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I’m reblogging the following from WBUR.com. The writer’s attitude toward “schlepping” to the beach was one shared by my mother when I was a kid. We did our “everyman” pilgrimages North to Salsbury or Hampton Beaches, however.

Living in Boston as an adult, I’ve made the trip by “T” (MBTA) out to Revere Beach many times. During the years when the water itself was a bio-hazard, there were still many evenings spent sitting on the wall, feeding seagulls left-over clams from Kelly’s Roast Beef across the street.  This beach didn’t boast the boardwalk and amusements of Hampton in New Hampshire or the long-gone Nantasket, but as Ms. Brody points out, the people watching in “Reveaaah” doesn’t get much better.  (Snooki and co. would feel right at home.)

It’s going to be 94 in the city again today. My air conditioner has chosen to celebrate the anniversary of America’s freedom by refusing to work.  As I await the delivery of a new one tomorrow, I’m torn between the idea of taking the train to Revere or walking through the tree-lined Fenway to the cool (and temperate) Museum of Fine Arts.  I’d be hard pressed to come up with two more disparate choices.

Cape Cod And Plum Island Are For The Birds. If You Need Me, I’ll Be At Revere Beach | Cognoscenti.

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