In Maine, I drink a lot of coffee with Heidi.
We go to our favorite place and sit at our favorite table and write. We drink Americanos. Sometimes we drink two if we are feeling crazy. We usually regret that but we can’t help it. It is really good coffee and they make it just right.
Maine is a place where stories sprout by the water. You can go and pick them up and keep them. Just thank the sea.
The light is hopeful and the air has a smell that is... sweet? salty? briny and raw and fresh? I cannot find the right words to describe the air, except to say it is like someone put the ocean in a bottle and shook it up with a dash of magic.
On foggy days, the city picks up the ocean and pulls it over top like a heavy blanket, saying oh, let me sleep. Everything is muffled and damp. I don't like what that does to my hair but it is a small price to pay.
It’s good to walk a lot. At the diner or the bar or the bakery, we see people we know. We talk to strangers, too. We eat and drink our favorite treats, some of which are potato donuts, eggs, pink wine, pancakes, gelato, spring rolls, and honey mead.
The sky is not always blue and the weather is sometimes pretty awful. It is not a perfect place but it is my place.
Places are a funny thing, aren’t they? A place matters and it doesn’t. You take yourself with you wherever you go. You have your same brain and your same heart and your same body but sometimes you just feel different.
Some places you just keep coming back to.