Bewitching wanderings

Boiled lobster and Bollywood music. An unlikely pairing, but by the end of the night –OK– it still didn’t make sense. What’s more odd? I was in historical Salem, Massachusetts.
The Clam Shack was rammed with the most average looking locals (not to my surprise, but to my horror, I saw fanny packs) raving about the newest outdoor eatery. What wasn’t average was how the chefs served New England-style specialties as if the shack wasn’t a restroom in its antecedent years. Seriously, the shack used to be a bathhouse at Salem Willows Park, but maybe avoid thinking that when tying on a bib.
Humble wooden picnic tables overlooking the ocean act as the dining room. Give it ‘til summer’s end and I bet lovers’ names in hearts will be carved into them or at least some profanities.
Dine before the sun sets. It ain’t easy cracking a lobsta tail in the dark, let alone navigating the tomalley (the green, maybe…maybe not poisonous, goo inside).
The caveat to not giving the market price Captain’s Combo my unsolicited and unofficial three Michelin stars was the lack of a liquor license. But hey! There’s always next beer. Er, I mean year.
Centuries-old white willows overhang the area. On a dare –I never say “No” to a dare– I climbed to the top of one. From there I could see the last of the sun cast a crimson shade on hundreds of harbored yachts across the glassy water. It was solitude from the bustling park; a hidden place to let the seafood feast I had just scarfed down settle in my stomach – until I heard the faint sound of a sitar.
A few men, with rugged leather-like skin, set up shop in a gazebo playing Hindi songs. Comely brown women, donning brightly colored saris adorned with gold baubles, gathered.
With the aid of a tall stranger’s shoulders, I lowered myself from the branches to get a closer look.
The ladies danced with such spirit and soon I was summoned. However, to their amusement, just about the only move my coordination would allow was “change the light bulb, pat the dog.” Perhaps I was ill equipped in flip-flops. During the last song the dirt on my two left feet was as black as the night sky.
Now all that was left to do was witch watch; I was in Salem after all. Do they still wear black capes with hoods? Have skin a tinge green with warts on their noses? Or are modern day witches unassuming in bank tellers’ clothing and blend in?
Nary were seen, but from the blood-orange sunset to the boiled lobster to the Bollywood music – it was all bewitching to me.