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...

lobster dreams

Breakfast. Rain outside, not heavy, but coming down from dark clouds. Skip the sunroom -- we'll eat in the kitchen.






Then, a few hours later, I am on a plane, heading east. Toward more rain, though there, I almost expect it. Every once in a while, there'll be the occasional cloud break. For instance, passing over the Finger Lakes in New York.





But for the most part, there is a heavy layer of cloud separating us, flying in that little plane I've come to accept as a means of getting in and out of my home town, from the world below.


Evening. Dark already. I land in Portland Maine.

If you don't mind the occasional rain and a pouty season that cannot make up its mind, then there's a lot to love about Maine.

I'm here alone. Part of the compromise -- some trips will always, for me, be solo trips. I pack good books, old and new New Yorkers, a little bit of work, too (but just for the journey) and my writing stuff. And good walking shoes should the rain take a pause.


In the cab to the b&b (Inn on Carleton), I cannot convince the driver that there is a "hotel" on the block I direct him to.  
Big hotel? He asks.  
No, just six rooms. Run by a guy who, in his day job is a flight attendant. A lovely old place that looks good even in the rain.









Food time.
I miss seafood. When you live in the Midwest you idealize coastal living, just because each coast is so far away. Greener pastures. There, by the salty ocean waters.  People there surely must eat freshly caught something or other every day. You don't want to know that probably most everyone serves shrimp caught in Thailand. 

And so I pick my eating places carefully on this wee solo trip: tonight it's Maine bistro food. Petite Jacqueline. I eat at the bar. (Ed would have liked that.)

Lobster, or at least a fraction of one: mixed into a salad and stuck back into the tail shell. Sort of like a lobster roll without the roll.





Then, catch of the day (they claim it was flounder), pan fried over haricots verts (skinny beans).


 


Delicious.

As I hear the chef shout out from the kitchen "87 lobster tails!" I ask the wait staff -- truly 87 lobster tails?
Yes…
So many? He laughs. In restaurant lingo it means we're out of lobster tails. I want to say -- I worked in a restaurant and have never heard that! But I keep quiet. It's been almost a dozen years since I put myself out there on the line, not the Internet line but a kitchen line. Things change. Surely I have come to know that much about life.

The rain comes, crazily, pounding, then the rain goes, then comes back again. I wonder if it is the same back at the farmette.

fall chickens

If I move my legs just so, then I will avoid bumping Isis. Wait: Isis has room! Ed isn't here! Isis, move over!
But where's Ed? Downstairs studying. When Ed gets curious about something, he don't let go just because the clock says it's nighttime. So he's reading, Isis is snoring and I'm trying so very hard to get enough sleep to get me through the long and hard Thursday.

A wet and deeply autumnal Thursday.




Early in the morning, I lose myself in my work and before I know it, the clock strikes nine and I'm about to be late for class. So that for the first time this year I need a bailout: Ed, can you give me a ride to work, please?

And I need another boost: there's no hot water, meaning we really did not solve the problem with the water heater by replacing the gas distributor.

Ed works on the water heater and he pulls on some ragged pair of jeans and we're off to my office.

But we get nowhere. His car has a flat tire.

I am reminded of our drive into Barcelona this June when I willed the car with the flat to just roll that  last mile to the rental place (it did not oblige). This time, it struggled and groaned an eventually made it back home, where we switched cars and I got a lift in the old doneky, whose only problem at the moment is that the brake pads need to be replaced.
 


But all this is insignificant. After work, Ed picks me up at work and we go out to dinner. This Saturday he turns 62 and we'll also mark the seventh year of being together. Since I'll be out of town on Saturday, we have this day to stare each other in the eye and remind ourselves how important it is to find the common thread, even though to the casual observer it may appear that there is none.

We head for Brasserie V - a place just a tad outside of downtown. We ate here a number of times in the days when I still lived in Madison. You could say that if ever there was a place that was as familiar to us as the back of my own tea kettle -- this was it.





We sit at the bar -- we like that best -- and we pretend to study the menu, but it's silly, because we're almost always here for the moulles frites (mussels and fries) and we have that tonight as well, along with a shared salad and with those familiar flavors, I sink back in my thoughts to the earlier years, when we weren't quite on board with each others peculiarly different habits. Hey, I was a mere 52 and he was a fresh 55 and if that seems ancient to you, believe me, it's spring chicken stuff if you're now on the up side of 59.

I'm not with Ed this weekend and still, this weekend is in honor of all that we are. Funny how that works sometimes.