Maine

Maine, to me, had always been a far-flung eastern state, part of that patchwork of rural North America that included the vast and frigid Quebec, wooded and rural New Hampshire, and liberal and lesbian Vermont.

Therefore, when I had the opportunity to not only spend a week there, but spend it in a beautiful home, set on a hundred fairly undeveloped acres on the Atlantic Coast, I needed no convincing. (Bearing in mind that at the time, I was still on vacation in Caribbean Mexico. Planning a vacation while on a current one: Priceless).

After a red eyes and red-eyed, we arrived at the Portland, Maine, international airport, and were subsequently picked up by Jo, his girlfriend Anne, and a car full of organic food from their farm on the outskirts of Providence, for the two-hour drive north to Penobscot County.

The estate was under the cover of darkness, which can add to the excitement of waking up- what would my surroundings look like in the morning? I remember the first time this occurred, with one of the world's natural wonders, the (Canadian) Rockies. Arriving by shuttle bus into the small town of Banff, Alberta, the naive 19-year-old that I was wondered what the white solid puffs were in the sky. Passing them off as low clouds (perhaps adding to my wonderment and awe of the following morning), I let my curiosity be for the night. Rising in the morning, I was naively surprised and floored by the distant yet intricate, towering but inviting range of mountains that encircled what was my home for the next three months. These morning revelations can only be afforded in nature; the city's omnipresent luminescence illuminates everything to such an extent that we immediately and gradually know what surrounds us.

Opening my eyes the following morning, I was confronted with the sight of the calm Atlantic- protected by Penobscott Bay, and all its little and large islands; deciduous trees, some bare, some red, some yellow, some still clinging to their leaves, in the last hopes of holding onto their heyday, like the party animal who won't accept that the night's over. On top of that, there was a palpable sense of ease, of relaxation, of the need to do ...nothing. There were no usual social or routine cues to get up and start the day- no bus route starting, no commuters walking by, no one else doing anything else. In short, no FOMO- "fear of missing out". The sense that whatever happened would be something you created, and no one was really doing anything else gave me the emancipation I needed to relax and not push myself to be anywhere else. Was this not the true meaning of a vacation? Moving, entirely and wholly, on one's own schedule? I think Maine helped me truly achieve that, if just for a week: living on our body clocks, rising when we wanted to open our eyes and sleeping when the ether of a full belly and contented heart overcame us, and we walked up the wooden staircase, to the landing with the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and went into one of the doors to pull the quilt over us and sleep until we wanted to, our alarm the lapping of the glassy ocean against the dock.