We left Salem and drove toward Maine--straight into a nor'easter. OK, it probably wasn't actually a nor'easter. But the sky was black, the lightning was fierce, and the rain came hard-and then harder. So I creeped off of an exit in New Hampshire and into the parking lot of a not new 7-Eleven connected to a crappy car lot behind a chain link fence. I'm not sure what I was expecting--Jessica Fletcher tending her flowers?--I just feel like New England should be all duck shoes and chinos with sensible haircuts. But there I was eating gas station pickles looking at giant pickups and windowless Pontiacs. And the same ol' rednecks I could see at home. I guess I know now how bro-country got so popular. It's not just a regional problem.
When we finally reached Maine I wanted to tell everyone that I'd survived a "wicked pissah!!" But almost immediately upon arrival I learned that a wicked pissah is not a storm. It's a good time of sorts-and I had not had one of those. But just like I knew it would, the Pine Tree State stole my heart. Aside from a liquor war with NH, a racist Governor, and the homophobic LL Bean, it's exactly where I'd like to be someday.
I lost myself in ridiculous book stores. I wondered how there could be zero garbage in the streets when there were zero garbage cans to be found anywhere (side note: there is also no place to buy gum). I reveled in an art scene with nary a millennial hipster in sight--though a man-bun did serve me the most beautiful cup of coffee I've ever had. I touched a piece of the Berlin wall (because what Jew wants to actually go to Germany?) I fell in love with the roadside motels of Orchard Beach. Further north I wandered into local bars with neon Budweiser signs and faux wood paneled walls. Toothless lady bartenders eyed my bag and stared at my nails. Craggy old regulars offered me shots.
I went into the smallest place I could find to experience a lobster roll for the first time. I took a seat on a torn vinyl stool at the bar. A latte-skinned woman glistening with sweat called me babe and slid it to me in a plastic basket. It was the classic. No frills. A buttered English roll overflowing with hunks of lobster meat. Just a touch of dressing. I'm not usually a lobster girl but I do as the Romans do--and it was perfect. My wife on the other hand, skeptical of her surroundings, decided to hold out for something else. Somewhere along the way we ended up in a slick, trendy distillery where an unimpressed girl with an ironic 60s librarian haircut served up wifey's lunch. Fuck around in a foodie town and find yourself picking pork rinds and pickled radishes out of your 'lobster roll'.
The last day there I went full tourist. Whale watching and swimming with dolphins, their babies no bigger than my house cat-so close I could hear their little baby blow holes. I watched an adorable seal brutally mutilate and eat some poor sea creature, and let that be my consolation for not seeing any puffins. And though I was warned by highway signs to be on the lookout for them, I did not see a single moose. Maybe next time...
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