Maine, Moody's, and Moving to The Coast

New Hampshire ended up being absolutely spectacular. I loved hanging out with my family and even ran into my friend Mike From Los Angeles, who I didn’t know was in town! I saw the Great Bay Marina, which I wouldn’t have if he hadn’t taken me there and took a tour of the fancy schmancy yacht that he’s working on. This yacht cost more than every house I’ve ever lived in, I’m guessing, and that includes apartments. I have lived in about 11 different apartments.

Seeing Mike reminded me just how far I’ve gone in my quest to get this trip taken and book written. If it weren’t for this crazy mission, I’d still be cocktail-waitressing and playing hideous games of pool that last way too long with Mike. The latter isn’t so bad, but the cocktail waitressing was eating my soul from the inside out. The money was decent, but my ass sure wasn’t in those tiny shorts.

Downtown Portsmouth was beautiful, despite the fact that the library smelled funny. I couldn’t tell if it was popcorn or pee. I met a very outgoing girl outside the building, who smelled like neither, and she told me all about herself without my even asking. It was really refreshing to not have to pry to meet a stranger - she told me all about her hometown of Derry, NH, her three-year-old son, his expanding vocabulary (which included, "I will hurt anyone if they hurt you, Mommy!") and where she lives now. It turns out she lives in a youth shelter called Crossroads that is right outside of downtown Portsmouth. I didn’t get her name, but she did tell me she was "almost 22". She was very friendly, and that was a godsend after spending the afternoon at the library, where most people give you angry glares if you so much as drop a pen.

Have you ever noticed how a library has it’s Cast of Characters, just like the record shop? I’ve spent many hours taking inventory at library desks across this fair nation and this is the list I have compiled for your reference. (I think each library must contain at least 3 of these following archetypes in order to maintain government funding.) :
1. At least two big-boned middle-aged lesbians in shoulder-pads and long skirts.
2. At least one older shy and grumpy man who is incapable of eye contact.
3. One grandmother type. Wears glasses on chain around neck.
4. One misfit female graduate student with odd hair. Reshelves books. May or may not grow up to become middle-aged lesbian in shoulder-pads.
5. One hilarious middle-aged black lady who keeps it all together.

I’ll be the first to admit that these are stereotypes, and I have come to revere each of them, mainly because I am shit-scared of them. Those butch ladies who work the customer service desk can really wreak havoc if you go over your allotted computer time, I’m serious!
Anyway, the library aside, Portsmouth was beautiful. I could sit and listen to the locals talk all day long. New Hampshire was the first place I has really heard true New England accents, and I adored it! I got to listen to them days later in Maine and Boston, but New Hampshire was where I first really noticed it and promptly called my friend Drew, the "Family Guy" nut, to tell him, "Everybawdy up heah tawks like Petah Griffin!" We cracked up, it was so fun.

I shopped at a little hippie store called Water Monkey (Wahtah Monkey :) and listened to the aging woman behind the counter talk on the phone and to customers, I couldn’t get enough of her. Besides her thick traditional New England accent, she all but screamed the fact that she was a total stoner. I don’t think I would have paid that any mind except that she looked like a grandmother. She had long, gray hair and silver-rimmed glasses, and was wearing a T-Shirt advocating the many uses of hemp over a pair of Levi’s. When I picked out a tank top that said "$upport Organic Farming" she said, "Oh, that’s great, I’m glad you like it! I used to get my pot from an organic farmer in Concord." It was so hilarious!

Now, those of you who know me well know that one of my favorite things to do is get abso-freakin’-lutely lost, to the point of hysteria (right, Max?). I don’t so much enjoy it as I know that I am quite good at it, and so I make it a point to accidentally do it as often as possible. This day was no exception, as I tried to get out of Portsmouth and ended up down I-95 and passing through some ridiculous toll plaza that I didn’t expect. I paid for myself and the person behind me because I felt so bad taking up their time asking the toll guy for directions. (Before you get all "awwwww" on me, the toll was 50 cents, it’s not like I’m a samaritan or anything.) So here’s me driving like a damn fool down some highway I don’t even recognize the name of, trying to drive and look at the map at the same time, and check the time on my phone continuously to see if I can make it home to Helen’s in time for dinner from where I am. I was SO embarrassed to call her and admit that I was lost, especially since she had left me exquisite directions to get TO Portsmouth, you would think I could just double-back. But no. Not me. That would be much too logical.

Instead, I choose (unwillingly) to drive 30 miles out of my way and delay dinner. That is The Jessica Johnson Way To Travel.

Anyway, I got to the house, dinner was had, I was used as a Human Trampoline, and all was right with the world. Helen and Roy showed me pictures of their trip cross-country they had taken right after they got married. They did the same thing I am doing now, except minus the publishing aspirations and the loneliness.

The day I left New Hampshire for Maine was cloudy but promising. Helen recommended Moody’s Diner, which is apparently quite famous for it’s turkey and desserts. It’s even been chronicled in Gourmet Magazine! So she downloaded a few pages from the website (a diner with its own website must be famous) and we found out it was in Waldoboro. I didn’t know where I was headed in Maine until that point, but after that I knew for sure.

I used 95 to get to Portland and stayed there for the afternoon. I had a craving for traditional New England fish and chips that had gone unsatisfied since Nectar’s had run out of it back in Burlington, and I ordered it at this old-fashioned soda fountain of a restaurant called The Porthole Fountain, which I discovered down a wooden wharf street off the main drag on the south side of town. It was perfect.

The whole place smelled of fish and saltwater as I made my way down the block, ramshackle warehouses lining the edges and ramshackle wharfmen smoking cigarettes, watching me as I made my way, half-sparkly with joy and half-cautious of their gazes, down the path. The sun had seared its way through the clouds by then and left the windows and steel doors of places shining with new resolve, as though they were excited to have the chance to reflect something again. The fog that had shrouded the area in the morning was gone, leaving only the tinge of a chill coming off the harbor. I was falling in love with Portland faster than I could count the broken claws of lobsters strewn along the sides of the wharf.

I stayed at The Porthole a long time, writing postcards to people I had met so far on my journey and making the waitresses giggle as I ate fish and chips with my fingers. The fish was so tender and hot that it kept falling apart under my touch and getting lost in the side of tartar sauce. At one point I looked at the waitress and said, sheepishly, "I don’t know how to do this right."
A sardonic but smiley, "Obviously" was her only response.

One of the waitresses told me that the place had only been in business for 29 years, which I thought was amazing because it seemed so much older. Looking around, I wondered if it’s just me that’s getting older, thinking that things from the 70's look more like artifacts from the 50's, just because I like to think of "old" as being "thirty years before I was born", not "thirty years ago today".

I worked on the computer and listened to the accents until the place closed, at 2 o’clock. The waitresses, who I had badgered with silly questions off and on until they badgered me with their own, wished me well on my trip and let me take some pictures of the place. Then I climbed back into the car, wished and prayed that the one beer I had at lunch wouldn’t still be on my breath, and started back on my merry way to Waldoboro, hoping to make it there by 7-ish.

Taking Rt. 1, I passed through many different sorts of towns along the way. The first was Yarmouth, where my both my car and my ego got a boost when, as I was filling my tank, a girl came over and told me that her friend Paul thought I was cute and asked if I had a boyfriend. To her disappointment, I made her settle with taking this blog address - sorry, Shay, but I don’t make a habit of giving out my number, even to shy friends of cool chicks.

Then there was Bath, "The City of Ships", which had a very intricate highway-bypass system in place to divert summer tourist traffic from interfering with local traffic; Freeport, which was like just like Lake Placid, except it had outlet stores lining the main drag; and Wisacasset, which a sign declared was "The Prettiest Little Village in Maine". Truth be told, I hated Freeport. I think it had something to do with the outlet stores. Not that I’m "hatin’ on" outlets - I mean, hell, if you want to sell me something for cheaper than usual, I’ll usually buy it - but I just wasn’t in the mood at that point. I was still in my "uncommercial or die" mode and I really wasn’t trying to pass a McDonald’s housed in a white colonial structure.
Wiscasset blew me away as well, but in a spectacular way. When I saw the sign saying, "The Prettiest Little Village in Maine" as I passed over the town limits, I thought, "We’ll see about that." As I exited the town limits, I reached for my phone and called Brian.
"Hello?" he asked.
"Let’s move to Maine," I said. "I’m serious. I’m ready. I saw a house for sale. Let’s do it."
"Okay," was the answer.

We talked about it for a few minutes and I let my imagination carry me far enough to see me getting a job at the nursing home I had passed, my husband and I (he was faceless, just some random male silhouette) buying an old colonial house close enough to the center of town that we could walk there with our children for ice cream on summer nights, and growing old in that quaint little town that smelled like lobster and lilac, depending on what street you were on.
Then I came to as Brian was saying, "Hey, I gotta get back to work," and I laughed at how hard the tables had turned. When we first started dating I was frantically working two and three jobs while he was a swinging freelance electrician - and by swinging I mean swinging a golf club three times more than a sodering iron. Now he’s a cable contractor and I love to call him, buzzed at 1 in the afternoon, and interrupt him with tales of what I lazy bastard I am.

I wanted to go back to Wiscasset and look around, and promised myself I would at some point during my visit to Maine. The odd thing about getting to Maine was that, besides Waldoboro, I hadn’t made any real plans as to where I was going. I didn’t even decide when I was going to leave, or if I would stay and get a job for a week. I wasn’t going to decide until I got some of Alvah Moody’s nationally-recognized hot turkey and homemade gravy in me, and a night’s sleep.

I drove and drove along Rt. 1 for what seemed like forever, wondering if I would ever find Moody’s Diner. I needed a bathroom but told myself to hold out until I found it, lest I get sidetracked and it get too late to go. I passed a Salvation Army Thrift Store - my absolute weakness - and reminded myself to be strong.

Finally, just when I was about to give up and find a campground to make home and cook up some ravioli to eat with a comb, I saw it. "Eat Moody’s Diner" said the flashing sign on the top, and there was plenty of parking. I grabbed my laptop and headed in, taking a seat at the bar. There were booths open all along the wall, but at just before 5 I anticipated a dinner crowd would be coming in.

Did they ever! 20 minutes after I got there, there was a 15-minute wait for a table. I was really glad I did the Single Patron Etiquette thing and sat at the bar, although I was a sight for certain, getting gravy all over my fingers and trying so hard not to get buttermilk biscuit crumbs in the keyboard of my computer. I was determined to get some writing done, and I did, but I did make quite a mess in the meantime.

"Mainers", as anyone who lives in Maine, native or transplant, will tell you, like to keep to themselves moreso than other people. Sure, there are the occasional talkative ones, but for the most part you stay on your side and they stay on theirs. I wanted so, so badly to strike up a conversation with some of the interesting faces I saw perched on the counter stools, but something about the vibe from them told me it wouldn’t be too well-received, especially coming from a two-bit girlie with a fancy laptop in a greasy spoon.

So I kept quiet and waited for them to come to me. It didn’t take long, as the booths filled up and then the counter filled just as quickly, and an older couple plopped down next to me and asked me to pass the sugar. They asked me if I was in school - I get that a lot, and more than half of me is glad that I can still pass for school-age - and we got started talking about this crazy book project of mine. Other people started listening in, and pretty soon I was holding court over the left corner of the counter. There was the initial older couple to my right, who were your typical average couple except the woman had a particularly large moustache that kept distracting me, another older woman with dyed brown hair and a bright red pantsuit on who was reading a Danielle Steel novel and eating a salad, a shy, well-dressed girl who looked to be about my age with long strawberry-blonde hair and big blue eyes, and another older couple, although it was obvious from the way they talked that they were not married, just old friends who hadn’t seen each other in awhile.

I listened to this older couple long after the first one had left, after Red Pantsuit and Strawberry Blonde had left as well, and I had to try hard not to giggle with joy. I loved listening to them talk, especially since they were both hard of hearing and had to keep repeating themselves. The woman, whose name was Marion, was a well-dressed, seemingly old-money, white-collar, white-haired Mainer who could not stop talking about how much she loved to watch "Sanford and Son" re-runs. She kept waving her arms and hands around excitedly, weighed down with chunky old-lady bracelets and big diamond rings, explaining the plotlines of episodes to her companion, whose name was Arthur. Arthur, in turn, waxed poetic on his adoration of "Seinfeld", and had to explain all those plots to Marion, who has been so busy watching "Sanford and Son" that she has never heard of "Seinfeld". It was an episode of "Seinfeld" in itself just to sit next to these two and try not to bust out laughing.

I wished them goodbye and they offered warm words of encouragement as I got up to leave. They were incredibly sweet people, although not as sweet as the homemade four-berry pie with vanilla ice cream that I couldn’t finish after all those mashed potatoes, and left sitting on the counter.

It was still fairly sunny out - according to my waitress, Barbara, it was the first nice day of spring that they had had in Maine at that point, and everyone seemed to be in high spirits, including the EMT at the Public Safety complex. In New England, most police and fire stations are in the same building, per township, and these places are great for stupid kids like me who live in their cars and want "home security". No one’s going to mug you in a police station parking lot, you know?

Anyway, I asked the EMT if I could stay overnight in the parking lot and he said sure. I poked around the building while he notified the night crew to expect a parking lot visitor for the night and was elated to see that not only was there a bathroom and outlets at the ready, there was a shower room! And it was unlocked! I couldn’t believe my good fortune, so I thanked the EMT and set out for a sunset stroll to get myself good and tired so I could sleep in the car that night.