I love driving to the Cape.
I love that part of southern Massachusetts, not long after passing through Rhode Island, when I suddenly notice that the trees are a litte scrubbier, the pines more stout and rugged, the air with a hint of salt.
I love driving into Truro, coming over that stretch of road when that row of cottages stretches off to the left, each wall and roof identical, each catching the light as it reflects off the water.
I love driving into Provincetown, how just before Snail Road the dunes loom up to the right. They’re massive and beautiful and changeable. I love knowing that if I parked my car right there and pushed my way through the scrubby trees, I’d be at the bottom of that mountain of sand. If I kept climbing, every footstep sinking in sand, I’d get to the top of the dune and see the water stretching before me, and the dunes more numerous than I could have guessed, the contour of each one evocative of its neighbors.
Here I am in Provincetown, where I can walk out to the dunes or to the water, where I can be alone with the sand and the grasses, or swallowed by swarms of people, all in one day, and fall into my bed at night, sunburned and sated and perfectly happy.