Hiraeth
We live on an island. Each day the ferry boats disgorge the tourists, whisking them away from the City that none of us care to visit. The City with its roving gangs of homelessness and casual litter. Rarely does the tourist journey start in the City. They fly into the City from elsewhere, find an inexpensive hotel, and then Gatsby their way on to our teak ferry boats for a picturesque trip to a cool salty escape into any past.
When the island decided to upgrade its ferry landing some years ago, they placed the things there that the island does not want. By keeping these things on the edge, they won’t taint our inner core. When a tourist disembarks, they do not find Avalon but instead find themselves surrounded by ugly squat buildings offering them Burger King, Cold Stone Creamery and KFC. Not even Kentucky Fried Chicken anymore, just KFC. You see the bemusement of the tourist families, wondering what went wrong. The ferry had passed beautiful boats in the island harbor, and towheaded kayakers paddling away the day. What is this betrayal? They stand there for a moment, wondering if they should have just gone to the world famous zoo instead. But then they figure out that they just need to walk out of the landing and walk in to the island, and there they will find what they seek.
The island is a step back in time, just small enough for the singular. The movie theater, the French restaurant, the market. Steeped in carefully curated history, the Americana flows through the streets. There is a lush, well-tended boulevard where the Rotarians dutifully plant the flag along its breadth each June, to cover the landmark Holidays of summer. The grass is so old that it is thick and springy in even this dense heat. There are broad white sidewalks sheltered by specimen trees of every variety. Every house boasts an American flag as a rule. The Good Humor man still exists, parked along the beach. The antique wrought-iron park gazebo holds host to the Sunday musicians. The lawn bowling club has an all-white dress code. Everything fits together like a Fifteen puzzle, perfectly smooth and aligned. Fourth of July Parade? Of course. Close your eyes and you see it too. The Boy Scouts, the sidewalk chalk, the homemade floats and the Woman’s Club. The lemonade stands and flag-shaped Rice Krispies bars. Everyone waves, to who they know. We have been doing this for generations, as you know.
The residential land plots are small. Gridded over two hundred years ago, long before we needed a pool and a great room. In other parts of the country, Hispanics handle the lawn maintenance. Not on the island, where each owner tends to their small lawns and their elaborate plantings each day. Nothing is overlooked, not an inch of earth is left un-manicured.
The grassy boulevard runs from bay to ocean, and provides everything the islanders need and all that the tourists lust for. The ancient hardware store, the 1950’s ice cream parlor, the overpriced book store and the wildly overpriced toy store. By the time the tourists have walked this far in, price is no longer an object or even a thought. Amazon is forgotten, as it is no more than a crass product of consumerism that will shatter the fantasy. The tourist is seduced by the beach toys, the beach read, the clean seashells displayed in tiered wicker baskets. It’s all there, just waiting to be consumed, digested, hash-tagged.
This is how Ralph Lauren made his bones, for he understood that while you dove off moldering Hudson River piers in your childhood, what you want to surround yourself with are crossed polo mallets and the silver picture frames holding other people’s ancestors. This is what the tourists come here for. The salt water taffy and the fudge squares. The salt air and the casual sense of wealth. It surrounds you and you needn’t make much effort to capture the flag. It is right there, yours for the taking. Memories for the making.
The tourists continue walking, past the enticing restaurants and the bandanna-wearing Golden Retrievers, the papery store and the candy shop. With each block they are inching closer to our Holy Grail, the famous Victorian hotel. A lady that poses grandly each day on our ocean shores. The subject of scores of paintings and drawings and photographs, her size and beauty overwhelming. Here is what they came for. For the memories. The soaring dark-paneled lobby and the brass skeleton elevator. The hotel offers everything they need, even s’mores on the beach, neatly contained in a fire ring. You want s’more? Yes, please.
The tourists are here to re-live everything one more time. The vintage street lights, the white clapboard, the sea spray and the madras shorts. Not a sunburn but suntan, as they were born to this. Its just like it used to be for them, or would have been, if their parents had been richer, or nicer, and broader thinkers. No need to worry about the mortgage or the Christmas Club payments. This is how it would have been. And maybe it was, who is to know. You just blend in with the other walkers, swirling into the blurred past and present. By the time you walk to the ocean beach of the hotel there is nowhere left to walk. But it doesn’t matter, for you have reached your destination.
The Welsh have a word, Hiraeth, which loosely translates as the longing for something that never was. This is what the tourists are seeking with each step. The totems of the past that never was. It is here now, all around. And on this island we are here to provide it all in a neat package. Every memory you never had. The ferry boats keep coming, and we are happy to serve the past however you would like it to be.
