It's not often that I have occasion to update older dispatches. But it's not very often that the context that makes those older dispatches valid leap off the page and return from my most distant memory bank.

Yes, the price of gas has put a major crimp in my plans. But so has the weather. Have you stepped outside lately? Scary...

It's been moderately amusing to watch Doug Rafferty tooling around on Plowcam all morning. Except that as of 11:30 AM, he hasn't gotten around to my street.

Um, yeah, about all those adventures I was going on? “Hitting the road?” Have you seen what they’re getting at the pumps lately?

Still, my editors do enjoy getting content on occasion. And what better way to force my debit card into the pump, in the name of providing content, than to check another item off of our to-get-to list? Mrs. Tourist and I have been planning to get to the Lighting of the Nubble for all of the six Christmases we’ve been here, but no soap as of yet. Well, get out the red pen! There’s a check mark to put down on the list now.

Where are you going tonight, to-
night-
Where are you going, John Everel-
down?
There’s never the sign of a star in
sight,
Nor a lamp that’s nearer than Til-
bury Town

From “John Evereldown”, by Edward Arlington Robinson.

The Tilbury Town of Edward Arlington Robinson was a land of diminished opportunities and lonely dreamers, and the Gardiner that he lived in and fictionalized wasn’t much happier. The family fortune dwindled, both parents and two brothers died, the love of his life married his brother. Ouch.

It was the end of the line, the last leg of a road trip, anchored by Burlington, VT and Cooperstown, NY, that saw us hit seven states and all of New England in 60 hours. We needed a Maine homecoming.

It’s all kind of a blur, really. Snapshots flash by in double-time, leaving me as dizzy as I was during the actual event. Hurry up, taste, wait, smell, resume… I’ll try to process this orgy of sensory overload in real-time, but I don’t guarantee anything. Welcome to the 156th annual Fryeburg Fair.

So apparently, for lo these five-plus years, I’ve been spending my working days not three miles from the mighty Atlantic. Who knew? For some reason my mind thinks inland when I think Scarborough. But of course, Scarborough is home to Prout’s Neck, which is where a rather fine painter, fella named Homer, lived and worked from 1883 to 1910.

“Weatherbeaten.” I rest my case.

Well, why not? Gorgeous night, one of the last nights with temps in the 80s for a while. In spite of the mercury reading tonight, the light carries the unmistakably brilliant glint of the autumn. There would likely be a few late-season sunbathers on the beach, but I was sure that I would find that solemn feel of a resort town starting to shut down for the year. I eagerly awaited my first look, as Mrs. Tourist and I flew down Rt. 77.

We didn’t get too far.

The autumn is here, and the light reflects. Mrs. Tourist and I occasionally veer off 95 on the way home and take Rt. 1 through Yarmouth to Freeport. We always meant to hit Mackworth Island, but never did. Until...

Welcome to installment one of a new feature: You Are Here. The idea? Simple. Visit places. Take pictures. Write about it.

I think I can handle that.

I’m hitting the road and dropping in on Maine places that are off my path, beaten or otherwise. Most of the places in this series I’ll have never been to. Some will be quite familiar to me, but everything is new in the eyes of the Native Tourist. I am somewhat limited by the day job and the price of gas, but I think I can cover a fair amount of territory and get an accurate snapshot of life in Maine. There’s a lot of adventure to be had on the open Maine road, even within a tight radius. I’m going for it.

Saturday, 6:00 AM

Have conditions improved since last night? Would there be a Saturday morning launch to kick off day II of the three day Great Falls Balloon Festival? Cue up the organ! Duh-duh-duh-duuuuhhhhhh!!!

Saturday, 6:00 AM

Have conditions improved since last night? Would there be a Saturday morning launch to kick off day II of the three day Great Falls Balloon Festival? Cue up the organ! Duh-duh-duh-duuuuhhhhhh!!!

You see any balloons here? No, me neither.

(I hate cutesy titles, but it was inevitable.)

I have never been to the Yarmouth Clam Festival. Why not? Who knows. I'm not much of a festival guy, for one thing. Too many people, too many tourists, too many opportunities to spend waaayyyy too much money on bad food. Oh, and there was the time when I was eight or nine that I heaved a good gorging of HoJo clam strips all over the rug of an Orlando Holiday Inn. Put it all together, and I just never made it to this Maine institution.

Observed in the course of Maine life...

July 4th. Not only is it the birthday of my favorite nation: it's also the birthday of my bro Eric. We always made it to Whitefield, home of The Homestead - my grandparents farm - for the parade. It's a huge event; big enough that the cavalcade of fire trucks and agriculture floats needs to turn around and re-run the course. Big kicks.

Yes, I’m still alive.

I just got back from an extended visit with the in-laws in Seattle. It’s great to be home, but I must say I do miss the Pacific Northwest quite a bit. Maybe because Seattle and Portland are so similar in so many ways.

Ah, The Game. The National Pastime (no, the other national pastime) still holds great sway over me. Is there any place in the world better than a ballpark?

I am aware that Colleen Stone already wrote about red hot dogs. However, she went out for hers, and I grew up eating mine at home. This column is, to a large extent, about (re)visiting Maine institutions with tourist eyes. And it’s about going home.

On the eve of yet another FREAKING NOR’EASTER, I find myself revisiting a few memorable spots in my mind in order to desperately remind myself that summer is, in fact, approaching.

You can’t go home again. Okay, you can…sorta. But be careful what you wish for. I’m just sayin’.

Many spring and summer Saturdays during my high school days found me at The Big Dipper on Rt. 196 in Lisbon Falls. There one could get an insanely large cone of homemade ice cream for $1.50 in Bush 41 money. Back in the day, I could actually finish off a large M&M and think nothing of it. But I’m neigh-on seventeen years removed from high school now. Could I still make it?

Ah, the Whoopie Pie. As much a staple of the Maine culinary map as the lobster roll, Jordan’s red dogs and Moxie, these gobs of goodness are requisite for anybody seeking a true Maine experience. There is some debate as to whether the whoopie was born in Bangor or in Pennsylvania Dutch country in the 1920’s, and it appears that Amish kids, heard to yell “whoopie!” when seeing the pies in their lunch bags, might have a legit claim to the name. But the use of marshmallow Fluff, invented in Somerville, MA, tips the scales towards New England. Besides, Pennsylvanians have their own pastry to claim. Let them eat Tastykake, I say.

Tuscany. Bordeaux. Beaujolais. Napa Valley. Portland, Maine.

Huh?

Yes, Portland, Maine is now a winemaking kinda town. The world is a global village, and items and services that were once available only through great expense and travel are now at our front doors. Thanks to advances in home recording technology, you no longer need to go to Los Angeles or Nashville to make a record. Thanks to camcorders and YouTube, you no longer need to go to Hollywood to make a movie. And thanks to Maine Vintners at 1037 Forest Avenue in Portland, you no longer need a passport to make a great wine.

What’s this all about, you ask? Sure, it’s about Maine. But more than that, it’s about getting to know Maine, for the first time and for the umpteenth time. I’ve lived here for 24 of my 34 years. I know a lot of Maine through my every-day eyes, but I want to see more through my tourist eyes. I want to get inside and see what makes Maine...