Provincetown: A Cheery Bouquet of Humanity, Creativity & Humor
The best way to cheer yourself up
is to try to cheer someone else up.
- Mark Twain, 1835-1910
Provincetown, Massachusetts
Like a bee buzzing from one eye-catching bloom to the next, I spiraled along Provincetown’s Commercial Street, drawn to the left, and then the right, poking my head down an alleyway and then around a gate. I paused in front of a porch, meandered to gaze in a storefront window, and then hovered by a picket fence. My antennae ever alert for the nectar of a potential picture, I practically swooned over the bountiful bouquet presented by this picturesque patch of humanity, creativity and humor at the tip of Cape Cod.
Before setting foot in P-town, I heard the music of a silent chorus singing from its shore, heralding the community’s artistry, spirit, and roots. As the high-speed ferry pulled into the harbor from Boston, I saw immense black and white photographs mounted on a warehouse at the end of Fisherman’s Wharf. An installation entitled “They Also Faced the Sea,” the images depicted Provincetown women of Portuguese descent, a tribute to the village’s immigrant lineage and maritime heritage that dates back 200 years. We passengers were greeted by the countenances of five elderly women, their expressions alternately bemused, mournful and proud. Through the soulful and compassionate portraits, the wise eyes in their wizened faces gazed at us from above the water, portals into the often hard life of a fisherman’s wife.
From the moment I stepped off the ferry with the swarm of other day-trippers eagerly bumbling along P-Town’s MacMillan Pier, I was absorbed with one colorful scene after the next. A duo with punk-rock hair-dos sat in a candy-apple red dory on the sand just a few feet from the ocean, facing in the opposite direction of the water, looking at a map. A burly mustachioed man proudly twirled to show off his Alice-in-Wonderland gingham outfit, delighted to pose for a close-up shot of the delicate white anklets and shiny Mary Jane shoes below his thick calves. A white-haired man slumped in a rocking chair on his front porch, mouth hanging open, in the midst of a remarkably deep mid-morning nap. A life-size Barbie and Ken, crowned with a broad-brimmed straw boater and backwards baseball cap, wheeled a designer baby stroller the size of small car and eyed baubles glittering in the window of a vintage jewelry store.
On the corner near Town Hall, a skinny man with stubble on his face and gray chest hair sprouting from his glitter tube top gripped a portable microphone and belted out Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” vehemently shaking the slender hips in his mini skirt. Down the street, a rag-tag regiment of young musicians gathered on the steps of a brick building and began tuning up, the block reverberating with a cacophony of fiddle, French horn, trombone and a whole reed section. Further along, Elvis was indeed alive and well, gregariously greeting and glad-handing fans.
Outside a gallery, a phalanx of stained glass sun-catchers atop wrought iron poles stood sentinel, their hues winking and sparkling like outdoor disco balls. The exteriors of the gray-shingled buildings were enlivened with Technicolor architectural details–electric blue steps, bubble-gum pink window trim, and lemon yellow door frames, like baroque icing on plain-vanilla sheet cakes. Signs shouted out store names like Spank the Monkey, Big Daddy’s Burritos, Wired Puppy, Purple Feather and Puzzle Me This. The rainbow flag was ubiquitous, flying from porch after porch.
Heading into P-Town’s West End, flower power was wielded in neighboring gardens of hydrangeas, gladiolas, globe onions, black-eyed susans, sunflowers, cosmos and morning glories. Keeping the peace were sculptures scattered here and there of universal icons–the Hindu elephant-trunked god Ganesh, a haloed and robed St. Francis, fat-bellied Buddhas, a Native American shaman, and a Mexican Day of the Dead skeleton sporting a top hat and cane.
I made my way to the end of Commercial Street, arriving at the Red Inn, a 200 year-old property on Provincetown Harbor. It’s said that at this spot, the Mayflower pilgrims first set foot on land on November 11, 1620, seeking religious freedom. A later captain, Freeman Atkins, built the rambling structure here for his wife Emily in 1805. In 1915, its owner Mary Wilkinson opened her home as The Red Inn “as the roses began to bloom.” President and Mrs. Roosevelt stayed here when they traveled to Provincetown to lay the cornerstone for the Provincetown Monument. In 1987, scenes were shot at the Inn for the film Tough Guys Don’t Dance, written and directed by long-time P-Town resident Norman Mailer, the Pulitzer-Prize winning author.
Mark Twain, quoted today, could be a tough guy himself, having lived among rascals and ne’er-do-wells when serving as a river boat captain and later, leading the life of a frontiersman in Nevada Territory, and then post-Gold Rush California. Yet, Twain had a sensitive side as well. He was believed to have endured a 15-year bout with depression triggered by the loss of one of his daughters, all three of whom pre-deceased him. Among Twain’s earliest experience with death was when his younger brother was killed in an explosion on the river boat on which he worked. Twain’s grief was compounded by the guilt he felt, having not only persuaded his sibling to work with him, but also having had a detailed premonition of the catastrophe a month earlier.
My first encounter with that particularly painful combination of emotions was also when my younger brother died, killed in a car accident after he had moved at my urging to the town in which I was attending college. Although not specific like Twain’s, I, too, had a premonition. Ultimately, that sensation, as inexplicable as it was, gave me some comfort as I sought to cope with the tragic turn of events. I have long viewed that knowing I felt as verifiable evidence that my brother and I shared a strong connection.
That said, for a long time, I was unable to move beyond the sense of responsibility I felt for what had happened. While today I know I am not that powerful, I labored for many years under a belief that I had brought about circumstances that had ended so horribly. It took more than a decade and another tragedy for me to have the glimmer of insight that helped me to begin to make some sense of my pain.
As I sought to comfort a dear friend who had just lost her own brother in an accident that seemed equally senseless, I tried to articulate my eventual recognition that such great heartache was only possible as a result of strong love. As I listened to her and cried with her, I realized my grief was being transmuted by sharing hers. And what’s more, I needed to hear my own words in my own voice falteringly speak of what was then a fragile, fledgling faith.
A few days ago, another friend, one who owned a fishing boat herself for many years, shared an experience in which she saw a whole other facet of Twain’s wisdom. In the midst of a day that seemed to be going from bad to worse, she was unexpectedly asked to pitch in at a local soup kitchen. Several hours later, she had an entirely different outlook on her problems, her attitude and day transformed.
As much as I enjoy a change of scenery for a fresh perspective, it is in fact the connection with others that makes life sweet. Sometimes I need people I come across in my travels to remind those connections can also be found in my own backyard.
“Beginning before the turn of the last century, fisherman, artists, writers, gays and bohemians have sought the natural beauty, diversity and inclusiveness that P-Town offers,” said Bob Sanborn, the town’s Tourism Director. “Because of the small size of the town, “townies” have forged strong relationships over the years, if not decades, and have grown to support each other emotionally and depend upon each other, particularly during down times.”
For more images of Provincetown, see Travel Photos New England section.
http://www.provincetowntourismoffice.org/
http://www.provincetown-ma.gov/
http://www.theredinn.com/index2.html
Before setting foot in P-town, I heard the music of a silent chorus singing
