Ezra was right; make like Walcott.

After a quick stop in New Haven for a pie at Pepe's, we continued northeast, our eyes set on a campground twenty minutes outside Provincetown.

The clouds appeared just outside Boston. I should have known better; though I was born just outside the city, it seems that the city is constantly discouraging my attempts to return. It's better through the rose-hued lens of memory, anyway.

By the time we drove through Hyannisport, the clouds continued to taunt us, patiently and persistently releasing a light shower. Passing signs for the Hy-line Ferry to the Vineyard, I laughed at myself for once planning a trip in March, three years ago. Hemingway would have cursed me for bringing him along on that trip or this one.

The cottages along Route 6 flew past, most lost in the misty sea of grey. Where lights shone behind windows, I wondered about wintering in a place still so dreary in May and the warmth of my sleeping bag.

Making an abrupt turn off the road, we stopped to take pictures. The cold, humid air was thick with the smell of pines and salt.

Littered in the grass and along the shore, bodies of various invertebrates lay disassembled and damaged. Pieces of horseshoe crabs lay cracked alongside the damaged hulls of these small boats.

As we continued further, past seemingly endless numbers of cottages, motels, and liquor stores, we finally reached North Truro, not far from Provincetown. By then the rain had slowed to a drizzle and we set up our fire and tent for the evening. Sleep came easily after a long day and a few Naragansett's.

I awoke at 5:30, the tent filled with the relentless, dull, light of another overcast day. Paralyzed and compelled by the cold, I decided to explore the beach, remembering our campground's signs. Sliding into the cold, rigid 14 ounce denim of my jeans, I was invigorated in a manner not unlike running into the ocean. I quietly climbed out from the tent, once again grateful for bringing my Patagonia down jacket and frustrated for leaving it's sibling shell and car keys inaccessible.

My joints stiff from the long drive the day before, I trudged towards the corner of camp where signs pointed to the beach.

The sandy trail meandered through lichen covered pines.

Sustained and soothed by the cold, moisture-laden wind that was sure to be an onshore breeze from just beyond the dunes, I continued on. Eventually reaching the beach, I passed parked cars; their drivers sitting comfortably inside with a hot mug of coffee and the day's paper.

The mist formed not by low clouds, but by a thick mixture of spray and sand relentlessly battering the shore. At this moment I appreciated the weather-sealing on my new camera; the body and lens accumulating beads of saltwater as quickly as I could wipe them off.

I am always invigorated by the ocean. The texture of the air. The smell. The sound. The elements are intoxicating.

I sat on a piece of driftwood, silently enjoying the ruggedness of the coast until my hair was soaked and my jeans clung to my legs like a plaster cast, stiff and saturated by the ocean. Inside my Bean Boots and my layers of flannel, fleece, and down, my feet and torso remained warm and dry. This was not the Cape Cod I visited as a child.

Beautiful in it's own right, but equally miserable we followed Vampire Weekend's sage advice from "Walcott." We ran north to Maine; encouraged by the promise of blue skies and warmer temperatures.

The best souvenirs are found, not purchased.