Signaling an Option
The time you put in matters. The planning pays off. Vacations may be work, but the rewards of a carefully considered and well thought out trip are plentiful. Of course, the significant rewards come when you throw the game plan out the window, option off the grid. Which is what we did today, and which kind of makes you wonder why you went through all that planning in the first place.
Our itinerary called for traveling from Boothbay to Bar Harbor in the morning and spending an afternoon in the crowded vacation mecca. Bar Harbor is study in contrasts: breathtaking natural beauty - tidal bores, coastal mountains, sea fog, sheared granite sea stacks sloping straight into the open ocean waters – set opposite French Canadian tourists wearing flip-flops and thongs (we will not be posting any of those pictures). So that’s one problem with Bar Harbor – the inherit contradiction of being there – the best and worst of America, on display everywhere you look. The other problem is getting there. And, truth be told, in summertime, the problem is pretty much getting anywhere on the Maine coast, because one must, as if deigned by some evil travel god, spend time on Route 1. Route 1 is a Mini-Me offshoot of I-95 in Connecticut, with the escaped inmates of that uniquely American autobahn replaced by aging tourists from sun belt states, all of whom seem to be three steps removed from death, moving at a crawl through scenic villages, stopping (without signaling) at every candle store and souvenir shop along the way (and there seem to be thousands of them).
So what does one do, knowing the perils of said itinerary? Well, the first thing one does when one wakes up in the morning and the sun is shining anywhere on the Maine coast is to recast the itinerary and park, at least for a little while, because that warm sun on your body may not stay warm for long – the fog can roll in at any time – and so you make the most of the moment, and the moment is truly glorious, one of peace, quiet and splendor. It is early and the children are out and about happily combing the sand for beach glass, and you are sitting in an Adirondack chair watching them, remember similar moments from your own childhood, long vacations when you loved the company of your siblings and could not imagine a world without them, and you hope that they too will remember this morning, as well as the days and nights to come, because that’s why you do it all in the first place, vacation, for times such as this morning in East Boothbay, after a magical evening in a cabin on the water, waking up to the sound of working lobster boats on the harbor and the kir of an osprey out for a morning hunt, no television, no radio, no DS2s, no distractions whatsoever, and, best of all, no clock ticking and no destination in mind other than the beach, dock and cold ocean water, which beckons, and for which the children and their lissome young bodies are made. All as a way of saying, we travel for more than beer, pie, pizza and seafood: we travel for solitude as well, and cannonballs into cold salt water (Go Izzy!)
Our itinerary called for traveling from Boothbay to Bar Harbor in the morning and spending an afternoon in the crowded vacation mecca. Bar Harbor is study in contrasts: breathtaking natural beauty - tidal bores, coastal mountains, sea fog, sheared granite sea stacks sloping straight into the open ocean waters – set opposite French Canadian tourists wearing flip-flops and thongs (we will not be posting any of those pictures). So that’s one problem with Bar Harbor – the inherit contradiction of being there – the best and worst of America, on display everywhere you look. The other problem is getting there. And, truth be told, in summertime, the problem is pretty much getting anywhere on the Maine coast, because one must, as if deigned by some evil travel god, spend time on Route 1. Route 1 is a Mini-Me offshoot of I-95 in Connecticut, with the escaped inmates of that uniquely American autobahn replaced by aging tourists from sun belt states, all of whom seem to be three steps removed from death, moving at a crawl through scenic villages, stopping (without signaling) at every candle store and souvenir shop along the way (and there seem to be thousands of them).
So what does one do, knowing the perils of said itinerary? Well, the first thing one does when one wakes up in the morning and the sun is shining anywhere on the Maine coast is to recast the itinerary and park, at least for a little while, because that warm sun on your body may not stay warm for long – the fog can roll in at any time – and so you make the most of the moment, and the moment is truly glorious, one of peace, quiet and splendor. It is early and the children are out and about happily combing the sand for beach glass, and you are sitting in an Adirondack chair watching them, remember similar moments from your own childhood, long vacations when you loved the company of your siblings and could not imagine a world without them, and you hope that they too will remember this morning, as well as the days and nights to come, because that’s why you do it all in the first place, vacation, for times such as this morning in East Boothbay, after a magical evening in a cabin on the water, waking up to the sound of working lobster boats on the harbor and the kir of an osprey out for a morning hunt, no television, no radio, no DS2s, no distractions whatsoever, and, best of all, no clock ticking and no destination in mind other than the beach, dock and cold ocean water, which beckons, and for which the children and their lissome young bodies are made. All as a way of saying, we travel for more than beer, pie, pizza and seafood: we travel for solitude as well, and cannonballs into cold salt water (Go Izzy!)
