The very first thing we did after reentering the United States was to find the closest washrooms. (Oops make that restrooms. We’re back in America now.)
The next thing was to get some good ol’ American food. And by good ol’ American food, of course I mean burritos and margaritas. We found a Mexican restaurant in a small Maine town and ordered away.
What a mistake. The margaritas tasted like Kool-Aid and my burrito was about as tasteless as hospital food.
“We should have learned by now not to order Mexican food anywhere east of Texas,” my all-knowing wife reminded me.
It was then on to visit my brother and his wife at their camp in Maine. What they call a “camp” is what we out West would call a “cabin.” The two-bedroom structure sits on a peninsula jutting out into a “pond,” which is what we out West would call a “lake.” For three nights, we drank bottled, not boxed, wine, listened to the loons and slept in a bed that didn’t require one to crawl over her partner to get to the bathroom.
Unfortunately, my brother and sister-in-law still have to work for a living at places with real bosses. When they had to return to their jobs, Dianne and I drove off to Vermont in the hopes of seeing some of its famed fall color.
We were too early. Most of the leaves were still green and those which had lost their chlorophyll were mostly dried and curled up because of a late-season New England drought. While too early for the flaming foliage, we did have an enjoyable time exploring the countryside and vowed to return in a future fall.