Aselin

My mother tells me I should be a travel writer. It’s very true I’ve been incredibly blessed to see a wonderful array of locations, cultures and climes. Usually when I do travel I spend time watching the local wildlife. Wildlife that sleeps in dens and caves as well as wildlife that drive minivans. The flaw in Mom’s suggestion is that while I do love to travel, and having some successful publications might offset the financial burden, early in my travels I came to the realization that my favorite places are those that the rest of you don’t know about, so why would I mess that up?

I still pout about my experience in the Sistine chapel, crammed elbow to elbow on a 100 degree day with literally thousands of people trying to take in the majesty of the artwork. Craning my neck I was stepped on, goosed, body checked, felt up and experienced an adrenal surge when armed guards yelled at the crowd to ‘Siliencio!!’ Not only was I not able to focus on anything I had come so far to see, I had an all out panic attack. Blotting beads of cold sweat and trying desperately to breathe I had to get out of there.

Not wanting to become separated from our group, but feeling my feet go numb from the asphyxiation I was surely experiencing, I pressed my way to a small bench at the side of the room. There I sat, looking at the belts, backs and bottoms of the kabillion other tourists who had come to see where Michelangelo lay on his back quietly communing with God. I’m still mourning the experience I had against the experience I wanted.

Right now I’m sitting in an undisclosed location, somewhere in Maine. The quaint tiny town is a collection of farmers markets, bed and breakfasts and coastline. Reclining on the porch of a beach house, the ocean lapping at my feet. There is a lone sailboat amid the lobster boats that dot the horizon and mother sea birds teach their fledgling young to dive for lunch.

The cove I’m overlooking forms a perfect arc so the New England cottages butting up to the seaside are just within view to give a perfect frame to the vast ocean. A lighthouse in the distance completes this postcard scene just for me. Sometimes the wind gusts catch the screens just right and drone a deep, soothing almost tantric hum. There is not a soul in sight. It couldn’t be more idyllic.


After getting settled in my spacious lodgings I set out to explore. The New England architecture,



The immaculately kept details, seemingly fresh paint set against the backdrop of bright green lawns, wooded back yards and blue sky are stunning.

A bit farther down the road I come across Kennebunkport of the Bush family fame. It's a charming little town mixing both elegance and kitsch seamlessly.





Lest I think life here is without challenge I come upon a photo of the home where I am staying. Fortunately this was taken in the winter, months away from when I will be here, but the four story home is engulfed by mother nature.


For lunch I’m walking up the road to a purveyor of lobsters. He recommends the soft shell variety because they aren’t as dry when they are cooked. Selecting my entree he tells me to come back in a half an hour. I wander the streets making my way to a pick-your-own stand. Of course I must pick my own raspberries and blueberries. Making a corn selection I’ve completed the meal preparations all within 200 yards of the surf.

My lobster comes already cooked, cracked and neatly wrapped in a foil-lined lobbie bag (doesn’t make sense to call it a doggie bag). I cross the street to my lodgings proud of my purchases.

Laying the spread before me I’m confident that while I’ve tried lobster, corn and fresh fruit before - this promises to surpass any culinary experience I’ve had. There’s something exhilarating and empowering being this close to my food production. the blueberries pop in my mouth they are so fresh, the lobster, blanketed in melted butter, has a briny essence that is unreplicateable. To have this kind of experience you have to be here. To select your own lobster from the tank, harvest your own berries, rest your own feet in the sand...

It's wonderful all by myself!

No... I can’t be a travel writer.