Rossi Rant: Provincetown in April

Sunday, April 6

Provincetown in April

is as different a phenomenon as Provincetown in July as is say playing gin rummy is to pole dancing.

Every summer I drag my tired Manhattan Tuchas out to p-town for a month of what I jokingly call relaxation but what in fact turns into 4 weeks of drinks with friends, gallery hopping, trying not to get hit by a bicycle, trying not to get trampled by tourists and trying not to get sun stroked while waiting in line for just about anything you might want.

You may, if you are really lucky get a bartender or a waiter on their kazillionth double shift to crack a smile. You’ve got a better chance of seeing Jesus in August.

There is no such thing as strolling down Commercial street in the peak summer months, unless of course, you consider wedging yourself between 2 bears (the boy kind, not the animal kind), 4 leather daddies, 5 blue haired old ladies, 6 Japanese tourists, 2 young lesbians in love, 7 old lesbians en route to happy hour, 3 art students, 1 town drunk, a busload of tourists from Wisconsin, 3 drag queens, 2 college students handing out flyers for a naked boys singing show, 6 naked boys singing, 12 bicyclists who seem to have no brakes, 1 pit bull, 1 chiwawa, 1 terrier, a cat being walked on a leash and oh, Cher on a scooter. That was a quiet day due to rain.

In April the stores and restaurants begin to open like hibernating mammals scratching their eyes, sniffing their noses curiously at the new crisp spring air, stretching out their feet gingerly into the new day. There are some warriors that stay open year round for that rare breed of human called the Provincetown year-rounder. These are novelists, painters, alcoholics, lovers in the throws of passion, movie buffs, maniacs, braniacs, lost souls, found souls and sometimes all the above. It is to these creatures of winter that the beloved Mews stays stoically open all winter often the only bright beacon on Commercial street in the midst of January, providing warmth, life, love, substance an open mike night and the best martini in a hundred miles. Having had the experiences of marching up and down Commercial street in a snow storm in search of a cup of coffee and feeling like the last person left after a nuclear holocaust, then throwing my frost bitten body into the welcome arms of the Mews to be thawed and saved by 2 cosmopolitans and a bowl of potato leek soup I can personally vouch for the heroism of the Mews.

But in April, glorious new hopeful April comes many things. Shopkeepers who have not made a dime in 6 months, just thrilled to see you. “Come in! Would you like a foot massage while you read that?”

The restaurants always have a table, no reservation needed and that ever-elusive corner table by the window is yours for the asking. “Why certainly. Just let us clean it off. Would you like a foot massage while you wait?”

At the Lobster Pot, just days after opening for the season, Charlio, Mari and I were not only offered the best table in the house but two of them pulled together. “So you can be more comfortable,” our waiter said. The owner of the joint, Joyce, a perky ageless woman who seems to have more energy then any teen-ager I’ve met, not only greeted us with a happy clapping of the hands but checked on us at the table more then once. We were given the largest family style salad I’ve been offered at the pot since the 90’s and when we chose to linger and linger and linger and linger after dinner, our server said, “Take all the time you want!”

It felt like an episode of the twilight zone.

Now don’t get me wrong the pot is always consistent in that the food is fresh, good and plentiful, but in the heat of summer, one has to wait on line to get a plastic lobster which has a range of a block or so from the pot, there you wait for your lobster to buzz, so you can be herded back in and shoved where-ever a table is free while a hundred hungry people look at you with menacing eyes as if to say, “take five minutes too long and we will eat your liver!” The joint is jammed like the 2 train at rush hour. Oh I’ve never met a rude staff person at the Pot, but honey when you’re under attack by a hundred screaming tourists all of whom think it’s up to you to give them a personal lobster eating lesson, it’s hard to crack (no pun intended) a smile.

But in April, ah April, we felt as though we were royalty sashaying in to our feast. I do believe if we had asked the smiling waiter would have spoon-fed us that lobster. The foot massage was great!

The charming hostess at the wine bar bacchanal over the Vixen night club, poured us her best champagne and allowed us to use her personal lap top while she regaled us with stories about New Orleans. The night before at the Vixen, we played pool slowly game after game and no tough mama’s with buzz cuts came over to lay quarters on the table and mutter, “move along, move along,”under their breath. Granted there were only about 5 people in the club including us 3 until the restaurants closed and the motley crew of bartenders, waiters and cooks rolled in, but they were far more interested in celebrating the beginning of their making cash again to pressuring us away from our 3 hour long pool game.

Provincetown in April means never having to say I’m sorry. “Oh I’m sorry,” you say while accidentally knocking over a tray of magnetized bracelets at a jewelry store, “Oh that’s quite all right,” says the shopkeeper, “would you like a foot massage?”

Provincetown in April means total strangers say, “hello. How are you? Welcome back!”
I have not been greeted so heartily at any family reunion and don’t expect to.

Provincetown in April means never having to go the movie theatre early to pick up tickets. You'll probably have the whole row so stretch out. Call ahead,maybe take a nap after.

Provincetown in April means the entire town may decide to collectively march off to the Provincetown high school to watch the school play; “Grease.” I don’t recall ever seeing an entire town march off to watch a school play. Have you? Then the entire town piled out into the nearest open bar to discuss how great all the kids were. The Obama/Clinton war got no airtime in Ptown on school play night, I assure you.

Provincetown in April means that at Hersheldon’s leather you are serenaded with jokes by Sheldon while you try on great leather boots 50% off. Okay granted Sheldon will willingly, (actually just try and stop him) serenade you will jokes in the summer too, but the boots will be full price not half off.

On the subject of half off, virtually every open store in town, (yes a few still wait for May to open up, Cowards!) has 50% off sales. Some even 70% off. My inner bargain shopper child went mental! I got a great pair of Sheldon’s boots normally at 160 for 80 bucks and was actually able to wear them out without getting blisters and if they had given me blisters?, well there are those foot massages to help.

Granted you will eat too much, drink too much, sleep too long and exercise to little in Ptown in April, but this is all just fine because Ptown in summer is waiting just around the bend when it will take you three hours to get a sandwich and you’ll wind up walking miles to the beach because the taxi wait is too long the bus left without you and the bike you bought was stolen. So suck it up now while you can.

So what are you waiting for, get off your keesters on come on down, or up depending on where your keester is planted. Ptown in April is waiting for you and so am I. I need someone else to get some of these damn foot rubs I’ve got no skin left!

10:24 AM Speak (3)