A Snapshot of Maine

Our rental car swerved back and forth along the skinny, winding road. Scrubs and trees lined either side. But we could see through the trees and scrubs and the ever-present mist, the Atlantic Ocean throwing itself on the rocky coast. An amazing aspect of the eastern coast is the close proximity of other States. The same can be said of Europe. If you were to fly into Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam, The Netherlands, you could take the train and be in Germany in one hour, Belgium in under two, and at the furthest, France in a cool three and a half. Rent a car at Boston’s Logan International Airport and you have the eastern US at your fingertips: Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, New Hampshire, and lastly, one of our favorites, Maine. Again, all within three hours of driving (insane traffic notwithstanding).

Our only goals: drive to Maine, eat a lobster.

The tiny rental car careened around corners as we passed through New Hampshire, and onto the last US State before Canada. The coastal road opened up to the idyllic Maine portrait. Wooded lands lay to our left and rocky shoreline lay in spotted fog to our right. Tall pines dripped misty dew onto our windshield. It was not, as Dickens would say, “foggy withal.” We saw easily through it. But the fog hung in the air, nonetheless, contributing to the very picture of Maine that we expected find. 

We only had a few hours before we had to be back in Boston. So we followed our map up the coast, looking for lobster. This was before either of us had a smartphone—it’s a miracle we found Maine. A mere 25 minutes north the border lies the little village of Perkin’s Cove. And if you’re driving south, it’s only 25 minutes from Kennebunkport (which I mention only because I love saying Kennebunkport).

We turned into this seaside fishing town and gazed across the cove to find a tiny restaurant literally named the “Lobster Shack.” We were in the right place.

The wooden door creaked as I pushed it open. Immediately, the smell of lobster and steam rushed out. It might have been foggier inside then out. The man behind the counter regaled us with the daily process of walking the 50 feet to the dock, buying freshly captured creatures of the deep, and bringing them back to the live tank where we now stood. The lobsters probed the walls of the tank with their antennae and jumped about. After making our selection and ordering other goodies, we found our seat.

We feasted that day.

There is something surreal and important about enjoying local specialties. Whether it’s a steak sandwich in Philadelphia, tri-tip and chicken in California, or lobster in Maine, can you really know a place or a people without eating what they eat?

anthony forrest