Portland Maine Fantasy

 

When there's a gull on a piling, it is required that one take a photo of it.

18 September 2021

I have a fantasy that I will be a climate refugee from New Jersey.

I don't understand why anyone would retire to Florida. It's hot. Every bit of wildlife is out to kill you. The governor is out to kill you. Other citizens are out to kill you. And it's sinking.

No, I want to move north as the mercury climbs. I want to retire to New England.

Right now, my fantasy is that I'll find a place in Portland, Maine, somewhere that I can see the water without having to worry about scooping it out of my basement.

Jack and I spent two nights in Portland, meeting up with my college roommate, Chris. We all stayed at the same hotel, a Holiday Inn, which was cheaper and better than the other two boutique places we'd stayed before. 

We had a good view of the city from our 8th floor window.

We spent Thursday on our feet. Chris just now emailed me to tell me we'd walked 7.5 miles that day. 

All three of us started at the Portland Museum of Art, where we spent several hours. I have a low tolerance for art museums, but I'm getting much better. It helped immensely that this one contained no naked angels and very few portraits.

Then we went to Yes Books, a place so cluttered and poorly lit that I walked right out again. All over there were signs to put books back where one found them. Including the tottering piles? Okay.

When Chris and I are together, we look for Ethiopian food. Jack hates Ethiopian food, and he wanted to see a few more book stores, so we split up. There was a restaurant around the corner from Yes Books, and, although it clearly displayed its opening hours, and we were clearly within them, the door was locked and there was nobody inside. This, we would be told a day later by a native, is par for the course in Portland. 

Chris knew of another one, discovered on a previous trip. It was a mile away, up on Munjoy Hill. She called to make sure they were open, and then we set off.

We passed a bar with a "No Proud Boys in Portland" sign. It was the second one I'd seen.

Underneath was the explanation: The Proud Boys assaulted a bartender. Assault is what the Proud Boys do. Nobody wants a Proud Boy in Portland. Spread the word, hang a sign. Go, Portland!

We continued up the hill, along brick sidewalks, next to houses that would give way to a store or two (which we'd stick our masked faces into) and then be houses again. It reminded me of West Philadelphia, on a slant. 

We passed the Portland Observatory:

We were the only customers in the restaurant. There was one server, mask around his chin, and one cook, who, as we were getting ready to pay our bill, started coughing in a way that had us getting the hell out of there. The food was good, though. I hadn't had Ethiopian food since some time during lockdown.

We continued on up the hill, to the Eastern Promenade, the edge of a park that overlooks the Casco Bay.

This, I decided, is where my fantasy house would be.

That one on the corner is a multi-family place, rentals. I could stay there until a house on the block comes up for sale.

Along the promenade were food trucks. Food trucks! 

We walked down the hill towards the water.

If there's an open dock, I have to go down it.

Same for open boat ramps.

The high water mark on the pilings was somewhere over my head.

I warned Chris I was taking a picture of her.

There's a lighthouse to the south. Maybe I'll get to it next trip.

If there's a gull on a piling, you have to get a picture of it. It's the New England rule.

The beach hosted happy, wet dogs.

The promenade paralleled a narrow-gauge railway for tourists.

A swarm of little sailboats went round and round a motorboat. It had to be a sailing class.

We had our first yacht sighting.

Progressive flags flew at the marina.

And there were hundreds of rotting pilings.

We reached the end of the narrow-gauge railway.

Then we were back at the Old Port section of town, where all the tourists were. Tired and sweaty, we dragged ourselves back up the hill to the hotel, where we had just enough time to clean up before our dinner reservations.

On our way to dinner, I got a picture of the side of a bar, where a toucan balanced two glasses of beer for eternity.

After dinner, we met up with a friend of Jack's, an English professor at Colby College, an hour away by car. Chris explained to me beforehand that there's no traffic up here, unlike Boston, where she lives, and Central Jersey, where we live. So an hour's drive is easy from one place in Maine to another, even in the winter, because Maine knows how to clear snow.

I pelted the poor professor with questions about Portland. "The winters are long," she said. "There's still snow in May." That gave me pause. Spring is my favorite season. Could I live with a short spring? Never mind that. By the time I can retire, our weather patterns are going to be so different that what a 2021 winter looks like in Portland will no longer matter. If the oceanic conveyor belt stops, it could turn brutally cold up here, or not. We just don't know right now.

The next morning we wandered the city a little more, then drove off to Bar Harbor, my happy place, where I couldn't live year-round even if I wanted to because there's not enough money in the world to afford a house with a view.