Traveling Unplugged: Portsmouth, New Hampshire

So let me get this straight: You plan a vacation away from the scenes, clubs, and bars with their attitude and prices just so you can go to other scenes, clubs, and bars with their attitude and even higher prices?

Um, no thanks.

So just so there are no illusions, Portsmouth is not Fire Island, South Beach or Palm Springs. Portsmouth is sittin' on the dock of the bay, wastin' time. Cheaply.

Den of Zen
Sandwiched between the gay meccas of Provincetown and Ogunquit, this slice of New Hampshire on the Piscataqua River does a fabulous job of being neither while still being as gay as both. The rainbow life is thriving, the businesses welcoming, the good times at the ready - all without a "scene." Think of Portsmouth as a gay decompression chamber.

I free-associated through town. I took in the street musicians in Market Square. I ran around North Church and its soaring steeple for the best camera angle. I went on the mother of all shopping sprees at Pickwick's Mercantile , whose goods are 100-year throwbacks to the sepia-toned days of vintage Portsmouth. The staff even dress in the style of the age.

And thanks to Dawn, mastermind behind Port City Bike Tours, I got the best leg workout I've had in ages, and found out where to go, what to eat, and what to photograph. The woman is efficient.

Best historical attraction? The original settlement of Strawbery Banke stands as a window into New Hampshire's very early Colonial past, but did you know Martin Luther King, Jr. preached at Portsmouth's Pearl Church?

Best cultural gem? The Music Hall is an opulent time-warp to the 1800s but with a judicious touch of modernity - Salman Rushdie, Wynton Marsalis, and Joan Armatrading have all added to the legacy of the storied stage.

Best scenic spot? The Portsmouth Naval Shipyard (and ruined prison) just across the Piscataqua in Maine, as well as the piers and glades of Prescott Park (a wide swath of riverside green that was the brainwave of sisters Josie and Mary Prescott), are Instagram-ready.

Two Sides to Every Story
And that rosy view was at complete odds with best-selling author and native daughter Roxie Zwicker, who took me for a "Wicked Waterfront Tour." And in full 1800s gothic-steampunk garb, no less.

It's the running argument of Portsmouth: Josie and Mary Prescott were either two indomitable women who cleaned up the town or two insufferable prigs with their knickers in a twist somebody somewhere was having fun. In 1932 they swept into town, leveled what was then the most notorious red-light district in New England, and created the park now bearing their name. It is clear where Zwicker's loyalties lie; she gleefully peels away layers of urban renewal, digging her teeth deep into the infamous Portsmouth underbelly.

Pre-Prescott (late 1800s), if you had genitalia and a liver both made of pig iron, Portsmouth was the place to be. In additional to the 60 bordellos servicing 1,500 men a night, 120 saloons kept the fun going. Some establishments blurred the two, like the one on Four Tree Island with a taxidermied cow rigged to squirt beer. It was all made possible, or at least condoned, by Frank Jones, a mayor whose reach across Portsmouth was positively metastatic.

He constructed the Music Hall for his niece... who was also his mistress. He was an astute businessman... who ran Portsmouth's premier cathouse, the Gloucester, where the ladies would lounge on pedestals and descend, like Galatea to her Pygmalion, into the arms of a gentlemen caller. He was the soul of propriety... and, as owner of the largest brewery in New England, ran illicit booze into Maine from the cellar of St. John's Church.

Clearly I missed one hell of a party.

Satisfaction Guaranteed
But if you are dead-set on sucking the marrow out of a bone, order up the beef marrow tapas done to creamy perfection at Moxy by James Beard "Best Chef Northeast" semifinalist Matt Louis. Portsmouth traded one appetite for another: the brothels are long gone, but cuisine makes the town a Shangri-La.

Around the corner from the Music Hall, the Fresh Press has a menu that is top to bottom organic; it quickly became my go-to lunch spot, but when the evening rolled in, I headed to "The Decks." A domino-line of eateries that get classier the deeper in you go, they overlook the berth of the famous tugboats of Portsmouth. With good wine (I discovered the local Hermit Woods) and glowing sunset, I was content.

Then "night" happened.

Beer Blast
"Hello, lovaaah" was the term I used at the Portsmouth Brewery, when the bartender put before me their famous Black Cat Stout. Mayor Jones is long gone, but Portsmouth has not slacked its thirst for beer. It's a veritable hub.

The Brewery, the Portsmouth Gas Light Company, and the unique Book & Bar (a used book store, beer hall and music venue) form the trio every beer-lover should hit, but the latter is far and away the most understated of the bunch. Try their flights or samplers served in mini-glasses and served on paddles.

Silent Night
Back in the swaddled safety of my room at the Martin Hill Inn, I took in the night's quiet (the glass of complimentary sherry helped). A 200-year-old Georgian Colonial, the Martin Hill is reason alone to visit Portsmouth; its waffles are off the charts. But after all the browsing, biking, and beer guzzling, a great, big bed in a quaint B&B was a perfect 10. I'd be back in New York the next day with all its vivacious volume, but right then I sprawled across immaculate sheets, turned out the light, and drifted away on the serenade of crickets.

Ahhhh.

Getting There
With limited air connections, the easiest way to reach Portsmouth is by driving, or having somebody drive for you: C&J runs an excellent shuttle service out of New York and Boston with movies (good ones) and galley service.