by Mace Spurlock

Created on: May 21, 2007

Pirates of Penzance

How I arrived on Chapel Street, I don't know. My dreams and nightmares rarely have logical starting points. But here I am, an American, standing where Queens Street becomes Chapel. Tentatively, I head south, toward Quay Street, which Chapel becomes as it passes the huge stone church.

St. Mary's, the tallest building in town, makes the place seem all the more medieval, with its stark granite gray bell tower reaching toward the clouds. A landmark for mariners and residents alike, the church can be seen from every quarter of the town and out from the sea.

The street is devoid of cars and buses and without the presence of modern conveyances parked along the narrow Chapel Street, it looks like a scene out of time. Where are the motor vehicles, I wonder. Along with being unsure how I arrived in Penzance, I don't know what era my dream is taking place in either. I don't even know how I know where I am.

My grandfather emigrated from Cornwall to Connecticut in 1913. A refugee from the tin mines near Devon, he settled in Niantic and worked the granite quarries as an explosives man. Whether the memory of his homeland hides somewhere in my DNA, I'm not sure, but the scenes in my dream seem familiar.

The Egyptian House, with its garish facade of oddly shaped windows and gaudy, decorative, and unnecessary columns tells me the period is after the early 1830s when the strange monument to Egyptology was built. The absence of motor vehicles puts the latest date as some time in the early 1900s.

My meanderings in the subtropical sun of Penzance bring on a physical need as well as a strong desire for drink and as I seek out an establishment from which to imbibe in adult beverages. I spot a likely place. A large square sign hangs over the narrow sidewalk on the left side of Chapel Street. A caricature of a bearded Moslem in an oversized turban announces The Turk's Head Pub. In fact, the name is also embossed on the front of the shop, in gold lettering that stands out from the white of the front wall over the windows. As I look inside, I notice a few patrons and decide this place is as good as any.

I am not a tall person, by any means, but when I open the front door and step into the main room of the Turk's Head, I fear my head may scrape the ceiling. If my clothing doesn't give me away as an American, khaki Dockers and a brown Izod shirt worn outside the trousers, with brown Rockports on my sockless feet, I am sure my accent does.

I sidle up to the bar where a woman,

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