I can’t recall the last time I’ve had so much hometown pride for Little Rhody. This is awesome.
If you’re bored with the typical sexy firefighter holiday calendar, the Rhode Island Library Association can help. The Tattooed Librarians of the Ocean State 2014 calendar features Rhode Island librarians and their ink. “We’re trying to give a voice to the up-and-coming generation of librarians. We’re not your grandmother’s library,” librarian and association president Jenifer Bond said. You can buy your calendar at the site for $12-15.
I have never in my life read a Jodi Piccoult novel, so I had no idea that “My Sister’s Keeper” was set in Rhode Island. However, book unread, I’m going to go ahead and veto it to represent my home state on this map. Try one of these instead:
Love Story by Erich Segal (Jenny is from Rhode Island, it counts)
Last weekend Chad and I Amtrakked north to Providence, and from there rented a car that we drove to Jamestown, Rhode Island. There was no real point to our trip; it was just a jaunt, an excuse to get out of the city.
We stayed in the attached apartment of a beautiful farmhouse belonging to an easygoing older gent named Joe. He and his wife had restored the house together — he built the custom cabinetry by hand, she planted and tended the flowers — and after her death he decided to open his doors to travelers. On a shelf in our attached apartment were twin framed caricatures of Joe and his wife in ski gear and I snapped a photo of of them because they made me happy and sad.
In the morning I sat in the breakfast nook with a cup of coffee and my journal while he listened to a Boston radio station and carefully arranged pastries for us on a white plate. The three of us talked about Syria and zoning laws and what it was like for Chad and I to grow up in Ohio. Joe laughed at our jokes in a sweet way. At one point he leaned back and settled into his seat with a satisfied nod, like he’d appraised us and found us worthy of time and attention. Then he offered to take us on a tour of the scenic spots in Jamestown. He parked the car on the road’s gravel shoulder and led us up a tiny wooded path to a stunning panoramic vista: Crisp blue water, the blinding greens of sunlit trees, a postcard-perfect lighthouse, a regatta’s worth of starched white sailboats. Hearing this former American history teacher answer our questions about the town on a cool September day made me feel like I used to on the first day back at school, eager to hear more.
Everyone we encountered was white, friendly, and heavily accented. (This is not a criticism! Boston accents fill me with joy.) I went to the bank to exchange a large bill and as the teller shuffled my twenties and fives she rattled on to her colleague: “He’s a good man. He treats me well. He’s a good father.” Of course here she said “fathah” because of the accent and I smiled but she didn’t notice. “He made some mistakes as a kid and they’ve stuck with him.” I left the bank and two tan, white haired men in polos and khakis walked by me, deep in conversation about the cancer that’s slowly killing the shorter man’s Pomeranian. A lady stopped us on the street to ask if we knew the name of the cruise ship docked across the harbor in Newport. (We didn’t.)
Chad and I ate lobster rolls at a highway pitstop perched at the edge of a calm inlet. A young woman was earnestly, awkwardly playing acoustic guitar and singing to the diners on the deck out back as a fundraiser for the local food bank, and oh man, I wanted to be supportive, but she was…not good. I had to keep reminding myself not to cringe. The diners clapped for her with moderate enthusiasm, though, so I donated $5 to the food bank to offset my guilt. We ate dinner at a family-style Portuguese place where the bread baskets were literally just piles of deli rolls and the Paella For One could easily have fed a hungry family of four. Then we hit up an ambiance-drenched cocktail bar and the pleasant, sorta daffy hostess offered us the dessert menu, extolling the virtues of every item on it except the creme brulee, “because I hate creme brulee and I’m not gonna lie to you about it.”
p>Jamestown is my favorite place in Rhode Island and this is a lovely little story about the place I am from.
This is so fucking Rhode Island.
Great brunch in Gowanus today. Arctic char omelette with creme fraiche and yes, COFFEE MILK!!! (at Littleneck)
WHAT. There is a place in Brooklyn serving coffee milk? Any Rhode Islanders in diaspora want to check this out? (The name of the restaurant is a good sign.)