Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
find everything as we left it—as if we'd merely stepped out for a Dr Pepper in the middle of
a game of paddleball, then returned, 358 days later, to resume it.
Set on a peninsula south of Portland, Pine Point is a cluster of rustic cottages and slightly
grander Victorians set along a series of cul-de-sacs jutting off the main road toward the sea.
At the end of each cul-de-sac is a sandy footpath that cuts through a deep ribbon of dune
grass that hums with dragonflies and ripples in the breeze. And at the end of the path, where
the tallgrass falls away, lies a seven-mile crescent of flat, smooth, sand-colored sand.
Our first walk of the season down that path—a barefoot trudge weighed down by sloshing
coolers and salt-scarred beach chairs—may be the happiest moment of my year. That it re-
quires a bit of effort and patience only adds to the drama. The tallgrass feels like some ma-
gical green barrier that must be breached, while the slight incline of the dune means you can
hear and smell the ocean before you actually see it.
The house we rent isn't much to look at from the outside, and entirely too much to look
at on the inside, what with the owners' ever-expanding collection of beach kitsch. But it's
our place, and through the years that's come to mean a lot. Were I a first-time renter arriv-
ing today, I might take issue with the abundance of crab figurines, the rather lumpy beds, the
rustytapsandhingesontheoutdoorshower.Buttheshoweritself?Nomarble-cladbathroom
could compete.
Our routine is quite simple: Swim. Nap. Eat. Rinse. Repeat. The start of the week is cus-
tomarily filled with discussions of all the activities we might finally get to this year: a sail-
boat charter in Kennebunkport; a hike up Mount Agamenticus; perhaps a jaunt up to Rock-
land—but really, who are we kidding? We're not going to do any of it. And when the end of
the week comes, we won't regret a thing.
Instead we find more modest diversions. Long beach-blanket grocery lists are made, elab-
orate meal plans hatched. There is the occasional detour to Portland's Standard Baking Co.
for their unspeakably good brioche. At some point we'll paddle kayaks into the nearby Scar-
borough Marsh, slipping through reed-walled channels while herons and ibis eye us from the
banks. And should we ever tire of the quiet—or crave penny candy—we can always ride
down shore to Old Orchard Beach.
Onsummerweekends,when100,000revelersdescendontheplace,OldOrchardofficially
becomes the largest community in Maine. It is also, semiofficially, the tackiest place in all
ofNewEngland:ahonky-tonkplaygroundofflip-flopshops,fried-doughstands,temporary-
tattooparlors,andcarnivalridesthatmakesOceanCity,Maryland,lookliketheHenleyRoy-
al Regatta. Needless to say, we love it. The Grand Trunk Railroad used to run here direct
from Montreal, and Old Orchard remains catnip for vacationing Québecois. The fried-dough
standsalsosell
poutine;
signsattheamusementparkareinEnglishandFrench.Thisprovides
asemblanceofculturaldisplacement:battingcagesbecome
cages des frappeurs;
JetSkisbe-
come
scooters des mers;
while Skee-Ball becomes, charmingly,
le skee-ball
.
