I distinctly remember one moment of my first visit to Maine, over 20 years ago now. I was sitting in the passenger seat of my friend's minivan bombing along the twisty wooded roads of the quiet side of Mount Desert Island. On this early August afternoon the sky was a watery wash of cloudless cobalt and a cool breeze blew in the open windows. Mountains and sea filled our view and the tang of balsam filled our noses. "I hate it here!" I shouted over the rushing air.
My friend looked over, eyebrows raised.
"Because it's so perfect and I have to leave tomorrow!" I finished.
"Yup," she said and kept on driving.
My friend looked over, eyebrows raised.
"Because it's so perfect and I have to leave tomorrow!" I finished.
"Yup," she said and kept on driving.
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