“Nothing unexpected or wonderful is likely to happen if you have an itinerary in Paris filled with the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower.”
-Anthony Bourdain
I ran across an essay this morning that riffed off the above quote from Anthony Bourdain, along with a couple others, expanding on the notion that there is something to be said for traveling someplace with no real itinerary or objective, suggesting this leaves open a little space for magic.
That about sums up our recent weekend in Maine. Realizing our parade of weekends up here grows short as the end of the pandemic draws us back south, I floated the idea to P of flying to Maine for the weekend to visit a town she speaks of often and with great fondness, Boothbay Harbor. So with little planning except to make reservations at a slightly dilapidated resort in nearby Southport, last Friday after Peg finished work we jumped into the Columbia for the two hour flight from Corning to the coast of Maine.
It was a beautiful flight over the foothills of the Adirondacks and then the Green Mountains of Vermont, dodging a little virga on our final descent and then finding the runway by literally spotting a clearing at the end of a rainbow. On landing rollout at tiny Wiscasset Municipal Airport, we spied a cluster of turkeys standing in the grass next to the runway, a proud tom showing off his array of feathers to the ladies. It was Friday night out on the town for them.
One of the joys of flying small planes is getting to land at these little airports. Rick, the airport manager, had arranged for our rental car to be waiting just outside the gate, with the keys and rental agreement in the desk drawer of the flight planning room. While Peg sorted out all that I pumped forty gallons of 100LL to top the tank, then parked the plane next to a couple old Cessnas and unloaded for the drive to the lodge.
The Ocean Gate Resort is a sprawling old place built over several years, with modern units from the 1990s standing next to boxy, cinder block banks of rooms from the 1960s or earlier. We marveled at the view outside our patio.
Figuring the coast would be crowded on Maine's first tourist weekend after the lockdown, Peg had made us a reservation at Coastal Prime, a toney restaurant on the water in Boothbay. As we drove the winding road past clapboard houses and secluded, rocky inlets, she relived the Boothbay she remembered, a real fishing village in its day. She'd happened there seven years or so ago when they were having their annual city waterfront fair, with children's relay races that involved lugging a dead cod, music, and lots of seafood. Most of the attendees were apparently fishermen and their families, judging from the waterproof overalls and boots.
Pulling into Boothbay P didn't spot much in the way of change. The first hint that things were different was the complete lack of fishing and lobster boats in the harbor, replaced by sleek center consoles and luxury trawlers.
Coastal Prime was a delight, with our table arranged around an outdoor fireplace right on the water. Our waitress had the leathery look of someone with a little too much affinity for the sun. Turns out she was a Floridian, as well. So were most of the other wait staff. She explained they came up here when things began to slow down in Florida after the winter peak. These folks clearly aren't talking about the panhandle.
We feasted on local oysters, a small, salty, delicate thing next to the cow-tongue-sized balls of Texas goop they now serve down south, and split a steak-and-lobster plate. We were in Maine, after all.
The next morning we awoke with the sun to greet the new day. Okay, not really. We rolled over about a quarter after eight, and pondered how long we could lie there and look out the window before we missed breakfast.
"So, what do you want to do today?"
"I dunno. What do you want to do?"
I scrolled through Trip Advisor, and was tempted by none of the "top ten things to do in Boothbay Harbor, Maine."
We just sprawled and talked, a luxury we rarely have with Peg's early-morning profession. About 9:30 we bumbled out the door and up the hill for breakfast on the terrace.
To our surprise, the Ocean Gate served a massive, homemade breakfast, delivered by cheerful young ladies in matching t-shirts and aprons. I muddled my way through most of a pair of blueberry pancakes the size of catcher's mitts.
With no real plan, we then wandered the grounds for a while, stumbling across a putt-putt golf course just over the hill. We found a couple putters and balls, and played a few holes. Why not?
From there we finally mustered the ambition to crawl into our rented Sentra and drive into Boothbay again. The streets there were already filling with folks, some masked and some not, mostly day-trippers from Mass and New Hampshire, it seemed.
We happened upon a wonderful independent bookstore and killed time reading jacket notes. Peg found a book about lobsters that enchanted her--she's had her nose in it every free moment since then, regaling me with tales of how lobsters have sex, molt, etc. We bought a couple coffees down the street and made our way around the neighborhood on a walking tour.
Peg found the old Tugboat restaurant and lodge where she stayed years before. It was still closed for the season.
We strolled the waterfront and took lots of pictures.
We briefly considered taking the two hour tourist boat tour of the harbor to go look at puffins, until realizing there was no bar on the boat and deciding once you've seen one puffin, you've seen them all. We'd both seen puffins before. We took a pass.
Another of Peg's fond memories was lunch at a place called McSeagull's, and particularly their "exploded out of the shell" fried lobster. The place was still there, although it had received a facelift since her last visit. It also had new owners, who'd ditched exploded lobster from the menu. We made the best of it, with a couple glasses of decent cab, lobster and mushroom stew, and some fried haddock bites with "spicy" sauce that was mostly mayonnaise.
We watched a group of well-dressed folks muster next to several center console boats along an adjoining dock. They boarded under powder blue party balloons, then made their way out and into the harbor, led by the harbormaster himself in his little fishing skiff on some sort of boat parade.
Eventually a torpor born of cab and heavy food set in, and we drove back to our room. We decided a little hot tub time would set the stage for a decent nap, and ended up spending the better part of an hour steaming ourselves with a fireman and his wife from Beverly, Mass. He gave me a recipe for a "bacon explosion" (realizing now that culinary explosions were a theme that day) that consisted of a basket of interwoven bacon slices wrapped around a ball of ground sausage and bacon, then smoked for several hours and served in slices like meatloaf. I'll have to try that one soon. His wife jumped into the frigid pool to cool off, and he told us she'd been out there swimming in the 49 degree seawater behind the lodge that morning. Yankees are just different.
The jacuzzi had the desired effect, and soon we were happily snoring back in the room. I awakened first, as usual--I've tried to make a point of a 20-25 minute nap over lunch most days, and my eyes pop open after about that long. Peg tends to sleep for more like an hour, and to wake up feeling like hell.
I slipped out of the room and out of my shoes as I settled into an Adirondack chair in thick grass to read my book and enjoy the view.
Peg eventually joined me with her book. I learned a lot about lobsters. We began making supper plans.
That evening we made our way back into Boothbay for a meal at Mine Oyster, a sprawling place on the water that didn't appear to have changed any of its interior decorations since the Carter Administration. A massive chef, also the owner, prowled the place, telling stories and hanging out with the regulars. I came for a whole steamed lobster and, by God, I got my whole steamed lobster. Peg had to help me eat it all.
Our waitress, a cute girl born-and-raised in Boothbay, broke the bad news to Peg that the community fair had been gone for years. This was a place for tourists now, not lobstermen. Things change.
Afterward as we were leaving, we admired the literate and insightful oyster quotes on the walls down in the lobby.
How does one end the perfect Maine spring day?
Well, by building a fire back at the lodge, of course. We poured a post-prandial, and with the help of a group of nice ladies from Rhode Island coaxed a huge fire to life. It was idyllic.
The evening closed with us curled up with a Father Brown mystery on the iPad, then deeply asleep.
I am always a stressball on days I'll be flying, and yesterday was no exception. After breakfast we figured we'd stop in Wiscasset for coffee enroute to the plane, only to find nothing was open. Finally, almost to the airport, we found a cafe that was ominously ringed with the flags of the armed forced. Desperate for coffee, we gave it a try.
An insane man in an Air Force ballcap with a clear case of Graves disease was at the register.
P asked for a couple coffees to go.
"To go where? You know we charge by the mile. Forty-five dollars a mile. How far you goin'?"
We looked perplexed.
"Don't encourage him," came the advice from an adjoining table.
We finally negotiated two cups of bad coffee to go, without a mileage charge, and drove on to the plane.
I had filed an IFR flight plan on my computer before leaving the lodge. When you fly out of a non-towered airport, to activate your flightplan you have to dial up the local approach/departure frequency as you're climbing out, and tell the air traffic controller you're airborne and would like to activate your flight plan. Usually it's a no-brainer, with the voice on the radio telling you you're "cleared as filed" and giving you a transponder squawk.
Not this time. The controller sent me to another frequency immediately, telling me they'd have my clearance there. That controller, in turn, announced "I have an amended clearance. Advise ready to copy."
Now I'm trying to fly the airplane and write down the stream of waypoints I've been assigned, as the controllers have me snaking through Boston's airspace until I'm well into New York. I can't find some of these waypoints on the GPS, and can't figure out how to program the victor route they've assigned (basically a highway system in the air we used to fly in the old days before GPS, but that is rarely used now). Finally I get it all programmed, and settle in to watch the autopilot fly us along the route. Peg is asleep by now, curled with her head on a blanket leaning on the window.
After about a half hour in the air, they clear me direct to Elmira. We fly along with walls of rainshowers building on either side of us, while we remained in a corridor of blue skies. It was just that kind of weekend.
Two hours after takeoff we were on landing rollout at ELM. We taxiied into Premier Aviation, and the nice, goofy guy who works there on Sundays jumped off his riding mower to marshal us in. Peg grabbed the Honda, drove it to plane-side where we unloaded our bags, and twenty minutes later we were enjoying a late brunch at the Quincy Exchange, our new favorite Sunday brunch location in Corning.
So, a weekend with no agenda ends up filled with magic moments--walking with P along the waterfront, a boat parade, a lazy afternoon reading next to the water, a nightcap by the firepit. And Tony Bourdain was right, it's the lack of an itinerary or any real goals for the trip that left the space to make it all possible.
But today holds no such luxury. Time to get to work. I just got the bill for the annual on the Cardinal, to be sold God-willing in two days, and it's going to take a little labor to cover that expense.
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