2008 is gone and, at long last, so are the tourists. They’ve finally gone home.
When Miss Carol and me first moved to the island, back when the earth was still new, tourist season ran from Memorial Day to Labor Day- what locals called The 100 Days War. It was brutal but compact. Every year, you knew it was coming, you knew it would be painful, but you knew you could get through it.
Like going to the dentist.
Then, several years ago, thanks to the City’s promotional efforts and Global Warming, the summer crush of Tourons began oozing into the shoulder seasons of late spring and early fall. Not a whole lot but, like sand in your bikini, enough to irritate.
Then the shoulders grew arms. The Tourons somehow collectively determined that Easter and Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Years had to be experienced at the beach to be enjoyed, were they to be enjoyed at all. So, Touron enjoyment being paramount in their collectively little Touron heads, that’s exactly what they did. Again, not many, just enough to set your teeth on edge.
Now, Touron Season runs pretty much from Easter weekend all the way to the day after New Years before they are all well and truly gone; leaving us locals only a few miserably cold, windswept winter months to revel in our solitude.
And revel in it we will.
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