[continued from previous entry]
Waking up in the wee hours, listening to the sound of surf. Walking through shallow pools of saltwater at low tide, ripples of light moving through the water.
Listening to music made by wrens and warblers (one sitting atop the arm of an anemometer mounted on the water-facing side of a nearby building, singing its heart out from morning till evening). Taking long walks into the town center to get caffeinated, to enjoy excellent people-watching, to wander in and out of galleries.
G. & S. spend a substantial part of their time in this small corner of the world, during a walk to the farmers market in the town center with them on Saturday morning, I got a bird's-eye view of the depth of their social network, them running into friend after friend, stretching a simple excursion into a three to four hour jaunt. An amazing display, featuring a pile of good people.
And speaking of amazing displays, that weekend kicked off 'Bear Week.' By Monday, a near flood of large men flowed through the streets of the town. Large, sometimes brawny, sometimes brawny/heavyset, sometimes just heavyset ('heavyset' here meaning something beyond a modest pudginess). Surprisingly, not that many seem to be furry.
My final day there, S. suggested a trip out to the town's west end to walk out along the jetty. Good idea, thought I. We got out the two resident bicycles, made our way through the town center, continued along residential streets lined that led us into sweet, funky neighborhoods and out to the moors, the jetty, sweeping views. Locked up bikes, headed out along the breakwater, talking, moving from one massive chunk of concrete to another, until we'd crossed over to the spit of land that forms the tip of the Cape.
A sweet cool breeze blowing, beachgoers scattered around, gulls standing at the water's edge, facing into the wind. From there, we made a decision to walk the long way around instead of doubling back over the jetty, an extended slog -- very, very, very extended -- ending two hours later, my farmers tan massively darker than it had been that morning. (And why a farmer's tan? Because for some inexplicable reason I set out on this jaunt wearing black jeans, a loose shirt, sneakers, socks, leaving only face, forearms and neck exposed to lovely, life-giving sunlight.)
That evening, my final evening: the day's second field trip, this time to see Paula Poundstone -- she whose trademark is talking with members of the audience, riffing off of what comes out of that. In this case, talking to a couple who own and run a B&B in P-town, it came out that one of them had been an attorney in an earlier incarnation, leaving job and life in the N.Y./N.J. area to move to lovely P-town and change careers. Probing questions from Ms. P. about the kind of law the innkeeper used to practice produced this answer: "I worked for a company called AIG." A nanosecond of amazed silence gave way to a string of gleeful commentary from Ms. P., the laughter in the room growing louder, more intense second by second. S., next to me, sat laughing helplessly. A genuine scene.
After the show, at a popular cafeteria-style joint for supper, the place turning out to be packed, bears providing a huge percentage of those in attendance. And as S. and I. ate at an outside table, watching the scene swirl around us in the newly fallen darkness Miss Richfield 1981 appeared on a scooter-cart -- wearing an amazing, whacked-out get-up -- threading her way through the heaving mass of bears, tourists, etc., talking at the top of her lungs, shmoozing tirelessly, promoting her current show, attempting to drum up a full house for the 10 p.m. performance. Her manner balanced out the visual outrageousness -- a relentless display of good-humored extroversion, attracting all kinds of people, handling them with glib fearlessness. Her scooter-cart moved slowly through the crowd, patter continuing non-stop as she went, until she disappeared into the restaurant. A short time later, she emerged, energy not even close to waning. She piloted her way back to the street, parked, got to her feet and held court. As skillful and likeable a performance as Ms. Poundstone's, in its own out-there way (though with that out-thereness many with mainstream tastes might find it a whole lot more scandalous and unnerving).
[continued in following entry]
España, te echo de menos
rws 2:22 PM [+]
Comments:
Post a Comment