ESSAY-September 2009

by Rebecca Falzano

“I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.”                -Robert Louis Stevenson

The droplets on the windshield distorted the view of undiscovered Maine before us. As fast as the wipers could clear the glass, it became speckled again. We were on our yearly road trip to a place we’d never been: this time that place included parts of Maine that were new to us. Having just moved in December, there were many to choose from. We decided to drive from Portland to Canada and back—to find Maine as we go, before and after stopping in Montreal and Quebec City.

While we had destinations planned, we knew the real journey would be in the in-betweens. I recalled a life dependent on subway rides in cities past where, between start and finish, there is a forced submission to the commute—a period where you are not here, nor there, just traveling. During this time, I read, listened to music, thought, and thought some more. I wrote, replayed parts of my day, worried, anticipated, dreamt. Sometimes, I talked with strangers—other times, I put on my headphones and blocked everything out. And somehow, in those little moments between the bigger moments, a lot of life happened.

On the morning we left, the clouds burst and spat at us. For hours, we saw only a hint of the natural beauty that abounded beyond the wet glass. We passed through places we didn’t know existed, and each town, each field, each farm felt perfectly positioned as if it had grown right out of the earth and was meant to be there. The trees and grass were a bright green, a rural jungle spread before us. In a single morning, we passed through Poland, Norway, and Paris. In the middle of it all, we found lakes and people wishing they could revel in them. There were waterfalls, thick forests, and raging rivers. A thinning mist revealed patches of wild blueberry plants along the side of the road. Soon, the view from the windshield became sharper and clearer as the mountains revealed themselves and the clouds opened.

As we left the Maine countryside, Canada came upon us out of nowhere. We crossed the border, and longed to stay behind just a bit longer. Several days later, we came back for the second half of our journey: down to Moosehead, through Bangor, and on to Acadia. As we passed over the border and back into the country, we stopped at a gas station/pizza shop and, at the counter, lingered to hear a Maine accent after four days of French. Stuffed moose and lobster souvenirs filled the shelves and welcomed us home. We continued on our way, and came across our first real moose on the side of the road drinking from a puddle of water. In the distance, Mount Kineo loomed dark and beautiful.
As we made our way down to the coast and Acadia, the sun came out and the ocean grew larger. We went to the top of Cadillac Mountain and found a different version of a stunning view at every rock. Far below, beyond sight but not imagination, the sidewalks of Bar Harbor bustled.

Days of scheduled destinations alternated with days on the road, exploring whatever came our way. On these days, we surrendered to the moment, tossing aside plans and time and going wherever the road led. In these moments, the juiciest parts of the trip came to life.

On the last night of our journey, along a quiet street, we had dinner outside amid twinkle lights and aloof mosquitoes. Next to families enjoying the late summer evening, we made plans for our next trip. As we talked about the places we would go, excitement mounted, but was no match for the uncertainty in front of us. All the moments between now and then hung unborn in the air, under twinkling lights, under twinkling stars.