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Where The Highway Ends – Chillin’ in the OBX.

Okay.

So I know that I just took a trip, and I haven’t even finished telling you about that.  Or, for that matter, the one before that.  Or the one before that.

But that’s okay, I figure, because things don’t need to happen chronologically in blog time.  In blog time, time does not exist as we know it in life.

It’s not even a line.

It’s a viscous fluid, like tanniny wine.

Anyway.

I just took a trip, but if this post of yore was any indication, I was still in need of a getaway.

And while planes are awesome and can transport me from coast to coast in a matter of hours, sometimes I just need to get in my car and drive.  If you don’t know that feeling — if you’ve never had it before — I think you’re probably lucky.  And I think your car, unlike my tracker, probably doesn’t have over 160,000 miles on it.

Go, Tracker – Go!

Jack Kerouac probably said it best in On the Road — a book I didn’t at first fully appreciate (and probably still don’t), but inside of which find snippets of virtue here and there whenever I happen to need it — he said, “Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”

And that’s how it feels — meditation on wheels.

So when Justin’s aunt and uncle (the same ones we visited in Philly earlier this year) invited me to stay the weekend at the beach house they’d rented with their two kids and Justin’s grandparents, I could hardly say no.  Especially after I realized it was only 4 hours away.  And especially when I realized it was in North Carolina’s Outer Banks (also known to the trendy peeps as OBX) — somewhere I still hadn’t been.

(Okay.  So my dark brown hair and green eyes don’t exactly make me visually fit in amongst these toe-heads and gingers, but with them, you don’t need to look like them to be treated like family.  Which we are anyway, through marriage, but you know what I mean.)

After work on Friday, I came home, fed the dogs, left my neighbor some feeding instructions, threw some stuff in a duffel bag, and just started driving.  Of course, as with any road trip, I made sure I had my mix CDs from the late ’90s and cranked up the tunes.

Why does driving away always feel so good?

I had to stop and pick up some boiled peanuts to bring to my hosts.

Welcome to The South.

Eventually, after about 4 hours, I reached the end of Highway 64 and consequently entered a whole other universe.

We’re not in Fayettenam anymore.

A universe with stilted, shaker-sided beach homes and salty air and nary a uniformed soldier in sight.

The Outer Banks are a series of barrier islands just off the northeast coast of North Carolina.  During hurricane season they have a tendency to get battered and beaten as they protect the mainland from the onslaught of the ocean’s fury, but now, during summer, they’re a laid-back refuge with dotted chains of trinket shops and surf towns with thought-provoking names like Nags Head and Kill Devil Hills  and Duck.

Duck?  Like the animal that quacks, or that thing you do when hurricane winds hurl a tree branch your way?

As I started heading North from Nags Head towards Duck, I caught an incredible view.

And then another.

Nags Head, OBX, NC

And then — WHAT IS THAT?!

Really, what IS that?

Dunes.

Nags Head Dunes

Sand mountains.

People frolicking and dancing, drawn to the sunset and the soft, soft sand.

I’ve never seen anything like it.  I had to pull off to the side, kick of my sandals, and climb.

When I got to the top, I expected to see water, but no.

Just more dunes.

It was incredible.

Outer Banks Sand Dunes

Word on the street is you can hang glide off of these.  If this is true, I will be back.

But my shadow was long, and true to my M.O., I was already late for dinner.

So I headed back down.

The rest of the time, I spent doing what you do when you go to the OBX:  Eating, Drinking, Beaching, and keeping tabs on the sun.

Not my sand castle. Unfortunately.

Automobiles aren’t allowed on the beaches, and they’re lined with gorgeous beach houses — not hotels — so they feel more pristine and less crowded than my coastal areas in the U.S.

I really enjoyed the town of Duck.  It sits on one of the narrowest sections of the OBX, and our short walk to the beach included a simultaneous view of the ocean and the sound.  The town was quaint, with a great selection of restaurants, shops, and a fantastic boardwalk.  The walking/bike paths are fantastic, and our 7 mile bike ride made me feel less guilty about our late night dinner at Blue Point.

Outer Banks North Carolina Blue Point Restaurant

Punny.  And delicious.

Blue Point Restaurant Duck, NC

Crab saute with salmon and spoon bread.

OBX Blue Point Restaurant

Pork chop with Parmesan grits, pineapple, and radish.

Blue Point Restaurant Seafood

Pickled shrimp.

The food was pricey but tasty, although I wish I could have tried it 6 years ago, before the restaurant expanded.  The she-crab soup was decidedly the best item ordered.  I didn’t get a chance to take a photo before it was demolished.

I suspect you’re mainly paying for the service (which was impeccable) and the view (which we didn’t get to see at 10:00 p.m.).  If you’d like to try it, make reservations early so you can watch the sunset over the sound.

In my 36 hours at the OBX, I’m obviously no expert, but I shall impart my wisdom anyway.

What to Bring:

  • A car (mainly so you can bring everything else)
  • Recreational ocean stuff (to include bathing suits, towels, toys, kayaks, surf boards, paddle boards, paddle ball, boogie boards, jet skis, yachts, etc. If you have it, bring it.) Really, you can probably rent or buy pretty much anything you forget.
  • Sunscreen/Sunglasses/Sunbrellas
  • Bikes
  • Patience (traffic can be annoying)
  • Surfer ‘tude.

What to Buy:

  • Groceries (if you’re staying in a beach house, which likely you are, it gets expensive eating out for every meal. Buy groceries.)
  • Duck Donuts.  Just trust me on this.
  • Hammocks.  Apparently OBX is the place to buy hammocks.
  • Seafood.  Eat lots — and lots — of seafood.
  • Hang gliding lessons.

Next time, my friends.  Next time.

Taylor Swift Doesn’t Know What She’s Talking About

***UPDATE*** It has been brought to my attention by my good friend Leslie (huge country buff and friend to country singers everywhere), that the person I should be slamming in the title of this post is Miley Cyrus and NOT Taylor Swift. Since it’s a pain in the ass to change post titles once published and they’re all the same to me, I’m not going to change it. But since I love Leslie and don’t want to blame Taylor for Miley’s missteps, I will, for the record, stand corrected.

(But Taylor probably doesn’t know what she’s talking about either.)

I’ve been to a few beaches in my time.

It’s odd because as a teenager, I always thought I was more of a mountain girl.  That might have something to do with the fact that I primarily grew up in Nebraska, and it wasn’t unusual to take family trips to the magnificent Rockies where my sister and I would don knee-length shorts and flannel shirts tied around our waists (hey, it was the 90’s grunge era, and if I’m not mistaken, the plaid shirt thing is currently making a comeback, suckas!), and we’d hike the scenic trails of Estes Park, marveling at pristine mountain lakes from pointy vistas, trying desperately to comprehend sheer size and distance based on the veritable layers of mountains that faded off into a purple haze on the horizon.

Fortunately, for the most part, the mountains still have that effect on me.

But nothing — and I mean nothing — has ever made me feel smaller than the ocean.

Except maybe that senior who called me ugly during my freshman year of high school.

But while oceans have swallowed ships the size of small cities and an entire mountain range that, if its base were above sea level, would boast peaks higher than the Himalayas, all that senior managed to swallow was a drop of my 15-year-old self-esteem, which, by comparison, was much smaller.

So, considering the fact that I haven’t yet been to outer space, the ocean reigns supreme on my list of awe-inspiring things in terms of sheer vastness.

In this life, I’ve been lucky enough to dig sand dollars from the warm gulf surf off the cost of Georgia; scuba dive the reefs near St. Lucia’s black sand beaches, feeling the stunning shock of sea gnats while gazing at the limitless colors of coral and fish; view the North Pacific, with its cliffs of rock rising out from its frigid depths, as it feasted on the remnants of hundreds of sand castles along its beaches; witness the power of waves that looked like building-tall scoops of ice cream sprinkled with runaway surfboards as they tested human courage on the beauty of Oahu’s North Shore; watch cruise ships dump inconceivable amounts of pollution into the shockingly blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico; buy trinkets sold by colorful hippies and artists while absorbing the vibrancy of the beach known as Venice; frantically flee strange, floating jellyfish in the bathtub-warm waters of the Caribbean while learning how to scream through a snorkel; accept a proposal for marriage on a beach composed entirely of shells on the east coast of Florida; and accidentally lose track of the top of my bathing suit in a wave working its way towards the famous shore of Tamarindo Beach in Costa Rica.

Until I recently dipped my toes into the surprisingly June-cool waters of the Mediterranean, I was convinced I’d seen it all.

But that’s the beauty of the ocean.

No one has ever, ever seen it all.

Ibiza

Ibiza

Ibiza

Ibiza

Ibiza

Ibiza

Ibiza City

Formentera

Formentera

Formentera

Formentera

You know that song that’s all, It’s not about what’s waiting on the other side… it’s the climb?  I think it’s by Taylor Swift.  Well.  As you can see, she was dead wrong.

The climb, which we did on bicycles, sucked.  But that thing that was waiting on the other side?

Pretty.  Damn.  Fantastic.

Formentera

So.  To answer the burning question I know everyone is wondering but is too afraid to ask:

Did I “lose” my top on the notorious nude beaches of Formentera?

Let’s just say that I never realized how utterly uncomfortable bikini tops are — until I experienced a world without one.

Photo by Becca Gard

See more Spain photos here, here, here, and here.

Naked. It’s the New Black.

I’m getting pretty excited for our upcoming trip to Spain.

Really excited.

So I was doing a bit of research on the 2 Balearic Islands we’ll be visiting, and it turns out that Formentera, with its stunningly beautiful beaches and crystal clear waters, apparently also has a “strong nude beach culture”.

Huh.

I’ll admit that I kind of got a little super excited when I read this.

Because here’s the thing.  I may as well just admit it.

(Joel, if you’re reading this, you might want to cover your ears.  Or eyes.  Or whatever.)

I am a naked person.  I mean, I’m not naked right now, but I’m comfortable with nakedness.

(Okay, Joel.  I could hear your “ewwww” all the way across the internet.  But you can’t say I didn’t warn you.)

Joel is my brother, by the way.  He doesn’t like it when I talk about being naked.  Though I can’t imagine why.

But that’s right – I like being naked.

And honestly, what’s not to like?  There’s no confinement, no elastic or buttons digging uncomfortably into your skin, no fabric bunching up in weird places when you’re sitting or trying to crawl into places it most certainly shouldn’t be crawling.  It’s liberating.

Actually, I’m just a seasonal naked person.  I’m not a fan of winter nakedness because then I’m just cold, and that kind of trumps the whole comfort factor of removing irritants that bunch and crawl.

Fortunately for the outside world, my nakedness is confined to the inside of my house.  And there is no naked sitting on furniture in the “public” rooms, where you  might find your own clothes-encumbered self sitting one day if I were to invite you in.  Although, I’m not sure why that would make anyone uncomfortable since I’m pretty sure my naked self is much cleaner than the majority of my clothes, which are exposed to the germs and grime of the outside world, including waiting room chairs and public benches.

Just sayin’.

So I was intrigued, to say the least, that this little vacay might afford me the opportunity to truly fly free, without the fear of strange looks from my neighbors and eventual prosecution.

Sure, it might be a little hard to not stare at people at first.  I’d have to try to maintain a doctor-like attitude of, “It’s just a body – get over it and move on with your life.  Dogs walk around naked all the time and it doesn’t bother them, so why should this bother you?”  You know, that type of thing.  And I think I could do that, unless someone truly phenomenal walks by, like with braided pubic hair or flapjack-sized areolae*.  Not that there’s anything wrong with those things, but I’m just saying – I might stare.

*Yes, I Googled the plural for “areola.”  I can’t be expected to know everything.

But aside from possibly witnessing some strange body phenomena (which could also be viewed as a plus when you really think about it), the nude beach thing just seemed like a fun thing to try.

Think about it, I said to Justin.  We could be naked!  Outside!  Feel the sun in places on our bodies that have never experienced the soothing power of its vitamin D-soaked rays!  Although I’m not sure I could go completely naked… you know… down there.  There’s just something about the idea of sand and various beach creatures and I’m just not sure I’m ready for that kind of complete exposure to nature, you know?  But it might be fun to try it.  Just for a little bit.  Because, you know, we can.  But topless?  Hells, yeah – count me IN!  We’ll just have to make sure to bring lots of sunscreen because I’m pretty sure experiencing sunburned nipples is not on my bucket list.  God, no.  Can you imagine?  Aren’t you excited to be naked in the wild?

“Umm, Katie.”  Justin did not sound enthused.

What?  What could you possibly have against being naked?  Americans are such prudes.  Why can’t we just appreciate the human body for its beauty?  Why do we have to be so uncomfortable and judgy all the time?  I can’t possibly be related to you.  Even if it’s just by law.

“Katie, we will be with my sister. Remember?”

Oh.

“My sister and her boyfriend.”

Oh.  Yeah.  I suppose that might be weird for you, huh?

“Just a bit.”

Well then, it’s a good thing we’ll have plenty of wine to go with our nonexistent tan lines!

Just kidding.

Sort of.