Explore: Cape Anne, MA

We hit the road, a list of must-sees acquired from local friends burning a hole in my jorts. Destination: Cape Anne, MA. If Cape Cod were the elfin boot of the Massachusetts bay, Cape Anne would be its cartoonish nose that sticks into the Atlantic, just north of Boston.

We ventured to this sister cape in search of beach, friend food, kooky/cozy homes and an excuse to say town names like a tourista asshole (RAHck-po-awhrt or the cumbersome, GLAH-chest-AHH).

We got a late start on this particular sun-drenched Saturday since I had to beat my body up first thing with a long run. By 11 we were in the car with muchies and iced coffee to find we were not alone in this clever idea. Through some touch-and-go traffic we were taken into the coastal burbs of Massachussetts, traveling, as luck would have it, back to the fanciful 1950s-era, where impressive restaurant signage, not the food, could sway an itinerant family to dine. That's right, folks, we had entered Saugus, MA, better known by few people as The Restaurant Capital of the World. From the leaning tower of Pizza, to the giant cactus announcing the delights of the Hilltop Steak House, Route US-1N was a veritable fun house of fiberglass sculptures of yesteryear.

Not that we stopped. No, we had places to go and beaches to see.

About an hour later we were parked in a sand dune at Crane's beach in Ipswich. Not knowing what to expect out of the beach, R & I brought, well, nothing (in beach-going terms). We brought our other flat bed sheet, water, sunblock, four books, and an us weekly (the latter being the only reading material ever to see the light of that day). We felt a little mopey and sometimes hungry when we watched, wide-eyed, at the families surrounding us who unloaded whole Italian feasts and entire grocery store rows of snacks and sweets. Beers were cracked, cheese puffs were munched, kites were flown (including the MOST hilarious kite we'd ever seen),



paddle ball was batted and, well, R found out how the Twilight stars are "Just Like Us." But it all worked out. We got our sun, we put a few toes in the frigid ocean, we finished our bath-warm water and when it was time to boogie we uproariously laughed at the families packing up their RV-sized duffel bags and coolers as we slung our few sandy items under our arms and went on our merry way.

Though we were famished.

But first we had to see something recommended by a friend: The Paper House. Yes. It is what it says. In the first recorded display of acute Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, a Mr. Elis Stemnan of Cambridge built a summer home in the early 1920s constructed entirely out of newspaper.



It does have structure - beams, floorboards and a roof, but the walls and interior and every thing else - from the lamp, to the shades, to the grandfather clock - is crafted from newspaper logs or layers upon layers of news print and varnish on top.







What is there to say? It's impressive in that completely insane kind of way. It's hot and dark inside the one bedroom cabin and it smells of old but pretty damn cool. And it's an honor system admission, which I always appreciate and which, ironically, makes me offer up more than they ask. $5 bought us a short, gawking walkabout the house and two postcards. Fabulous.

Now officially starved and still sandy, R and I drove off to Rochester in search of some fried seafood delights. Which we found, not in the town's center, but enroute, on a beautiful, though scorching hot, bay - The Lobster Pool. We ordered up a plate of putty-colored fried goodies and chowed down, while occasionally taking in the scenic views.

Ooooo, ahhhhh and all that.



We drove around Rochester looking for parking but found, instead, streams of ice cream-eating tourists. We figured between the Paper House and the Fried Delights we'd seen just about the best of the best Cape Ann had to offer. On the way home we sleepily ogled the adorable New England homes and said we should really get into antiquing but ultimately drove back to the city to catch The Karate Kid, which was AWEsome.

xoL