Bills, Administration and Loans

I have a term for the system of services one relies upon in their day-to day, domestic lives (the dry cleaner, the barber/stylist, the bank, the grocery store, the dentist, the house cleaner….), the seemingly insignificant, mostly mundane parts of our lives that remain in the background until they’re missing or they go awry.  “Personal Infrastructure.”  It’s the things that we consciously choose to keep our lives functioning properly and relatively hassle-free.

Well, leaving my home of 20 years has meant saying goodbye to a really top-notch, highly reliable Personal Infrastructure.

The first piece of the new puzzle to figure out here was, of course, the grocery store.   It’s a Stop and Shop.  It  has a not-so-pleasant history as a Grand Union and an A&P and who-knows-what-else.  Stuck out at the end of the Cape, this space was mostly neglected by whomever its parent company happened to be.   At some point, the good citizens of the Lower Cape raised enough ruckus that the powers that be at the Stop and Shop chain took notice and ramped up the service and selection of this, the only store that serves the 3 outermost communities of Cape Cod.  I think I’ve about mastered its odd assortment of goods and indecipherable layout.  This makes me very happy.  Quickly finding the Horseradish is critical!

The second piece of the puzzle was a decent bike shop.  Since Gary (Fisher, the mountain bike), is my primary means of transportation, his health and well-being are crucial.  I’d been a rental patron of a West Side bike shop ever since my first visit, but even after 15 years of multiple rentals the owner never really warmed up.   Then, as Provincetown Fate would have it, a couple of  summers ago,  I met the owner of the downtown bike shop over a lunch beer at the Lobster Pot and he’s remembered my name ever since.  Done. Gary now is in his tender care.

Third was banking. Since there’s only one bank with real, live people in town, I choose Seamen’s Bank.  Locally owned, locally operated, fiscally sound, it’s a nice place to drop my tip money off each week.  I’ve banked “remote” for 25 years so it’s nice to actually walk into the bank and speak to a real live person.  This greatly outweighs the fact that the bank’s technology is very 1998.

Lastly, and probably most important in this Infrastructure Rebuilding process, has been the haircut.  Getting my hair cut ranks up there with the Best Of Days.   Nothing makes me feel quite as happy as a good cut.  It’s a wonderful renewal, a nice relaxation time and a good ego boost.   Holly’s been cutting my hair for 8 years, and before her, David for 12.   I love my stylists, they’re close friends and important people in my life.  So this change I met with particular anxiety.  And today I went.   To someone new.   Of course, this being Ptown, I know him 12-ways to Sunday:  he cuts 3 or 4  friends’ hair, he went to school with Holly’s cousin, he’s a fellow Southerner, etc, etc, etc.   And once again, the Cape provides.  I got a great haircut, had a really nice time, relaxed in the chair and was charmed by the newest member of my Personal Infrastructure.

Life is good!

Making A List

I’ve been here a month.  And in that month, I’ve:

*  Settled comfortably and happily into 350 square feet of living space

*  Spent 20 hours in my car with a good deal of my belongings, including a blond boufant wig and a Gary Fisher mountain bike

*  “Customized” the bike for appropriate town riding (plastic rain bonnet and rubber ducky horn)

*  Eaten at the Lobster Pot no fewer than 6 times

*  Met close friends of ex-Presidents

*  Thought seriously about sleeping with two women…at once

*  Watched the fog roll in and roll out…almost daily

*  Seen some really good drag

*  Worn some really bad drag

*  Eaten less

*  Worked out less

*  Drank more

*  Been happy being quiet

*  Made new friends

*  Become close with acquaintances

*  Become closer with close friends

*  Put more miles on my bike than my car (like, far more)

*  Learned to properly mark a table for dinner service

*  Missed a wedding I truly wish I hadn’t

*  Learned of new weddings among friends

*  Become a wedding planner

*  Planted an appropriate potager

*  Become a Words With Friends fiend

*  Cried almost daily

*  Not looked back

Black Coffee

For the past several years, I’ve been pre-occupied with the thought that owning my own restaurant would be something I’d like to do.   It might have been the act of dreaming-up, designing and renovating the awful kitchen at 394 Fifth St that cemented my passion for food, entertaining, hosting and preparing a meal.   About the same time that kitchen was transformed, things began their slow deterioration at work and my therapy was found behind the green slate island, cooking, listening to music, drinking, planning meals and hosting my friends.   It suited me and most certainly still does.

I don’t know, but maybe in a move to legitimize my move up here, or to maybe actually pursue something different, I’ve thought that the next logical step would be to open my own place in Provincetown.  Doing that here, much more that other places, is chock-full-of-challenges:   Zoning rules.  Sewage (outflow) capacity issues.  Real estate costs.  Quality staff.  Seasonal vs. Year-Round.   The list goes on and on and on.  But what the hell, I’ve never been completely rational about my choices.

And so I came here, on a hunch that a newly-opened place needed a manager.   I’ve managed a wildly successful breakfast and lunch spot in Atlanta and felt somewhat confident that I could parlay that to the next level, managing a dinner spot under the guidance of a hands-on owner.   I thought I had found that place and was completely honest when I pitched the owner on my motives, my goals and where I was in my life.   It worked and I was basically offered the position (I was on the schedule before I walked through the door that first trial night).

But, because of a string of bad circumstances, the owner wanted more from me than I was willing to give.  50 stated hours a week, all evenings, would be my schedule.  A previous manager’s poor performance meant extra effort up front so in reality I would have been looking at 60+ hours a week, living and breathing someone else’s dream.  Part of this motivation for this move was to figure out what it was I wanted to do and this job most likely would not allow that.   It was a tough call, but  I declined the offer.  We parted professional ways but since have developed a really nice friendship which, most likely, would not have been so had I been managing that place.

So the job with the red-hot Boston restauranteur was passed on.  I was completely honest with the owner and myself.   My conscious was clear but the silence in my head was numbing.  Had I really just been so dumb, so stupid as to pass up this career-making chance?

Then, that afternoon, on the street, a friend ran up to me and said “Devon needs help!  Go speak to him, I told him you’d stop by.”  I love Devon’s, a standby on the East End that serves an excellent breakfast and a fine dinner.  So I caught him painting his front porch, introduced myself and mentioned that I’d like to help out, wait tables, host, whatever.

And here I am, working mornings at his place, consistently charmed by its small size, amazed at the chef’s tenderness and nurturing nature, so interested in watching the team develop.  I immediately see each and every  person’s importance to the operation of the whole and am impressed by Devon’s attention to everything and his genuine goodness.   It’s gets a bit crazy in a way that only breakfast service can get, but I’m happy at where I’ve landed.  And mostly, I like my quiet bike ride to work, glancing over to the left at the ever-changing harbor, not really minding the early hour.

Spring Awakening

When I left Atlanta, Spring’s climax was gone and the mercury had begun to creep.   The mornings in Mercersburg and Cranbury were chilly but there were leaves on the trees and things were generally green.   What a difference as I travelled north into New Jersey and New York.  The day was gray and cold as the familiar skyline rose to greet me.   I took Susan’s advice, coupled with Joel’s and found my way to the Merritt Parkway.  I clipped along the tree-lined route at a nice 75 mph.  Traffic was light and I imagined I was on some sort of American Autobahn.   I made good time into Connecticut and Rhode Island.  Crossing into Massachusetts it began to rain and landscape went dead.  It rained most of the way out the Cape but I was happy to be ending the long 20 hours in the car.   The sun made an appropriate appearance as I descended the hill at Truro, Provincetown in sight.  Town was bleak and empty, still groggy under its winter pall.   It felt like sneaking in before the big show.

Now We’re Up in the Big Leagues

The drive from central Pennsylvania to Philadelphia is beautiful.  I’d never seen that part of the world until that Monday morning.  It reminded me very much of East Tennessee.  I was on the PA Turnpike and had a brief scare when I got so low on gas that the “refuel now” light came on.  With limited access to the highway, the next service plaza was still several miles down the road.   I made it, but just barely.   I could see it all flash before my eyes…a car laden down with all my belongings, including a blond boufant wig and a bike, broke down and janky at the side of the road.  Pretty.

The trip was short and I got off find Susan’s and drive through Princeton.  I’m normally good with directions but not this time.  The Jersey Turnpike confused me and I ended up seeing much more of Princeton than I had wanted.   The trusty iPhone and its GPS function got me to Cranbury without further delay.  I got to her place, got a ride in and showered before she arrived.   We cooked dinner and caught up on the porch over several bottles of wine.

Susan is one of my oldest friends.  We’ve known each other since I was a junior in High School.  She was Eleanor’s coach and she, her star pupil.  Teeter kept a close, protective eye on Eleanor but apparently I passed the test as we became fast friends on a houseboat with beer in the middle of Ft. Loudon Lake.  She serenaded me with “Soldier Boy” as I prepared to go off to Auburn on my ROTC scholarship.   As fate would have it, she followed me there after taking the assistant swim coach job.   As my freshman year unfolded, she roped me into managing the team, ironed my shirts, took me to football games and became a good friend and drinking buddy.  Our friendship has been an easy one to pick up on over the years as we both have lived our lives.  Susan has done extremely well as the head women’s coach at Princeton, becoming one of the winningest coaches in college swimming.  I am so proud of her but love to bust her chops when her head gets a bit big and the cockiness begins to show.  I love it all, nonetheless.

Her friendship is a constant that tells me that I’ve done something right with my life.   It reminds me of what I’m capable of.  Through whatever — Navy, Coming Out, changing careers — she’s always been interested, supportive, objective and encouraging.   Our visit this time was no different.  It was rich and full and close.   When she left for a class in the City on Wednesday, she grabbed both hands and looked me in the eye and told me she wished me luck and that she loved me.  That’s the kind of person she is, a straight shooter who’s never been afraid to look at herself or others squarely in the eye.  The way it should be.

Hit The Road, Jack

The drive North was fantastic.  I got away from Matt and Stephen’s at exactly eight.  Traffic was light and the sky bright blue.   I took note of the skyline with the thought of comparing changes at some future date.   Miles fell away quickly.  The music was good.  I answered the phone occasionally to chat with well-wishing friends.  Connie made a care package and her delicious scones became my mid-morning snack each day.

The drive on I-77 from North Carolina was exceptional.  I guess I’d never really crossed the Blue Ridge mountains except near Charlottesville.  But the drive up past Mt. Airy, North Carolina and into Virginia was spectacular.   Virginia, always lush and green and welcoming, did not fail.  I made it a point to call my sister and share with her the beauty of her beloved native state.  I called my Mom on Mother’s Day as I passed Roanoke, where I was born.

The drive up the Shenandoah Valley was equally as gorgeous, if not long and clogged with traffic.   I didn’t mind, I was happy.  I had to chuckle as the clichés popped into my head….the road was full of promise, my future stretched out before me, I was on a journey and on the road to happiness….etc, etc, etc. Before I left, Matt convinced me to stay at his father and stepmother’s in Mercersburg, Pennsylvania.

I was nervous about asking but Matt made the matter a done deal by arranging it himself and convinced me that their house was one where short-notice comings-and-goings were normal and welcome.   He did not disappoint.  Susan left dinner and the makings for gin and tonic and a nice note.   I unpacked, made myself a drink and waited on the porch for her, Ron and Grandma to return from celebrating Mother’s Day.  The sun slipped behind the Pennsylvania hills and I relaxed on the porch of this big, lovely, comfortable home.

Matt’s family is just that:  family.  They were warm and easy and gracious in their hospitality and made me feel immediately welcome.   All 3 were interested in my “journey” and we talked for a nice couple of hours. I was up early and, again at Matt’s prompting, had asked Grandma to cook me breakfast.  I walked the 3 blocks to her house, arrived at the back door and after a few minutes was greeted by this amazing 89-year old woman.  We laughed because, confused, she had gone to the front door.  The ice was immediately broken and we talked about her service in World War II, Matt and Stephen’s marriage, Mercersburg Academy, The Cape and a hundred other things.  Tough, fair and lovely, Grandma made me miss and love my Nennie that much more.  And her steamed eggs taught me a thing or two about simplicity and simple hospitality.

I didn’t linger and met Ron later at the school for a tour of the new “Gym.”  Well, Mercersburg Academy does nothing half-way, and this athletic complex, which I had seen under construction last summer at a memorial service, surely is a diamond among prep-school “gyms.”  It rivals collegiate facilities.  Ron’s pride in guiding its construction was very evident and he appreciated my interest.  Ron’s a big man and when I was leaving, gave me a big hug, enveloping me in his big arms.   It was truly wonderful and totally unexpected. And with a head full of love, I was on the road to Princeton.

Leaving Las Vegas

To be honest, the last year at work I did as little as I could.   The lack of motivation was a product of deep dissatisfaction with my job, little interest in the daily tasks, a mind that wandered to other things and too much money coming in.   I got very proficient at doing the least amount of work without getting caught.   So it was somewhat natural that I felt no guilt, when, starting on the Monday I resigned, I began working half days, often leaving for a farewell lunch with some friend or other, capping it off with a couple of beers or glasses of wine.   Lunch was followed by a nap and the gym or a ride.  Then cocktails.   The living was easy.  Everyone should live that life, let me tell ya.

But after my last “day,” things got crazy busy.  Packing up a home of 15 years is no easy task.  15 years of junk.  15 years of stuff.  15 years of memories.   My days began at 7 with coffee and a review of everything that had to be done that day.  Each day was dependent on what was accomplished the previous day.   The hard, absolute deadlines that approached were the movers, the walk-through with my tenant and my departure.   I worked all morning, breaking for another farewell lunch, then worked all afternoon until dinner.  The gym and bike fell by the wayside.   Dinners were with friends, often going late into the night with much drink and celebration.   And the next day I did it all again.  The days were full and rewarding on every level.   I stuck to my moving budget and never felt panicked or behind schedule.  Everything was orchestrated right up until I got in the car Sunday morning and left Matt & Stephen’s for the drive North.   One appointment fell through the cracks but that was it.  I was firing on all cylinders, hitting every step with confidence and purpose.   It was wonderful.

Several things stand out to me about leaving:  Matt and Stephen’s overwhelming hospitality, understanding and help.  Walt and Philip’s generosity and support.   A dinner with Marjorie and Annie when I realized how much worlds collide and how lucky and wonderful connections are.   The genuine and warm 20-year friendship easily picked up with Pattie.  Su and Jill’s gentle shove and cheerleading from the sidelines.   Dale’s tears the last night.   Really too much to recount.   Lots of love and lots of history passing before my eyes.  And an overwhelming feeling of gratitude for these remarkable friendships, gestures and words.

Then I got in an over-loaded Jetta and left at 8 sharp on a gorgeous Sunday morning and headed north.   I popped the CDs Stacey made for me into the player and rock-and-rolled my way North.  I felt very much like I did the day I got in different Volkswagen 24 years prior and drove North to begin my Navy stint.   Only this time, the fear and dread were replaced by joy and love.

…and the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true

One of the stated purposes for coming up here (that I stated to myself) was to do some soul-searching and reconnecting with the person I think I am or  who I thought myself to be or even who I want myself to be.   It’s not come easy in the last 2-and-a-half weeks…there’ve been openings to attend, there’s been work to help friends with, there’s been a teeny tiny house to set up and a job to find and learn.  There’s been a lot of sleep and a lot of crappy weather.   The weekly influx of close friends began this week.  The “season” started….and on and on.

So the fleeting moments of self-connection and self-awareness are few and far between.  But cherished nonetheless.

And so it happened tonight that I was hit with a full-on, body-blocking, face-check realization of just how much this move and this place and my life and my friends and  the inner-connectivity of Cape and Atlanta people and what’s happening around me mean to me.

Joel’s space on Commerical St. is an amalgamation art gallery/retail/real estate office.  It is the product of a year or two of dreaming and planning, a hard 6-weeks of physical labor and a fucking big roll of the dice financially.  This hybrid space stands alone in Provincetown, where art galleries, kchotchke stores and real estate offices are a dime-a-dozen.   His partners Meg and Maureen are seasoned, local, jack-of-all-tradeswomen.  That they’ve lucked upon each other is remarkable.

That this venture brought streaming tears of joy to my eyes is no less outstanding.

I am having problems describing tonight, their opening.  I pretty much “worked it,” cleaning, restocking, making the bar.  I did it unasked, unprompted and totally voluntarily.  2 hours of my work to help the dreams of dear friends launch successfully is no skin off my back.  That’s one of the beautiful things about Life On The Vortex….that, what ever you put out — emotionally or physically — comes immediately right back to you.   There’s none of the anonymity of the big city.  This is a crazy small town and the oats you sow are solely yours to reap.

And so it was tonight.

The first deluge of tears came while reading the artists’ statements displayed around the space.  There were Atlanta and Ptown friends’ works.   Those written statements illustrated to me the connections that create the  very fiber of my life:  the values and humor and ethics and aesthetics that bond my world and those in it.  So, in the intense dusk sunlight, amid laughter and music and beauty, I wept for  the first time.

And I wept again on my bike, on the way home, listening to the happy noise on the street and the silence, catching glimpses into well-lit homes and thinking of the joy and modesty of Marc and Evan, who, afraid to detract from the  Opening celebration, kept their engagement — their life commitment made this very afternoon — to themselves.

Rarely do I become overwhelmed by emotion.  It’s just not who I am and just not something I’m programmed to do.   I feel things deeply, but those feelings are mine and they’re intensely personal and not something I’m quick to share.  And when, tonight, I took Joel’s hands and said, “I’m sorry, but I need to sneak out.  This is too much for me,” he said, “I know, just when I think I couldn’t be any happier, something like this happens.”

And so it is with Provincetown.   A swirling vortex, somewhere out in the Atlantic Ocean, where people smile, doors are unlocked, status is the rustiest bike and it matters not your worth or your job or the nameplate on your car.

And Love is so palatable you can taste it.  And well you should.

Pedalpushing

Part of the Cape’s great appeal to me is the weather:  the gorgeously clear days and moderate temperatures are intoxicating to say the least.   I’m not so naive to think that it’s always like that.  There’s the harsh reality of winter and as the saying goes, a little rain must fall in everyone’s life.   But to go from the overwhelming beauty of Atlanta’s almost pornographic Spring to 2 solid weeks of “Foggy and 55” is a bit of downer, to say the least.

Well, this morning the Cape has come through for me in spades.  Sunny, clear and 65, there’s  a cool breeze blowing through my tiny apartment.  The harbor is its familiar azure blue, not a roiling mass of angry white caps.  I can see across to Wellfleet and Truro.

The town is deceptively still, awaiting the first crush of the season, appropriately called Baby Dyke Weekend.  Imagine 10,000 22-year old Massachusetts lesbians, fresh off their spring semester at Junior College, ready to get their party on.  This is the only time in 12 years of coming here that I’ve seen fights on Commercial St — girl-on-drunken-girl brawls usually involving some infidelity and at least a 12-pack of Milwaukee’s finest.   Oy.

So, I’ll take the good with the bad.   I’ve got friends from Atlanta arriving tomorrow (male and female) and although I have to work, I’m looking forward to the flurry of activity the weekend will bring.   Let’s start the summer, y’all!!

Ch, Ch, Ch Changes

So, I quit my job of 19 years, leased the house and moved to Provincetown.

That sounds rediculously easy and in some senses it was.  But the decision to leave Atlanta, my chosen family there, two decades of history and community and close proximity to my aging parents was not at all taken lightly.  The idea of spending at least the summers, or even a single summer, here on the end of the Cape has been in my head since my first visit here in 2000.   Former readers and anyone who knows me will know that this place has struck a deep and instant sense of home with me.   Just when I think I have it figured out, the Vortex springs another surprise, some new hidden treasure or gem of a person and I’m flabbergasted.

So a slowly deteriorating job situation (mostly by my own doing, I’ve since realized), smart financial planning and the impetus of other friends making the move got me thinking.  And acting.  The last piece of the puzzle to fall into place was leasing my beloved house on 5th Street.  When the couple who are now tenants said they wanted to rent, I was almost physically ill.  I felt as if I was giving away a child.  But I did it – signed the lease on Sunday and resigned on Monday.

That 100-year old house in Midtown is a gift from God, I believe.  Something greater than myself to which I am beholden.  It has enabled so much in my life, including this move.   I don’t normally put much stock in such talk, but I think that house has a spirit, a soul, that has given so much to me:  laughter, shelter, nourishment, inspiration, friendship, challenge, prosperity and much, much more.

So here I am.  In Provincetown.  At the end of Cape Cod.  Looking out to sea, but really looking west.  Not sure about what’s coming tomorrow or even in 20 minutes.   The possibilities are endless for one of the precious few times in my life.   It  feels good.  It’s scary as hell.   I’m paralyzed and highly motivated.

Here we go.