My friend Phyliss has a little place in the northernest most corner of Cape Cod. Would you like to join me for Labor Day? she asks. She might be a great friend to invite me on this jaunt but she also has an ulterior motive. This chick loves the turmoil and drama that only mother nature can churn. She's weathered hurricanes in St. Martin with glee, glee I tell you! She celebrates snowstorms and thinks nothing of torrential downpours. Puddles she scoffs. I've only got two words: Freaking Scorpio.
We drive to Provincetown Thursday night, one day in advance of the most significant storm of the season yet - Earl. Phyliss can't wait to meet Earl. She hoots when hearing the bridges to the Cape are being closed in the morning. Aren't you excited she asks? To which I can only manufacture a weak Yaaay.
Friday morning in Ptown and no sign of Earl. It's breezy and dry as you could wish of any New England morning. 6:30 and Duke needs his walk as we have no yard. I pull a hoodie over my purple negligee and stumble outdoors. I'm cranky at being roused so early on my first day of vacation but that doesn't last long. The sun bathes me out of my grumpy mood, the air fills my lungs with salt and fish and pine. Gardens surround me everywhere. A tiny hiccup of lawn is bordered by thorny red roses, delphiniums, oak leafed hydreanga. Creeping Jenny scoots outside the perimeter of the short white fence. Portulaca trails on the lawn next to Icicle Pinks. P'town is littered with gardens, not too terribly tidy but darling manifestations of their owners. Some purely English garden, some manicured boxy hedges, some gone wild from either disinterest or disrepair. An apple tree is espaliered against a brick wall. It can't be taller than 3 feet but is producing apples the size of grapefruits. Apricots grow on a tree by an abandoned lot. I imagine the critters feast at night.
Duke drinks and smells it all in. Then he pees on it. These shrubs will not soon forget that little boy from New Jersey. He chats up some dogs, ignores others. Kisses almost anyone who flatters him. He nearly jumps out of his skin upon seeing a planter in the shape of a little lamb. He's never seen lamb, other than in his food dish...We see the same little old lady and her dog every morning on our walk. The woman is 80ish, wears a Sunday morning church hat and black shoes. The dog looks like a Tasmanian Devil and makes gurgling hissing sounds reminiscent of Taz boy. His orange eyes make both Duke and me recoil, really odd for me as I'll pass the time of day with any dog. Not this one. Phyliss notices Duke's utter disdain for fire hydrants. What's up with that? she asks him.
I take him to the bayside shore for a dip. He doesn't even flinch when I toss the ball into the 60 something degree water. He paddles 100 feet offshore and retrieves the shiny racketball. A blue speck against his paddling feet. His tail a rudder, swishing in circles. The salt and minerals in the water are good for his coat which is dry from the summer heat. I let him romp in the water as long as he likes, mixing it in with orgies of plowing through the sand. He digs holes the size of a Manhattan pothole and then scrubs his back on the sand.
Ever the shell seeker I'm disappointed by the lack of them on this shore. But there's a plethora of stones. Earthy tones in clay red, mossy green. Granite pebbles that have been sanded by the currents. I admire but don't gather any except for a shale stone that's shaped like a heart. Honest Injun it is!
The first night we dine at the Mews, the foodie restaurant in town. I've driven 6 hours into rocky beach territory and yet I order duck. Go figure. The garden in front is dominated by a stunning rusted sculpture of a maiden, bathed in red glowing flood lights. I call her the Cast Iron Maiden.
The wind picks up by 9 and starts to rain for real. Phyliss is thrilled. Let's go to the beach she enthuses. So being the dutiful guest I rope along the dog and the three of us sprint to the beach, in pelting rain. Get this, and me still wearing the long dress I wore at dinner. Earl, the long awaited storm is gusting winds, pummeling us with rain and jostling the waves something awful. And yet Phyliss still romps in the water. Earlier that day we had taped the windows of Phyliss's home, hearing dire warnings from the locals. Many of the shop keepers on Commercial Street boarded or taped their windows and doors. But that doesn't stop the revelers from enjoying the lures of Ptown. Couples canoodle in the bars, ladies nuzzle each other, boys walk the streets looking for more boys.
The storm lasts until morning. Duke, normally immune to the rantings of nature huddles under the pull out bed. But with morning comes the sun and azure skies so clear you feel you can see to eternity. Shopkeepers unboard or untape their windows. Waiters put out chairs and flip over tables for the al fresco diners. Homeowners retrieve shards of vegetation released during the storm. Cats patter outdoors to sun themselves after that God awful rain. Thankfully nobody sustained damage other than toppled plants or chairs. We see a tee shirt that reads: I Got Blown by Earl.
Saturday evening we prepare for a dinner party. Phyliss is a frequent diner at Chez Rekha, rhapsodizing over my chicken pot pie, which I must admit is - smack my ass and call me Helen - damn good. Francine and Rebecca, both good friends of Phyliss are coming over. Francine is the realtor that sold Phyliss her condo. Tells you how quickly people befriend each other in these parts. She also happens to own several art galleries and actually held a show while Earl was making his entrance the night before. Rebecca is a veteran chef cum real estate agent and, get this, a beekeeper. She brings a bottle of honey harvested from her Wellfleet hives as a present. It's the color of caramel and smells like Jaggery (an Indian unprocessed sugar made from cane juice) and chocolate. Apparently honey is impacted by terroir as much as wine. Rebecca tell me this hive is situated near a particular green bush from which the queens have been harvesting nectar. Honey, queen bees, chocolate? I feel like I've slipped into an alternate dimension. A sweet one.
Phyliss lays a gorgeous platter of fresh mozzarella, artichoke hearts, avocado slices and olives. I prepare fresh white Cod (when in the Cape...) stacked over with green and yellow squash, aromatics and olive oil, wrap them in foil and they're off to the grill. Then I saute spinach in fried garlic & onions to be incorporated into risotto. Rebecca and I drink Eden Valley Chardonnay that the ladies have brought over. Phyliss drinks Nero D'Avalo a recent Sicilian find that she can't get enough of. Francine sips Polar Lemon Selzer. Dessert is espresso drizzed over Scaffotelia cream gelato - also known as Affugato. The ladies have an early morning at the Agricultural Fair so take leave. Duke's not ready to call it a night yet so we sit on the deck and play music while watching the stars. Phyliss is positive that one I fondly think of as Venus (and with good reason - Venus shining down on you is purported to bring you the love of your life) is really a satellite. After a few night's viewing I concur, it's far too bright, it might emit a humming noise and it hasn't moved position in 3 days.
I'm going ultra femme in Ptown. The local liquor store yielded a bottle of Bitch rose champagne and I'm smoking Eve cigarettes. What a hoot. The Bitch is fruity with a decent fizzle, Eve however sucks. Sunday morning we are greeted by Christine the tatooed drag queen hostess at Enzos. I order the local Portuguese sausage - linguisa with scrambled eggs and onions. Reminds me of the egg filling Mom used to make whenever our family would take a road trip. Except we swapped curry powder for sausage. It's a lazy shopping day with me desperately trying to find a momento from this trip. None are to be found except pink elephant twizzle sticks. But I do buy a darling fish platter for Phyliss as a present. We stop by Wa - a Buddhist motif shop displaying colorful prayer flags, intoxicating lemongrass candles, expensive teak altars. We visit the zen garden in the back and exchange pray salutes with Kuan Yin. A magnificent wind chime sends flute-like notes into the garden. Brilliant orange and pearl Koi frolic in the square algae-crusted pond. It's dark and cool and makes me realize I might never be suited for the monastic life of a monk. Too quiet, that and the sex thing.
Dinner our last night is at the Lobster Pot, a decades old institution. I have lobster scampi, that's right, served over orzo. A ginger green tea martini accompanies the dish, cutting through the rich butteriness of the sauce. Hell yeah! since it's the last night we stroll the streets with thoughts of seeing a live show or perhaps a performance. We walk past a man enrobed in a pure white gown standing on a pedestal, perhaps Archangel Gabriel. His gaunt face is painted white - haughty and beautiful. Although I must admit I've never heard of Gabriel giving little kids dirty looks when they take pictures with him. We pop into a bar, listen to a husky voiced woman with a broken arm sing Angel from Montgomery by Bonnie Raitt. There's gotta be a story there.
There's a sex shop that I mistakenly think is named Joys of Sex. Phyliss assures me it's Toys of Sex. Must check it out. Dildoes of every color and size. Vibrators, pearls of love, a plethora of things to get embedded into orifaces - for the sake of pleasure. And here I am in Provincetown, probably the safest place for a single straight female, outside of the Vatican.
Kobalt Gallery - owner: Francine D'Olimpio, 366 Commercial Street, Provincetown, MA
Cape Cod Honey - Rebecca Matarazzi.
Lobster Pot - 321 Commercial Street,
Provincetown, MA
