Maine musings

Funny how you wake up and you forget that just hours earlier, you'd been vowing to never put one foot in front of the other again. The sun's out, the air is crisp -- do I have time for one last walk in Portland, Maine? Maybe.

Breakfast first. This is a nod to the different nature of this day: granola and yogurt. As if I were already one foot in the farmhouse door.





My bag is packed. I can do this! Two more hours of rambling. Surely I can do this!

Where to? Oh, it's obvious. I've allowed Maine (at least coastal Maine) to identify herself for me as the fishermen's state -- the place of lobsters (my commenter Bex, whose husband is a lobsterman in Massachusetts will surely forgive me) and of those who risk the rough ocean waters to bring seafood to the table. So I walk briskly down to the old port area…





and then even closer to the ocean waters.





I weave my way around parking lots and blocked roads until I come to this pier. A fishermen's pier. It seems almost out of place here. On one side -- condos, on another -- bigger boats. I'm facing a sign, indeed, several signs warning against trespassing. So I pause. And watch. A handful of men are engaged in animated conversation. Eventually they drive off, except for one, who walks over toward me. It's a picturesque spot that you've discovered -- he tells me.
I know, but I don't want to go further… There are all these signs.
Yes, sure. But go ahead. Just don't break your leg or something. You know how it is -- liability.

I promise him I won't break my leg.

These huts, the lobstermen rent them out and they store their stuff here…
You too? I ask.
Sure. I've been at this same hut for sixty years. But now my boat is acting up. He goes off toward his truck and rumbles off.


I walk up and down the pier. Empty now in the late morning.










It is indeed an atmospheric place -- depicting quite well a closed community of… lobstermen. Judging from their bumper stickers, they've had a rough time with the changing mores and regulations.






Later, Ed and I talk about how complicated this is: the struggle between "sustainability" and fishing for a living. But right now, I just take it all in. As one who loves to eat sea food, I owe it to those who harvest it.






And though it's getting dangerously close to my noon flight out, I make one more stop. At the studio of Mr. Anderson. I've been thinking a lot about his paintings and of course, I'm not one to ever spend money on a painting, but I am one to consider posters and I want one last glance at his. This time he is in the shop and I warm to him instantly: he's his own person, but, too, he is lively and effervescent and happy, so happy to be achieving a hefty amount of success in recent years.
I've sold many paintings this year! More than ever before. To collectors, to Europeans -- not bad for a guy who is 82!





Not bad indeed.


Time to walk back to the Inn. A new route: I hadn't seen this before -- with a dedication to the lobsterman.






And now I rush, because I cannot, cannot miss my flight home. A flight that leaves the ocean behind me.






So I'm at the gate now, in time for boarding to Detroit. And I admit it -- I did something I am sure I will remember for the rest of my life: I withheld a smile. Here's what happened: I was waiting to board. The announcement came for those with special boarding requirements to preboard. We had one such person -- a woman, maybe near 70, who suddenly couldn't find her boarding pass, then couldn't handle her bag and her Starbucks cup and her pass, because she lacked a third hand -- she was a complete boarding disaster. And then I heard her say to the ground crew -- I'm in 4B. Oh no… I'm in 4A.

So that when I got on, I was in my busy mode. My "please, please don't engage me" mode. Please don't be friendly, don't ask me where I'm going -- I have exams to grade, a good book to read, please, I'll do anything but do not chat me up on this trip.

I sit down. She immediately turns to me and says -- you'll have to excuse me, but I'm really nervous about this flight. And this is the moment when I did not smile and I hate myself for it. I mumbled something about it being okay and went back to my work.

She is quiet, but her hand, the same hand that held the Starbucks is shaking. I notice that. When the flight attendant does her talk about air oxygen masks falling out if there is a change in cabin pressure, my seatmate leans over toward me -- excuse me, I know this won't happen, but if it does, will you, after putting your own, help me with my mask? My heart melts and I feel so terribly awful for not embracing her worries earlier.

Of course I'll help you with your mask. But let me ask you this -- do you ever go in cars?  -- this is my introduction into how safe flying is as opposed to being on the highway in a car. Yes, but she'd always flown with her husband before. He took care of everything for her. She just went along and now she's scared. She's traveling to Omaha to visit a brother, a factory guy who moved there because his job moved there, but who suddenly is very ill and she wants to help, even as her husband has to stay home.

I have many many thoughts about this sweet sweet person in the seat next to me. Here's one nugget, though, that stands out: despite my initial resilience, despite the crowds, the strangeness of everything, my seatmate never stops being utterly polite and well intentioned toward another. When someone sneezes all the way in the back of the plane, she says - bless you. When it is time to disembark, she hurries me on, knowing I have an impossibly tight connection, even though she likes having a familiar face at her side (I at least made sure that a wheel chair was waiting for her, but still, she would have liked my now fully operational grin encouraging her on).

And I will long remember the moments when I try to get some work done and she picks up her little magazine of soap opera highlights and I put out her tray for her and she places her coffee on it and when the attendant comes with refreshments, she asks for more coffee, even though surely she is nervous enough with the first dose.  After a while, she relaxes. Excuse me, she tells me, but I'm going to take a little nap. Please wake me when I have to do something different. We land ten minutes later. I hope she is with her brother and that he is doing well. And that she is doing well.


The flight from Detroit to Madison is in a different league. Whereas we had been traveling thus far through brilliant and friendly skies, this time, the pilots warn many, many times -- we are heading right into a storm system and we are going to be bumping our way into Madison. I suppose if you expect havoc, a few dips and sways are not going to move you one way or another. In my view, it is a perfectly fine glide into the little airport that is my home base.

I do not mind that Ed is late in picking me up, especially since he has spent the weekend fixing the brakes to the old Ford donkey car while I have been walking and oftentimes eating lobster.

We drive past the lakes which, at this moment are especially lovely, misty lovely, wistful, poetic almost.





We shop for groceries -- a real treat as typically I squeeze this in by myself, on a work evening -- and we pick up takeout Chinese and now we're settled in to watch the debate and yes, yes, I am so happy to be home.

walking

The other day I typed in the wrong first three digits of my social security number. Ed nodded, knowingly: first sign of Alzheimer's. I glared at him. Don't worry, I'll take care of you, he continued calmly.

I sit down to dinner (unfortunately at a table, not the bar this time) and I have what has to be a deja vu moment. I've been here before. Moreover, when I was here before, there was a Thai family (maybe Laotian, I can't really tell) to the side, just like today. And they shared dishes and in the background the cooks plated food -- plate after plate of excellent seafood. I am reliving a moment from ten years back.





I know Portland has many, many new and excellent eateries and you'd think there would be little reason, therefore,  to repeat two from a previous trip here, but it is Sunday and Buddy (my b&b host) and I ran through a bunch before finding one that was open for dinner today.





Foodwise, this place (Street & Co) is heaven on a plate. A crab-stuffed pepper, a salad with white anchovy and then my crowing parting dish -- something that was modified to please me (they're nice here) and it did, though I'm straining from the sheer weight of it all: a tumble of lobster, clams, mussels, calamari, over a tomato dredged pasta.





I'll go back to scrambled eggs and curried cauliflower when I get back home. This trip is a saunter back to a culinary indulgence and it must be followed by a humbler vision of what it means to eat well.



Speaking of eating well, let's roll back to the beginning of the day: breakfast. Again, modified for my modest morning needs.





And then? Well, if yesterday was foggy and moody, today is brilliantly sunny and warm enough to leave my jacket at home. Buddy says -- walk the Back Cove of Casco Bay. His assistant insists -- you must do a Maine lighthouse.

So I'll do both.

Never mind that they're at polar opposite ends to each other. Bay to the north, lighthouse to the south. Well fine, I'll manage. I think.

I take the Back Cove route first. To downtown Portland...


 


...then to the shoreline. It's pretty. With views to the water and the islands that characteristically dot the Maine coastline.






A small narrow gauge train toots by with very young families aboard. Sweet.





When a train goes by, everyone looks up and smiles.






But soon after, the trail passes (for a terribly long five minutes) by the city sewage plant (reminding me of the bike trail I take back home into town, only when you're biking, you can hold your breadth and be done with it).

And now I see the inlet that separates the cove from the ocean waters...






One last look toward the ocean  (I am reminded of the sky photos I take back home, only here, the sea replaces fields of corn and soy)...





And now the trail hugs the Back Cove shore. At low tide.






I'm walking awfully close to a main road now and that's no fun so I finish up this part of the day's hike and turn toward downtown again, so that I can pick up the other trail -- the one to the lighthouse.


But I'm hungry. Or, I'm tempted by the sight of others eating. I have half a granola bar tucked in my purse, but suddenly, I'm not satisfied with that.

I open the door to a spot that calls itself an oyster bar. Young couples (with or without young children). Exclusively so. And me. I sit down at the bar, not because I want oysters, but because I noted on the menu that they serve cups of lobster stew. Inexpensively. I could not turn away.






The bartender shows me how I can take the coaster and punch out the mustache and wear it.






All in all, its a delightful and delightfully young place, which does remind me that younger people do know how to smile shamelessly at life and it truly is too bad that over time, that skill pretty much disappears.

And now I turn my attention to the distant lighthouse. I'm by Portland's coast again.






And let me just say that this really is a colorful time to be here. The city doesn't make this obvious. Except every now and then, I am reminded that it is the very best moment of Fall. Orange and red never looked so good together.






I keep on hugging the coast until I find the road that puts me on the bridge that crosses Fore River. 

This is the worst part. You're next to traffic, it's loud and you're aware that it's a drawbridge. Meaning, it might draw, no? With lights flashing and you in the middle. And it's windy. Okay, a few minutes of hell. (On the upside -- these are insanely blue waters. Beautiful.)





And now I'm on the other side. South Portland, which actually is its own municipality.

It is a long, long walk to the lighthouse.

Really long. (And the worst part is knowing that I haven't the guts to hitch a ride back, so that I have to retrace this path.)

Totally long.

But finally, I'm there and the lighthouse is especially lovely now, against the afternoon sky (as opposed to how I saw it from the ferry boat yesterday -- against the afternoon fog).






I ask someone to take a photo of me. It's not as if I've scaled Mount Everest, but I feel somewhat accomplished that I did reach it and I did not give up even though I've walked enough to last me a very very long time.






A look to the the ocean (and the next lighthouse, on Cape Elizabeth -- the place where Homer lived and painted)






And one more appreciative look at the Point Ledge lighthouse.






And now I come very close to sticking out my thumb, but, as predicted, I grow instantly shy at the thought and so I walk. All the way back. And across the long bridge.






And then I do sit down for a whole lovely, lovely hour at the b&b, until it's time for dinner.


Now, in the late late hours of the evening, after my seafood meal, I lean back in the comfy arm chair and I wonder if maybe it is possible to have one's fill of lobster. Maybe if I lived here I'd feel about it as I do about cheese -- it's one of my favorite foods, but I do not have to eat it every time it is offered to me. I know it's there. I love it, but eat it rarely. (Except when I'm in places that offer excellent baguettes -- that's a killer combination. Cheese and great bread. Uff!)

Tomorrow I return home. Even before I leave, I have work to do here. That's okay. I'm full of salty air and ocean foods. Really full. Of both. For now.

foggy birthday to you

When I told my girl many weeks ago that I would be in Portland soon, she piped up right away  -- oh, you should have dinner where we ate -- Fore Street. Who says kids don't remember?

We'd been to Portland. It was the bonus I thought up during a college tour. So long as we're on the east coast, let's go to Maine! My girls were used to such impulses.

In those days, I always, too, paid attention to food. These were my restaurant years: my money from moonlighting at L'Etoile went right back into food. Prepared by others.

And now, since today is no ordinary day, I decide to go with my girl's impulse (especially since Ed and I are splitting the tab; thank you, honey pot!). Still, I hadn't reserved a table. I wanted to show up and make my case for a spot at the bar.


I'm eating at the bar as I write this.


The fog rolled in sometime at night and when I finally left the big comfy bend (without a cat in it!) in the morning, I knew at a glance that the damp clouds weren't going to give up their hold without a good fight. That kind of fog doesn't lift easily.

Breakfast at the Inn on Carleton is a big deal. Most people love this about b&b stays. For me, it's a worry. I'll not easily forget a breakfast  Ed and I had at a northern Wisconsin b&b: there were enough calories on our plates to sustain a family of ten for a week. Since then, I ask ahead for a gentler approach to the morning meal.





Toward the end of it, I see that the two couples there besides me are lingering, itching for a quick exchange. It's our anniversary -- one of them tells us. Ours too! -- the other responds. Me too -- I add. Only my sweetie's back home!  I can almost feel the question marks start to form, along with the polite silence that cautions - don't ask.

And still, I explain: I like to travel more that he does.

[Right now I just finished as exquisite half dozen of oysters -- in honor of Ed and I. We love oysters. Dear one -- you would have loved these! I am about to start in on the Hudson valley duck, with Henn of the Woods mushrooms and hard cider braised cabbage...


 


... For the foodies among you -- Portland is worth a special detour,  just for this restaurant.]


Breakfast done. I'm out now. And excited! This is the part that I love so much -- the 'let's get going, there's a whole world to explore' -- moment of travel.


 


So I get going. And I don't mind the fog. Because it's Maine, not the Mediterranean, for Pete's sake. Tough weather out here. It's to be expected.





My first stop is actually (surprisingly?) at the Portland Museum of Art.  To pay homage. You should know that the reason I first thought of coming to Portland was because I'd read in the NY Times that the Winslow Homer studio -- the place where he painted in his last years - would be open to the public (for the first time) this October. But though I called within minutes of reading this -- I was too late.  I could not get tickets to the Studio. but I can, now, buy a ticket to see the special exhibit at the Museum -- of Homer's painting and the title of the exhibit is "Weatherbeaten." Canvas upon canvas of Homer's art depicting the rough seas along Maine's coast.

Since it's a special exhibit, I cannot take photos, but I did take some in other parts of the Museum. And it is a spectacular place! A fragment of it:


















this is the only Winslow Homer painting in the entire museum that hasn't a bar on photos


Okay, by noon, I'm again on the drizzly damp streets, heading toward the ferry.


 












From Internet notes, from my host, Buddy, from so many others, I am told -- go take the ferry to Peaks Island. And so I do that.





I love this about island ferry rides: you can eavesdrop on another way of life. Yes, there'll be the tourists (though rare at this time of the year), but you'll also have the baker taking cupcakes over to an island wedding, the guy with the cable repair services, the couple back from a food shopping trip on the mainland.

But what I love most is the view out onto the foggy foggy sea.










It's a short ride. Twenty minutes maybe and we're there. My first port of call is actually the small cafe just by the landing. A cup of chamomile tea to keep me nimble. And I set out.

Within a few minutes, I pass a place with a bunch of bicycles in the courtyard -- one tumbling over the next. A couple is there, trying to right some decent bikes. I pause and ask about this: are they for hire?  It seems that you pick your bike and pay when you come back. An honor system. No one is there. They trust you to do the right thing. Okay, why not.

Here's why not: the bikes are rusty, the ride is not easy and in any case, biking keeps you to the main road, even as some of the side paths beckon. I ride for a half hour, then give back the bike (yes, I pay, even thought no one would know if I did not).
 





And so then I walk, for hours, really...
















... and I get properly lost, but hey, who could mind -- I am on a foggy day (it rolls in, it rolls out, it rolls right back in) on an island with a pounding Atlantic surf to the east. It's a heady experience.







I catch the late afternoon ferry back, in time to take a brief stroll through Portland's downtown. And here I have to be impressed. Portland is in a way like Madison. Same size, same leanings, only here they have the ocean and there, back home, we have the lakes. But Portland sells itself well. Peaks Island was lovely, but our lake shores are lovelier still. And how is it that Maine, especially southern Maine, manages to successfully promote itself as the place to buy anything form anywhere and at a discount? I walk into one gallery... nice. Funky Maine. Good folk art. Okay.





I walk into a potter's shop. Lovely ceramics. Fine. I understand. The next -- oh, what's this? Ceramics form around the world, including Italy and Poland? Poland?? In Wisconsin, we seem to stay with the cheese motif. We're so local that, so far as I know, no one comes to Madison to shop unless you live in the hinterlands and you make the trip to pick up what you need from Target. I admire Portland for looking beyond the Target shoppers.


Finally, it's approaching 5 -- the time when Fore Street opens its doors for the populace without a reservation. The line forms, I'm toward the front of it. And now I'm inside, with a coveted spot at the bar!

So again, happy anniversary, Ed! Thank you for understanding that I love being places. Even as I love, too, coming home to the farmhouse. And, happy birthday. There, I said it!

The moon shines brightly on us, yes, it surely does...