Since my grandmother took me to Europe for one of those Cartan twenty-one countries in twenty-three days tours back in the sixties, I’ve loved to travel. In recent years, I will often arrive home from a trip, unpack, repack, and leave the next day for somewhere else. I get some of my best writing done in airports and on airplanes. I love the movement, the getting to and from, the new places, the old places again, the roar of the engine right before the plane barrels down the runway and that moment when the front wheels come off the ground.

Many of you know that Cal and I live in Columbus, Georgia, and also that I love Provincetown. I discovered it when I took a class at the Fine Arts Work Center back in 2006. Over the years, each time I went back, I loved it more. But it was the summer of 2012 when I fell for it like crazy. And in 2016, I bought a house here. Since January of 2013, I’ve been in Provincetown every month except for one.

Until this year.

On March 2nd, 2020, the day before I left Provincetown for book tour events in Atlanta and Birmingham, people were just beginning to talk about stocking up in advance of Covid-19. I went to the store too, thinking even if I couldn’t fly, I could drive the nineteen hours. I was thinking going to the grocery store before I left would be the thing that would make it possible for me to come back.

Cal and I have been sheltering in Columbus since March 15th. For us, going to a restaurant on March 12th felt perfectly fine, but when we sat down at a table on March 14th, it did not. And that was that. No grocery stores, no one in the house, no children, no friends, just wiping the groceries left on the front porch, letting mail and packages sit for three days, and having the wine dropped in the back of the car where we’d left the exact change.

When I drove away from the house yesterday morning at 8:45 am, I had not been by myself in a car for over three months. Deciding to come to Provincetown was not a decision I made lightly or by myself. In addition to so many more important things, Covid-19 has also deprived us of our independence. What we do affects others in our pod. Cal is the other in my pod. We talked about driving the nineteen hours, but that would involve not only the driving risks but our creaky bones in sitting positions for hours and hours and at least one hotel, and gas stations and bathrooms galore.

On June 14th, Cal and I ate outside at a restaurant. As Massachusetts reopened, the metrics were continuing to trend down. Delta was capping seating on all flights at sixty percent and leaving middle seats open. The ferry was going to run again. Earlier in June, I wasn’t ready to even consider flying; now I was. But Cal still wasn’t. We worked our way through it, and he said even if he wasn’t ready, knowing how much it meant to me to be in Provincetown, he was okay with my trying it.

When I drove into the Atlanta airport, the parking meter issued a ticket without my having to touch anything except the ticket, which I reasoned had been in the box long enough. Still, I put it up and sanitized. Finding a parking place was not a problem.

I wore long sleeves and a baseball cap. Everything I had with me was zipped away from any flying germs, so I almost forgot to empty the water out of my bottle. I avoided Clear and went to pre-check where I did not have to get within six feet of the checker to be allowed into the line. The six-feet floor markers were unnecessary. Only one person was ahead of me, and she was done by the time I got to the front of the line.

The TSA agent was masked and gloved. He asked for my driver’s license and for me to lower my mask. Then came the tricky part. He tried to give me my driver’s license back. My first thought was there was no way I was taking it back. But of course I did, and then I didn’t know what to do with it so I stepped to the side, hesitated for just a moment wondering what sanitizer would do to a license that had so much information on it the agent didn’t even need my boarding pass, and then poured a pool of sanitizer into my hands and rubbed the license and my hands around in it.

Next obstacle. Again, not people. The gray bins. I was supposed to move them from underneath to the top and put my suitcases inside. I used my shirttail. And when I got to the other side and got my bags back, I sanitized.

At the escalator, there were signs to keep your distance, which people were doing. Waiting for the trains, the same signs. Then I remembered I didn’t have to get on a train, I could walk. In fact, I usually walked for the exercise instead of taking the train.

Going up the escalator at the terminal, I couldn’t remember the number of my gate, and it didn’t show up on my phone. That’s another thing you’ll be doing all day. In addition to using hand sanitizer, you’ll be putting your passcode into your phone what feels like a thousand times because facial recognition won’t recognize your masked self. At the top of the escalator, I found the flight boards, and that was a weird moment. Of the ten boards that list the flights and the gates, only three and a half had anything on them. The rest were empty, just like all the blue seats at the Trump rally in Tucson.

The main area of terminal A was full of people (not normal full but still) and for a few minutes, I felt like I was in a video game trying to make my way to the gate without getting within six feet of anyone. I ducked out of the flow a time or two because I could feel people close behind me. Most wore masks. Maybe ten percent did not. And then another ten percent who had them around their chins.

After successfully driving the hour and a half from Columbus without a bathroom stop, now I needed to find one. My gate was at the far end of the terminal, and I thought a bathroom nearer the gate would be less populated. But it was being cleaned. I turned around to find another, and then I turned back. I had plenty of time. Why not wait for a clean bathroom? After five minutes, it was open, and I was not only the first but the only one in there.

At the gate, it was easy to stand away from people. The agent boarded the plane so that I was never closer than six feet to anyone. I didn’t have to wait on the jetway or at any time during the boarding process. The closest I got to anyone was the flight attendant as I boarded the plane, and I whizzed right by her.

The flight was full at the sixty-percent cap, and that felt safe. I had the window seat next to an exit (more space) and ended up with no one else on my row. There were people behind me and in front of me. With a wipe, I cleaned around me and above me. I didn’t recline. I declined the pre-bagged snack and water. They kept the lights low. No one spoke. I didn’t even read. I just sat there. Try as I might, I couldn’t make it fun. After we landed, I thought I would just wait until everyone got off, but people were keeping their distance and when it was my turn, I went.

In Boston, the water taxi is not yet back in business, so I took a Lyft to the ferry. Very few drivers so that was a fifteen-minute wait. I handled my own bags and was in the car less than ten minutes. I sanitized.

I had a two-hour wait, and I’d only eaten a few nuts driving to the airport. So I headed across the street to a restaurant with a large outdoor area. After giving my name and contact info to the host for tracking, I pulled the menu up on my phone and ordered guacamole and chips. And a margarita on the rocks. Closer to fun, but it still felt risky.

Only one ferry was running to Provincetown, and it was the first day for that. I was on the last run of the day. They are temporarily capping their passenger limit too, but it was unnecessary. There were only about twenty of us. I sat outside on an upper deck. As we were about to dock in Provincetown, the captain reminded us to wear our masks and to set a good example. I think he meant as visitors though, not as people.

When I opened the door to my house at 7:45 pm, I stood there for a minute and took it all in, felt the peace of being in the one place that feels right to me beyond anything I have the words to express, and then I took everything I was wearing off, including my hat, stuffed it in the washer, and got in the shower.

I had walked the last leg, and when I saw my house, it was almost too much. I think I’d been feeling as if I really might never be here again. And it still doesn’t feel quite real. Not only did I not love the traveling, I didn’t even enjoy it. Which, I have to say, surprised me. Out in the world, where I hadn’t been in a while, I was masked and vigilant for eleven straight hours. Most people and entities along the way did what they could to lower risks. And I took the risks in as smart a way as I knew how. That’s the thing. If you’re contemplating getting out there, be as smart as you know how, and you’ll need a little luck too. I hope luck was with me yesterday. There are not many reasons I would do it again, but I will to get back home.

And then to get back here again.

A

Dani writes,

It is impossible to spend your days writing and not begin to know your own mind.

Writing is just about the only thing that’s ever allowed me more than a passing moment with what was going on inside me. Apparently I did a heck of a job locking all that up, probably starting way back in third grade. Which is why writing does not come easily to me. In fact, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

From Beginnings, a beautiful description of writing:

So what is it about writing that makes it–for some of us–as necessary as breathing? It is in the thousands of days of trying, failing, sitting, thinking, resisting, dreaming, raveling, unraveling that we are at our most engaged, alert, and alive. Time slips away. The body becomes irrelevant. We are as close to consciousness itself as we will ever be. This begins in the darkness. Beneath the frozen ground, buried deep below anything we can see, something may be taking root. Stay there, if you can. Don’t resist. Don’t force it, but don’t run away. Endure… This is the best part.

From Middles, a new way to think about words you find yourself repeating:

Repeated words. Familiar phrases. Consider them clues. When you discover them, slow down. In fact, stop. Become willing to press against the bruise–it’s there anyway–and see what it yields.

From Ends, a description of how I feel when life keeps me from writing for too long, a feeling that is intensified if I am in the middle of a project:

But the only remedy–the only cure–for the writer is writing. It isn’t about the project, it’s about the practice… Most of us can’t tolerate extended breaks. We are reminded how lousy, how out of touch we feel when we’re away from the page.

I read this book a while back but am just now finding/making the time to write about it here. I made notes. Thank heavens. And these bits below I wrote under Someone out there like me : )

We spend our days searching for the perfect turn of phrase. And we consider this a good time… Who else would need the silence, the uninterrupted stretches of time, the special mug, the favorite pen? We ponder each word, aim high, strive for both music and meaning. We know that one is nothing without the other.

Doesn’t it always happen that as soon as you’ve sent it, suddenly you notice something you want to change? … [Now you’re] rereading your work as the person to whom you’ve just sent it.

It’s the middle of the day and I have barely stepped outside except to pick up a couple of envelopes of books and manuscripts that FedEx left on the porch. I have spoken to no one since seven o’clock this morning. I’m wearing the ratty T-shirt I slept in last night… These solitary days are my lifeline. They are the lifeline of every writer I know. We hold on to our solitude, fiercely protect these empty days.

Still writing? Yes.

MY FAVORITE POST
over the years
is the one I wrote about the Days’ Cottages before I ever stayed in one of the cottages.

The story below reminds me–a person who normally belabors decisions–that sometimes the truest way to the heart is the first thing that pops into your head.

For almost four out of the five years of this blog’s life, I had never set foot in one of the little cottages at the top of the blog.

Not until  June of last year did I stay in a cottage for the first time, and then I knew how right my choice had been to place them at the top.

The cottages are not open every month of the year, but I’ve seen them–and breathed the air around them–every month so far this year,
which is another post entirely… but since it’s only september, that will be for next year : )

~

March 14, 2010
the days cottages

In 2006, I went to Provincetown for the first time to take a workshop with Pam Houston at the Fine Arts Work Center. Each morning a twenty-minute walk to class took me parallel with the ocean on a cobblestone sidewalk, past art gallery after art gallery and shop owners sweeping away the night’s debris. I inhaled the sea air, the coffee brewing. The world was waking up, and I was watching.

A painting/photograph kept catching my eye. One afternoon I went in to Angela Russo Photography to see it up close. It turns out it was a photograph printed on canvas, and it’s now hanging in front of me. The photograph is also the header on my website. I told Angela how I loved these houses, and she said they were just down the road, that I could see them for myself.

The next afternoon I rented a bike and pedaled the three miles to Truro and there they were.

Two years later, in September of 2008, after thinking about starting a blog for a while but thinking I should wait until my novel was published to start one, I was having lunch when a friend mentioned I should check out her writer friend’s blog. Did she have a book?
No, she didn’t. And that was the last drop, the one that filled the glass, and spilled over into my blog. I made a couple of calls, finally made my way from wordpress.org to wordpress.com, and by the next afternoon, my blog was online.
Usually it takes me forever to make a decision. Not this time.

I looked around my desk and saw the Annie Dillard quote taped to my printer, read it, and named the blog. I needed a photo for the header and immediately thought of the houses. I found one of the photos I’d taken in 2006 and clicked on it, having long forgotten, if I ever knew, the name of the cottages.

Last summer I went back to P-town and again rented a bike. Imagine my surprise as I came pedaling up to the cottages–the Days’ Cottages.

This only happens in writing, I thought, when your subconscious leads you to coincidences and metaphors you only realize later.

In 1931 Joseph A. Days built 9 cottages. Today there are 23–all exactly alike. It was Joe’s wife, Amelia, who thought to name each of the cottages for a flower. You can find them outside of Provincetown, as you approach Truro on 6A. One of these days, I’m going to stay in one.

~

If you’d like to see the original discussion that includes 33 comments, click the days cottages. Feel free to leave a comment there or here, or both : )

And a big thank you to Freshly Pressed for highlighting Nichole Bernier’s post in the How We Spend Our Days series on days in the lives of writers. Pam Houston kicked off the series back in 2009, and a guest writer has written about one of his or her days (or in the case of Dan Chaon, his nights) on the first of each month since then. 49 writers so far. If you’d like to read more posts in this series or see if your favorite writer has written a day, here’s the list of all 49 writers, with links to their posts. I’ll announce the next writer in the series in the next few days with an introduction to some aspect of his or her writing.

As Catching Days approaches its five year anniversary in September, a big thank you to longtime readers and followers as well!

For all of you, here’s a preview of how I am, and will be, spending my days and what you can look forward to here over the next few weeks: what real, live book I’m reading (that’s been turned into a movie), what book I’m listening to on Audible (and why), what Shakespeare has to do with it, my upcoming writing week in Provincetown, what interesting development has occurred in my other writing, and a report on the why and the how and the ups and the downs of my recent efforts to BMH–broaden my horizons : ) And a look ahead at how I’ll be spending my days in October–at two cool writing conferences on opposite sides of the country. Well, all this might spill over into next month too…

What I also have to look forward to in the next few weeks (which fits in nicely with BMH) is a visit to each of your blogs. More soon, there or here.

Cheers,
—cynthia

ps-how are you spending your days?

I was just walking by and noticed these leaves trying to escape

then I backed up and used the hipstamatic app

I stepped over this imprint of leaves on the sidewalk and turned around to take this photo

then I took a second one with the hipstamatic app

As the sun sets here, so does this series and the summer.

Other posts in the series:

• journal + photos + summer + preview
• cottage fixtures
• cottage writing room
• different ways of seeing: the cottage
• light-from the cottage

AWP is the only time I see some of these people–Adam Braver, for example, whom I met in 2006 at the New York State Summer Writers Workshop. And this year, Adam hosted a panel on Cross-Country Collaboration, featuring Tin House and the Normal School–two literary publications “with far-flung editors.” And these days, who isn’t far-flung?

AWP allows me to put real people in place of their Facebook photos. It enables face-to-face moments that add meaning to all these far-flung relationships. Sure, it’s crazy and rushed, but it’s real bodies that are crazy and rushed. It’s meeting new people. It’s meeting people I’ve communicated with by email for years. It’s seeing real lines in real faces and real tangles in real hair. Real coats and scarves and shoes. Feeling real handshakes and hugs. Looking into tired and sparkling eyes.

Some of my favorite non-AWP things about the trip: a visit to Ragdale with a camp friend of mine I hadn’t seen since I was 15 and who drove 30 miles into Chicago to pick me up [a post coming on this cool visit],  running along Lake Michigan, a visit to The Art Institute of Chicago.

Until March 6th, 2013 in Boston…

.

Click to view slideshow.