The Way Life Should Be Indeed
(Or, Weekend Adventures in the Lobster State)

Morning started very early last Saturday. Any hour that starts with 6 is too early of an hour for me. But by the time the cab pulled onto the Queensboro bridge, heading into the rising sun, I was awake and looking forward to the weekend with The Ringleted One, who has been working in a organic, grow-your-own-vegetables-and-raise-your-own-pigs, locavore, sustainable, award-winning-chef-at-the-helm restaurant in the town of Rockland, Maine.

After a two-hour layover in Boston's Logan airport, I went onto the tarmac and boarded a tiny 12-seat puddlejumper. I got out at the smallest airport ever -- a one-room building with "baggage claim" that consisted of an opening in the chain link fence adjacent to the building.

The flight arrived a bit early, so I wandered around the parking lot and into the airport hangar, which had been taken over by a county auction. A grandmother clock, water pump, butcher shop signs, box of frames, rocking chair, wooden yoke, rug from the Palace Hotel in Manhattan, and a kayak were among the many unexpected marvels being auctioned off by a fast-talking seated man in the front of several rows of chairs, occupied by a handful of people, including a young boy who, with his father, seemed to be outfitting a house, judging by the number of things they bought. The Ringleted One bought a butcher shop sign proclaiming the availability of blade meat from pigs for $5, a Design Within Reach lamp, and an iron side table for a few dollars. I bid on a small yellow water pump. The kid with his father outbid me.

After the auction, which was pretty damn fun, The Ringleted One and I went to see the restaurant where she works. Oh, piggies! You are so cute! Why do you have to be so tasty?

Much less guilt involved with vegetables...


After seeing Primo, we got some hot dogs and ate them while looking out at the harbor in Rockland, after which we went to a charming state park overlooking the ocean. A woman in a satiny white coat walked past us and asked, "Are you going to the wedding?" No, but... we followed her anyway, and ended up crashing a 30-person wedding at the base of a modest lighthouse, overlooking the North Atlantic. The bride, who wore a violet dress with a lavender wrap, caught a glimpse of us peering over the side of the lighthouse and raised a quizzical brow, but took it in stride. The keeper of the lighthouse, a retired Coast Guard man, told the story of how he had gotten to know the groom through many evenings of watching the sun set from the lighthouse, just before the park would close for the night. One day, he said, the groom showed up with a woman. And the rest, the lighthouse keep said, would be history.
The lighthouse held a certain amount of fascination for both The Ringleted One and I, and we were particularly tempted to touch the actual light (which the keeper, who invited us onto the grounds, told us not to touch). But you can see how it would have been tempting to touch it. The Ringleted One said there was a certain spare, Scandinavian elegance to it.
There's a lonely romance about lighthouses, and I thought of solitary watchers in the night, keeping vigil on stools like this throughout history.
We went to another state park after the lighthouse wedding, where a woman collecting shells gave us one each. Maine! Where people are nice.

The next day, thanks to The Ringleted One's research, we went to a gorgeous, remote hideaway called Monhegan Island. Generations of artists have taken the ferry to Monhegan to paint the pounding surf, and there were indeed a gaggle of artists staying at the very inn we stayed at. Monhegan is about 12 miles from the shore, only got electricity about 30 years ago, has no paved streets, and no streetlights. There is, however, a post office, and apparently, Gretchen thought she was going to be postmistress, but didn't get the job. (Village gossip.)

The day we got there, the air was heavy with moisture, the sky threatening, and the winds blustery. At the Monhegan House, where we were staying, the Ringleted One discovered an unfinished puzzle of a Seurat painting, and then another of a map. I discovered a Pendergast novel I hadn't read, and, drugged from the Dramamine I'd taken for the ferry ride over, fell asleep in a chair.

We did rouse ourselves to go on a walk through the village (year-round inhabitants: 65).
Artists' studios were scattered through the village and down the lonely roads. Evidence:
And as to be expected, so was evidence of Maine's famous product.

Later that afternoon, I went on a walk to the south side of the island, where a real, honest-to-god shipwreck drew me close.

The wreck was pretty awesome to look at, but as I shivered when, after clambering over hundreds of rocks, I saw the ocean. You could so easily die in the uncaring embrace of the sea.
Mother Nature -- it ain't no joke.

The next day dawned bright and warm. We had breakfast sandwiches on locally baked bagels at the organic market in the village while reading magazines that someone else had left by the table. The window of the shop looked out onto an idyllic scene.

We walked past artists and the schoolhouse and were loathe to leave. A woman at the sandwich shop where we had eaten a pizza and Whoopie pie the day before said (as I bought one of each kind of Whoopie pie for the road) said, "See you next year!" I hope so.


After getting back from a rough ferry ride, The Ringleted One and I took it easy for the afternoon, and decided to take in a movie, Bottleshock, at the theater in town. Alan Rickman. Mm.

Dinner was in a nearby town, the name of which I've forgotten, but which, as The Ringleted One said, "oozed charm." We found a terribly charming restaurant and wine bar called Ephemere and had a startling good late dinner there. (The startlingly good meal thing shouldn't have been a surprise, I suppose, since The Ringleted One has a nose for good places, but Maine did seem chock-full of amazing food.)

The next day, after enjoying a pleasant morning at the Farnsworth art center in Rockland, which features the works of the Wyeth family, we went to an alpaca farm. Yes, it was The Ringleted One's idea. Yes, I loved it.
Alpacas, as we learned there, are good pets. They do their business in one place, are very gentle, and easily trained. Their wool is hypoallergenic, lightweight, and warm. And alpaca farming is catching on in the United States. Find out more about it and see if it's right for you! (We were encouraged to watch a video about alpaca farming that did make it seem like a bit of a pyramid scheme.)

After the alpacas, we went on to Portland, where we had another amazing meal for lunch before eventually sinking into the deep couches of the Portland Coffee Roasting Company, where we both ogled a very attractive gentleman behind the counter for the better part of an hour and a half. We finally roused ourselves to get to our dinner reservations at Bresca, a tiny 20-seat restaurant with extraordinary food and service. Portland: cute boys, good coffee, and unbelievably good food. I'm moving there next.