Pandemic-era Provincetown
The first week of July, 2020. Any other year and Race Point would be bustling with vacationers, the beach dotted with cheerful umbrellas, the smell of sunscreen thick in parking lot. This year, a lonelier vista. The only revelers we encounter a trio of young foxes.
The old Lifesaving Station feels emblematic of the Old Cape: plain faced and weathered but genteel and brave.
A walk over the breakwater to Long Point Light. Watch the tides, lest you get stranded - or swept to sea! Time it right and the sunset is its own reward.
I look upon places with eyes of love. Especially this place. The bustling harbor on the mouth of the Acushnet. The five glimmering lighthouses and the cobblestoned hill. The underground railroad and the Liberty Bell. The gentle plot of land where my mother is laid to rest. The City that Lit the World.
June in Westport. Strawberries can be found at every turn: at the end of driveways on makeshift farm stands, and at every market worth visiting.
The outer Cape feels a wild place. There’s a distinct charm to its town nomenclature: Wellfleet with its saltmarshes, Provincetown with its dune shacks, Orleans, where the sun rises and sets over the sea. These places seem suitable to set a fairytale, more than Chelmsford or Lakeville or Lee.
Perhaps we overestimated our savvy. Breakwaters are old hat, we thought; we knew what we were in for. I opted for my sneakers over my sandals, but left the backpack behind. We were just taking a stroll across the water.
If you have the good fortune to be in Westport in mid-June, pull off at the nearest farm stand and buy yourself a pint of strawberries. Buy an additional pint for each member of your party - it’s an extravagance only afforded once a year.