I have lived in Provincetown so long, loved it so much, and traveled so little in recent years that I sometimes forget there are other beautiful places in the world. I am in one now.
Lucca is a small walled city in Tuscany, Italy. The wall around it is perhaps its most distinguishing feature. For well over a thousand years, it provided protection from military attack. Today it is a wide promenade for strolling and cycling. The city itself is a charming, densely populated place with more than 100 churches and even more restaurants, cafés, bakeries, and gelaterias, as well as scores of shops. All are dispersed amid a maze of narrow slate-paved vias that wind their way to the occasional majestic piazza, or public square, full of marble statuary, fountains, and pigeons, of course.
Lucca is crowded with pedestrians, dog walkers, people — including lots of old people — on bikes, scooters, and the occasional vehicle. Picture myriad Commercial Streets, but each the width of our Atlantic Avenue, threading out to form a labyrinth: every corner looks the same at first glance, and every visitor is advised to enjoy getting lost.
The charm of the place is irresistible: to walk along these ways that have been traveled for 2,000 years; to gaze up at the ornate churches; to inspect the outwardly modest stucco dwellings, smack on the vias and up against each other, knowing that some have courtyards and gardens behind their walls that sometimes show ancient brick beneath; to admire the arched doorways with uniquely fashioned door knobs and handles; to see the view of the distant Apennines beyond.
But what interests me most is the people. Lucca is a tourist magnet (though less so than Florence), but real Italians actually live here in those stucco buildings, park their bikes outside their apartments, and hang their laundry from their open windows. They frequent and work at the markets, bakeries, cafés, and restaurants. They are the citizens of Lucca: Lucchese. But outside the walls are many more Lucchese living in a modern city with shopping malls, supermarkets, gas stations, highways, and a train station. The official population of Lucca is around 89,000; only a small fraction live within its walls.
From conversations with locals I learned that the Lucchese are proud of their ancient heritage, their resistance to would-be conquerors from Napoleon to Hitler, their industry and thrift, their ability to succeed and thrive. And there is a hierarchy: “I was born within the wall” is a refrain I heard a couple of times. Those living within the walled city are proudest of all.
Is Lucca real? Does living your life surrounded by antiquity, by saints and crumbling architecture, give it meaning and authenticity? No matter that they all have cell phones and the shops sell Benetton and Timberland — is there still an essence to be celebrated? It felt so.
So, we come to Provincetown. What brings people here besides the famous Cape light and the beauty of the beaches and the dunes? We are a fishing village and were once a whaling port. Walk out our wharf and see the boats. Walk down our narrow, winding lanes and feel the history. We are a community. Is any of this true? Now, there are more restaurants than fishing boats, and while the “blue economy” exists, fishing is no longer the basis for most local livelihoods. Income inequality is everywhere apparent. Are we real? I hope so. I like to think that there is still a shred of authenticity in our way of life, that it is not just all tourist hype. It feels good to live here.
A Portuguese friend described someone who was a native, but now “he lives away.” Away from what? Away from this small town on the water, still a community, still a place where people care about its history of art, industry, and resistance.
