We’re here, in Maine.
It’s cold and raining, just as they predicted. Somehow that fits the idea of what the Maine shore is supposed to be, though. Gray. Stormy. You pitted against natural elements. If you want warm and easy, try a place on the Gulf.
I’m in the Ernest Hemingway living room. I never like white paint — true white paint — but somehow, here, it’s perfect. It’s been all warm woods, dark leather, and bits of green. This year, she added orange. Papaya, to be exact. It’s enough color to cheer up the drizzly day.
The wall of windows and doors reveals a gray, tumultuous bay. I was worried the fog would have crept up the lawn and hidden the water from our sight completely, but no. There are the breakers, being tossed on the shore by wind and rain. It’s magnificent.
I had a bit of sushi for lunch. Every time I eat it, I wonder, do I really love the food, or is it just an excuse to taste wasabi? I love, love, love wasabi.
This afternoon can linger as long as it likes, as far as I’m concerned. The rain on the roof is soothing, the view is inspiring, and the afghans are warm. I just might nod off to the sound of Andrea’s bustle and Ryan’s low conversation…