We departed Providence for the lick of land known familiarly as Cape Cod. It was a hot day, made more acute by the mounds of parched dunes whose thirst could not be slaked even by cool Atlantic currents. On our first stop off the highway, we slid up a small, sandy hill to be greeted by a peachy vista. Like the fruit, the landscape was tufted with shrubs roasted crisp by the warm, dry, ocean air. We saw huts being pulled apart by time and sun and sand, and yet declared that they were inhabited. Apparently Eugene O'Neill used to live in one.

We ducked into a nearby beech forest for cool shade, and were accompanied by the spectre of geese, frogs, and surprisingly, beavers. The coast had yet to fully waken to its summer spectacle. Even in Provincetown, the shingles on the shops had still to dust off the battered weariness of the past winter.

The heat chased us north to Portland, Maine on roads flanked by colonial houses. Between towns, they exuded an eerie resignation. Things picked up as we rolled in to the city. We creeped the cobbled streets for lobster rolls, but were disappointed by the price tag. Upwards of $35 for a bread roll with shredded lobster! We dined instead on coastal scenes, watching sailboats slide along on the gulf.