My Bedroom Window

my bedroom window

The view from my window is always changing.

I live in the attic of an 18th century house in Maine, which at one point must have been regal and stately.  Now, these large houses have been converted into apartments (there are six different tenants in mine)  I can't imagine what its original owners would have conceived of someone living in their attic in 2013, but it is real cozy up here and my window gives me the best view in all of Portland. There is a maple tree across the street and a beautiful white house which because of its facade must have once been a church.  In the distance, there is the off ramp on 295, the waters of Casco Bay, and the surrounding hiking path of the Back Cove, which is hidden between Evergeens, maples and birch trees.  I can always see and hear the seagulls and the crows squeal when they fly across the sky. 

I especially love the view at night. It gives a Portland a gentle and distant glow of blue, whites and green lights, as if this is what defined the city.  The truth is I do not like Portland; I find myself comparing it to Las Vegas. When I was there a couple of years ago celebrating a friend's birthday, I saw its hopelessness past its casinos and night-life in the hard-core looking taxi driver who snarled at us about the stupidity of gamblers; and the sad Native American who day and night mopped the floor in the hotel lobby. Then there was the poor and decrepit motels and funeral parlors a bit beyond the city limits.  Portland is not hopeless but it is lost, with all the white men and women who wander around the streets either drunk or begging (because I have always lived in cities with so much ethnic diversity, it is still strange for me to be in a place where the white man is everything: begger, murderer, rich, poor, etc.).  The men and women who beg are probably the loggers and fishermen who are out of the work for the season.  In the laundromat, a 50-year-old Rosemary, who looks 30 years older than she is, told me that she must get a police-issued bracelet to notify authorities the next time her husband beats her. I've overhead the poor talking about losing homes, being jailed for sleeping with underaged minors, or questionned about murders they did not know anything about. There are so many runaways in Porltand that there is shelter dedicated solely to feeding and housing them - at least at night.

Really, Portland is big-time city for small-time folks. Its "fancy" restaurants overcharge for food that is not worth it (I have eaten at three such places and have left only with the resentment of paying too much; I am still a bit confused by Bon Appetit's designation of it as America's foodiest small town). Its vintage and antique stores smell of lives that have long been buried. It's entertainment is so strangely exclusive to Mainers (rock groups are known only in this region, and entertainment at the state theatre is more suited for the local community playhouse) that it can only labeled it as narrow and mediocre, at best. Still, in the Mainers' defense, their home-state is too remote for them to be contenders. And, really, they are not interested in competition. They make their own products, juice, millk, etc. and push their sales. It is important to accept that things here are what they are: the local beer and mead are exceptional, so are the circus peanuts and Maine chocolates. Recently, I discovered a perfumemaker in town with a "nose" more pure, exciting and genius than the likes of Annick Goutal, Guerlain, or any of the great fragrance houses in Paris.

Anyway,  I am not here to live the excitement of a great city, even though I am acting like a snob.  One day I will return to a sophisticated metropolis because that is my nature, but now I enjoy the quiet of Maine. And, when I feel sad and lonely, I look out the beautiful view from the bedroom window.