The Hater’s Guide to Nostalgia

Shall we?

Shall we at least poke our heads in?

I appreciated the opportunity to attend Ladies’ Day at the Ascot racetrack, but ultimately I think that the pageantry was a bit lost on me. There was a dress code mandated for entry into the Royal Enclosure, lest 21st century humankind slut or slob the place up. No fascinators were permitted— only big ass hats and dresses with shoulder straps measuring no less than two inches. It was very nice indeed, and certainly something that all rich and bored people should experience at least once in their lives.

What this race needs, is more cowbell. And tartan.

What this horse race needs, is more cowbell. And tartan.

As for me, perhaps I felt odd because I hail from a land that offers comparable beauty but is situated just on the boundary of all that is manicured and immaculately varnished. I feel most at home where people favor the bumpy Atlantic edges of a Cape Cod shoreline. A place where high heels almost always look ridiculous.

No one looks like this. Not even on Halloween.

No one looks like this. Not even on Halloween.

Yes home. Where your best-loved hoodie is pulled down around your head and repeat-worn like a uniform all year round. While visitors might suggest otherwise, we locals don’t know— or care—to look inside an Ascot Royal Enclosure or a Vineyard Vines catalog. These things are simply not a part of our working world.

20 mile backup to the Sagamore? Settle in.

20 mile backup to the Sagamore? Sounds about right.

Perhaps I’m feeling this way because it’s that time of the year. Upper Cape traffic is in full invasion mode as folks strive to appreciate the summer people who pump money into our seasonal economy. Or maybe it’s because I’ve just had my niece and sister— homegrown Cape Codders who share similar sets of eyes— out to visit me in this faraway place. Maybe it’s because I’ve learned of the recent passing of a local I didn’t know, but who all the same posted the kind of shit I wanted to read when we talk about all things Cape Cod. Or maybe I feel this way because I’m simply not a big fan of horse races and wearing a big hat that obstructs my view for six hours.

And looking fab at 90.

And quite honestly, she’s looking fab at 90.

Whatever the case, all of these experiences have overridden the sentiment I purchased to share the same breathing space as The Queen for an afternoon. And incidentally, I feel the need to mention that I keep trying to erase that last line, because by writing it I’m calling myself out as an ungrateful and humblebragging Masshole. I get that I’m straddling two very unique and privileged worlds.

With tourist prices like these, this is an event for summah people.

With tourist prices like these, this is an event for summah people.

Royal Ascot was a place for high premium people watching, but really I want to write a book someday about my experience as a grungy Mashpee kid in a witches’ brew neighborhood of characters. That was real people watching. I know I’m both biased (and right) when I say this, but being a Cape Codder is special. Even right now, I recall the feeling underfoot of the stuff we called goosh that coated the bottom of John’s Pond. I can still smell the tangle of frog pond flora as we kids waded around inspecting turtles to determine whether we had painters or snappers in our midst. It’s my specific DNA, but I’ll take mermaids’ purses and molted horseshoe crab shells over the 50 quid Pimm’s pitchers and high-stakes horse races that were in all honesty pretty neat, but ultimately not something I’d do again.

This place. I've got reminders all over my flat.

That place. I’ve got reminders all over my flat.

When my niece was visiting last week, my sister and I made certain to not only expose her to numerous cultural waypoints, but also to check her knowledge of some less glam aspects that come with the place where she was born. During quiet times in my London flat, we all sat around and rewatched ridiculous videos that both repelled and made us obliquely proud to be from New England.

Ever striving to carry a bit of home wherever I go.

Ever striving to carry a bit of home wherever I go. I think we all do a bit of the same.

I have no idea where my niece will go in life, but no matter the direction, I hope she will forge ahead armed with unshakeable foundations built upon dirty water, Bourne Bridges, and outermost houses. From there she can work out how to reconcile what she knows, with what is going on in front of her. It’s really one of the best parts about life.

2 thoughts on “The Hater’s Guide to Nostalgia

  1. Auntie Jewlery

    Oh Megan, You made my morning ! But it wasn’t long enough. You need Harry and I over there for a day. Maybe we can skype you if I knew how.
    If you’re feeling low, get on to you tube. Type in ” Falmouth Beaches, call me maybe ”
    It’s a video of all the life guards, DPW workers etc. in Falmouth. All teenagers. It’s so refreshing to see kids that are creative and are having fun at their jobs.
    Nice and cool here today again. I’m loving it as I don’t do well with the hot and muggies.
    By the way, did you wear a hat ?? xoxo

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