After realtors, I feel hotels in Provincetown should be the most willing, even though their rooms are taxed in such a way as to contribute to non-profit funds. I have written a slew of Provincetown hotels over the years asking if they would house an artist for two nights or even provide a little sanctuary for us, in town, as we need a place to change clothes and crash now that we live fifteen miles away. (Nobody wants to drive home after a night of producing shows.) Well here we are year seven and never once has a hotel in Provincetown offered us free accommodation for our artists, directors; they’ve not even offered a discount for audience we are bringing to town for the week. It’s weird, I’m sorry.
I don’t know the hotel people. Not that I know the realtors, who I largely find to be a different species from myself. For the large part they seem soulless or stupid or both. Hoteliers just seem avoidist. They largely just don’t respond to any carefully worded note or email. So I have a separate strategy with them. I’m going to hang around their offices and give them cards for artists and love them into loving us back. Maybe. I dunno.
I always had a fantasy of owning a hotel. Right now I’m staying at a private home in Maine that could easily be a bed and breakfast, at least, if not an inn that can seat, for meals, I would say, upwards of seventy five people at one sitting. The place belongs to a television actress of some renown and it is very specifically decorated. She had a thing for and a friendship with Sister Parrish, who thrived on this island just a mile away. And the house is a floral designed, pastel paradise of porcelain puppies and I’m sure very collectible items and furniture all on a frou-frou theme. It only has three bedrooms in the house but, as I say, with the living areas and the multiple outdoor space we could be turning over tables here at dinner and making a mint. Mint being just one of the prominent colors in this abode along with peach, red, pink, a variety of yellows, lavendar and puce.
I’m going to keep the hoteliers in Ptown close, I decided. They might just, unlike their realtor cousins, have souls.
Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*
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