Gue 3.1

If you take Boston’s commuter rail down to the very last stop, you can find yourself in Rockport MA. Apparently, it can get pretty touristy in the summer, but if you go in the off season, you can experience it the under the ideal conditions for any small, coastal New England town; chilly, breezy, and almost totally devoid of anyone who doesn’t belong there, the intoxicating scent of the ocean laced with just a hint of melancholy.

Rockport is not an island, obviously, more of a semi-peninsula, but the downtown area has such a palpable sense of character to it that you could easily forget that fact— forget that you could turn around, walk half a mile, and suddenly just end up back in the identical suburban infinite that exists outside of, inside of, and in between pretty much everywhere these days. It was while in Rockport, on one of my long walks, that I got the idea for this piece, inspired by one or two similarly quaint and homey coffeeshops, and largely, by the town’s view of the water.

At time of writing, I am surprised to learn the Rockport is not an incredibly wealthy town. According to Wikipedia, the median household income is only 50k, which, in hindsight, makes sense when you look not at the seaside town itself, but at the suburban hell that flanks it, and the type of camp-hat-wearing vapists who dispersed into it from off the commuter rail (wouldn’t call them ‘hicks’ mind you— these are character types unique to New England, if not Mass specifically, which I don’t yet have the information to full articulate or categorize. If you know, you know— sound off in the comments).

Anyway, my dumb ass assumed it had to similarly priced to, say, Wellesley MA, (~150k MHI) another place I enjoy walking but which, in hindsight, doesn’t hold a candle to any coastal North Shore town. It got me thinking— the wall of water that abuts these towns is a limiting agent, to be sure, and yet it feels far more free to be living next to it than, say, living in a gigantic mansion in Wellesley, in the middle of the woods, with no sidewalk, no view, and no ability to get anywhere without a car. This isn’t a particularly profound statement, of course, but the feeling felt profound, and so I ruminated on it, allowed it to spin off and wander, and then tried to fold it in to the foundation of emotions and memories that made up the setting of GUE— which was, until now, largely just inspired geographico-vibewise by my time on Mackinac Island.

I’d like to think I’d do well, living in one of these towns— these teeny coastal peninsulas, not islands— but then again, even still, the sense of smallness, of limitation, might creep up on me faster than I’d like to admit. I don’t think I’d actually need any big city amenities, or abundant areas to explore, or anything, and would actually rather enjoy the quaintness— but eventually, I think the sense of loneliness and loss of purpose, allowed to flourish in the town’s unique composition, would probably set in. What a shame.