The World Stares into its Cellphone

Everyone here, it seems, is staring into a cellphone. Whether it's burley contractor dude, pausing on a shovel, or high cheekboned Greenwich second-wife, in her white Yukon that barely fits on the little Edgartown streets, one and all they're staring into that little one-inch screen. Contemplating a call, perhaps another call, perhaps wishing someone else would call.

We went to South Beach this morning, a fluttery breeze blew hot air at us and we were glad we didn't try to bring newspapers, and wrestle them down in our arms. No we had novels; me one about a Cuban baseball player who returns to the island and finds the ghosts of his former lover photographer and revolutionary Marlena Fonseca, and Cindy, Hillary's autobiography. She said it is a great read.

At the beach, red suited lifeguards corralled a Portuguese man-o-war jellyfish in a bucket, a crowd gathered to look at it in fear. Signs said not to dig big holes, but many kids were digging down to China, with dads inside the holes. The water gushed over and into these foxholes when the waves came up, down the beach they were getting ready to have a contest for the best sandcastle.

Down in Menemsha, Larsen's beckons with briny clams on the halfshell and hot steamers and lobster so fresh it's still talkin'.