Touring Cape Cod 1: Provincetown

Islands were hovering in the distance and for a moment I felt like I was in the Mediterranean. I didn’t look back at the receding Boston piers so as not to break the illusion. Lighthouses were taking a break from their duties in the glare. Every now and then we passed boats on which invariably two men were fishing.

The ferry ride from Boston to Provincetown takes 90 minutes per direction, which was enough time for me to first find the sea breeze on the deck delightful on such a hot morning, then cold enough to go below deck. Seated in the middle rows inside, with all window seats occupied, made the rest of the trip reminiscent of a bus ride, only with the ferry swaying with the waves instead of bumping along the imperfections of asphalt.

It was one of the few pretty weekends of June, Pride Month. Provincetown was consequently absolutely packed. In my experience in the US either there is barely anyone on the streets or everyone is there, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen similar quantities of people at once in the US, perhaps not even in Times Square. Only in Finland in the Helsinki market square when Finland wins the hockey world championship.

We were hungry and decided to get breakfast. I had looked up a cafe that had a patio with bay views. There was a languid atmosphere to the small cafe and only a few customers, so I congratulated myself on having made the right choice. Coffee was in our hands quickly to further confirm this. Then we became aware of the passage of time, second by second, as we waited for the food. The egg scramble didn’t materialize. I began to observe the kitchen, of which I only saw the entrance to the little nook where it was situated. From my observations I could deduce there were three people working in the kitchen: the first worker’s task was to look at the order slips and contemplate them. He had a mellow surfer affect, with long hair and an Eastern European accent. After gazing at an order slip peacefully for a while, he’d ask what goes into each meal, which all had whimsical, local names. He’d repeat his questions, because the chef, beyond my line of sight inside the kitchen, couldn’t hear them, and then he’d receive an answer in a voice that I couldn’t fully make out but that remained even if clearly a little harried. Next to him was a woman whose task was to slice bread. She was very quick and sliced enormous quantities of it. Finally I caught a glimpse of the chef: she emerged from the kitchen and poured a scramble into a black plastic container, which thanks to its color looked like it was made of compacted trash bags. It was not mine, and neither were the next dozen or so. There was a long backlog of orders. The chef emerged so rarely to pour out what she had fried into the containers that I realized she must be working with a single pan. The surfer looked at the scrambles and said that everything was a little overcooked but that it was OK. Half an hour later I opened my black plastic box on the patio overlooking the bay to enjoy the $15 vegetarian “Sunrise on the Bay” egg scramble, which we were sharing and which was unexpectedly small in portion. It was however perfectly cooked.

It was time to head out of Provincetown, we decided. We wanted to see what the residential areas around it looked like on our way out, so we walked instead of immediately taking the shuttle bus, which was free, and which connects the various spots of interest around Provincetown. Most of the houses were pretty and modestly sized, but what I liked the most was the flora, the flowers and the pine trees. We came across an old hilltop cemetery that was essentially a sandbar with pines and many cozy cottage-like houses. The heat was becoming tough to bear but we’d brought plenty of water. Bicycles whizzed past and they seemed like the ideal mode of transport for the cape.

We came to a salt marsh, which looked like an oceanic swamp. Water flowed between tiny sand dunes, with some larger dunes further away. There were a few people with canvases on stands painting the scenery, which was more scenic in their paintings, less like a swamp and more oceanic, with the lighthouse in the distance looming larger than in life.

A bus stop was nearby and we decided we should take the shuttle to a stop on its route named “Beech Forest”. Google Maps placed the bus stop we were looking for inside a large parking lot for an inn. We couldn’t find it, so we positioned ourselves at the entrance to the parking lot so that we couldn’t miss the bus when it came, and soon saw the shuttle bus come towards us, do a loop in a traffic circle in front of us and drive away without stopping. We had missed it. We walked back to Provincetown, where there was another stop and where the next bus would come sooner, also because I wanted to do more real estate photography, my favorite genre.

Without having missed the bus these photos wouldn’t exist. Such are the blessings of creative activities: mostly anything is fuel and opportunity for them, including missing the bus, which makes it easier to have a more pleasant outlook towards such everyday misfortunes. With these pictures I am at the length limit for Substack, so the account of this trip will continue with one or two more installments, focusing on the nature outside Provincetown and a short detour to Wellfleet, another town further down the cape.