by Dina Di Maio

     Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not the most athletic person. I avoid sports at all costs, not just due to having a spinal disorder—scoliosis—but also due to a lack of coordination and interest. A game of tennis can never be started if I'm holding one of the rackets, as I can never hit the ball once it's in the air. So it's no surprise that friends were shocked when I modeled my brand-new parka complete with an inside pocket for my cell phone. A parka is a rough weather coat for those ski-adventure types who go to exotic places like Colorado, Alaska, Canada and Maine. Why would a taxi-riding, deli-eating New Yorker like me need one?

     A while back I applied for a CASE media fellowship to study the work of marine scientists at the University of Maine in Orono. After being awarded the fellowship, I had to prepare for my first trip to the Pine Tree State. Of course it would be frigid and cold. My trip was scheduled for May and I know even NYC can still be breezy at that time. So getting cold weather gear was a top priority—hence the parka.

     Upon arriving in the state, I found it to be surprisingly warm, which I was told, was a bit unusual for the time of year. So the poor parka stayed stuffed in my backpack as I wondered if I'd ever use it again and if I saved the receipt.

     In Orono, I walked from my hotel to the center of town over a short bridge that had railings netted with large, intricate and shiny spider webs. Town was no more than a small square with a few stores—a pharmacy, an antiques shop, the Bear Brew Pub that I couldn't figure out how to enter. It had a window facing the street and a group of baseball-capped, high school age guys were sitting at a table. I mouthed to them through the window and they all pointed to the right and made a gesture that I should turn the corner to get in. Once inside, I felt a bit awkward eating alone as there was a small birthday party going on. But I ate and had some blueberry ale (98% of the blueberries in the U.S. come from Maine) while I admired the large green mugs behind the bar. A local potter (I would later find out my group leader's wife) had created these for the pub. They weren't available for take-out purchase. If you bought one, you'd have your name put on it and you could drink out of it whenever you came to the pub.

     Another place I noted in downtown Orono was Ampersand, a whole/health/gourmet food and gift shop. Upstairs was the market with fresh baked goods and some seating. Downstairs was a gift shop where I couldn't resist an ultra-kitschy lobster tote.

     Despite my proclivity toward touristy things, the true purpose of this trip was professional—a weeklong media tour of the marine science facilities. It was full of talks about the work of the scientists and tours of various buildings—a halibut hatchery, a lobster wharf, an oyster farm, etc. The small group of journalists I belonged to found ourselves schlepped from one place to another quickly, so there wasn't much room for sightseeing of the traditional kind. On the long, somewhat hilly road out from Orono to a coastal facility, we stopped at a quaint bakery called Periwinkle, most likely named after the snail commonly found on the coast but perhaps after the flower also found in Maine. Here, I sampled the most heavenly raspberry pie I've ever had. It was a slice of pure joy—with a shortbread crust and a surprisingly sweet filling. I'm told the place is famous for its blueberry pie. However, there were no slices of blueberry pie for me to buy—just whole pies--and with all I'd been eating, I couldn't justify buying a whole pie to try one slice though it would be in my character to do so.

     After a few days of shuffling around, we stayed at a hotel in Belfast. There was a balcony that opened out to the river. At night, it was pitch black, and I heard the silence I remember hearing as a small child in northern New Jersey. I hadn't heard that sound for about 20 years, and I soaked it in. There I was, in a nightshirt on the balcony in "remote" Maine, wanting nothing more than to hear nothing.

     Well, that and some real tourist action. One member of the group did persuade the leader to let us shop in Belfast. A few people went to the farmers' market there with various handicrafts available, but I was on a quest for chachki. At a gift shop, I bought a stuffed moose, a lobster lollipop, a stuffed crab, some Oreo cookie cow, or Belted Galloway as its properly known, postcards and a lobster that vibrates when you pull the attached string.

     What would a trip to Maine be without lobster? After all, 90% of the lobsters in the U.S. were caught off the state's coast. One evening, we stop at Shaw's Fish and Lobster Wharf in New Harbor for dinner. The menu was enticing with everything from clam chowder and lobster stew to lobster and crab rolls and the very appetizing sounding lobster pie and of course, blueberry pie for dessert. While I wanted to try the lobster roll—hunks of lobster slathered in mayo on a roll—I opted for the whole lobster, as I'd never eaten a whole lobster before. I wasn’t used to cracking the shell myself. A true klutz, I was sure I'd cut my hand on the hard shell, but I didn't. In fact, I was pretty good at it, and in minutes, I was sucking long strands of flesh out of tiny lobster arms. I didn't wear a bib and was lucky that no lobster juice or guts flew up at me.

Dina on the wharf with her lobster tote

     The next day, we went out on a boat up the Damariscotta River to learn about oyster farming. Finally, my parka came in handy, as it was a bit nippy. It was a gorgeous sunny day—so clear—as we drove up to one line of cages holding the oysters. I'd never been one to eat slimy things, but I couldn't be a wuss when the group was presented with fresh oysters, shucked straight from thee river and garnished with a shot of Tabasco. So without a frown to display my disgust, I slurped one up, chewing it slightly, and to my surprise, I enjoyed the briny, salty taste as its wetness slid over my tongue. It felt as if I were tasting the ocean itself. I kept the shell as a reminder.

     At the end of the week, one of the journalists offered to take us out on his boat on Blue Hill Bay. Parka take two. It was a bit windier than he expected and the ride was rather choppy. As the boat slammed down with each wave, I braced myself as the slam reverberated down my back. I knew I'd pay for this later. We rode to small islands that can only be reached by boat. I could see one white house amidst fluffy green treetops and wondered what it was like to be living there—in such isolation. Having lived in Manhattan, the thought was both appealing and tortuous. Nearby, big rings in the water and a dock indicated a salmon farm. I eat salmon once a week and seeing the farm was like putting a face to a name. On a series of jutting brown ledges not far off, there were numerous large seals basking in what was left of the late afternoon sun, one or two slipping into the water almost unseen like where a mirage on the road meets the sky.

     A detour later to Bar Harbor found an adorable tourist town with streets of small shops reminiscent of a mountain-village Disney World. Moose souvenirs, sea captains, and Maine T-shirts beckoned from store windows. I chomped on a whoopie pie, two round chocolate cakes with a white creamy filling sandwiched inside—a Maine treat. Driving around, I saw where to get the ferry to Nova Scotia and wished I had more time to go. On the way home, it was slightly raining. After, on a flat road, there was a large rainbow—clear as day—full and brimming with color—the kind that surely has a pot of gold waiting at the end. If the week wasn't up, and if I didn't have work Monday, I would have chased it. I would have chased it past the small coastal hills, followed it to the mountains and beyond--to the dark, quiet stillness of another Maine night.

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