Amazement in Ogunquit

Is it because of the near-constant rain that everyone seems to be huddled and touching each other? I watch them rush by, grouped under their umbrellas or their outstretched jackets, protecting each other, jumping across puddles in unison, forming neat little clusters of arm-in-arm tourists.

Moments later, the warm late-afternoon sun returns and the passers-by break up and return to the prescribed (by whom, I don’t know) decorum of not touching as they stroll down Shore Road. As if the deity of politeness has swept up and down the street and measured and dictated the appropriate space between humans.

My eyes spot an exception: two unidentified males, one taller than the other, heading in my direction, their arms around each other’s shoulder. Not to be surprised, I tell myself. This is Ogunquit, plenty of gay men vacation here. As the entwined duo comes closer, I realize one is much younger than the other. They’re both laughing heartily and I wonder.

A few feet away from me, the taller and older man recognizes me. “Ah! Bonsoir,” he says to me. As I notice a woman and two young girls behind him, I place the ensemble in my mind among the diners of a few nights before. The younger man is the son and with his voice still squeaky with adolescence he tells me in his comfortable French, “That was the best meal we’ve had all week.” The father adds through his broad grin, “And, we’ve made reservations for tomorrow night.” The mother maneuvers around them, pats my back and says the family is returning to Montreal Saturday morning. “We’ve saved another diner at your place for our last night,” she says. “We want to end on a high note,” throws in the father.

We have created a delta on the narrow sidewalk around which the strollers must flow to continue on their way. Some walkers stare at the father and son who remain arm over shoulder as they talk to me. Is it the embrace that draws their attention or the genuine gaiety that hovers over our meeting? A few more exchanges and the Québécois family is on its way.

Later, as I walk into the restaurant for my shift, I am greeted warmly by the three Turks, two of them waiters and the other, a busboy. The ritual is well-established even if we’ve been co-workers only a few weeks: they all shake hands with me. It’s a robust handshake, often accompanied by a gentle pat on the shoulder or upper arm. Neither fleeting nor lingering, the gesture seems entirely natural. I am filled with amazement.