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(page 4 of 6)
Surrendering to Maine
One mother, two daughters, lots of lobster
By Emily TennysonFall colors and New England—a solid couple, like shrimp and grits, peanut butter and jelly, or gin and tonic. Listen—can you hear Barry Manilow singing “Weekend in New England”? Imagine just you and Barry motoring to country inns, clad in tweed, trudging down leaf-laden paths ... STOP. I’m feeling sick.
For me, New England autumns evoke what my father churlishly called “Howard Johnson Color Tours” and outlet shoppers. I close my eyes and see fanny packs, pastel sweat suits and matching Crocs. Luckily, Maine seems exempt from tacky tour buses. Though the coast fairly teems with humanity, drive inland a few miles and you’re the only one on the road, looking at the prettiest trees Mother Nature ever created.
My daughters both chose to attend college in Maine. This came out of nowhere, as if they’d simultaneously decided to become dentists in Des Moines. I’d never visited the state except through the pages of the L.L. Bean catalog. Besides, I thought, the Midwest has perfectly satisfactory autumns. Our trees perform—they turn orange and drop attractive leaves. How nice can Maine be? I thought I knew my kids, but this was an unexpected wrinkle. Initially, I was a suspicious, jaded parent, prepared to sneer at lobster bibs and Bean boots. Though my St. Louis pals quickly ticked off Maine’s hot spots—Oquinquit! Bar Harbor! Cape Neddick!—I was unmoved. What did Maine have besides outlet shopping and a few islands? St. Louis has Plaza Frontenac and Laclede’s Landing.
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Last October, Parents Weekend—the moment of truth—arrived. The plane was landing, and I’d finished one crossword puzzle, one Vogue and two newspapers. Diversions gone, I was forced to sightsee. I looked out the window, and there they were: Those Colors. Burnt sienna, crimson, Bordeaux, smoky coral—grab a Martha Stewart color wheel and sing along. As I saw Maine’s colors for the first time, I felt like Dorothy walking out of the house in The Wizard of Oz. Phrases like “intense hues” and “psychedelic shades” are awkward and trite, but accurate. One mile out of the Portland International Jetport (an ambitious title for an airport with only two luggage carousels), and I was enchanted.
Portland, Maine, might be the nicest little big city in the United States. It’s compact, adorable and loaded with diverse architecture, not to mention the requisite symphonies, museums and medical centers that help ensure an interesting and solid residential base. My daughters preferred the fact that it had nice shopping, not that their incomes offered much chance to enjoy it. The waterfront is beyond picturesque—boats bob up and down alluringly, while the intriguing ferry to Nova Scotia hovers in the distance. Along the water, restaurants abound, and they’re all good. I know this, because I tested them all. A friend from Kirkwood recommended Portland Lobster Company, where you sit at picnic tables waiting for your pager to buzz. That urgent sound signals that your lobster rolls, that brilliant creation involving lobster, mayonnaise and not a lot else, are ready. It’s not just lobster there; I love their North Atlantic clam cakes and the provocatively named “Peekytoe Crab Cakes.” Warning: Once you start eating your way through the menu, it’s hard to stop. In fact, their steamer clams are so good that I once had them for dessert. I’m not proud of that.
Besides lobster, a perfect day in Maine involves lengthy drives that consist of mostly oohing and aahing. If you can, stop in Wiscasset, one of Maine’s prettiest villages. Perched on a riverfront, Wiscasset has darling stores and cuter residents. Everyone looks like a J.Crew model, down to his or her color-coordinated ice cream cones, which never drip. Tipped off by St. Louis interior designer Tim Rohan, we explored Wiscasset’s 18th-century buildings and antique markets before ending up in Boothbay Harbor. (I found an armoire that would look perfect in his Maplewood shop, but couldn’t figure out how to get it home.) On an 80-degree day in October, we watched sailboats slide by as we scavenged the obligatory “Salty Dog”–themed gift shops. Amid the tchotchkes and taffy, though, a few fine galleries exist, notably Abacus, which sells contemporary jewelry, prints, paintings and loads of other lovely things. My younger daughter, overwhelmed by Boothbay love, managed to find her way back the next day in someone’s sailboat.
Kennebunkport is a town I’d both avoided and wanted not to like. Its name popped up whenever I mentioned Maine; evidently, it’s a popular destination for St. Louis residents and, I guessed, the rest of the world. Visions of buses, binoculars and all-you-can-eat seafood buffets haunted me, but what I found instead was street after street of pristine 18th-century houses, beautiful landscaping and pale yellow trees swaying along a blue, rocky coast. I drove along the shoreline, mentally selecting my post-lottery dream home, until I came across police barricades, numerous squad cars and a number of American flags swaying in the distance. Farther out on a little island, several large gray clapboard houses were visible. “Walker’s Point,” I read. My brilliantly intuitive husband looked at the massive security efforts and commented, “I thought I read somewhere that President Bush has a house in Kennebunkport. Maybe we’ll see it.”
Maybe. Surprisingly, Kennebunkport sells some of the most hilarious George W. souvenirs, and they are not all highly complimentary.
Though I love the coast, my favorite town in Maine is Oakland, tucked into the middle of the state. The Pressey House, certainly the quirkiest B&B I’ve ever encountered, is an octagonal house on a minute, nameless lake. I love its 900-square-foot basement suite opening onto the water. It’s furnished with antiques, copious doilies, vintage photos of anonymous folks and a perfectly 1950s kitchen. My daughters and I watched Gilmore Girls from big couches and saw the sunset over the lake, framed by maples. The cost includes an enormous breakfast, plus the use of on-site canoes. Nearby Waterville is home to Colby College, a lovely liberal arts school that draws St. Louis kids in droves. Colby was also immortalized in The Sopranos as the spot where Tony took Meadow on a college tour before whacking an old capo. Waterville, too, boasts some great restaurants, like the Apollo—a bona fide combo bistro and beauty salon. I’d love to match a course with a treatment—caprese salad and nails, crab cakes and highlights, chocolate mousse and a blow-dry ... and lobster in there somewhere.
Did I mention that Maine also has the cleanest air you’ll ever breathe? Maybe it’s all the CO² involved in making those trees so darn pretty.
Oh, Maine. I’m a convert.
