I’m an off-season, mid-week adventurer. Competing for reservations, standing in line, or sitting in traffic is a non-starter for me. Growing up on Cape Cod, living in NY or Napa Valley meant working when others visited, only reveling in the quiet beauty of my backyard when the throngs departed. Surprisingly, we managed to slip onto the Cape before high season begins in earnest, when the weather is balmy and the Atlantic just barely warm enough for a salty dip, but long before the humidity of July and August makes it feel like doing Bikram yoga while experiencing a menopausal hot flash every fucking day. We hiked the incomparable National Seashore, watched the sky change and the Common Terns nest, collected shells, ate hand-churned ice-cream, and lobster rolls and buckets of steamers drenched in butter. Even the radio stations play the same classic rock of my stoned youth, with Boston on heavy rotation: “It's more than a feeling, when I hear that old song they used to play, I begin dreaming…. When I'm tired and thinking cold, I hide in my music, forget the day, and dream of a girl I used to know, I closed my eyes and she slipped away.” - #massachusetts #capecod #oldstompinggrounds (at Cape Cod National Seashore Oversand Beach Driving) https://www.instagram.com/p/CQW1_Gdtig9b_2CUpS0pyw40upJP3TiTiPqGgM0/?utm_medium=tumblr