Some people go through life with certainty and purpose, their upheavals mere blips in the grand scheme of things. Others live their lives in search of the same certainty, only to realize that they have been ants scurrying on a sidewalk all this time, mere fodder for a big old foot that has descended down upon them from out of nowhere. I recently came to encounter this big old foot myself, and as tempting as it’s been to wallow in the “why?”, I find it far more useful to figure out a way into the “how?”
Part of the “how?” A trip to America that I can no longer afford! At the very least, I could gorge myself on fattening American foods, revel in the summertime bounty of Western tomatoes and corn, and ferment on foreign couches while watching heretofore-unheard-of reality TV shows. There was also the lure of the Pine Tree State — I’m talking about Maine, of course — land of L.L. Bean, abundant lobster, and improbably cold lake water in the height of summer.
Chronic Maine summer-er Gen invited friends Trude, Felice and me to an impeccably planned tour of what she called the “three sides of Maine”: the “big city”, aka twee, charming Portland (what you would get if Wes Anderson and a seagull had a baby); the islands further north along the coast close to Acadia National Park; and the deep Northern woods close to New Hampshire and Canada. After this, we would know Maine as well as anyone can possibly expect to, after only a week there.
But first, Portland. As touristy as it is, it also harbors (get that?) a great dining scene, full of earnest waiters in suspenders and tasteful lighting with wood-burning ovens. After a lobster tour where we snacked on an “afternoon tea” of $10 lobsters, we enjoyed elaborate cocktails al fresco before heading to Fore Street for dinner, when a game of “fuck, marry, kill” over rice, pasta or bread became unexpectedly heated. The next morning, we broke our fasts at a place where everyone in Portland, be they tourist or local, inevitably ends up: Becky’s, home of the lobster benedict and mammoth blueberry pancakes.
Next stop, further north along the coast, we enjoyed yet more lobster near Bar Harbour at Archie’s, where my credit card was declined:
Much is made of Maine lobster, but it is in fact not hyperbole. Unlike Canada’s attempt to claim maple syrup and Singapore’s attempt to claim all fried noodles ever made, Maine truly is awash in lobsters at summertime, when the water stays cold (believe me) and the rocky seabed and kelp keep the crustaceans well-fed and hidden from would-be predators. Even better, summertime is when these guys shed their usual carapaces for their version of “white summertime capris”, by which I mean larger and softer shells, making them easier to crack to enjoy the sweetness within. We ate them with drawn butter, but the Thai seafood sauce I had brought with me (Dek Somboon brand) was too sweet for my tastes.
That night, instead of enjoying our rented cabin’s fire-pit for which I risked my life by darting across a highway for $5 firewood, we watched “Fifty Shades Darker”, a movie that moved Trude to tears because she “couldn’t believe anyone would watch this unironically.” Needless to say, we did not do justice to Acadia National Park.
On to the next cabin, this time in Rangeley, set next to a sparkling, clear lake carved out by a glacier millions of years ago. We did not have wifi or television. How did I survive, you ask? Well, I napped, snoring my afternoons away while the others went paddle-boarding, fishing (I wasted $25 on getting a fishing license), and shriek-swimming, a novel way of navigating the icy waters and slippery rocks of Rangeley Lake.
We roasted lamb shanks and sausages, downed more ridiculously sweet corn, drank whisky like pirates and even made som tum out of a semi-green papaya obtained at Whole Foods. We cooked home fries and more pancakes for breakfast, dotted with an ample supply of the wild Maine blueberries which grow naturally in the mountains and are far sweeter than the blueberries found in Thai markets.
In the end, did I forget that I had been squashed by an anonymous giant foot from on high? No, of course not. But I did enjoy some bit of what must have served as ant heaven, at least before returning once more to reality back in Bangkok.
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