E-Mail This Article to a Friend Revered beach A two-plus-mile stretch of the truly odd and improbable BY ADAM REILLY

THE OLD-TIMERS in Revere complain that their city’s prized beach isn’t what it used to be. And they may have a point. One hundred years ago, proper Bostonians flocked to Revere Beach in their Victorian finery to promenade up and down Ocean Parkway or recline decorously on the sand. Today, the well-heeled generally give Revere Beach a wide berth. And, sadly, the dazzling array of attractions that once lured tourists (amusement-park rides, dancing halls, a heated swimming pool filled with seawater) is gone forever.

But while Revere Beach may be seedier than it once was, it remains a local treasure — and its charms are especially winsome given the current state of Boston. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re well on our way to becoming another Manhattan. Gentrification is running amok: thanks to its inexorable march, we’re swapping gritty idiosyncrasy for a soulless diet of luxury condos, day spas, and yuppified bistros. Somerville, too, is in great danger; if the Green Line extends to Union Square, get ready for Davis Square redux. As for Cambridge, once Harvard Square lost both the Tasty and the Bow and Arrow, the battle was as good as over.

Which brings us back to Revere Beach — which, it should be noted, is the oldest public beach in America. If the boutique-ification of Boston has you craving the chaotic weirdness that should define urban life, get on the Blue Line, exit at Revere Beach or Wonderland, and follow the scent of salt water. In about a minute, you’ll be gazing at the slate-blue waters of the Atlantic, the comings and goings at Logan Airport visible just to the south, Nahant snaking across the horizon to the northeast. It’s a beautiful view. But far more important, for our purposes, is this: to your left and right — along the entire two-mile-plus stretch of Revere Beach — the truly odd and improbable are taking place. Consider the following, all of which occurred during the span of roughly one hour on a recent weekday:

• On exiting Revere Beach station, I’m accosted by a fiftysomething woman who smiles beatifically and hands me a five-leaf clover. She has an ulterior motive. You know about the clover leafs? she asks in lightly accented English. One each for the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; more, and God has someone in his hands. Maybe you and your wife? Her name, I learn, is Norma Ayala; she scours the grass around us for proselytizing plants and distributes them, pressed and laminated, to passers-by. "This is therapy," she says. "I come here looking for clovers and forget my problems. I give them away, it makes everybody happy."

• Across from the Shipwreck Lounge, an aristocratic-looking woman bides time in a shiny gray Jaguar. The door to the Shipwreck opens, and a man walks out. He is burly, maybe six-foot-six, with American-flag parachute pants and a shirt that — tucked in but unbuttoned from the navel up — is pulled open to reveal a very tan, very hairy torso. His shoulder-length, slicked-back hair is held in place with a Karate Kid–style headband; despite the heat, he’s wearing furry boots. This wrestler/daredevil/insane person gets in the Jaguar and chats briefly with the driver, then gets out and stands on the roadside, deep in thought. When he catches me staring, he gives a slight nod and a grunt that is neither friendly nor unfriendly. I nod and move on.

• An elderly woman faces the ocean and conducts to music issuing from her headphones, which only she can hear. As she traces invisible loops and curlicues in the air, concentrating intently, I notice her startlingly long toenails, her tan, swollen ankles, and her blue baseball cap with assorted detritus (a flower, a pine cone, a feather) pinned to one side. During a break in the music, she shows me her CD of choice: waltzes by Strauss. "I live in a place with a bunch of old fuddy-duddies," she explains. "They don’t want to see or hear you do anything."

• I purchase a $12 gut-busting feast at Kelly’s (roast-beef sandwich with mayo, cheese, barbecue sauce, and onion; side of onion rings) and find an empty bench. While a Hitchcockian cluster of seagulls stares greedily at my food, another bird swoops down and nearly smacks into my head. Four women sitting next to me are much amused. "Be careful," one warns. "They took my cheeseburger right from my hand." A moment later, as I try to chase the menacing gulls away, a second woman mocks me: "They’ve been chased by bigger guys than you," she scoffs. While I finish my meal, the first woman expounds on the fine art of raising homing pigeons and her fondness for sleeping naked.

As this human smorgasbord suggests, Revere Beach is not for everyone. The sand is not pristine; there are beached lobster traps, nips, and solitary socks. Several weed-choked empty lots line the waterfront. Many beachgoers have a dubious habit of blaring their car stereos while frolicking on the sand. On hot, sunny days, the beach is crowded and loud and overwhelming. And those who believe uncovered flesh should be well-toned will be challenged early and often.

Still, in a age of excessive self-segregation, Revere Beach is the anti-gated community. Going there means ceding control, risking discomfort, facing the myriad and often bizarre facets of the human condition. If that sounds unpleasant, by all means, stay away. Because for some of us, that’s exactly what makes Revere Beach an essential summertime destination.

Adam Reilly can be reached at areilly[a]phx.com