Wearing ourselves out in Provincetown
Valentine’s in Provincetown and my Big Fish (seen above) is on a quest to find a protective beanie to shield himself from the elements. Nothing as outlandish as this (see below) but something just as insulating.
We mistook the sun and surf for thinking it was warmer outside than it really was. With windchill, temperatures felt like 5-degrees today. Brrrr!
The wannabe souvenir can’t be just any ‘ol brain blanket but something wrapped in style and comfort. A handmade souvenir knitted so tightly that the cold ocean knots from Herring Cove (aka Boys Beach) can’t cut through. Preferably one made with reclaimed fibers; wool would be nice. Is that asking too much?
Not if you visit Arcadia, one of the few specialty shops open on Commercial Street, we soon discovered.
Wearing the quintessential pullover – a furry muscled merman covered in tattoos with the word Helltown – owner Jay Gurewitsch (the town’s unabashed ambassador) launches into wit and wisdom about his stock of unique sundries.
“This is my #1 seller,” he says, pointing to the pirate-scribed treasure.
“Always be yourself. Unless you can be a pirate. Then be a pirate,” Jay recites a popular quote apropos of the town’s culture while George tries it on. It’s a sale but not for him. For me!
I call dibs on the fashionable bootie wearing it all over town while George begrudges my pigtail hat.
We jump boulders at the famous breakwater causeway, admire lighthouses from afar, share lunch at Liz’s CafeAnybody’s Bar and then frown with disappointment seeing that the historic landmark, the Pilgrim Monument, is closed for the season. Arrr!
Regardless, it’s a long, wonderful day exploring the quaint sights of Provincetown, my first visit, George’s second since 1981. Many charming Classic Capes and cottages pre-date the 19th century. The historic inns are adorable and cozy as we slip in and out of them looking for bathrooms. We are loving the peace and quiet of this vacation paradise.
Hibernation comes easy for a local couple we meet during dinner – a half-plate of oysters and bowl of what else, cod of course, on a bed of pumpkin puree – at Spindler’s. They admit that the serenity in the winter is a precious scarcity. In the summer, it’s notorious for disco, drinking, and debauchery.
My scallywag pretends to hibernate himself in a bright blue, albeit tacky, Adirondack chair sitting in front of the town hall.
