Summer Love-In Provincetown

Hip hip Hooray!  It’s a snow day!  I’m so grateful to Jonas, the blizzard that has come through New York City and cancelled my work trip.  It is the equivalent of having the day off school as a kid.  But with the added bonus of being pay protected by your job as an adult. 

I know I’m in rare company as one who enjoy the winter, especially on the East Coast after last winter.  But I have been eagerly waiting for snow.  To be here to enjoy it, instead of the sun-shining destinations of Vegas and Florida I was scheduled to be in over the next couple days, makes me happy.

The pot of tea has been made as the flakes float down.  There’s a white canvas of snow out my window providing a magical view while I lie in bed with a blank page creating a new blog to you.  Then I’ll go outside and enjoy it!

But for those of you who really don’t like winter, this blog’s for you.  Let’s travel back to summer in Provincetown, at the tip of Cape Cod, last August during it’s infamous Carnival week.  It is the busiest week and unofficial end of summer when the small town swells to thousands of tourists.

The B&B’s, restaurants, and bars along the main drag, Commercial Street, had decorated their establishments in the Candyland theme—perfect for my sweet tooth.  Strands of colorful beads came out for sale in preparation for the parade.  The Pilgrims actual first stop that has transformed over the years and retains the eclectic and quirkiness of the Portuguese fishing village, artists colony, and gay hedonistic destination, had been adorned for the biggest week of the year into a playful array of color and fun.

I was blessed to call P-town home—as it’s affectionately known—for one summer season as a bartender before becoming a flight attendant.  But for the past eight seasons, twice a summer since, I come home to Provincetown during the two busiest weeks, Carnival in August and Bear Week in July and reprise my bartender role as the kindness of both Ricks welcome me back to the Crown & Anchor. 

With its Victorian architecture The Crown is a Moulin-Rouge like entertainment complex that has stood the test of time.  Even rising—literally—from the ashes when destroyed by fire nearly 20-years ago.  It’s U-shaped building enclosing a courtyard consists of a restaurant and outdoor patio overlooking Commercial Street situated across from the box office providing tickets to the vast array of shows and performances in the venues that connect them.  They include the Cabaret Room, Paramount night club, an outdoor pool and bar, the Wave Video bar, and The Vault leather bar, in addition to a hotel above it all. 

The Crown & Anchor has something for everyone.  Award winning chefs serve fine cuisine.  While some of the finest drag queens, Broadway stars, comedians, authors, and actors’ present their talents in an intimate setting.  Many of whom—including me—return each summer because The Crown gives back such lasting memories that yearn to be repeated.  Not to mention some world famous DJ’s spinning the music of summer.  In addition to resident VJ Tom Yaz and his extensive collection of movie clips and videos chronicling every era.  He's bound to have something to strike a reminiscent chord is everyone of all ages bringing smiles, warm fuzzies, and plenty of laughter.
Derek affectionately sees me as a special guest star making my own appearance.  I’m just grateful every time I’m invited back.  But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t let out a little girl giggle inside when he says it, the compliment acknowledged and appreciated. 

Year after year that The Crown has me back I’m provided with a nurturing dose of ardor in a truly unique town.  It is a Land of Misfit Toys where acceptance is its foundation.  It gives me a break from the crazy travel season of the airline industry and the summer public that comes with it.  Instead of being cramped on a tube in the sky, I can be by the pool in my bikini or dancing behind the bar in Paramount while slinging drinks.

P-town and The Crown also contributed the setting for Derek and I to meet.  Whether brief encounters, holiday romances, or meetings that have lasted lifetimes Provincetown has a reputation for enchanted rendezvous, both romantic and sexy.  Ours was during Carnival 2009.  I was working in Paramount.  It was not that busy so I had the time to have a dance behind the bar.  Derek noticed me and wondered who the stranger was.  He was living in P-town for the summer and knew all the bartenders, except me.  So he came up to my bar to investigate the unknown and order a drink. 

He smelled nice to me.  His eyes and smile were also very friendly.  We chatted and I answered his interview like questions.  Before he left to join his friends he invited me to hang out together sometime that week while I was in town.  I agreed.  He came back a couple times throughout the night to order drinks and have a flirt.  When the DJ announced last call, he made sure to return before the club closed.

“So would you like to come home with me?” he asked, adorably a little tipsy.

I laughed endearingly. 

“What happened to hanging out sometime this week?” I playfully responded. 

He didn’t say anything.  He paused.  His eyeballs moved left then moved right as if my question didn’t exist and he was able to erase and rewind a few seconds in time. 

“So would you like to come home with me?” he repeated the déjà vu experience.

I laughed and smiled.  It was humorous to me that he appeared to ignore me calling him out.  I stared into his eyes and we paused.

“Sure,” I said with a smile.  I spent the night.  We went to café Heaven in the morning for breakfast.  The rest is one of thousands in P-town’s magical history.  We have returned every Carnival for the last five years for our anniversary, except one, a little bump in the road, no relationship safe from them. 

For the last three summers we have been blessed with a home at Ravenwood on Commercial Street near the quaint Angel Food market.  It’s a little bed & breakfast in the quieter East End, which still has the old, rustic P-town feel of the past fishing village era and contains many of the art galleries; compared to the more contemporary atmosphere to the homes in the West End. 

The B&B boasts four little independent apartments.  But it maintains a family environment created by the owners Val and Diane, a lovely couple that has had the same people—who’ve become friends—return to their respective ‘homes’ for Carnival year after year.  Derek and I are the newest addition and have the tiny, charming studio in the back.  It has a ladder leading to a loft bed where a low ceiling has forced us to make sex careful, yet creative, as heads have been bumped. 

But we LOVE it.  It is true, old Cape Cod style with cedar siding and an adorable outdoor patio that we yearn for each summer to return to and enjoy, as any New Yorker knows what a luxury outdoor space is.  It overlooks a small lawn of green grass enclosed by a tall fence and bordered by a tiny vegetable garden of tomatoes and eggplant, and flowers.  A large bush that provides a cozy feel produces flowers that attract bees and hummingbirds.

For Carnival 2015 both Derek and I had been salivating for the week to arrive.  He was going crazy producing art and stretched all over the place exhibiting at various shows from NYC to Rhode Island.  I was right behind him ready to check into the asylum.  Flights were packed all summer and some of the “guests” were not behaving very nicely or treating me, or my co-workers very respectfully.  Needless to say we needed a vacation.   

*A friendly reminder: Always be kind to your flight attendants.  We have an enormous volume of people, energy, and personalities blasted our way on a daily basis.  We really are there to help save your life in the unlikely event.  Don't make us second guess that ;)

Day One: Arrive

Grocery shop, settle in, acquire my work schedule, hellos here and there to familiar faces, put feet in the water, relax, relax, relax.  Perfect start! 

Day Two: Our Anniversary

Friends arrive.  A bike ride is decided upon.  Provincetown has many miles of bike trails through the dunes of the national park.  It was during the ride that it happened.  One of those things that you hear happen to other people and you think, That would really suck!

Well, it happened to me! 

            We began our bike ride toward the trails.  I was on a borrowed bike, a racing bike with cages for the feet—something I had never experienced before—and a strange angle where my weight leaned down on the handlebars.  I didn’t feel comfortable.  I considered staying back and allowing the bike junkies to go on without me.  But I wanted to be a good sport and do a nice couple and friend activity to start the vacation.  I didn't listen to my gut.

            I trailed behind as we slowly weaved around the people parading down the runway known as Commercial Street looking in the shops, stopping at outdoor patios to people watch, or be entertained by the buskers around the library and Town Hall.  At the end of Commercial in the west end the street meets Route 6 and goes along the salt marshes then nature leading to Race Point beach.  

We arrived to the parking lot of the beach and rode along the water to the other side where the entrance of the trails began.  Before beginning I told Derek and our friends to go at their own pace.  I knew they liked to go fast.  I didn't.  I wanted to take my time and not rush especially being on the unfamiliar bike.  We planned to meet at the lighthouse on the beach, the halfway point where we turn around and go back.

I savored the pristine nature and views along the way as I pedaled up, then coasted down the hills along the curving path, as the shining warm sun produced a light sweat.  Provincetown is known for it's exquisite light, hence all the artists that flock there, and that day was no different.  The simple palette of the black tar trails, light brown dunes, and green foliage growing along the way produced a living and breathing painting that I was a part of.  The fresh air whistled around me while I cruised onward, immersing and baptizing me with a dose of Mother Nature’s medicine.  It refreshed me for the start of vacation and prepared for a busy week of work.

As the trails ended near the tiny airport I approached another parking lot near the lighthouse.  There is a little paved ramp from the parking lot to an area with public bathrooms before leading to a wooden walkway.  The lighthouse is accessed by the walkway that leads through the dunes toward the beach.  It eventually forks, one direction to the ocean and the other to the lighthouse.    

My momentum decreased up the driveway to the parking lot.  I didn’t want to risk not making it up the small ramp and attempt to weave through people.  To be extra cautious I slowed and turned before the ramp to disembark.

Unfortunately I turned right into a pile of sand.  I wobbled and lost control.  In the split second I had to catch myself my instinct tried to slide my foot to the side like normal, and to the ground.  But I forgot about the cage my foot was in.  Everything happening in spilt seconds it was too late to slide my foot backward and then down.  I fell hard and fast like a tree to the left with my feet remained trapped.

Reflexes shot my left arm out at the last second.  But as soon as all 175 pounds of me landed on my hand and bent my wrist back the pain caused me lean to my elbow, which hit the pavement and took the rest of the fall.  Adrenaline rushed throughout my body.  Along with embarrassment I popped up back to my feet.  I walked my bike down the walkway to the dunes where the others awaited. 

My wrist hurt, and throbbed.  I tried to stay calm as we took in the view and rested.  Derek attempted to reassure me as he gently rubbed my wrist.  But as time went by, instead of subsiding, the pain slowly began moving up my arm. 

My mind desperately latched onto Derek’s words.  But I knew my body.  Something didn’t feel right.  I became concerned.  Derek continued to reassure me.  But I was not looking forward to the roughly five-mile ride back.

Not long after starting, the angle of the racing bike put too much weight on my arm and made it worse.  I switched to Derek’s bike which helped.  It allowed me to use my right arm only from time to time to make it back home. 

But once we walked through the gate and into our yard the pain seemed to explode in my elbow.  I wanted to drop to the grass.  The increased adrenaline in my body lasted long enough to get me home.  Once it returned to normal, pain reigned.  My arm began swelling.  Something was definitely wrong.  I couldn’t straighten my arm without crippling agony. 

I feared it was broken.  I was worried I wouldn't be able to bartend.  I counted on that money each summer to give me a boost.  I wanted to remain in denial, believing it would be fine.  But the pain increased.  My eyes watered.  I became anxious.  I reached the critical moment where the most vital thing needed is called upon: Mom. 

I am so grateful at thirty-nine to still have my mother.  No matter what age they are always helpful such times.  Even better if, like mine, is a nurse.  It is something not even science can define: the power of a mother’s voice. 

I relayed all my concerns to her, feeling safe to let out a small cry from the worries.  Followed by a scream when a wave a pain came back as I foolishly tried to straighten it out.  She stepped right in with the motherly care that only the precise tone of her voice can begin to 'kiss and make better' on a cellular level. 

I don’t know science and like I said don’t think it could explain it anyway.  But perhaps positioning every cell of her body as a calming and stabilizing force both mentally and emotionally, my cells, made from hers, felt and became synced with it.  I began to be soothed on a core level. 

She suggested it might be wise to go to the clinic.  Like a stubborn Taurus I didn’t want to.  To me it meant something was going to be confirmed wrong, and that I wouldn’t be able to work.  I procrastinated to the point where the clinic closed.  It was a Sunday afternoon.  The next option was the hospital in Orleans ½ hour away. 

I began icing with my arm elevated on a pillow resting on the armrest of the love seat while I looked out the screen door to our brilliantly shining, second day of vacation.  As the pain continued, I finally surrendered.  I needed to see someone.  It was looking like the hospital was my only option. The thought of a thirty-minute car ride to a hospital on a gorgeous summer afternoon was so depressing.

But then our friends came walking down the pathway.  They had good news.  Provincetown provided volunteer paramedics for visitors.  Specifically for situations like a Sunday afternoon when the town clinic closed.  They come wherever you are, and examine and advise for free!  It was an immense blessing and relief, as any movement was painful and I dreaded moving from that spot. 

My next thoughts turned to the paramedics.  For those of you that read my last blog—Mr. 19J—another little dream has been, that, if I ever did need a paramedic, that he also be sexy.  He didn’t disappoint. 

As he walked through the gate onto the lawn his masculine stride and pace emanated concern and care to get to the damsel and come to the rescue.  It made him all the more attractive.  A female paramedic also followed him.  I sensed they both were living their purpose: to help people.  The emotional and mental stability they expressed picked up where Mom left off and addressed needs beyond the physical I didn’t even know I had along with their extensive knowledge and experience.  

Kneeling before me like a knight, he established first my arm probably wasn’t broken.  He described all the times he broke something while playing hockey—I felt a fantasy swoon, imagining him in uniform gliding across the ice with his stick, trying to score—that he felt sick to his stomach as the body reacted to the fracture.  I didn’t feel that when it happened and felt immediate relief while learning something.  

I told him I was there to work.  My first shift started the next evening.  I gazed into his eyes and made it clear I hoped follow through.  His eyes felt my concern.  He took his manly hands, gently squeezing up and down, asking if it hurt, as the woman sat beside me and began taking my blood pressure. 

“Ouch, a little,” I replied.  But it feels so good I thought

“Ouch, yes,” I replied.  But it feels so good I thought.  I oscillated back and forth between the two feelings, and enjoyed every second of it. 

He thought from his experience that it was a bad sprain.  He assured me that going to the hospital would simply provide an x-ray proving a fracture one way or the other.  It was as if he read my mind knowing exactly what I did, and did not want, and reassuring me that I could have it as I continued to look deep into his eyes, for a read and to send a message to just give it to me, straight.

Along with his partner, they assured me that ice, elevation, and moving as little as possible was the best course of action.  They felt it would feel better the next day, and be a sign it was a sprain, and healing.  He was equally strong and gentle and believed I would be able to work, and brought out strength and inspired belief inside me.  But then our time came to an end.  I had to be unwrapped from my hero's finger before he wrapped my arm in gauze and placed an ice pack on,  as P-town's magic of loving encounters, even if platonic lived on.  He then departed into the setting sun.  But not before I checked out his hockey bum. 

I began to focus on healing enough to work the next evening.  When they left I felt so much relief from their visit.  A renewed optimism sprang forth that the week’s work would not be lost.  But any sort of real anniversary celebration out on the town was, as the next hero stepped in: Derek.

After getting some much needed medical supplies at Stop ‘n Shop : Arnica, sports band, whoopie pies (a classic East Coast confection, that replaced the injury treat of ice cream as a kid).  The disappointment was the elephant in the room as we stayed in watching T.V.  It may not have been the biggest or most exciting of anniversary celebrations but it turned into the sweetest to me  

For of those who don’t know, I’m left-handed, and my injured arm was, of course…my left.  I needed help showering, dressing, and eating.  Although we drew the line at wiping, and that, along with brushing, I optimistically accepted the challenge to become a bit more ambidextrous. 

Derek changed my ice when it melted, and prepared, then fed me dinner, and my whoopie pie, as my anniversary celebratory treat to his cocktails.  And although I felt bad and offered some careful sexual options for Derek there was no whoopie that night.  He didn’t want a bump to the arm from carried away passion to send me in pain.  Although, now that I think about it, it could have been a perfect segue into exploring S&M and bondage in our relationship.  Alas we went to bed with space and a pillow elevating my arm between us. 

The next morning I was unsure about work that evening.  I had to make the dreaded phone call to my boss.  I think it’s safe to say that NO P-town bar manager wants to hear that one of his bartenders may be out of commission at the beginning of Carnival week.  Like a coach to a player for the big game Rick stressed he really didn’t have anyone to replace me.  Everyone’s schedule was stretched to the limit for the week.  
I stressed to him I eagerly wanted to work.  I assured him I would elevate and ice and pop ibuprofen every six hours, and most importantly, that I would be there.  Other than a brief venture to a beach near our place—along with my bag of ice—for some fresh air and a soak of the arm in the salt water, I sat on the love seat staring out the screen door elevating and icing all day. 

But I made it to work.  First a one-man show in Paramount, Broadway and Tony winning star of Kinky Boots, Billy Porter.  I made it through the rush before the lights went down then could relax during, and enjoy the entertainment.  Afterward it was time to take out all the chairs and switch over to the club. 

A fellow bartender arrived at the station next to mine.  I informed her I would need a little help.  I could pretty much just mix drinks.  No twisting tops off bottles or lifting of any kind beyond one alcohol bottle with my right hand.  My left could only man the soda gun.  In the beginning the pressure needed to push the button was painful with each push, but bearable.  I told my Bulgarian bar back to check on me often.  Luckily it wasn’t a very busy night and I was able to keep my arm raised over my head in between customers.  
When I returned home after 1:00 a.m. I sat in my designated spot on the love seat icing and elevating while the crickets chirped and the fresh summer air came in through the screen door.  While I attempted to organize and count my tips with my right hand. 

I had the whole following day and evening before I went it.  It was a bit sore from the previous night, but I repeated my routine: icing, elevating, and beach for a sun and soak.  The swelling began to go down and I felt confident it was healing.  I knew working with it was slowing the process but didn’t feel it was damaging it further.  I was fully committed to rest, for the third day of work was going to be long: a double shift at the pool.  
I survived my second night in the club.  It was busier and more challenging.  The healing felt it took a couple steps back.  But what became a very peaceful ritual and solitary time of icing and elevating in the early morning hours upon my return while Derek slept helped the healing take steps forward again.

The next day was long and stalled the healing process but the sun and fresh air coming off the bay helped feed my spirit and fuel my belief I would make it to—and through—the next and biggest day: Carnival.  And I did.  I had the day to rest on Carnival before my shift to repeat my routine before the parade began in the afternoon. 

The parade of floats slowly makes it’s way down Commercial Street from east to west.  It passes right in front of Ravenwood.  Val and Diane always put on a lovely viewing party with a potluck lunch afterward for their tenants and friends. 

I was excited for the parade.  More so I think than any other year because I had limited abilities that week.  It was something I could participate in—even from the sidelines as an observer—in a low-key safe way and still be a part of.  

The gays brought it out with their most colorful and creative take on the Candyland theme.  There were giant, pink cotton candy wigs and tulle dresses, candy cane hats and candy striper gowns, half naked sexy Oompa-Loompa’s in white tights and green wigs, and a rainbow array of bear costumes representing the Gummy Bears.  
Drag queens galore marched with giant baton suckers with every play of lick, suck, and sticky you could muster.  Not to mention gorgeous studs in skimpy bikinis adorned with actual candy to nibble off, and not much more, strutting their muscled bodies down the street.  To which we shouted, “Ohhhhhh woooooww!  We want Candy!”  (His candy of course).

Although it was all still kid-friendly for the families that filled the streets and joined the celebration as the candy and beads flew though the air some falling easily right to me, others Derek catching for me.  Carnival brings out the best in everyone, a very happy time and place where everybody is welcomed and belongs.  Come as you like, be who you are, that, is Provincetown.

Even funny man Bruce Vilanch brightly clad in yellow like Woodstock perched every so artistically on the back of a convertible with a bright red and white umbrella, and Grand Marshall Sandra Bernhard inside a giant stiletto made appearances and came out for their fans.  With familiar faces from yester days sprinkled into the happiness providing a grand ol’ gay time in the truest meaning of the word. 

One of my favorites was a float of red Afros adorned with shirts playfully asking “How many licks, does it take?” They were handing out Tootsie pops and beads.  As I raised my camera to take a picture of one of the handsome men, I thought how great! my screen showed him perfectly centered inside.  
But then he appeared to be getting bigger and bigger in my screen as I snapped away.  Until I realized, he’s nearly on top of me! What’s going on?  I lowered my camera and wondered why he was coming so close to me.  Just as I did, he toppled on top of me with a big bear hug.  As Derek laughed and the red Afro pulled away I realized it was an old friend, Willy, and former co-worker from The Crown many seasons before.  I did not recognize with the red afro and sunglasses but it was such a nice surprise.

“Here this for you!” He said.  “Open your mouth!”

So I did.  When a sexy Venezuelan tells you to open your mouth, you do.  As I did, he inserted...a Tootsie pop, and adorned me with some beads.  
The caboose of the parade arrived soon after.  As always, it reveals the theme for the following year.  Watch out 2016, it’s a time travel day back to: The 80’s.  Get the neon, stone wash, and jelly bracelets ready. 

Filled with the adrenaline and excitement that rushes and touches everyone on Carnival day I took my place in the little Tiki Bar by the pool.  I slung more drinks and rang more sales than ever before.  The week was a testament to the family at the Crown, the LGBT community, and within Provincetown.  Every bartender and bar back I was paired with each shift rallied to check on me and make sure I was doing ok.  The love reigned supreme and was felt by all from Derek to strangers.  As one hand was temporarily taken from me, many were provided in return, literally and symbolically.  Thank you!