Maine 2003
We landed in Portland’s’ airport late at night. It was the middle of March and the end, so we were told, to an unusually hard winter. I have since learned that every winter in Maine is long and hard, but then I took the words at face value.
Chuck drove the rented car through the dimmed lighted streets of the sleepy town. Portland, he told me months before, as we were getting ready to move, is a vibrant lovely town, known for its abundance of restaurants and busy port. There were no signs of that. We drove through dark streets covered with snow, once white, but now as the winter was ending muddy Looking. The houses looked old and were barely lit. The very few people we could spot were all bundled in layers of cloths walking with their heads bowed down to avoid the cold air.
We stopped briefly at a 7 eleven to pick some munchies before heading towards our rented apartment, where we were to spend the coming month. There were few people hanging around. One look at them convinced us that we should really return to the car and go. There was an uneasy quiet in the car. No one spoke, we were tired. By now we were closing twenty four hours on the road and all we wanted was a bed and a good night sleep.
Was that just one big mistake? Should we have stayed in Idaho? I was already feeling the first tug of longing, already missing the mountains, always within reach, waking up in the mornings to the shining sun on the lake across the street.
We went to sleep that night without giving the apartment a second look, dove into bed and into heavy sleep. Waking up in the morning I walked half asleep to the living room trying not to crash into walls and unfamiliar furniture. I slumped into the first chair I found and raised my eyes to look outside the window. My heart skipped a beat, the ocean. Outside the window I could see the huge, blue surface of the ocean. Blue as it only looks in the winter against the white snow. The majestic Atlantic Ocean right there outside my window.
Nine years have gone since that day. Maine was not easy to get used to; we had many days and even months that we doubted our decision to come. But I never forgot that first view of the ocean, on that first morning on Munjoy Hill in Portland.
I smiled the whole way through this because I knew that such a catalog of dreary, dark, gloomy shabbiness would have a twist at the end, and all I had to do was wait.
ReplyDeleteAnd it's a good one! Interesting how often views of the ocean or at least references to water dot these place pieces.
Here's something to consider: dropping the last paragraph completely and ending with a grand image instead of exposition.