Northern Exposure

"Watch out for moose on roadway." It's a sign like this that reminds me every time I take a road trip of why I like taking them quite so much. It's a predictable surprise, really. On a long enough road trip, there will always be something ridiculous that crosses your path, whether it be an actual moose or a sign simply warning of the creature's imminence.

New England was always an ephemeral concept for me. Being born in and having grown up every year of my life in North Carolina, I actually conceived of New England as basically every state north of Washington, D.C. And maybe Canada, too. Those damn Yankees harbored really irritating, often incomprehensible, infinitely mockable accents. They boasted personalities as cold as a New England winter. And despite their condescension towards the South, they descended in flocks to the NC beaches every summer (WHY couldn't they just use their own???) After living in Boston for 5+ months, I can confirm that some of those preconceptions were right on the money; others not so much. At the very least, I can now name the 5 states that actually comprise New England (and Nova Scotia isn't, surprisingly, one of them...)

All winter long, I desperately wanted to take off for the wilds of New England. As is typical for my adventurous side, I was intrigued by the Interstate signs pointing to New Hampshire...Maine...Rhode Island. If a place is listed on a sign, it must be close, right? I also knew that venturing up to frigid Maine in the middle of winter probably wasn't the most sound idea in the world, and so I held out until spring.

I finally got to add Maine and New Hampshire to my list of conquered US states this week, as I embarked on a whirlwind coastal photography journey with a friend. In two hours, we'd passed through three states and hit Portland, Maine...a feat impossible in the sprawling states of the South. We'd passed the aforementioned moose caution sign in Maine and imagined just what it would be like to hit a moose and have to tell our friends about it. We arrived to a dreary, rainy Portland morning, made sketchy as well by the old fishermen who delighted in gawking at us. I was about to give up on Portland as a worthwhile point on the map when we found the Old Port area, full of pre-Revolutionary style houses, cobblestone streets, adorable boutiques and restaurants, and....lobster crates. Cliche as it sounds, I came to Maine for the lobsters. Hanging out around the fishmarket, watching the neighborhood cat fed scraps, the unmistakable aroma of seafood-to-be wafting through the air. THIS was the Maine of my mind's eye (it didn't matter at all to me that this "Maine" only encompassed a couple of Portland's blocks...it was there). As ubiquitous in Portland as the sketchy washed-up fishermen were the meter maids. I concluded that Portland must live on lobster and parking tickets alone. I was especially amused (for lack of a better word) to find a parking ticket on my car. Granted, I'd run out the meter. But only by a few minutes. And I really didn't mean toooo.... Portland was officially dead to me. That is, until I gave the ticket a read and immediately noticed the most conspicuous words were "WAIT! YOU MAY NOT HAVE TO PAY THIS TICKET!" Indeed, one's first parking violation every 6 months is forgiven in Portland. I retracted my previous disdain for the city and determined that it must instead live on lobster alone. Or maybe that's WHY there were so many meter maids rummaging around...

In any case, we explored the George Washinton-commissioned Portland Head Light and marvelled at the beauty of the Maine coastline, even on a sunless day. We hit the two lights at Cape Elizabeth and I enjoyed an absolutely fresh lobster roll. There is no seafood so fresh as that which can be observed to be caught immediately adjacent to your eating establishment (translation: the lobster traps bobbed in the ocean just outside the front door of the Lobster Shack). Kennebunkport came next for a view of the abodes of the Coastal Maine gentry (including, we think, the Bush compound). We finished up Maine at Cape Neddick, York Beach, probably my favorite of all of our day's stops. The lighthouse sat on a quaint rocky outcrop, enormous homes hung onto the cliffs above the sea, kids scoured tidepools for salty treasures, fishermen pulled in the catch of the day (literally, a huge fish while we were there), and gulls posed for photographs (seemingly, at least) on jutting rocks. We then crossed back over into New Hampshire and drove through Portsmouth to the one-mile-square New Castle Island. There, we found the fort where the colonial army stockpiled their provisions for the Battle of Bunker Hill and, after a little searching, triumphantly spotted Portsmouth Head Light from an empty, quaint, rocky beach. Our last stop took another hour and a half to reach. My GPS decided to pull out its sense of humor and lead us down a very windy, verrrry backwoods road to Wingaersheek Beach outside Gloucester, MA. I didn't appreciate such humor until we came upon some breathtaking marsh views and passed by some awe-inspiring houses. Arriving at the beach itself was a tad anticlimactic, as the target lighthouse sat quite a ways away from us. But the point was...we made it...moose warnings, sketchy seamen, parking tickets, funky GPSes and all.

In my short time in New England up to this point, I have constantly revisited my opinions about the place. It's kind of like studying abroad, the love-hate relationship that I have with Boston and the region. Road-tripping helps to cement my belonging here, if only a little. I feel less like a tourist and can carry a little conversation now about the best spots on Nantucket or the farmer's market in Portland. The weather still sucks. It's mid-June and we were in sweatshirts and jackets for the duration of our trip (rainy and 55 degrees!) People are hit or miss, in large part dependent upon the weather! Native New Englanders are a tough breed. Many of these folks are descendents of those who weathered the original voyages to this country - their grit is in their genes. But they're not all bad, and they just require a little cracking sometimes. As I was paying for my dinner on the long road home to Boston, the clerk asked me where I was from. I get sick of that question here sometimes. It's like I'm back in India and can never, ever blend in. My accent always gets the better of me. At the same time, I'd never want to lose that North Carolina tinge in my tongue. In any case, I answered him, expecting to hear the tired refrain about the South. Instead, the clerk replied, "Oh, well, I'm from Texas, and I knew you didn't have that accent these people do up here." For an insignificant moment, an ally in this frozen New England tundra. I wanted to hug the man from Texas. Funny thing is, though, he's as different from me as any New Englander...

I know why the Northeast migrates to North Carolina in the summer. New England's beaches are scenic, but 55 in June?!