Before this summer, I hadn't spent much time in Provincetown, Massachusetts, but I'd been told that it's a unique town that differs significantly from the rest of Cape Cod. In the same way that Cape Cod is synonymous with beach club conservatism and navy blue-striped American prep, Provincetown is synonymous with glitter, magic, poets, painters, and queens, or so the rumor goes.
I arrived by automobile with my partner, Lora-Faye, and we were welcomed not by glitter, but by a maze of narrow alleys lined with immaculate houses and gardens bursting with stunning beds of flowers instead. Men walked down these roads, typically young but occasionally middle-aged or older, going hand in hand, apparently on their way to the beach or returning to their own hydrangea-filled front yards. We reside in New York City, where there is no shortage of homosexual couples. However, seeing just gay people on a street adorned with white picket fences and American flags was a unique experience for Lora-Faye and me.
The cognitive dissonance created by this image is essential to the entire character of Provincetown. Even though its geography and aesthetics are reminiscent of an 18th-century fishing village, the town has served as a beacon for the gay community, particularly gay men, for the better part of the last 50 years. After becoming a rare shelter for HIV/AIDS patients in the 1980s, this village has maintained its status as a safe haven for those living with the disease without discrimination or community support. Provincetown is probably the only place I've ever visited where the streets are lined with elderly lesbians out for a stroll and groups of muscled young men in vibrant swimming trunks pedaling toward the beach at a leisurely pace, a portable speaker blasting Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance with Somebody" from the basket of a bicycle. Provincetown is probably the only place I've ever visited where the streets are lined with elderly lesbians out for a walk and groups of muscled young men in
As we immediately discovered, when it comes to transportation, bicycles are the preferred mode of transportation. Drivers are forced to wait for pedestrians and bicycles, many of whom take the 90-minute ferry voyage from Boston, to pass by, making driving a slow and sometimes ridiculous endeavor. This is actually quite pleasant—the relative scarcity of automobiles, combined with the custom of hopping on your bike to go wherever you want, makes running around town feel like a reversion to some real or imagined childhood.
We booked into the Red Inn as soon as we were able after abandoning our vehicle. Originally built in 1805 at the site where the Pilgrims first moored the Mayflower, this former whaling captain's house has been a hotel since 1915. It was once a whaling station. We rented a room with a view of the beach in Provincetown Harbor, and our terrace was elevated above the sand and, when the tide came in, above the water.
