the maine attraction
I knew it all along. Okay, so I thought it all along.
Ever since I wrote that play in fourth grade, I’ve had this romantic notion of Maine. I don’t remember much about fourth grade, but I do remember a handful of things:
That I wrote a play, in which I had my friend, Lori, order a Schlitz beer (I don’t remember anything else about the play except that I wrote it in cursive, in pencil, on that yellow paper with the dashed lines we all had to use)
That Bruce Yaeger—the less mean of the Yaeger twins and a friend of mine—stood up and yelled “Happy birthday, you stupid fool!” to our teacher on his birthday
That I hid all the chalk and led the class in a strike one afternoon because I was bored and didn’t feel like doing any schoolwork
That our teacher retired after that year, but I’m sure it had nothing to do with my strike or Bruce
That I made a promise to myself I’d go to Maine one day
In full disclosure, the word romantic didn’t become a descriptor for several years. Irrational is probably a much better word, although that didn’t make its way into my vocabulary for a few years either. It could’ve been Mrs. Stavisky’s seventh grade English class. Or Miss Harrington’s (when I was awake). I definitely knew the word before Mr. Yates or Mr. Bertino. Huh. It turns out I had some pretty terrific English teachers. No wonder I love writing.
So why irrational? Well, for starters, in 1980 I had never been to Maine. And—apologies to fans everywhere—I’m not much of a Stephen King reader. In fact, I’ve only read one King novel, and it’s not one of the famous ones. But even though the town of Castle Rock is a product of his imagination, he is actually from Portland, Maine. So is Anna Kendrick. And I’m a big fan of that scrappy little nobody.
Fast-forward 41 years. I had some extra PTO, so I decided to make good on that decades-old promise. I rented an Airbnb that turned out to be super-haunted, booked a flight, and let myself dream about all the cool stuff I would see. All the compelling words I would write.
My dream journey hit a couple early speed bumps, beginning with the aforementioned Airbnb, which evoked memories of my eldest child’s rat-infested apartment on “the edge of sketch” in Charleston. My Portland paradise was nestled in a nice residential area, just a short walk from Casco Bay. And that’s where the nice ended. In the interest of getting to the good stuff, I’ll just leave a few thousand words below and link you to my partner piece, “hanging by a thread: the review i didn’t post.”
that’s the good china on the left. the stuff we weren’t supposed to use. you’ll also noticed it’s safely stored under what looks to be a fairly serious future ceiling repair.
I’m 0 for 2 on picking Airbnbs. The first whiff was last fall’s Buffalo trip. A nice enough place that featured neither the ample parking nor peace and quiet advertised by the owner. I’m likely not to give myself a third swing at it because, frankly, I don’t have the patience to wait on that 0 and 2 curve ball and—even if had the patience—I’m not sure my rebuilt shoulder would cooperate enough to take a swing at it. So as long as I’m doing the booking, I’ll stick with hotels.
The other speed bump was our inability to find an open coffee shop—or much of anything—in the area for the first couple days. It turns out things start to shut down for the winter around Labor Day, and most places stay closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. Thankfully, that didn’t last long, especially after landing in the Residence Inn a few blocks from the wharf. The delightfully mediocre accommodations were a welcome elixir for the horrors of the night before.
Changing home base came with a number of positives. For one, it was closer to everything, including the waterfront and coffee shops. It was clean. It had air conditioning. It had an exercise room. And no discernable ghosts. At least none that made themselves known.
Portland, itself, was everything I imagined it would be and more. It’s a walkable city with a small town feel, a ton of culture, and very little traffic. The people are a great mix of friendly but not all up in your business—could be the proximity to Canada at work there. I love Canada.
Take, for example, the guy we walked past on Fore Street. He was sitting on a crate, minding his own business until someone tried to put money in a parking meter. Then he got up, waved his arms, and yelled “You don’t need to pay for parking after six!” Every time. To every person. Sadly, we were the only ones who listened. But we didn’t have a car, so we’ll just tuck that little kernel away for next time.
The downtown area features an abundance of character and red brick. I’m a sucker for red brick. And characters. It turns out once Wednesday rolls around, there’s great coffee and local beer everywhere (sorry, Lori. No Schlitz. Do they even make Schlitz anymore?). Sure, there’s lobster, too. But does anyone other than that one gentleman on our sunset cruise not know there’s lobster in Maine? High marks for our “Julie McCoy” when said gentleman asked, “Will there be anywhere we can get some lobster when we get back to the harbor?”
I spent most mornings at the coffee shop around the corner, Coffee by Design, working on what is likely to be my next novel. Until this trip, there was a distinct possibility it would be my next three novels, but I found the link to tie them together near the bottom of a cup of the best decaf I’ve ever tasted. I caught up with an old friend who now lives in South Portland, went kayaking in the bay, saw a couple harbor seals, and did plenty of walking and exploring around a city that proves you can be old and cool at the same time. See for yourself…
Between visiting Longfellow’s house, the Portland Museum of Art, the last remaining maritime signal tower in the country, and riding bicycles around Peak’s Island (yes, just like in Wedding Crashers), I experienced enough to change irrational to romantic. It’s entirely possible I’ve found my retirement home.
Oh, and I also jumped out of a perfectly good airplane.
Cheers.
