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June 12, 2008

I knew I was in another world when someone called my rental car a “wicked pissa.”

Maine is a little different, and I think the locals are just fine with that.

Through the gaps in the dense woods, the Atlantic flashes like a movie reel in your mind, all powerful, foreboding. The rock, land and water are somewhat harsh but the sum translates to pure beauty.

Cliche doesn’t cover the view even when you catch yourself standing there and saying, “Gee, that looks just like a postcard.”

We have timed it right, early spring, before the hordes arrive in search of the lobster roll and precious sun for their winter skin.
The beaches are empty, and on the morning run barely a car passes.

If there is a more beautiful place in our eastern region, I’m not sure where it might be.

Maine is rife with history, culture and old, wooden things bleached by the sun and snow.

This is a place where staring in silence is commonplace.

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