Day 3 -- to Cape Cod

Dramatization: A hypothetical text exchange between Charlie and his good friend Asa. 

We left Boston this morning and rolled down the road to Quincy, where we stopped at the Adams National Historical Park — because we are wild and crazy like that. We checked in at the visitor center, which is on a busy street next to a Jimmy Johns and a Five Guys, down the road a mile or two from the actual historical park, the oldest presidential birthplace in the U.S., which encompasses the homes and estate where four generations of Adams family members lived until 1927.

The only way to see the historical park is on a two-hour guided tour. Tours depart from the visitor center on trolleys every 30 minutes. But by the time we got there, tours were completely booked until early afternoon. The park ranger assured us that we’d find plenty to do while we waited, but we just didn’t feel like devoting five hours of our day to John Adams. Plan B was to watch the 20-minute orientation film and call it done. Which is what we did. Mic. Drop.

Next stop: Plimoth Plantation, a carefully recreated Native American homesite and pilgrim village set in 1627 where we explored the grounds and ate squash, succotash, meat pies and cornmeal pudding for lunch.

A summer hut, called a Wetu, in the native Wampanoag village. I am in love with the name "wetu." There should be a line of teardrop campers called "wetus," because it's a little hut where your family lives in the summer. And it sounds like the words, "We, too!" As in, "We are taking a trip, too!"

I had paid extra for combo tickets that were also good for admission to the Mayflower II, a replica of the 1620 original, which was built in England and sailed across the Atlantic in 1957. We followed the signs from Plimoth Plantation a few miles down the road to the waterfront in the town of Plymouth. But when we got there, we discovered that the ship is parked in Mystic, CT, until 2018. So that was a bust, but we did get to see Plymouth Rock, a smallish hunk of granite where the Pilgrims allegedly first stepped ashore in 1620. Since it’s not mentioned in early written accounts, though, it’s likely that the rock is just the stuff of folk tales. Nonetheless, it’s enshrined under a spectacularly columned pavilion, and thousands of people come each year to admire it.

Ladies and gentlemen: Plymouth Rock.

From Plymouth we drove a couple of hours out to Wellfleet, on Cape Cod. The main artery through the cape, U.S. Highway 6 is four-lane expressway most of the way. I had imagined that we’d be passing through congested beach towns with stop-and-go traffic, but we didn’t really see anything other than trees until we pulled off the highway mid-cape to get groceries. From there, we continued for a few miles along a rough, narrow, sandy lane to our rental house on the west side of the cape, nestled next to the Cape Cod National Seashore. 

Today, I’d been feeling kind of put-off by the unhelpful folks in the state of Massachusetts. From the dick who cut me off on an expressway ramp, to the uptight and unfriendly ranger at Adams Historical Park who could’t understand why we wouldn’t want to stick around for five hours, to the douchy guy at Plimoth Plantation who sold me tickets to the Mayflower II, even though it’s not on view — the folks here seem a little impatient, disdainful and aloof.

My mood lifted and my impression of Massachusetts shifted when we arrived at this house, which overlooks Cape Cod Bay from the top of a dune. There are three other gray shingled homes in view, but other than that, we can see water in one direction and gently rolling hills covered in scrubby pine forest in the other. 

Our house has an address: 338 Bound Brook Way, so I had pictured it set in a little seaside neighborhood — a cluster of houses and condos right off the busy highway. As it turns out, Bound Brook Way is nothing more than two tire tracks winding through the forest on the way to beach. As we approached the house, Charlie made the observation: “Where are numbers 1 through 337?” This is simply an exquisitely isolated spot. 

Bound Brook Way.

The property is actually owned and managed by the National Park system. I found it on the Cape Cod National Seashore website, and rented it through VRBO. According to Marcel, the housing manager for CCNS, the NPS acquired about 100 old homes in the 1960s, when the national seashore was established. About 70 of those homes are used as housing for staff and lifeguards. Only about five, including this one, are available for rent. The others are in some stage of either renovation or demolition. 

Our house — a little three-bedroom, one-bath cottage — had been boarded up for about 30 or 40 years before it was completely gutted and renovated about four years ago. Everything inside is clean and nicely appointed: new appliances, fixtures, cabinets and windows. There’s a front deck with a couple of Adirondak chairs, and a screened porch off the back with room for a dining table. The hillside down to the beach is covered in goldenrod, bearberry and Virginia rose. This place is sublime. I could see myself coming back here summer after summer. 

I made red beans and rice for dinner, and Clare made an elaborate s’more brownie for dessert. Then we played National Park Matching Game, and Keith and I — stellar parents that we are — taught the kids to drink (orange juice) every time they made a match for a national park site that we’ve visited.

Clare made this beautiful dessert!