To Provincetown, to Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod. We were spoiled—or, perhaps pampered is a better word—and any hope I had of fitting into a bridesmaid's dress next weekend disappeared along with the baked stuffed lobster that I ate, and the enormous sushi boat, and the eggs benedict, and all the planter's punches.
For breakfast, a chocolate croissant (that rivals the very best I've had) alongside a bittersweet cup of cafe au lait.
A short walk to Perry's (everything is only a short walk away in Provincetown) revealed to us a feast of cheeses and bread and prociutto, and a sample of creamy Spanish Garrotxa from the proprietor. But we were in a spirit au francais, and opted for a barnyard-y Brebicet with its velvety rind.
To drink (and toast), a crisp and lovely bottle of 2000 Dom Perignon.
After our repas in the clean salt air, there was washing to be done
And little houses (like this one) to smile at
And shrubbery, and white picket fences, and old-timey mailboxes. How very New England!
In Provincetown, the sea is always present, but hidden by the tiny Cape Cod-style houses. It's kind of like the onset of fall—you know it's nearby, but all of a sudden you turn a corner, and bam! there it is.
Since strolling and chatting is such hard work, we took a break (in the form of sweet macaroons, and deeply chocolate confections, and cookie sandwiches with hazelnut creme).
At the end, there was a sense of tired satisfaction
and a drive home, which, sweetly, was somehow both longer and shorter than we had hoped it would be.