Information Inundation

I think I have started to write about this before, but taken off on another tangent. So, here it is in depth – the “information inundation” unraveled. Everyone talks about it, I know. But, I have a little different perspective having recently been in a culture where I was hungry for information, as most of what was around me was difficult for me to understand. Signs along the road, newspapers in waiting rooms, napkins at restaurants, conversations of passersby, slogans on the radio and stories on TV, were all in media-speak, which they don’t teach on language cds. I could usually figure out the gist of things, but I never got familiar enough with the language for it to come easily. Thus, it was a conscious choice TO understand things around me rather than NOT TO understand them. Rather than quickly scanning signs or advertisements and getting a sense of all of them, I had to choose the ones I wanted to figure out and make an effort to translate them, sometimes to comedic ends, as I didn’t quite get puns or figures of speech. Or, if I wasn’t in the mood for more input, I simply looked at text as art and conversation as music and moved along in my own little world.

Upon moving back, I was thrilled to have so much of my surroundings so readily accessible. I didn’t feel like a stranger – I could fully participate in the American culture. I realize that things in Sardinia were different on a number of levels: not only due to the language barrier, but there was also just less “stuff” to understand since we lived in a rural area there and now live in a city (or, at least a cheater city, as I like to call Portland – meaning that very much as a compliment).

This newfound level of participation was exciting. I felt stimulated and alive in a way I didn’t realize I’d missed while overseas. . . until it gave me a big, fat headache and I realized that my little brain couldn’t possibly hold in all this input without literally exploding. Thump, thump went my head as the information inside kicked and screamed to get out. I had no input filter, as I was eager and curious to take everything in, and so now I had to figure out how to let some of it back out. My rapidly firing synapses were like a pinball machine zipping from one thing to the next (have I used that metaphor before?), trying to snip off little samples of everything. I felt like a kid who eagerly gets out all her toys at once and then throws a tantrum because she can’t decide which one to play with. Too many is sometimes not enough and one can be the world - Basho should have said that. I found a great quote awhile back by George Wald, a scientist who studied vision, which says that something you are entranced and stimulated by can be like “a very narrow window through which at a distance one can see only a crack of light. As one comes closer the view grows wider and wider until finally through this small narrow window one is looking at the universe.” You just need to land on something and that, if you stick with it, it can become the world, encompass all of your passions, and design your understanding of everything around you.

So then, how do you choose? There’s only so much that one person can do and trying to do everything often results in accomplishing nothing. But, I am one of those people who reads every word accompanying each display at a museum exhibit. I have this fear that I might miss something good. But, I am beginning to understand that I will always miss something good and that’s okay.

Recently, on a stroll through the lovely brick streets of Portland, it dawned on me as I peeked in windows filled with brightly colored objects and read posters stuck on lampposts with upcoming events, that I’m really quite spoiled - how much better it is to have too many good things to do that you can’t possibly do them all than to be bored by everything around you such that you become lethargic and depressed. But, again, the trick is to learn that you must choose.

There was recently a great article by Sandra Tsing Loh, one of my favorite writers on what I like to call “the modern woman dilemma,” who talked about trying to balance family life and a career. This is really a subject for another blog. But, the sentiment, “You can do it all, if you live like a man,” is relevant. You have to let some things go for the sake of pursuing others and it can be fun when you do it for something worthwhile. Go for a walk on a sunny day and forget the pile of laundry on the floor – look at it and laugh as you walk out the door. This is really a different situation because sunny walks are definitely more appealing than laundry. The problem I described before is that there is often more than one good option and that those options compete with each other. And, then there’s always the worthless stuff as well. Somehow, you have to let just the good stuff filter through, keeping the junk out, and then choose amongst them.

So, I’m working on building a filter and on being glad that there is often more than one appealing option and that making a choice doesn’t necessarily close doors, it just challenges you to find a way to incorporate your other interests into what you are currently doing. And, there’s always tomorrow – one wouldn’t want to run out of interesting things to do and they don’t all have to happen at once, despite what the pace of life may seem to dictate. One thing at a time, Italian style; peek through the window, find your way into the sun and stay there awhile. The rest will follow.

"Sunlight captured in water . . ."

After a few entries of ponderings, I have finally decided to write another travelogue. It isn’t as if we haven’t had wonderful weekend romps and paddles since returning to Maine, but my mind has been too full of other “musings” to focus on those experiences enough to write them all down. So, after an amazing weekend spent in Downeast Maine, I am finally getting around to writing another recounting of travels. Being back in Maine and reconsidering what an “adventure” is, I realize that Maine prepared me well for adventures far away in that I truly learned to adventure while living in Maine, seeking out the nooks and crannies of the state for magical hikes and quiet small towns, and that it prepared me well for adventures afar. And now, I am back adventuring in Maine with a renewed enthusiasm that has been enhanced by my experiences away. In a way, I have started treating Maine as an island similar to Sardegna that I need to explore all corners of in order to have a complete sense of it.

Thus begins the tale of Labor Day weekend. In pursuit of a manageable long weekend adventure, and having been curious about the northernmost part of the coast of Maine for quite some time, we decided that it was time. The state of Maine is really darn big and that in all my travels within it, I had never been all the way up the coast.

As a bit of an aside, but with relevance to my previous blog about the lack of local friends, I have to start on Friday of the weekend and describe how our evening picnic came to be. While running on the Eastern Promenade one afternoon, I had a double-take moment where I thought I recognized a classmate from Bowdoin. Then, a few more strides down the path, I realized that it was, in fact, who I thought it was, though I was now out of comfortable earshot. I passed this information on to Chad, who did a little research through “Linked-In” for me (as you know, I am still a hold-out on social networks for the moment) and managed to get in touch with our friend, Pete. On my home from work the next day, I stopped at the tailor and happened to see Pete’s wife and we exchanged numbers and addresses – realizing that we lived only blocks away from each other. On my way out of the store, I got a message from Chad saying that, at the very moment when I had run into Joan in person, he had been chatting with Pete over email. We all decided it was fated that we should get together and arranged for a picnic on the Promenade . . .and voila, local friends, and we reconnected with them in person, (though we did reconnect over cyberspace as well). And so it finally begins – the making of local friends. Too bad they’re moving to South Portland next week.

On to Saturday. After loading up the car with loads of equipment and provisions for the weekend, we were off to see old friends – not so old, but in the strange conception of time when you have left a far away and different experience, it feels like longer ago than it really is. These are friends from La Maddalena who now live in Gardiner, Maine in a great old farmhouse that they’ve renovated. We lunched Italian style, visiting on their porch in the sun with a glass of wine and then enjoying a delicious, lingering meal while discussing where to buy rare Sardinian foods, like pane carasau (a cracker-crisp flat bread) and pecorino cheese, in Maine - they being foodies like us. We waxed on about the lifestyle we had in Italy and how other-worldly it seems now looking back. Finally, roused ourselves for the long drive north.

Our first destination was Cobscook Bay State Park, located, not surprisingly, on Cobscook Bay. On the drive up, we listened to a western story on cd, making us remark on the first red-tipped leaves of late summer (we don’t use the "f" word yet) in accents as if we were gangster and gun moll. We finally got there and schlepped our stuff to our campsite (car camping does not inspire conservative packing and we had managed to easily fill up the Jetta with stuff, ourselves, and the pup), which was quite private and quiet. Just as we had set up our little blue tent, gotten the grill going with our lovely salmon filet we’d brought along, and set the picnic table for a fancy camp-dining experience, a few drops began to fall. Luckily, Chad had precautionarily put up the rain fly before we started cooking and we had kept our rain jackets handy - too bad Manny didn’t have his own slicker. He was quickly ushered into the vestibule of the tent, much to his dismay, so as not to become a wet, chilly dog, whereupon he repeatedly poked his nose out from under the flap and attempted to escape and we had to take turns pushing him back in. Despite the rain, we managed to eat our salmon, pouring a bit of water off our plates, and drink a little watered-down wine. Then, we headed to our snug tent for the requisite terrible first night’s sleep of any camping experience. We hadn’t exactly earned our Thermarests that day, spending most of it eating or sitting in the car – lesson learned. Through the night, Manny only attempted to escape twice, both times followed by attempts to enter the tent with us, instead acquiescing to simply laying as close as possible to me in my sleeping bag while the door was still closed, making our small tent even more squished.

The next morning, we caffeinated ourselves with our handy Italian stovetop caffeteria and were on our way to Quoddy Head State Park, located on a headland looking out towards Campobello Island in Canada. It was a gorgeous hike, which took us on a side loop along a plank path through a peat bog filled with red and green sphagnum mosses and insect-eating pitcher plants – apparently the result of a retreating glacier a long, long time ago. We ended our hike at a smooth rock beach, perfect for picnicking and a wade out into the chilly, clear water, and then scrambled up to the famous striped lighthouse. After our picnic, we went into the town of Lubec, dubbed the “easternmost town in the United States,” which was also one of the sleepiest – an interesting mix of neat frame captain’s houses that were painted whimsical colors set next to shoddier versions of the same that looked long abandoned. In a quick moment, we had seen the entire town.

This left us a bit more time than anticipated, so that we could see Eastport, the “easternmost city in the US,” though I might down-classify these both locales as a village and a town, the claim to Eastport’s city-dom being a bit presumptuous. That said, I had imagined Eastport to be a little run down and depressing, having lost much of its fishing and processing industry years ago, but it was burgeoning with art galleries and renovations to early 20th century brick buildings that lined the main street. At one end of town, we were reminded of the fishing heritage by a large gnome-like statue of a fisherman, supposedly erected for a reality TV show. The harbor was full of well-kept fishing boats and loads of people fishing off the pier for mackerel, swimming through the swift current. On our way out of town, we saw the current ripping through the narrows with fish jumping and a plevy of seals having an easy meal.

From there, we drove out to Shackford Head, where we went for a quick walk out the headland through drizzly rain, hoping that we would return to have a drier dinner experience that night. We read that the beach nearby was the site where several Civil War ships had been burned - their stories told on an array of plaques. Maybe they just needed an out of the way spot that wouldn’t draw too much attention. The precipice at the end of our hike looked out in one direction over an array of salmon aquaculture pens, which are an important part of the economy in Downeast Maine, and, in the other, over the breaking clouds and streaming evening light on the water. Afterwards, we happily made use of the campground showers before preparing dinner under clear skies at our campsite. A long day of exploring, hot showers, a filling dinner finished by some Kahlua-enhanced hot chocolate enjoyed fireside, all led to a good night’s sleep. Just to be sure of it, we also clipped Manny’s leash to the tent to prevent a midnight runaway pup.

The next morning, we drove to Cutler to hike the Bold Coast Trail, having provisioned with a picnic and plenty of water for the 10-mile loop. It was truly a magical experience with no one on the trail but us for nearly the whole distance. We walked the inland portion of the trail first, discovering woodland delights such as a purple fungus, a wood frog hopping across the path, and an array of animal scat filled with the wild berries that grew rampant – blackberries, raspberries, and low bush blueberries (our favorite). Finally, we emerged at the coast, sunlight illuminating the tiny village of Cutler with its picturesque white lighthouse. We lunched at a fantastic rocky outcropping and watched the waves crash below while airing out our sweaty t-shirts, (an illustration of gender differences).

Amidst the rocks, we found cranberries growing and glugged the rest of a near-empty water bottle to make a collection container, now prepped to gather more berries on the return journey. There were endless patches of blueberries, bigger than any wild ones I’d seen, and we couldn’t stop picking them until we’d filled up the entire bottle. Even Manny partook, nibbling away as we stooped over the bushes. I recently saw a sign outside a shop in Portland that said, “wine is sunlight trapped in water.” I think blueberries are Maine summer captured in water. A bit disappointed that our lunch spot didn’t provide a swimming opportunity, I spotted a perfect pebbly beach part way back and we refreshed our tired, sweaty selves – rinfrescante, as the Italians would say – quite cold! All told, one of the best hikes we’ve ever done anywhere in the world – really.

And for the final leg of our journey, we drove south to Acadia National Park to visit friends who live in Bar Harbor. Almost comically, as we crossed onto Mount Desert Island, a bald eagle flew over head. Matt and Sara, our friends there, said they had ordered it to greet us. We spent a relaxing night with them, sharing recent life stories, and then said goodbye in the morning after a short hike in the park.

A long, but very scenic drive back, accompanied by more coarse western stories, put us back at 5 Sheridan where we did a marathon of laundry and dishes after cleaning out our car of all the camping accoutrements (when you’re camping for just a few days, who really needs to do dishes?). Even Manny got a bath. And, thus ends the first Portland travelogue. We are determined to have many more, so stay tuned, though I am sure to muse some more as well along the way as well.