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Location: Truro, Ma.

Otherwise known as: Outer Cape Cod or if you like, the "upper Cape." Lah dee dah, baby. Here's a map of it with Vanna White displaying. She is bossy on a vacation and keeps having to stop everywhere and pose. It gets old. Anyway, we were up somewhere in the middle of that curve (on the map). This was not my normal girlfriends Falmouth vacation with lots of stores and Betsy's Diner. That is coming up soon, dear reader, as I continue to Live the Dream.




One thing I like about the upper Cape is that no one worries about their lawn. The nicest houses and even the most breathtaking mansions have crappy front yards and back.





Um, this is actually Diamondhead Beach in Hawaii. Somehow, I came away without a good pic of the Truro beach. But the sunset is beautifully watchable there too.

Vacation day schedule:

Sleep till whenever. Drink coffee. Eat sensible breakfast. Then go back for un-sensible second breakfast. You're on vacation. Ice cream sandwiches make a tasty add-on.

Get oiled up, loaded down with everything under the sun, and head out to the beach. It's almost disheartening to face the prospect of all the stuff you have to carry. Sunscreen? Certainly, especially for this pasty white chica. Umbrella? Oh sure. Chair? Gotta have it. Book? Definitely. Camera? Flip flops, sunglasses, water bottle, snorkeling goggles--uh, I'll skip those. Good god, let's get out of here. Better bring lunch, so grab the Cheet-O's on the way out.

Apportion time between being roasting hot on the beach and cardiac arrest from stepping into the cold water. "It's fine when you get used to it!"
"The stock market is fundamentally sound!"
Grit your teeth, submerge your body and then run screaming back to your chair.

Try lying down and sleeping on a beach towel. The good part is you can dig trenches for your feet and other parts that need deeper space. You can't do this at a swimming pool. The bad part is who can sleep that way? It's fun to listen to errant wafts of conversation that filter across the beach and the water. "He paid 800 for it. I told him it was a mistake." "Just tell them I was sick. They won't care." "If your mother comes tomorrow, I'm leaving."

Stay till midafternoon or until skin cancer seems imminent. Trudge back to house with all stuff. In our case, we had to climb 64 steps up. It was a good workout until I started to think about vertigo and how at any moment I could lose my balance and plunge to certain death or embarrassing ER visit. Don't think about how far down it is and how the bottom line of your glasses doesn't always match up with the line going across on the stair in front of you. EEEEEEEK.

Shower outside. Pretend to be Eve in the Garden of Eden, all natural and beautiful. Then accept reality and pretend to be Wanda, Eve's friend from slummier trashier garden down the way. More cellulite and more fun. Tell Adam to keep his hands to himself.

Collapse into bed for well-earned nap.

Doze off and wonder what happened to guy who paid 800. 800 what?

Wake up. Wonder about dinner.

Discuss dinner.

Tell and exchange amusing anecdotes about other dinners.

Wait until someone actually stands up and takes action. Then stand up and follow.

Eat dinner. Remember--all together now--you're on vacation. Send someone out for chocolate syrup and ice cream to make death defying brownie sundaes.





Truro is next to Provincetown, site of original Pilgrim landing nearly three hundred years ago--that's darned old for us guys here in the colonies. Provincetown is charming and crowded. There are beautiful restored Victorian homes with cupolas and nooks and crannies next to falling-down shells of houses with garbage out on the front porch.











It is also known by the hipper crowd as "P Town." It is a hub for gay people, male and female and everywhere on the spectrum. It is gender cornucopia. Many who feel they have not made their statement with their clothes, haircuts, piercings, etc., try to do it with their dogs. Big guys walking poodles, a skinny biker striding alongside horse-sized mastiff. The ferry from Boston lets off in the center of town and liberated city people roll their suitcases along on narrow sidewalks. The smell of fried food permeates. It is not unlike other beach towns up and down the coast line in that respect. More yogurt shops here, though, than ice cream. We're eating and then working out at the gym, methinks.




Pilgrim Monument intrigued me. I was sure that from the top of it I would be able to see our rental house.








It's only 117 steps to the top of it and there are windows every so often.


I became interested in the engraved stones everywhere inside, each from a different town in Massachusetts. Plymouth, Amesbury, Achushnet, lots and lots of them, never one from my town, though I kept watching.
Civic pride eventually conflicted with something I had completely forgotten--I am scared of heights. Yee-ow! That's right, dear reader. I made a U-turn about halfway up, much to the consternation of the group behind me. What a dumb thing I said to them: "I was just in the Eiffel Tower and it bothered me." WTF? Are you okay, lady? Did you fly direct from the Eiffel Tower to the Pilgrim Monument? Anyway, I hobbled all the way down again.

But I'm glad I did it.



P Town is fab.









But of course I'm glad to be home.
Sort of.

The kitties were glad to see me, though they had their own vacation. The bathroom door was left open and I'm pretty sure they were trying my eyeliner, in addition to smoking and drinking downstairs and up. The party's over, my darlings.

A bientot, love,becky

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