The Cape Cod Sniff-Safari: Mushrooms, Sea Lions, and Our Provincetown Adventure!

Provincetown still lives in the family’s memory like a story that never quite ends—only changes narrators. Pete, platinum-white and proud, trots through those recollections as if he’s the hero of a seaside epic, nose lifted to “read” the air the way Roman reads a page. Mariya remembers how even the wind sounded lyrical at the tip of Cape Cod, how every gull-call felt like punctuation, and how Lenny—steady as a lighthouse—kept them moving forward with the calm confidence of someone who knows that the best chapters are the ones you walk into together.

They talk about mushroom-picking the way some families talk about treasure hunts. Not the careless kind, but the careful, reverent kind—eyes scanning the ground, hands gentle, curiosity disciplined by respect. Pete would pause at every interesting scent as if each patch of earth held a secret footnote; Roman would play the eager scholar, asking questions, imagining the underground web of life like an unseen library. Mariya loved the quiet rhythm of it: the forest’s hush, the sudden delight of discovery, the feeling that nature was offering them a small, edible poem—if they were patient enough to find it.

Then the beach: bright, briny, wide as a promise. Someone would point—“Look!”—and there they were, sea lions lounging like old sea captains who’d retired from the drama of storms. Pete would freeze, ears perked, as if he’d stumbled into a myth made real, and Lenny would laugh softly at how the ocean could turn even a dog into a believer. Roman remembers the family standing close, letting the salt air settle on their skin, watching those sleek bodies slip between waves and sunlight—creatures that seemed to belong to both water and story.

And the hiking—those long, scenic walks where the world kept opening like a book with endless margins. The path would curve through beautiful stretches of green, then suddenly reveal a view so expansive it felt like the author had stepped back to let the reader breathe. Mariya remembers thinking, again and again: this is why we tell stories—to hold onto moments that are too big for a single day. Pete remembers it in simpler language—scents, warmth, footsteps beside him—but in his way, he remembers just as faithfully: the family moving as one sentence, the landscape as their setting, and Provincetown as the place where adventure felt gentle enough to be called home.