Chatham, MA

Ah! The beach! For a couple of weeks each year, I find sun and sand and ocean somewhere. For a while, it was Barbados over Christmas. For the past couple of years, I’ve been joining friends on Cape Cod during part of July and August.

It’s great to be able to get up early, walk onto the beach and let the breaking waves lap at my ankles. Then there’s the smell of salt water and the noisy birds looking for their breakfast.

It’s interesting that I should be here in Chatham during a time when there is a lot of discussion about off-shore drilling. And when I listen to the arguments for and against it, I understand only that there are no simple answers.

And I think that I should be more like my sister, Joan, and use my bicycle more and my car less. It would be good for my health and good for this beautiful beach.

There are a lot of things that make Chatham, Massachusetts an utterly charming little town. There are the old houses in all sorts of interesting architectural styles. There are lovely little gardens. Then there are all of the shops along Main Street, with hand-painted signs, unique wares and, yes, window boxes. Not just window boxes, but window boxes of note.

Some have a sort of red white and blue patriotic theme.

Some of them are pretty simple, with a single type of flower - these look easy enough for even purple thumbed me to grow!

And some are impressively elaborate.

This is a town of many charms, and the flower boxes are certainly making their contribution.

Every summer Friday night in Chathan, is band night. The whole town shows up in Kate Gould Park to hear the Chatham Band, dressed in smart uniforms that looked really hot - and I mean sweat pouring down your face hot. I mean picollo sliding all over a sweat covered chin hot.

It didn't matter what they sounded like. It was about watching hundreds of familes from this New England town gather at the band shell, kids, dogs and folding chairs in tow.

They played some medlies - from The Wizard of Oz, Mama Mia and Hootnanny. Then they did a floot stomping Sousa march, inviting all of the children in the audience to march in step around the band shell.

It's the kind of thing that I imagine happening on summer nights in Lake Woebegone!

Today, I flew from Washington to Providence for Day 1 of my well-deserved vacation.

Flying is clearly not what it was in the days before airline deregulation. I can remember most people getting pretty dressed up for a trip, complete with eye makeup and curls in the hair. Now it’s pretty casual. The guys on each side of me are wearing shorts.

And when I worked for the old Eastern Airlines, we wore designer uniforms (the largest size was a 10) and stewardesses were forced to quit at age 32 or before that if they got too fat for the tiny uniform. Today’s “flight attendant” was pushing Medicare with a pot-belly, and he, too, was wearing shorts.

And planes back then were half full – or half empty, depending on how you looked at it. Today, my filight was totally full – and I was stuck in the middle seat – although it was the bulkhead, so my teeth were not digging into my kneecaps.

And like real estate, computers and the Internet have revolutionized air travel. Like many people looking for homes, I began my search for a ticket on-line, finding non-stop flights on Southwest Airlines out of Thurgood Marshall Airport in Baltimore.

Also, like real estate, various airlines charge a wide range of fares, and there is often little to distinguish my cheap seat on Southwest from the high priced carriers that charge double or triple what I paid. I like to think that with discount real estate brokers, there is a lower level of service than the top-of-the-line quality that my firm offers.

None of the airlines serve real food – at least not anything I would consider eating. They all take the same care (or lack thereof) of your luggage. There are options with respect to cost but not really related to service quality.

There is another similarity between airlines and real estate.

We had a little turbulance – a storm – and we had to circle Providence for over an hour before we could land. And there was nothing I could do about it except to get white knuckles and pray to St. Christopher ( the patron saint of travelers). The pilot was my “trusted advisor” in this situation, and luckily, he knew what he was doing.

It reminded me of those times when my clients and I face a little turbulence in a transaction. It can get pretty white knuckle for them. They usually have no control. And it helps if they think of me as their trusted advisor! I get paid the big bucks because I do the worrying – so they don’t have to.

So now I'm at the cottage with it's pretty little side garden (I think it's actually the neighbor's garden, but it sure is pretty).

And we're a quick walk along this path

to the beach, which is deserted today (it's still drizzling) except for the sea gulls!

And it's a beautiful day - clouds and all! Wow!