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Scarborough, Maine

Maine, Maine, Maine, salty, delicious, hauntingly beautiful, over crowded Maine. My first week there ignited a love for this irregular, northern state, but man do I wish I could have had it a little bit more to myself. Coming from middle-of-nowhere, Vermont, where transients were overwhelmingly outnumbered by local residents, Drew and I were taken aback when we suddenly found ourselves in a sea of tourists as soon as we entered the town of Old Orchard Beach. I probably shouldn’t have been surprised by this aspect of Maine, finding little availability in the plethora of campgrounds that I found by the beach, and being greeted by numerous signs along the highway that welcomed us to “Vacationland”. Pleasantly, my fortunate self was actually able to secure a full week at Hid’n Pines Family Campground, pretty much the only park that didn’t laugh me off the phone when I called to make a seven night reservation in August with three nights notice. Considering the fact that we almost had to skip out on this area due to my inability to plan ahead, and that this campground was actually within walking distance to the shore, I’d say Lady Luck had our back on this one.

Drew and I enjoyed a full blissful week at Old Orchard Beach, which may not sound like an extended stay at first impression, but for Drew and I, a traveling couple who hadn’t stayed still for longer than four consecutive nights in over a month, this slight change of pace felt indulgent. Actually, Maine itself was indulgent with no shortage of sinful baked goods at nearly every corner (I would highly recommend a stop at The Holy Donut if you like happiness), our over budget campground treating us to a daily dose of hot tub soaks and poolside naps, and let’s not forget about Maine’s famous lobster rolls which pair well with any variety of malt beverage. Yes, I absolutely adore Maine, and will probably always remember my stay here due to the thorough bout of emotional whiplash I received during my stay.

We arrived about three weeks after losing my Nana and I had yet to live a single moment without her golden “M” necklace hanging delicately near my heart. I was focused on creating enough energy that would be needed to get my world spinning again, knowing with everything in me that she would be reminding me that sulking was not very becoming. And so, seizing the moment as she always encouraged me to, I experienced Maine in the way that I had seen in many New England based movies. I chose a moody, overcast day and used it to tour a nearby lighthouse. Honestly, I’m not sure that my expectations were tremendously high before arriving at the Portland Head Light, but that only made the enchanting beauty of the white structure contrasting against grey skies all the more striking. The soft, rhythmic sound of the lighthouse bell faded seamlessly into the soothing noise of waves crashing into the rocky shoreline as we walked throughout the surrounding park, garden, and historic ruins of Fort Williams that was utilized in both World War I and II. Working up quite an appetite from our expedition, we chose to seek dinner in Portland, a small city full of soulful live music, rusty colored brick buildings, cobblestone streets that make you feel like you’re in Europe, and the decadent offerings of the Portland Lobster Company.

Up until this point, we had made an effort to try and cook in the RV as much as possible, knowing how quickly money can be squandered if we too frequently dine out. This week, though, we lived quite extravagantly, being called to an endless supply of fried clams and lobster bisque. The best food we had all week was from Ken’s Place, a rather unassuming, shack-like restaurant in the middle of a residential area of Scarborough. I would have never stumbled upon it on my own, and owe the experience to my Poppop, whose face lit up on a video call for the first time since my Nana had passed as he recalled the restaurant. “You HAVE to go to Ken’s Place,” he bellowed. “It looks like nothing from the street, and the line is always long, but the service is fast so you wont even mind. I had the sweetest lobster I have ever tasted from that place.” It had been a long time since he had been to Maine, so I will not hide from you the fact that I was skeptical that the establishment was even still standing, but I would have tried just about anything to make my Poppop smile like that again. I obliged, of course, discovering that Ken’s Place was about a 10 minute drive from our campground. 

The best part about this story was that he was undeniably right! It delights me that the best food is always found in the most unexpected places, as if the owners know that they can allow their food to speak for itself. I’m sure that a lot has changed in Scarborough since the time my grandparents last visited the area, but I find it comforting that some things seem to stay the same, at least in relation to our brief stays here on earth. 

A Bleeding Ocean

So, yes, I was truly infatuated with Maine, thinking that if the winters weren’t as harsh as they are rumored to be, and the real estate market wasn’t quite so astronomical, that I would move to Vacationland if I ever chose to grow roots. However, it was on a beach day that I was quickly reminded that no place is perfect, with Maine being no exception. To enlighten you, Old Orchard Beach is adorable. It has the shortest boardwalk that I have ever seen, stretching out just beyond the length of the sand at under 2,000 feet long. There’s also a small amusement park nearby, offering enticing views of the ocean from atop a Ferris wheel if you feel inclined. But as I all but skipped down to the water’s edge, I was alarmed by what appeared to be an unnatural crimson color replacing the blue waves I had expected. “The ocean is bleeding,” I thought to myself in horror.

Of course, there wasn’t blood in the water, and this whole blog would definitely take a more sinister turn if there was. What was before me, infesting the ocean, was an algal bloom, an explosion of growth and reproduction from the red-tinted algae, Alexandrium catenella. This species is quite obviously an invasive pest, although, after having a hard time at identify its native habitat, it seems that nobody wants to take credit as its place of origin. In any case, Alexandrium catenella, and around 20 other species in the Alexandrium genus, are globally distributed due to the ever increasing rate at which humans voyage across the oceans. It is impressively capable of surviving in a wide range of temperatures, can withstand a high degree of organic pollutants, and is capable of obtaining nutrients even when the density of their required nutrients is quite low.

Never mind the fact that the mere memory of the thick algal sludge rubbing up against my legs is enough to make my skin itch, this stuff can be quite dangerous. Like any living organism, Alexandrium catenella produces toxic waste, which accumulates in high degrees when they’re found in such large quantities, and becomes concentrated in bottom feeding shellfish who then often suffer paralysis as a result.

The persistent and widespread contamination of invasive species is, in my opinion, one of the most frustrating aspects of how humans have altered the world. Never having known anything more common, it is easy to assume that a tree is a tree is a tree until you learn about something like the Dragon Blood Tree which is extant only to a small, arid island off the coast of Yemen, and only able to survive by its capacity to capture and then channel airborne moisture to its roots. Or perhaps you know about the Baobab Tree, a species which looks like it was taken straight out of The Kingdom of Hyrule, but actually is spread across South Africa because its sour scented, night blooming flowers attract bats who then efficiently disperse their pollen. Everything living thing you see around you has been designed by nature to live in a specific environment.

The amount of time it takes for a species to evolve into what it is today is beyond what the human mind can accurately comprehend, but far before humans ever walked on two legs, the elements of nature danced with each other. Each species would wait for a beneficial yet random genetic mutation to provide the next generation with a microscopic advantage for survival in their habitat. The only thing that would keep a species from dominating the entire ecosystem was that every other species was fighting the same fight, not giving an inch to another, always finding new ways to survive on its own, oftentimes to the detriment of another. Over centuries, the earth served as the tapestry for a countless number of species to live on, each uniquely designed to thrive while filing a specialized niche within their ancestral environment.

Then humans came along, moved these species to areas of the globe where they contained no natural predators, and poisoned the oceans with a generalist algae which we just can’t seem to get rid of.

Sometimes it occurs to me that I may have more in common with Alexandrium catanella, then I am particularly comfortable with. I come from a family all native to Philadelphia. My mother and father went to the same Philadelphia school; My godparents live across the street from my grandparent’s house in the city outskirts of Roxborough; My mom moved 45 minutes out of center city to the Philadelphia suburb where I grew up; My sister now resides two blocks down from her. It would seem that my genetics dictate that I should be stay in that southeast corner of Pennsylvania as well, that it is where I am adapted to be, yet I roam far and wide, spreading myself out into places I know little about. Alexandrium catanella doesn’t know that it’s suffocating the oceans. It just wants to live, and I can’t fault it for that, because I have that same desire.

Another Speed Bump

At the tail end of my week in Old Orchard Beach, less than 30 days after my Nana passed on, I got a call that my Poppop joined my Nana in heaven. The doctors would declare that his lungs lost function, but I know that the true culprit was a broken heart. I went back to Ken’s Place that evening, feeling helpless, and sat on a bench outside. I looked around at the place my Poppop was so excited to tell me about just a week earlier. I wondered if the benches were the same ones that were here when my grandparents visited the restaurant. I wondered where they would have sat. I wondered if it was just me, or if the lobster tasted sweeter that evening, and if my Poppop would have been jealous, wanting one last taste. Drew and I clanked plastic cups to David Ralph Hunt that night and then soon returned to the RV for some much needed Charlie snuggles.

Returning Home

It’s obvious, but worth stating, that I both loved and love my Poppop, though aside from our mutual love of many individuals, I never really thought we shared much in common. He didn’t like to verbalize his feelings and I just can’t seem to shut up about mine. He liked his world to be quite small, going out to the same seven restaurants on a weekly rotation and I routinely seek out new and interesting cuisine. He was traditional, liking things done in the same manner that he has always known, and I enjoy learning about the traditions of others, feeling a sense of stagnation if I sit still for too long.

I have since returned to Philadelphia in order to help clear out the shell of a house that belonged to my grandparents. I was awarded the consultation prizes of some gold plated silverware and a collection of Waterford figurines which I would willingly exchange for one last hug from my grandparents if anybody with the power to make that happen were to ask me. While sorting a pile of belongings, I stumbled upon a magazine from the 1990s containing an article both written by and about my Poppop. In it, he wrote about how, while working for a non-profit organization, he built a garden escape out of the remnants of a condemned building. He used only the 30 minute increments he was allotted for lunch, slowly transforming a slab of concrete which sat sandwiched between two buildings, and created a green paradise decorated with a water feature, a greenhouse, and multiple garden beds organized by flower type.

Reading the words of my grandfather, in published print, felt like he was telling me one last story. I felt the sparks of emotion that I strive to create when people read my own words. It was the first time I started to comprehend the extent of our similarities, and had the thought that perhaps I am not like Alexandrium catanella afterall. Maybe, instead of me invading a world that I am not suited to explore, my Poppop passed along an appreciation of nature and literature, and a persistent, stubborn drive that makes me optimized to thrive in the lifestyle I'm currently experiencing.

My Poppop also gave me one of the most enthusiastic replies that I received when I informed him that I would soon be exploring the country. He called me on several occasions, always careful to avoid the prying ears of my Nana who worried my plans were too extravagant, and told me all the places I should visit. He described to me the plans he once had of sailing down the Mississippi River, and also how they were abandoned when my uncle arrived on the scene. He told me that one of the tragedies of life is that young people rarely have the opportunities to travel, and that by the time they have those opportunities, they are too old to do much about it. He followed that up by saying that if I was in a position to change that for myself then I should run and never slow down.

Our opinions differ slightly here, as I feel that one of the greatest misfortunes that I have seen is that by the time we grow up to understand what truly remarkable people our grandparents are, we have misused much of the time we originally had to learn about them while they are still here. 

Losing one’s grandparents is something that all of us must walk through if we are fortunate enough to both know them and outlive them. At the risk of coming across egocentric, though, I had exceptionally wonderful grandparents. I feel remarkably blessed to have known them as well as I did, and been loved by them for as long as I had been. I am proud to be the granddaughter of David and Martha Hunt, and am forever grateful for not only what they taught me, but also for what they had no choice in gifting me. I have no doubt that my Poppop will be yet another angel who protects, and sometimes plays tricks on, Drew and I as we drive our little home on wheels.

Thank you all for reading and for your continued support. I look forward to sharing many lighter adventures with you all in the future. Come back next week to learn about our journey to Acadia National Park!