Maine is a Marvel

I quickly realized that Maine was the jolie lade of the U.S.  Everyone told me that it was beautiful, but that was not readily obvious to me.  Riding in the cab from the airport, I noticed that most of the houses from the turn of the 20th century needed paint and repair. The streets had pot holes and some of its people, with their haunting and au natural appearances, looked like they had just gotten up from their beds, or the graves, or a night of drinking and brawling.  It got dark at 5:00 and the whole place smelled of pot, earth and Indian incense. I also arrived in winter when the trees were bare.  But like Frank O'Connor said : "It easy to be beautiful but more difficult to appear so." And, that has always been my preference - to challenge others to see my beauty, which like Maine's is a combination of the unexpected. 
 
When I first arrived, my middle-aged landlady with the stunning blue eyes, who wore a beautiful black wrap-around wool coat and knitted cap with a rose, took me to a third-story apartment she said had been cleaned in preparation for my arrival. And, the apartment smelled of old house, and its closet doors didn't shut, and its wood floors were nicked.  Even so, the place had a charm with its slanted ceilings, an alcove for sitting and/or reading, and a window the overlooked the tops of the houses and the  Bay.  Coming off the waters and the branches of trees, the seagulls and the ravens took turns flying and crying as if they waging a battle of good vs. evil.  And they were just as comfortable in the sky as they were on the streets and sidewalks where they pranced around like small household pets.
 
Then there were the men, with their mysterious caps, dark coats and full beards who in other places could be mistaken for drifters or vagabonds, but in Maine they were simply the rough and tumble breed of men who have already had a fair amount of tousling with nature.  And, in their covert walks around town, I could see the lustiness in their twinkling eyes and half-grins. I have never cared for the white American male, who has always bored me with his conversation of cars and well-endowed women, but this is an interesting sexy vampire version of that breed who might just be worth all the hassles of love. I still don't understand why there are so many beauty salons or post offices in town (some of the salons are side by side, which is strange for a place where most of its women prefer the earthy and disheveled look), but that is a mystery I might not necessarily ever resolve.

And, I have walked around the Old Port with its pubs and little stores and the movie house that always shows blockbusters and indie films in equal proportion. I have been to a bar that has Irish Night every Wednesday, and I have attended African Dance night at the local dance studio on Thursday. The tarot reader who read my cards and the belly dancer who is going to teach me to dance starting in January are both white American girls who channel their roles with conviction and authenticity. I have been to the art and photography exhibits at the library. And I have recently learned that I can take Bus No. 8 out to the ferry which will take me to Casco Bay, where I can bike the islands in the winter.  I intend to go and see some of the plays at the Portland theatre, and  the Whistler exhibit at the Museum of Art.  I can't wait to learn more about Maine's birds at the Maine Audubon, a natural preserve for birding. And, still, there are the lighthouses, which I have yet to map out and explore.

Borrowing from Columbus, who was thrilled to have discovered a New World, I can honestly say that [Maine] is a marvel.