{"id":15124,"date":"2018-07-16T18:25:29","date_gmt":"2018-07-16T22:25:29","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/?p=15124"},"modified":"2018-07-20T16:03:00","modified_gmt":"2018-07-20T20:03:00","slug":"oh-oh-beach","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/oh-oh-beach\/","title":{"rendered":"Oh Oh Beach"},"content":{"rendered":"

July\/August 2018 | view this story as a .pdf<\/a><\/p>\n

It\u2019s an escape you need\u2013a selfie for the soul.<\/span><\/h3>\n

By Olivia Gunn Kotsishevskaya<\/span><\/p>\n

\"JA-18-After-Dark\"<\/strong>\u201cWhat is this place?\u201d A nuclear family of blondes presses its faces to the window of the Downeaster. \u201cOld Orchard Beach. Passengers for Old Orchard Beach,\u201d<\/em> the attendant sings out in the doorway, beckoning the four of us to the exit as the train glides to the platform. After a fifteen-minute ride from Portland on the 6:15 p.m. departure to points south (not even enough time to make it to the bar car), we\u2019ve arrived.<\/span><\/p>\n

Stephan, Meaghan, my husband Fil, and I step off the train fully prepared to take on the night ahead. We all went to bed early, ate filling lunches, and mentally readied ourselves for six hours of OOB\u2013six hours to check off each and every essential moment on the list from Palace Playland to midnight chili dogs, each balancing a fine line between the best and (sometimes even more fun) the worst decision of the evening.<\/span><\/p>\n

InstaPerfect<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

Our first stop is the Pier Patio Pub <\/strong>for an Old Orchard-style happy hour: steamers, Coronas, and a multi-vodka concoction dubbed \u201cThe Fish Bowl.\u201d Bad decision number one? We\u2019ll find out.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAll right, everyone in on this,\u201d Stephan says as each of us snags a straw, bumping foreheads while trying for a decent selfie.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t do this. You\u2019re too close.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve touched every straw.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSmile.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

After two baskets of clams, we walk to the very end of The Pier<\/strong>, which, come sundown, transitions into the nightclub Top of The Pier <\/strong>with a DJ. For a moment, as the sun drops over the Electra Wheel and an ocean breeze rushes past, an edge-of-the-world feeling settles over us. It\u2019s a snapshot for the soul\u2013the four of us, Stephan and Meghan newly engaged, Fil and I newlyweds. I consider the many friends who\u2019ve existed in this very moment since The Pier\u2019s opening in 1898. Can you imagine the Pier Casino Ballroom<\/strong> in its heyday? Snazzy cocktail dresses and creased slacks galore! With featured acts like Duke Ellington and Sinatra, the mid-century presented an Old Orchard Beach that\u2019s hard to fathom\u2013especially as two barely legal girls donning barely there bikinis pose for their cache of Instagram strangers on the beach below.<\/span><\/p>\n

Wild Child<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe have to ride the Sea Viper,\u201d Meaghan says as we make our way to the amusement park.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt sounds dangerous.\u201d I look up at the looming roller coaster.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cStop. It\u2019s brand new.\u201d She bee-lines it for the ticket booth.<\/span><\/p>\n

Fil, ever-reassuring, pipes up, \u201cYou know, I\u2018ve never put something together without missing at least one screw.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

The Sea Viper<\/strong> is a new Old Orchard Beach attraction. Standing 70 feet tall, the roller coaster is in no way the wildest ride I\u2019ve taken, but I\u2019m just not a thrills kind of girl. A spin on a wobbly bar stool after a shot or two is about as much as I need. <\/span><\/p>\n

On the way over, we pass a sobbing child, light-up sneakers flashing as she bolts for it. \u201cBut I want to ride THAT one! It\u2019s not fair!\u201d Her mother chases after her, assuring her the day will soon come. Back straightened, I step up the metal ramp. For you, little one<\/em>. <\/span><\/p>\n

The four of us line up, taking over the gate of the lead car as the riders before us pull in. \u201cHope you didn\u2019t eat your pier fries yet,\u201d a barrel-chested man laughs as he steps out. His wife rolls her eyes.<\/span><\/p>\n

Before I know it, I\u2019m stuck. The safety bar is down; the ride attendant double-checks. Is he sure? Can he check again?<\/em> <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe seems distracted.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s not.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Too late, anyway. The cars are slowly pulled up the incline, inching us to our doom. Meaghan cackles. Stephan whoops. My traitor husband smiles. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI hate this\u2013AHHH!\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

Side to side, I\u2019m flopping like Raggedy Ann, white-knuckling the entire way. My company shrieks with laughter, squealing with every twist and turn. Oh, boy, what fun. Look at that, we nearly died. The cars come to a slow, dramatic halt, and my hair looks like I\u2019ve just left a Quiet Riot concert. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOne more time?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHow about a shot?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Strangeland<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

Tequila Frogs i<\/strong>s next on the list. It\u2019s closing in on 8 p.m. but the bar is mostly empty, so we don\u2019t waste much time. After requesting four shots of tequila and housing an order of chips and salsa, it\u2019s time to roll. We\u2019ve got moles to whack and prizes to win, and Stephan has been pretty cocky about his gaming skills.<\/span><\/p>\n

The arcade is by far the busiest area in Old Orchard. It\u2019s an equalizing zone where grown men can be Evil Knievel on a stationary crotch rocket while 10-year-olds become pinball wizards. <\/span><\/p>\n

After a brief game of Whac-A-Mole (that Stephan unashamedly cheats at), we make our way to the Skee-ball ramps. Here we all thrive. Among the dings, whistles, lights, and bells, the tickets pile up earning us one bouncy ball, 15 erasers, and a duck whistle for, well, duck whistling. We march on, satisfied with our bounty and ready to mix and mingle.<\/span><\/p>\n

The Night is Young <\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

The street energy has picked up, and crowds begin to form in front of the bars along E. Grand Avenue. Music from the deck of Weekend at Bernie\u2019s<\/strong> lures us in, and, although no one among the patrons is actually dancing, there\u2019s a general consensus on the floor that \u201cNo Diggity\u201d is a great dance song.<\/span><\/p>\n

We take to the deck for a bit of fresh air, our giant, aluminum Budweiser bottles in tow. No sooner do we score the perfect table does a group of middle-aged women saddle up next to us\u2013one clearly tipsier than the others.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe kids call me Mama Kath.\u201d She scans our foursome. \u201cI can\u2019t find my husband.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Her friends mouth apologies over her shoulders while coaxing her back to the corner, but Mama Kath is content right where she is. Looks like we\u2019ve made a new friend.<\/span><\/p>\n

The bartender approaches with a tray of Jell-O shots. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re going to do Jell-O shots,\u201d I tell Kath. \u201cWould you all like one as well?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve no idea what that is.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll take seven.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Our motley crew encircles Mama Kath, and one of her friends leans in, making an Irish toast, accent and all. She ends with a snappy line about the fellas getting her home before down the hatch they go. <\/span><\/p>\n

At some point, Kath\u2019s husband, Papa Dan, as the kids call him, arrives, and before we even think to ask for it, we\u2019re gifted with the 30-minute version of their story. After another round, I\u2019m past wondering why they\u2019re exposing these intimate details of their lives. Instead, I\u2019ve accepted that tonight they\u2019ve escaped. They\u2019ve escaped their home in New Hampshire, their three grown kids, their jobs, and here in Old Orchard Beach, away from it all, they can do Jell-O shots with a group of twenty-somethings and not be Mama Kath and Papa Dan.<\/span><\/p>\n

Purple Haze<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

We all agree on one last round before heading back toward The Pier, and, according to our guide, Meaghan, we can\u2019t not visit The Brunswick<\/strong>. Boasting the \u201clargest oceanfront patio bar\u201d in town, it\u2019s a must. <\/span><\/p>\n

We order our beers inside before pushing our way through the large crowd. Outside, the patio drinkers mill about in purple light and the cool ocean air gives everyone a new burst of energy. The plan was to grab a quick dinner here, but our rendezvous at Bernie\u2019s went even longer than realized. It\u2019s already after 10 p.m. The Brunswick has stopped serving dinner. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI told you we should have eaten at The Pier.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t know it was this late.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not missing out on a chili dog.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

We down the rest of our beers and set out across the beach in search of the greasiest food we can find. Ahead, I see two figures standing in the dark. A familiar smell wafts through the air. If anyone knows where to find a chili dog, these two do. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHi, guys. How much further for food?\u201d They laugh, not realizing the severity of my hunger. I\u2019ve lost the others but push on.<\/span><\/p>\n

One for the Road\u2026<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

The sign glows heavenly. \u201cMile Long Franks\u201d is written across the silhouette of a wiener dog. Beauty. I bask in its glow as the others emerge from the beach. Fil and I order two large chili dogs and a cup brimming with fries doused in cheese sauce. Meaghan and Stephan cross the street for a slice at Bill\u2019s Pizza<\/strong>.<\/span><\/p>\n

While I love a fine dining experience as much as anyone, this chili dog satisfies something deep in the pit of my gut that can\u2019t be put into words. Forget farm-to-table, fresh catch of the day. This mile-long-dog is where it\u2019s at, heartburn be damned. I want another.<\/span><\/p>\n

No longer hangry and tired, Meaghan and I consider one more round. The guys go along for a minute or two before vetoing the idea. Apparently, one more round isn\u2019t always necessary, a belief I\u2019m still not quite convinced of. I\u2019m still a trashy twenty-something, guys. We\u2019re at Old Orchard Beach. Life is short. The train isn\u2019t here for another 40 minutes. The night is young.<\/em> <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd the Uber is here.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The ride home is smooth enough that Meaghan and I fall asleep, leaving Fil and Stephan to regale our driver with stories of our night in OOB. <\/span><\/p>\n

Back home, sand sprinkles across the floor and I take off my shoes to crawl into bed as Ferris wheels, Skee-balls, and chili dogs dance in my head.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

July\/August 2018
\nIt\u2019s an escape you need\u2013a selfie for the soul.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":15126,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[8],"tags":[227],"class_list":["post-15124","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-featured","tag-julyaugust-2018"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15124","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=15124"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15124\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15191,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15124\/revisions\/15191"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/15126"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15124"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15124"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15124"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}