East v West

I could not make this up: we live on the latitude of Moscow. Walker’s embracing it; he likes being inside early with lots of lamps. I’m swallowing hard. At 3:50, my friends, we were already losing light.

I was out yesterday afternoon thanks to this lovely, lovely surprise wedding present (to be disclosed later) that needed to be hung. Coinkidink of the century: I saw some friends in the hardware and, of the thousands of items in that crammed smorgasbord of household items, you could never guess what they were there to buy. Picture hangers. I know, freaky.

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Hardware reveling done, I headed toward East Sands, the gentler of the sister beaches here. And that's the whistle; we're off in a comparison of ample proportions!

East Sands may not be as massive, as 1950's-soundtrack dramatic, or as invigorating as West Sands, but it is our little polar Bahamas with still, blue water. West Sands, you are not that. And East Sands pulls ahead . . . 1-0.

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Nor do you smell fish-salty.

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You have no docks with lush seaweed variegation, and no snazzy fishing gear . . . . (East Sands keeps the lead by 2.)

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