Recently, we hopped in a car and drove to Provincetown for the weekend to celebrate my birthday. Every time we drive to the tippy-top of the cape, I’m reminded how long the drive is.
When I first moved to Massachusetts from Colorado, I was amazed when we’d drive for an hour or so and end up in a different state. Two hours away, you could pass through another state. That didn’t happen often in Colorado. It’s been a while since I drove from the top of Colorado to the bottom, but it’s roughly 4 hours and going east to west is closer to seven.
However, when driving to Provincetown, the drive seems never-ending. This might be due to the fact that I’m hardly ever in the car these days.
Anyhoo, after some minor (in my opinion) whining, we finally arrived at the inn.
While we only spent a night there, it was a lovely time. We had dinner outside with an ocean view. Lunch at a quaint café patio where I got to dog watch. Practically everyone in P-Town has a dog. We strolled through the shops. I got a silly T-shirt, a must for me whenever I go somewhere.
All in all, it was a lovely birthday.
Then something amazing happened.
On the drive back, I saw a sign for Plymouth and asked if that was where the rock was. Now, I realize, as someone who loves history, I should have known this off the top of my head, but I have to admit, early American history is not really my jam.
The Better Half did her best not to chuckle because she knows my sense of direction and the ability to read maps are worse than my math skills. She confirmed it was and then adjusted the destination on the GPS.
Dude, I got to see Plymouth Rock, which is really just a rock with 1620 carved into it, but I have to admit, it was the perfect way to end a lovely birthday getaway.