Nantucket for a long weekend

A view from a widow's walk in the village looking out toward the harbor in Nantucket, Sunday morning at 8:30. I was fascinated by the frequency of these widow's walks which now also serve as sundecks for many who don't live right on the beach. Photo: DPC.

Monday, August 12, 2013. A beautiful Sunday in New York.

I went up to Nantucket for a long weekend to stay with my friend Joy Ingham who’s been a Nantucket summer resident for a long time. She once owned a house there, although she now prefers the luxury of renting. Nantucket is a luxury community, all the way. But that is always second, a far second, to the fact that Nantucket is a beautiful community on a beautiful island. We can thank our Creator (whoever it may or may not be for you) for that one.

I’d been twice before for a day, a lunch. I’ve written about it on these pages. We had an advertising client who was a private jet service and the owner Adam Katz invited me and JH, and other media people, for a ride up to Nantucket and lunch and then back to New York. It’s not a long ride. It was an interesting trip. The point of it was to experience the luxury of your own private jet taking you there. I don’t have to tell you, what is obvious: it beats the bus, the train and let’s not forget the airport. My memory of those trips to Nantucket itself is almost blank.

Wednesday evening along the East River. It was a beautiful night and I told myself that boat might just be headed for where I was heading on Thursday.

Thursday morning I took a 12:09 Jet Blue flight from JFK, arriving in Nantucket at 1:14. Actually we were on the runway at 12:09 and arrived at just about one. I'm told that it's basically a half hour airtime from JFK. My flight back yesterday, leaving at 1:50 and arriving JFK at 2:50 was not more than twenty minutes but we had to wait another fifteen for landing

My memory of this past weekend is rich. It’s such a beautiful place. You feel like you could just move in and stay. Those houses are all old. Or most of them. I grew up in a New England town, and it wasn’t as authentically “quaint” as Nantucket, but the vibe bore similarities to it, and similarities to a lot of New England communities of other eras.

There is a neighborliness of sorts. Not entirely -- because our world is no longer available or accessible to neighborliness – cars, planes, cell phones, remote control – have all but destroyed it. But on this small island with its main village with the centuries’ old cobblestone streets and brick sidewalks, and so many of its original 18th and 19th century houses and other buildings, a lot of people can’t help saying hello to each other when passing on the sidewalk. And there are a lot of people walking. Joy Ingham likes living in the village because she can walk everywhere. And she knows some of her neighbors, and vice versa.

Thursday afternoon Joy and I walked down Orange Street to the center of the village. This must have been a whaling shipowner's mansion back in the early 19th century. Notice the widow's walk between the chimneys. I was surprised to see how popular they've become. A great architectural idea revived.

Yesterday morning, I walked (about five or seven minutes) down to a place called the Hub where you get the Sunday papers. I passed people on the street who said “Good morning.” There’s something to that that we’ve all deprived ourselves of nowadays.

So that’s what you get in Nantucket. Now the other side of this is the irony. Although it still has much of the image, updated and restored and renovated, of course, of a fishing village of yore – Nantucket wears its frugal New England sensibility elegantly. That’s because of the rich. Make no mistake. This is what it is like to be rich and to live well, if you have the mind and the real sensibility for it. There are always many of the aforesaid who don't. I understand there are fantastic “estates” farther out along the beaches that are post-modern palaces of sorts and entirely separated from what I’m referring to. But I’ll bet even they come to town just to get some of the “old time” feeling, because that’s the real comfort zone for modern life.

Main Street. The white building with the pillars is a bank. The FedEx truck is parked in front of a shop called Murrays. Men and women's Nantucket clothes. The colors, green, Nantucket red/pink, orange, yellow, surfer-time; shoes, socks, shorts bathing suits, blazers, pants, skirts, children, and jammed. There was a line at 5:30 (I went into buy some socks) waiting to pay and the place was like a beach party on a rainy Friday afternoon. (It wasn't raining.)

This village is still standing so prosperously because 1. It reflects our heritage, and 2. It costs a fortune to keep up appearances. These beautiful Nantucket houses with their weathered shingles and saltair-eaten shingles and windowsills are preserved by community agreement. You can’t change them. You can only make them better. And better it is.

Its summer residents come from all over the country. I flew up sitting next to a man from Colorado who spends his Augusts on Nantucket. I flew back (JetBlue both ways) alongside a man who is from Houston but spends his summers “like a hermit” on the beach. I could vote for that. Who could ask for anything more?

I had no more conversation with either of the aforementioned, but I could make a good guess where they live without having been told. Some ideally quiet, simple, lovely little (or not so) house right in the village, or not far from, if not on, the ocean. However, the house(s) which most likely have been completely restored inside (and not touched except for maintenance on the outside – that’s the law), and might have cost two or three or four, or maybe none of the above, million, aren’t in the average homeowner’s budget.

This is what got to me. The flowers everywhere, reminding me of New England life – although maybe in a faux-Proustian sense because frankly I don't recall this kind of festive floral abundance back then. Look closely, and you can see why: it's been work and planning and real gardening expertise.

There are lots of restaurants, and from what I could tell they were all doing business. There are sandwich shops where people line up and take numbers and wait good waits for their order because business is so brisk. There are cheeseburg joints and there are first class places. My first night there, Joy invited me to a restaurant called Languedoc which she refers to as the “Mortimers of Nantucket” where only a mobile phone number to owner Alan Cuhna can get you a table for its excellent cuisine. We were joined by Sis Chapin and old friend of Joy’s. Sis, who is now a very lithe and limber over eighty (and hits the gym three days a week, plus walks everywhere morning, noon and night), has been going to Nantucket since she was first married in her twenties. She now lives in Sonoma, California although her late husband Roy Chapin was the President of American Motors in its heyday and automotive swansong, and then she lived in Grosse Pointe. But at heart, she’s a villager when summer comes and you can tell that she can’t stay away. It’s in her bones and in her spirit. And a lot of her friends are here.

Then Friday night we went to The Galley on the beach (don’t ask where). My half-brother Bob Flanagan who has been going to Nantucket since he was a very young boy had a summer job at The Galley as a kid, lo these many years ago. It’s still going not strong but stronger.

Victorian had entered the design books.

Along the walk to a late lunch (2:30).

I never knew the name of the place Joy took me for a burger and fries right near the harbor but we had to wait twenty minutes for a table at that hour (2:30). Ireland Galleries generously provided waiting seating as well as some good ideas for hanging in your saltbox.

Just sayin' ...

See what I mean? Your whole attitude changes with them.

My bedroom was on the third floor, which must have been the attic back in the day – long before 21st century sensibilities decided what a perfect guest room and bath (shower) should be like. It also had a steep, ladder-like staircase which led to the widow's walk which pleased me greatly. This is the view from my bathroom window. It's not an illusory image of the close proximity of the neighbors -- they are thisclose. However it is remarkably quiet and gently private in feeling. I should also remind that you are looking at several million dollars in real estate in this little corner of rooftops. I point that out because it is a significant fact besides being a significant amount for 18th century New England austerity.

Ahh, at last. View from the widow's walk. For this writer it is always fascinating to stand on the roof and look out a the world below.

This is what Nantucket flower boxes are for.

The secret of the Republic's historical success.

The entrance to an inn's garden. The inns look small, compared to a New Yorker's idea of an "inn." Although it may be that inside, as it is in many of these houses, there is much more space than meets the eye from the exterior. This garden path led to a patio where guests were at table having a little leisurely lunch. This is just off Main Street.

Another view of the rambling neighborhood with its steeples of houses of worship – as seen from the widow's walk.

And another ...

And looking in another direction.

On my walk down Orange Street to Main to get the Sunday papers.

Back at Joy's. The island is teeming with hydrangeas.

Just up the street.

Back home from dinner at the Galley with our hostess and friends Marianne and Steve Harrison.

The Petticoat Row Bakery delivers at 8 a.m. And the pastry delivers as much as you can consume. It's freshly baked and fulla delish.

For example, the blueberry muffin. Just adding a little more butter. Why not, I'm on vacation. Joy has provided other choices in abundance, as you can see.

Our table at the Galley waiting for our first courses.


	Our hostesses on Saturday night, Joy Ingham and Robin Kreitler.

Every year, The Boston Pops performs a concert on the beach for the benefit of the hospital. This is a charity event like those we see all the time in New York during the Autumn, Winter and Spring season in New York. This year they raised $2 million -- the tables for ten start at $15,000 and go to $50,000.

It is also traditional for a lot of islanders to go out in their boats and watch (and hear if the wind is on your side) the concert off in the distance. Many like this form of concert going because it is more relaxed.

This year Joy and her friend Robin Kreitler (from Charlottesville Vuhginyuh — I couldn't resist, it's too pleasurable to hear) rented a boat called Shearwater, captained by Blair Perkins, and invited 31 friends to join them on a buffet trip to the concert.

The Shearwater is a 47-foot catamaran that is used for whale watching expeditions. (for more info: go to explorenantucket.com). The food was provided by Michael Caffrey, owner of Island Chefs.

It's about a seven minute walk down to the dock to meet the boat (invitation said 5:30 departure). We walked down a side lane called Lafayette to Washington Street. These names were given not many years after those guys were the heroes in the new democratic republic when its inception and the motivation in its founding was fresh and unhindered.

The harbor comes into view. There were a lot of large yachts docked.

And scores of smaller boats of course.

This shot was taken by Ward Landrigan, the owner of Verdura. Susan Zises Green had hosted a cocktail reception/exhibition of many pieces in the Verdura collection ("Midcentury Masters – Fulco Di Verdura and Suzanne Belperron, Vintage jewelry) at her house the night before. Ward and his wife Judith are old friends of Joy and many others in town and they were up in this neck of the woods (Martha's Vineyard as well) exhibiting. The crowd you see are guests of the Pops concert who paid for the privilege of bringing a box supper/picnic and blankets on the beach a hundred yards from the concert shell.

This is a longshot that I took of the location. You can barely see it but the concert shell is a black box-shaped structure to the right of the white tent and another building. This was taken about 6:30. The concert was scheduled for 7 PM.

Ward Landrigan's close-up shot of the beach crowd gathering, about the same time.

Nearby.

Awaiting concert time and photographing too, of course.

Concert fans gathering before the concert.

A trifecta of Pops fans. Ward Landrigan's camera working.

The harbor light (Ward Landrigan).

Ward's camera on some of the guests partaking. That's DPC on the other side of the door window in blue also partaking.

The Sun about to set and painting the sky. Red sky at night, sailors' delight ...

Getting closer ...

Descending below the horizon glowing pink.

Waiting for the moon.

The concert began about this time. But the winds were strong and the music wasn't coming our way much. They opened the program with "Dancing Queen," its strains in the vague distance but just enough to revive the memory in everyone aboard the Shearwater enjoying the hostesses' bill of fare.

Then at about 9 p.m., the orchestra played "The 1812 Overture" and the fireworks began.

The rockets' red glare on the face of DPC, taken by Ward Landrigan.

One morning, Joy and I drove out to visit Daisy Soros who lives in Siasconset (pronounced "Scon—set") overlooking the beach. I asked her what we were looking at. She replied: "Portugal."