Coastal New Hampshire, S. Maine

Crossing into New Hampshire, Rand McNally on my lap, I told Beth to take a right off the I-95. "How far?" she asked. "As far as it goes." The New Hampshire coastline, a complete mystery to me, lay only a few miles away. Other than being a bridge from northern Massachusetts to southern Maine, I knew nothing of it. Its 18-mile coastline little more to me than the answer to an obscure American geography trivia question.

Shortly off the 95, we picked up Route 1 going northbound. (Little did we know at the time that 1N would be our home for the next week.) Immediately, we found ourselves cruising the coast. Mostly, we would only see glimpses of the ocean between houses, below the dunes, on the right side of the car. Gas stations, beach stores, motels, and hamburger joints dotted the other side of the road. Eventually, we came across a town called Hampton Beach. This was no little sleepytown!

A wide, long, beautiful, white sandy beach opened up to our right, with hordes of people gathered all over it. Small waves crashed on the surf. The town itself was bustling with kitsch shops of all size, arcades, bars, and clubs, and hotels and motels galore. The Casino Ballroom advertised a moe. show coming up. We drove through.

We stopped for a late lunch in Portsmouth, a recommendation from my Aunt Susan back in Massachusetts. We wandered the quaint old town, letting a saxophonist by a church in a central square fill our ears us for a handful of moments. Then it was lunchtime--at the Bananas Bar and Grill, as luck would have it. A layover at a funky T-shirt shop, and we were on our way. To Maine.

My knowledge of coastal Maine was little more than what I knew of coastal New Hampshire. A friend from work recommended Kittery, and I remembered that George Bush, Sr. owned a home in Kennebunkport. Neither seemed our speed. Intending to make it to Portland for dinner, we made it only to Saco, setting up camp at a KOA in the Portland suburb. It was early enough to set up our tent and check out our surroundings. So we threw up our poles and headed back in the car for dinner--toward the town of Old Orchard Beach.

With no expectations at hand, with no concept of what lay ahead, we were shocked with the sight of the booming resort town ahead of us. Twisting roller coasters, crowds on every corner, parking garages, kids of all ages running in all directions, games, a Ferris wheel, and an impressive, seemingly precarious pier pitched out well into the picturesque Atlantic.

Old Orchard Beach seemed a child's paradise. A
warm, friendly ocean stretched out for many
meters beyond the beach.

And the beach lay only a few steps
from an endless array of video
games, carnival rides, and
ice cream shoppes.

Beth and I did our best to be
kids again. It wasn't too tough.

We rode a machine that swung us
through the air in a nauseating motion.
I got humiliated at a softball toss game.
We stumbled through an unimpressive,
but still intesely enjoyable, house of mirrors.

To use the remainder of our carnival tickets, we rode the loop-de-loop up a clickety incline, and then down multiple turns and twists. I guess that's how they go. At each apex we saw the ocean below us, with the nearly full moon rising out of the Atlantic. I resisted the urge to take out my camera while on the roller coaster. Regaining composure afterwards, I fielded a phone call from my brother, out in California on a road trip with his fiancé Nastya. "How it going?" he asked.

"We're in Maine. The sun is setting, and the moon is rising out of the ocean," I responded. "The sky is purple and perfect. I just got off a roller coaster, and now some guy in front of me is juggling flame while on a unicycle that is balanced on a high wire." (I took a picture to prove it.)

"Oh? Is that all?" he asked, half wondering if I was pulling his chain the whole time.

"Nope. Now we're headed for a lobster dinner."

Back at the campsite later that night, we started a fire and opened up our chairs.

I preoccupied myself with the fire for what seemed like hours, obsessed with getting it just right. Once I was satisfied, I sat content in the camping chair.

The mini bottles of wine fit perfectly in the chairs' cupholders, I noted.

Soaking it all in, I sat there with Beth, in almost complete silence. Our big summer road trip was finally underway. Our second honeymoon, or whatever number it was, was in progress.

I stayed slouched in that chair until all of the firewood--and the bottles of wine--were fully extinguished.