Friday: June 29
Last full day, hard to believe.
We drove to The Regatta Restaurant in Cotuit last night. (“Cotuit” is an Indian work meaning, “Build narrow roads with many lights to halt all traffic.”) Worth the hour’s drive, outstanding food, great waiters. We split a filet mignon and the short ribs, which you tend to do after 39 years of marriage.
A not-too-common Chassagne-Montrechet red burgundy was excellent, and the night finished off with a Cuban cigar from my son’s girlfriend (which I feel free smoking again now that they’re back together—a moral dilemma averted).
(Digression: Why would you hire a hostess who is chilly and unpleasant? The wait staff is great, the bus boys/girls were terrific, so why have someone greet you who has no sense of humor and no social skills? Why would you go into a business dealing with the public if you don’t enjoy, well, dealing with the public? Good thing the food is magnificent.)
My car is telling me I have a flat “tyre.” (It’s German engineering, but assembled in Crewe, England.) The tire looks fine, and the air pressure is exactly right when I measure it. But the car’s internal computers claim the air pressure is wrong and the “tyre” is flat. Do I believe the car or my own lying eyes? I’ve called Bentley service. I don’t even know if there is a spare, although there is 24-hour roadside assistance. I’ll check under the trunk (“boot/bonnet”?) to see if there is a spare “tyre” hidden down there.
I’m told it’s been a pretty dreadful week back home (and entire two hours away) which always makes a vacation somewhat sweeter. Thunderstorms hit there last night, but not here.
This morning Bentley informed me of “reports of a similar computer error” and walked me through resetting the tire computer gizmo. After resetting, you must drive the car fifty feet! It worked, the “tyre” is fine. And there is a spare, though you can’t drive with it over 50 MPH, which is barely third gear in this car.
Dinner tonight in Christian’s in town, wouldn’t you know the general manager is from New Jersey and the bartender is from my town in Rhode Island. The general manager insists I move the Bentley from in front of the restaurant because there are too many accidents on the narrow road.
Wayne Botha, who spotted me yesterday, comes over with his wife and son to buy me a martini while he drinks a soda. From Johannesburg, now resident in Connecticut, one of the few people to socialize with me on vacation! Great guy, nice time. Okay, two martinis.
It’s been a fabulous week in Chatham on Cape Cod. We’re coming back. We head home tomorrow to Buddy Beagle and Koufax, The Wonder Dog.
Thanks for reading the Journal.
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