It was our first time back to our old hometown of Rehoboth Beach since we pulled up stakes and headed to Florida six years ago. Thanks to updates from our "Delmartian" friends and the ever-expanding pages of Letters, we were braced for dramatic changes in the area’s infrastructure—including outlandish development along Route One, a massive amount of ultra-pricey new housing, and an extreme makeover of Rehoboth Avenue.

Driving in from New York City, we could see from as far north as Red Mill Pond that the changes had not been overstated. Our mouths gaped at the hundreds of new dwellings around Five Corners and at the unsightly hodgepodge of commercial structures tossed at every angle on every possible parcel along the highway coming into town—poorly landscaped condo complexes that closely resemble military barracks interspersed with strip shopping centers and fast food outlets from chain pancake houses to the ubiquitous Starbucks. Most of the buildings are situated in such a helter-skelter manner that it looks like a horrible hurricane picked them all up and re-deposited them at whim.

"And people laugh at Florida’s strip-mall highways," I muttered to John, who was asking,

"Is that a prison over there, or are those townhouses?"

We hoped that our shock and awe at so much overdevelopment would end when we turned onto a side road into our old residential neighborhood of Rehoboth Beach Yacht and Country Club. But even here, so much seemed foreign. A handsome par-three golf course and a pretty horse farm where we used to watch the foals trot around a small dirt track were gone, replaced by scores of new houses, all on cramped lots and most covered in similar tones of beige or yellow siding. The bland sameness was as annoying as the lack of vegetation.

When I slowed the rental-car in front of our old house, which had seemed quite large during the decade we lived there, John didn’t even recognize it. "Which one was ours?" he asked. "No! It looks so tiny."

The last time we saw it, the house was encircled by pine trees and undeveloped land. Now, it is surrounded on all sides by ultra-tall, thick "McMansions" with miniscule yards and minimal space between neighbors.

On the way downtown, we drove through another huge new development of million-dollar homes, most of which apparently are used by their owners as "seasonal" retreats. They back right up to old West Rehoboth, the predominantly black neighborhood where lower-income year-round residents continue to struggle against the rampant development which imperils them. Now that Rehoboth has become the south Hamptons, where are the workers supposed to live? I wondered.

Downtown, the "new" Rehoboth Avenue struck us as clean but starkly sterile. The buried power lines are a definite improvement, but the loss of mature trees hurts. The extra-wide sidewalks (though striking in the patterned curvature of their design) and the bandstand gazebo reminded us more of a Disney theme park than a quaint old beach town. "I guess that’s considered progress," I said with a sigh, and John noted that the loss of the camouflaging canopy of trees makes the architecture of many buildings look even less distinguished. At least the young replacement trees will gradually grow up.

It wasn’t until we crossed First Street and turned up Baltimore Avenue that we felt like we were back at home. It was comforting to find that the town’s prettiest commercial block has changed very little in appearance.

I am always surprised more by lack of change than by change, so it was also pleasant to discover that, despite all the physical transformation in greater Rehoboth, life downtown continues much the way it did. We experienced a curious sense of déjà vu when we stopped by our friend Joan’s women’s apparel shop in Village by the Sea. Within five minutes, Theresa, the mail carrier, walked in with the day’s delivery of bills, just as she had so many hundreds of times during our years of retailing in Rehoboth. No sooner had Theresa departed than Rhonda of UPS strode in, still tugging a cart of boxes almost as tall as she is. She not only recognized us but gave us big hugs, as if we’d merely been away on vacation.

We also spotted recognizable faces—not only owners but their same employees—tending to business in several stores and a deli, as if time had stood still for the better part of a decade. Whenever I return somewhere and see people in the same place performing the same daily routines they had many years earlier it makes me wonder whether they’re happy. I think back on all the different experiences I’ve had in the years since I last saw them: setting up home in a new state, editorships of two magazines, book projects, new retail shops and now the launch of my own magazine. Are the folks who have stayed in the same place missing out on the variety of experiences life has to offer? Or, are they the smart ones, comfortable with the familiarity of their daily routines while piling up substantial retirement benefits from long-time employers who may even pay for their health insurance?

The choice between the excitement of change and the comforting security of familiarity can pose some of life’s great challenges for all of us. When John and I dropped in at CAMP Rehoboth, we witnessed a healthy mix of the two. The courtyard with Lori’s and an expanded Lambda Rising was agreeably much the way we left it, as was Murray who we spotted scurrying across the CAMPgrounds with a lunch plate for Steve. Their office is now on the second floor of the newly acquired second building of the Community Center/CAMP campus, and I expected that the expansion would have included more spacious quarters for the organization’s two founder-leaders. Nope, their current workspace is just as confined as their old one had been—perhaps more so. I could hardly imagine how they manage to produce a 100-plus page biweekly magazine and to direct so many major events and programs from the twin cubicles of a room so small that offering a seat to two guests is out of the question. Typically, Steve said something like, "We wanted to leave as much space as possible for the meeting areas, the library, and our volunteers."

My mind immediately raced back to the evenings some 16 years ago when a group of local gay and gay-friendly activists struggled through long, often contentious meetings trying to agree on a vision and working plan for a fledgling community-support organization Steve and Murray hoped to call Create a More Positive Rehoboth. I remembered the first four-page issue of Letters (or was it eight?), and I felt a keen appreciation of how change can lead to accomplishment that in turn becomes fulfilling tradition.

As we hugged Steve and Murray goodbye and continued our rounds to spend time with other friends, it was quite clear that people—much more than streetscapes or buildings—make a town what it is. And old friendships are the best. When we gathered for dinner with Joan and Kent and David and Jack and Michael, it seemed as if only weeks had passed since we were together—even though the last time we all shared a table Bill Clinton was president and we were hopeful that Al Gore was next up.

The presidency, we all concurred, has been a most unfortunate example of what change can bring. But, with unflagging optimism, we soon were talking about who might stand a real chance of winning back the Oval Office and changing the direction of the nation. By evening’s end, my suggestion of the junior senator from Illinois (it’s not too early and he’s not too young) was gaining momentum.

It was effortless not only to catch up but to move forward with our old friends. After our two-night visit, as John and I drove off to catch a flight home, I barely noticed the eyesores along Route One. I was too busy reflecting on an old adage that applies well to the community we again were leaving: "The more things change, the more they stay the same."