But Where Do I Belong?
It isn’t obvious where to go, but it’s obvious when you don’t belong.
Tucked off a single-lane slice of U.S. Highway 1, amongst a sleepy forest swaddled in a blanket of morning fog, a lone gas station stood. Perched at the crest of a gentle hill, travelers pulling in for fuel or food were offered views of the Atlantic. I stopped at the station not for gas, but at the beckoning of a hand-drawn sign, hawking the day’s fresh catch. Stepping from my truck, I shivered and zipped up my coat. The dark blue of the ocean somehow made the already chilly day feel colder.
A saturated wooden walkway led up to the cottage-like building, with faded paint peeling from its siding in curly cues as if trying to strip away from its latex shackles and catch an early spring breeze out to the sea and beyond.
Inside, I ordered a lobster roll with fries and a soda. Paying in cash and a smile, I left, walking back down the soggy wood and across the pea-stone lot, out to the single-lane road. A lone picnic table welcomed me with an amazing view and damp seat. Until driving into Maine — my first foray into the state — I couldn’t recall ever eating a lobster roll. I’d never experienced the satisfaction of chilled, ocean-salted crustacean, drizzled in warm butter and paired with a crunch-fest of double-fried french fries. For the…
