these days it’s very, very clean, and aside from the fact that the Atlantic is frigid during this time of year, it’s a really nice beach.
We didn’t spend a lot of time on the beach proper. There was a sandcastle exhibition there, which was why we made the hour-long drive at 4:30 in the afternoon (that and to meet some friends who were already there), but once we saw what we came to see, and after the kids spent some time jumping waves and chasing sea gulls, we crossed the street to the boardwalk side of the beach.
Hampton has a long history (which I know nothing about, except to say that it’ long), and much of the boardwalk offerings were erected Back When. Few have received a face-lift to keep with the times, but I suppose that’s a moot point: part of their – shall we say, charm – is that old-time look and feel. Coupled with the fact that the buildings are under constant assault from salt water spray, and the interiors are coated with a fine patina of beach sand, any attempts to elevate these places to anything more then wooden caverns would be defeated, and would be defeating their purpose.
Even though I hadn’t really been to Hampton during my formative years, there was a certain cultural pulse which emanated from the coast during that time which was felt throughout the state. I joked to Isabelle on our way out that I felt that I needed to get a garish sweatshirt that said “Hampton Beach” on it for old-times sake, and she mentioned how she used to have a Hampton T-shirt with a kitten and a flower on it – and white tassel fringe. Typical 80’s fashion that I still mentally associate with that place, that time, and which oddly enough, hasn’t gone away.
In fact, that was the root of something very unusual about that place in my mind. All beaches have the “tourist traps”, those crappy souvenir shops that somehow seem to survive by selling offensive outerwear are seashell knick-knacks, and Hampton is no exception. But it seemed to me that even those places hadn’t evolved one iota since their goods were disseminated throughout the state during some ill-conceived hey-day for people with those particular tastes.
What really struck me, though, were the arcades. Not the video game arcades, mind you, but the arcades in the truest sense of the word. Barely classified as a building, these structures were held up by driftwood stuck together with decades of paint. The floors were naturally sanded down to a gloss that is usually reserved for high end hardwood. Air conditioning was not an option, thanks to the open-air nature of the place, but instead they had huge industrial fans placed in inconvenient locations to blow directly on the booths haphazardly situated around the interior.
In the arcade we visited, there were games, as the venue demands, and also booths that sold most foods that should be banned: hot sausages with sauerkraut piled to the point of clothing endangerment, friend dough with sugar, cinnamon, apples, strawberries, maple syrup and chocolate sauce, freshly squeezed lemonade, and probably hundreds of other food items crammed into the recesses of the cavern that we never saw. But we could smell them. It was the first thing I noticed upon leaving the beach: the scent of the briny ocean smacking head-first into the wall of frying oil as we approached the sidewalk. I felt greasy just walking through the place.
There were shops within shops, which I found strange. Like a puzzle-box, or those Russian dolls-within-dolls, there were more clothing stores, more souvenir dens, and at the back of the arcade, a small shop which dealt in CDs, posters, and even vinyl LPs. They advertised their heavy metal collection, which made this a place I would have gravitated to instantly during the 80s, but which now left me with a slight sense of embarrassment when I considered looking around.
The highlight – at least for my daughter – were the games. Every space that wasn’t taken up by food vendors, cheap pressboard seating or random retail outlets was occupied by a skill crane kiosk. Now, before you roll your eyes, know this: 90% of my daughter’s personal belongings come from skill cranes. She has an uncanny knack for these things. She managed to win two prizes from the skill crane, but faired less well at the bingo skee-ball on the upper level. There, we we saw an obese woman who’s stretch pants were stretched to the limit (and a bit more, unfortunately). She had a roll – a roll – of quarters, and was apparently intent to stay put for a significant amount of time, rolling the little rubber balls onto the bingo grid. It was a mindless task; I wondered if that was the exact reason she had planted herself there. I also wondered about the people who were working these games. Some were obviously students who had managed to score summer jobs, but there were people who were older working these games. How did these people decide to go for these jobs? Were they happy doing what they were doing? What are their lives like, both on and off the job? This was a place that people visited, some to see, and many had come to be seen. The people who were employed there are at the center of this show every day. They must have some unique perspectives on the radiance of this place.
On the ride home, I felt that there was some kind of weird other world that we were leaving behind. It had a culture that faded over distance, composed of rituals known only to frequent visitors, it’s temples of greasy food and throwback merchandise, and populated by people who may or may not appreciate the uniqueness of their workplace. Once we returned to the relatively sterile neighborhood of “civilization”, the scent of that place had pretty much worn off, and it’s facade had faded into the realm of did that really happen?
Some people live there, and some people are there every weekend, but I couldn’t do it. There’s certain places – and pardon the corny New Age sentiment – that are so different from your normal routine that they pulse with a kind of power. Some people can ignore it, if they’re using the draw of the scene for their own selfish purposes, or if they simply regard the veneer and are amused by the kitsch of it all. But if it’s just an occasional visitation for you, it can seem to alien when if you just stop and ignore yourself, and look at the people, the signs of the thousands that have come before you, and the ones that are there with you. Making it a habit would whitewash the experience and dilute the senses, making places like this nothing more then a garish tourist trap.
