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We take our first big trip without the dogs, a week to unwind, almost as far from Los Angeles as we can physically be in the US, on the sandy fist of Massachusetts' bared and bended arm: Provincetown. Our maiden voyages each, we arrive with expectations high and leave with them thoroughly met. We achieve in Ptown what seldom comes on holiday: an actual vacation of our lives and stressors.

Dyn ni’n mynd ar ein taith gyntaf heb y cŵn: wythnos i ymlacio, mor bell ag y gallwn ni fod o Los Angeles, ar ddyrnfa dywodlyd braich noeth a phlygiedig Massachusetts: Provincetown. Dyn ni’n cyrraedd gyda disgwyliadau uchel, ac yn gadael â nhw wedi’u cyflawni. Yn Ptown, dyn ni’n cael rhywbeth sy’n brin ar wyliau: gadael go iawn ar ein bywydau a’n straen.

The houses are impossibly charming. Each bursts with storybook blooms, electric against weathered shingle and whitewashed slat. We forgo cars for the week, and either walk or cycle everywhere. We find the sidewalk-bonhomie we've missed since leaving San Francisco: we run into friends on our way to somewhere else, plans change mid-stroll, every step has potential. There are so many men. Glances linger, a look over the shoulder, a smirk disappears around a corner. It's heaven.

Mae'r tai'n hynod o swynol. Mae pob un wedi'i orchuddio â blodau breuddwydiol, yn tywynnu yn erbyn astell pylu a slat wynglach. Dyn ni’n hepgor ceir drwy’r wythnos ac yn beicio neu’n cerdded ym mhobman. Mae’r bonhomie palmant wnaethon ni ei adael yn San Francisco yn dod yn ôl: dyn ni’n gweld ffrindiau yn y stryd, mae ein hagenda’n newid yng nghanol y tro, mae gan bob cam botensial. Mae cymaint o ddynion. Mae olwg yn oedi, mae cipolygon wedi’u dwyn dros hysgwyddau, mae gwên yn llithro o amgylch cornel. Mae’n nefol.

One night we go to Sal's, a cozy, upscale restaurant on the water. Mid-menu perusal, we realize it's cash only. We flag down our waitress, inform her we have none and ask where the nearest ATM is and she raises her hand to us mid-sentence and in her heavy Italian accent: "But my friends I think these are worries for after. Your job now is to enjoy yourself. We will figure it out." After the meal she hands us the bill and says with a shrug "pay us back later, before the weekend if you can." We simply cannot believe it.

Un noson, dyn ni’n mynd i Sal’s, bwyty moethus sy’n sefyll ar lan y dŵr. Yn union fel dyn ni’n archebu, dyn ni’n sylwi ar ‘cash only’. Dyn ni’n galw ein gweinyddes i ddweud wrthi nad oes gennym arian parod, ac i ofyn am beiriant ATM… ond mae hi’n codi ei llaw i’n hatal ni. "Fy ffrindiau, mae’r rhain yn bethau i boeni amdanyn nhw’n ddiweddarach. Eich gwaith chi nawr yw mwynhau eich hunain. Gawn ni weld hynny’n hwyrach." Ar ôl y pryd bwyd, mae hi’n rhoi’r bil i ni ac yn dweud helo gyda chodi ysgwyddau: "Talu nôl cyn y penwythnos os gallwch chi." Allwn ni ddim ei chredu.

We see sights, wonders, and truly outrageous demon twink behaviors on Boy Beach, but none more outrageous than bringing a hardcover WITH dust jacket to the strand. Miraculously we meet several Angelenos on the beach and link up with them for dinner, dancing and lazy strolls many times over our remaining days there, and make plans to hang at home. It is a wonder of the gay world to travel 2,500 miles and make friends with strangers who turn out to live two streets over back home.

Ar Boy Beach, dyn ni’n gweld golygfeydd, rhyfeddodau, ac ymddygiad gwirioneddol warthus gan twinkiau demon. Ond does dim byd mor warthus â dod â llyfr clawr caled, gyda’i glawr llwch, i’r traeth. Yn wyrthiol, dyn ni’n cwrdd â nifer o Angelenwyr ar y traeth, ac yn mynd gyda nhw am swper, i ddawnsio, ac am dro diog sawl gwaith wedyn. Dyn ni’n gwneud plans i dreulio amser gyda nhw pan dyn ni’n dod adref. Mae’n rhyfeddod o’r byd hoyw cwrdd â’ch cymdogion drws nesaf ar ôl teithio 2,500 o filltiroedd o adref.

The sea. The skies. The guys. I simply cannot wait to go back.

Y môr. Yr awyr. Y bois. Alla i ddim aros i fynd yn ôl.