Welcome to Provincetown!

Sonja not only helped me pack before the move, she drove down in the U‑Haul with me, and she also very kindly provided documentary photographs. (Bob also did an amazing amount of helping me pack, and he drove my cats to Provincetown. Madame Max cried the whole way. And I think Glencora peed in the carrier.)

Lots of stuff remains in the old apartment; some is destined for the trash, some for Goodwill, and some will still make it to Ptown over the next month.

The guys I hired to pack the truck did so in an hour, and Sonja and I set off slightly ahead of schedule. Which was nice, considering the fact that it was snowing at the time. There had been a snow emergency declared (on both ends of the trip), but it was lifted in Somerville shortly before we left. The traffic was light and the roads were pretty good through most of Boston. (We will not speak about the near-death experience in which the weather was not really a factor.)

For a ten-foot truck, it had a surprisingly cozy cab.

There were a few stretches as we headed south with more snow (like Duxbury), but it wasn’t until after we hit the Cape that we got into some pretty serious snowy driving (for a Southern California boy).

Welcome to Provincetown!

I was curious about what changes I would find in the apartment. It’s still a studio, but it’s no longer one room. There’s a new semi-wall and a barn door that somewhat closes off one end (sadly, it doesn’t close enough to confine the cats). The new surround for the bathtub came in cracked, and the new one hasn’t come in yet. There’s a broken pipe under the kitchen sink, so it’s unuseable and “I’ve called the plumber but I’m not sure when he’ll make it, because it’s Ptown.” (At which point Bob interjected the above welcome message.) There’s still a distinct aroma of paint in the air, and the closet-ish area on the back of the semi-wall hasn’t been finished—which is actually nice, because I asked for a shelf and a clothes rod instead of two clothes rods.

Two signs of being in a small town (really a village): a letter confirming my change of voter registration was already waiting for me; at least two people stopped to quite frankly stare at the moving while in process, while not actually saying hello.

I had to move the truck several times for the snowplows. The snow emergency in Provincetown wasn’t lifted until the evening. It wasn’t snowing very much by the time we got there, but it was enough to make carrying things across the street a bit unpleasant. The stairs are also pretty scary when wet.

At last a use for old art calendars. There were blinds in my apartment in Somerville, and I don’t have any curtains yet.

After a very nice (and filling) dinner at Ciro and Sal’s last night, Bob and Sonja went off to their rooms at a B&B, and I spent my first night in my new apartment. The cats eventually consented to visit me on the bed, but they are still far from their usual pushy selves. Today dawned bright and beautiful, and Sonja and Bob helped move the unpacking along much farther than I would have accomplished on my own. We had a nice brunch at Canteen and saw an art show, and I showed them the beachfront behind my building.

And now I’ve begun my exploration of the off-season restaurants (Blackfish, in the space where Local 186 is in the summer), and am about to collapse into bed before 8pm to try and fight off a cold.

Memory lane

Downsizing from a two-bedroom to a small studio in just a few weeks is a terrible idea. Especially when you’re a packrat who previously responded to the last rush before moving by just shoving piles of stuff in boxes. Which then went unpacked. I am paying for my sins now.

But on the other hand, I’ve come across things like a love note and photo from a boyfriend in the early 80s. And a piece of art by another boyfriend in the late 80s. Cards from friends and coworkers when I moved from Philadelphia to Boston. Photos (physical photos! in albums!) that I haven’t looked at in years.

And on a more mundane note, do you remember when you had to buy a box for World of Warcraft and use the CDs to install the game?

Perspective

One of the things that I’m hoping for from this move is a new perspective on my own life. But of course, it will change my perspective on all sorts of things, most directly, Provincetown itself.

I knew in an abstract way that off-season Ptown is quite a different place from what I’m familiar with in summer. I have friends and acquaintances who are posting on social media from the other side of the country (or the world). There are (very short) lists of what’s open on any given day.

But it really brings it home to make a post on Craigslist looking to hire some help unpacking a moving truck and get sixteen responses in a day and a half—many of those after I edited the post to say I probably have enough help. Lots of people who are unemployed in the off season. It will be interesting to be part of a community where I am unlike many around me by being, first, not retired; second, fully employed year-round; and third, employed with only one job (and that with shorter summer hours) during the season. (And for full disclosure, this summer I plan to be on sabbatical, so not working at all. Ahem.)

Before photos

I looked at the studio apartment I’m moving to back in January. There were two small apartments in the building undergoing renovation. Here are some phone pics of the one I chose, before anything was done.

#adventurous60

I’ve picked a hashtag and everything. Which may use a little unpacking. I’ve received good advice to treat my upcoming move to Provincetown as an adventure. And this summer I will be turning 60. So, #adventurous60.

Downsizing from what will probably be rented as a two-bedroom apartment to a small studio (I suspect it’s not more than 350 square feet, if that) is a giant challenge. High on the list of difficult things to let go of are books, in spite of doing almost all of my reading digitally these days. Case in point: The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas H. Johnson. Purchased in 1976 in the Netherlands when I was working on a dairy farm for the summer in a Future Farmers of America program. Put in the “keep” pile because, well. Even though I haven’t touched it in years.

But no! Tonight I checked, and Dickinson’s poems are online. And so I will treasure my memories, let go of a book, and step out in adventure.

This Consciousness that is aware
Of Neighbors and the Sun
Will be the one aware of Death
And that itself alone

Is traversing the interval
Experience between
And most profound experiment
Appointed unto Men —

How adequate unto itself
Its properties shall be
Itself unto itself and none
Shall make discovery —

Adventure most unto itself
The Soul condemned to be —
Attended by a single Hound
Its own identity.