July 4th, 1979
The visual pleasures of New England have surprised me. Until now, I had been no further north than New York. The beautiful towns and villages of Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts share that magic sense of life close to water. Last night at dusk we walked out onto the wharf and saw the fishing fleet. Behind us, the town curved out with the bay twinkling with lights. Robert walked with his arm around my shoulders. These past few days have held a certain timelessness and peace that I will remember.
A daily pattern develops. Coffee and showers here at the cottage, then off to the beach to sun. A walk to the lighthouse yesterday, however, left us both red and sore. So today we are staying indoors. Afternoons are naps and sipping beer. The restaurants here are wonderful. Each evening we’ve wandered into town for dinner and later to explore the bars. Provincetown closes early– so usually we’re home in bed by 1:30.
The house we’re staying in is apparently the most popular in town. It’s perched atop a hill overlooking the bay. We have a one bedroom apartment with a tiny kitchen and living room. We’re in the back of the house and on the ground floor with our own entrance. The privacy makes it seem as though it’s our own little house.
I am enchanted by the social interaction here. In the center of town the streets are jammed with typical local folks and throngs of beautiful gay men walking arm in arm; lesbians walking with their arms around each other. It is what gay liberation has always meant to me. Simply: a society where sexual preference is not a matter of importance. Homosexuality, as well as heterosexuality is just not noticed in Provincetown. It takes a certain amount of adjustment. What guarded lives we are used to. Even in D.C. where we consider our lives to be so free and comfortable– I would never walk through Georgetown with my arm around Robert. The utopian atmosphere combined with the romantic beauty of the city conspire to a dreamy unreality; a piscean fantasy.
I understand how this place became a haven for artists and writers. On long grey wintry afternoons, novels simply must be written. There is an ineffable unity here of starkness and lushness. Perhaps it is why interiors of homes here are so gaudily decorated– ornamented.
This romantic place captures so delicately what is happening between Robert and myself. Dear God, I am in love. Robert is anthology of all my fantasies.