City mouse, country mouse

Yesterday morning in Portland, Maine, I ran along the Eastern Promenade bike path that parallels Casco Bay. When I turned at the two-mile mark, the loveliness of the view spread out before me made me catch my breath midstride. What a picture-perfect Labor Day weekend. I was running down a slope heading back toward the city, with the Victorian homes of Munjoy Hill rising to my right and moored sailboats bobbing on the sparkling waves to my left. Farther ahead, I could see a ferry sliding into port, and a couple of lobster boats whose proprietors must have been taking a break for the holiday weekend were moored in their rustic splendor aside the dock near the city beach, where a few dogs were taking their daily dip. A preschooler ambled toward me along the bike path pushing his own stroller, reminding me of when Tim was at that same peculiar phase. (We went to Disney World thinking he was big enough that he could walk rather than use a stroller. We ended up renting one merely so that he could push it around.) Other runners passed me; couples with baby carriages walked along sipping coffee. I felt so happy and so fortunate to be in the midst of this scene: exercisers, tourists, boaters, working people, babies, children, pets.

We’ve spent a lot of time in Portland this summer because last spring my parents bought a condo in the Old Port and are generous about letting us use it whenever we’re able to take the trip up. Some of our friends find it amusing that we enjoy vacationing in the city so much, but it’s because where we live is in some ways like a vacation spot itself – secluded and rural – so to me, it makes sense that when we go away, we want the opposite. At home on the farm, we have beautiful views, lots of silence, animals grazing all around us, and the sweet smell of grass growing. At night, we can see hundreds of stars from our own front step. We can swim or row in the pond, and ride our bikes along tree-lined country roads.

So perhaps it’s not surprising that being in the heart of the Old Port is such a novelty to us. On Saturday night, I went to sleep listening to party cruises returning to port and a live band playing at the outdoor restaurant down the street; I woke at dawn to the sound of the seagulls who follow the fishing boats out to sea.

I like all those sounds, and I like seeing neighbors walk past our front door and crowds of tourists and locals filling the sidewalks nearby. I like walking to the general store two blocks away when I’m out of milk, and I like letting the kids go out together on their own for an ice cream cone. At home, we live far from any shopping districts; we have to drive to do any errands at all.

This particular irony is not so new to me. I grew up in this same small quiet semi-rural town. My favorite vacations during childhood were ones where we stayed in the middle of the action, walking to shops and seeing lots of people all around us. I like solitude, but I get all the solitude I need when I’m home on the farm. And since so many of our friends live nearby, breaking the solitude whenever we want to is effortless. On vacation, I like a change: noise and activity and plenty of humanity.

Of course, it’s always good to get home after you’ve been anywhere. Last night after we returned home, I stood outside and looked at the stars once again, hearing nothing but peepers in the pond and a breeze in the treetops. To many people, that would be a vacation moment. To me, it’s home. I’m lucky to live here. But I love getting to experience something different, also.