[continued from entry of Jan. 3]
A high point: tooling around town on S.'s bike, the air cool and soft, the streets relatively quiet. First time I'd been on a bike in over a year, reminding me of how much I enjoyed life in Cambridge/Boston during the years when a bicycle was my main mode of transport. Provincetown is a funky, interesting spot, an excellent place to explore on two wheels, though the experience might be different during the high season, the warm-weather streets crammed with cars/trucks and crowds of wandering humans.
The population density is intense during the high season, the buildings crammed together along the main drags – a mix of old wood-frame structures (some lovely, others plain, some modest, others rebuilt in the McMansion mode) and new condos -- filled with folks enjoying the water, the weather, the shops, the art and music, the ongoing show provided by sea of humans streaming along town sidewalks and streets. Old telephone poles line many streets, listing this way and that, overhead power and telephone lines numerous in a way they rarely are in these days of underground cables. During the warm season, the water and the people predominate. During the off months, the village itself becomes a presence, the cables and lines hanging overhead, ubiquitous. The town's nervous system.
And during the off season a huge percentage of the businesses that line the streets around the town's center close down, nearly giving the place the aspect of a ghost-town. The businesses: restaurants (from diners to high-end/big bucks), art galleries, art galleries, art galleries, more restaurants, the occasional café, bar, pharmacy. And a few wild cards -- done up in wackier, more eccentric fashion than their more conventional, relatively restrained neighbors.
New Year's morning: me taking a good long time to wake up, eventually going out for a lengthy walk as my hosts did other things, stopping along the way at a nearly empty high-end coffee joint for a desperately-needed espresso. As the two women behind the counter took my order, I discovered I'd left my folding money back at G&S's place, had only a small handful of change, nowhere near enough for the joe. The women wished me a happy new year, brewed up a decent looking cuppa, gave it to me on the house, me dumping all my change into the big tip jar while grovelling with thanks. Next morning, I stopped in, dumped further $$$ into the gratuity kitty -- the grand total more than the actual cost of the espresso and worth every cent. (The espresso: not so great, I'm afraid. The overall experience: excellent.)
January 2 turned out to be more relaxed than expected, a morning of entertaining myself biking around town giving way to a long afternoon meal with G&S, then a group hike up the road in the soft, early January light. Stopping to look in at shop windows, barging into a gallery to snoop around (the three women chatting inside surprised to find themselves under siege despite the CLOSED sign hanging on the door, handling the invasion with good-natured grace). Ending up at a high-end kitchen/bath shop where I swanned contentedly about, trailing G&S as they took a good, long time rounding up food prep. gadgets. And all day long, as we wandered from one low-key activity to another, people hauled luggage out to cars and took off, leaving behind a town growing quieter by the hour.
By the time we managed to organize, get car packed, cram ourselves into it and begin the return drive to Cambridge, darkness had fallen. Word had come to S&G via a phone call with a friend in Boston that a noreaster was approaching, the gnomes in the weather biz warning it would arrive during the night. Which made up my mind for me re: the question of catching a few hours' sleep in Cambridge or getting immediately on the road to Vermont. From the Cape back up to the Arctic. Wheeee!
And that's what I did. The drive to Boston/Cambridge confounded my expectations, turning out to be a breeze, traffic light and smooth. Rain had begun falling in the city, after a brief refueling stop in a Korean restaurant (where I followed S.'s example and ordered a dish in a ceramic bowl -- delivered to the table piping hot, the bowl designed to keep it hot with the result that the food never cooled off; might have been tasty, I can't say for sure -- I was too busy cauterizing my taste buds), I hit the road, heading north. The rain petered out around the New Hampshire border, the roads remained dry the rest of the way. My energy began to flag as the Vermont border drew near, I passed the trip's last hour exploring different strategies aimed at keeping my eyes open -- self-talk, vigorous face rubs, opening/closing windows, the occasional slap to one or both cheeks. Thank god I was not being videotaped.
And finally home -- to fields covered with snow, to a cold house, to sleep under a mountain of covers. Dreaming about travels to come.
A Canadian friend is heading to India next week for three months -- the thought of the adventures (and excellent food) that await get me excited like I cannot tell you.
So I won't. At least not right this nanosecond.
Madrid, te echo de menos.
rws 4:09 PM [+]
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