ESSAY-March 2009

by Rebecca Falzano

Stumbling across an old friend in a new place is one of the happiest comforts in life. The other night, at a pub down on Commercial Street, I got together with a friend I hadn’t spoken to in six years. We had been roommates many years ago, and for no particular reason—other than she moved back to her native Maine and I to New York City—we lost contact. Seeing her familiar face in this still-unfamiliar setting was like finding a lighthouse on a stormy night at sea. All of the introductions and first-time conversations of recent weeks faded into the background as I enjoyed a relaxed exchange with an old friend. I had been granted a break from having to provide context for my life or engaging in small talk; here was someone who had shared a small space with me for a year, who knew my life story, and who could predict what I was going to say next. Despite the years between our conversations, we reconnected as if our last good-bye was yesterday. We spoke in a flurry of “Remember whens” and “Where are they nows,” condensing six years into two hours of recognizable laughter and familiar gestures. It happened in an unlikely environment—a place she has always called home, a place I am only just discovering.

Every day is bursting with discovery for me—about the neighborhood, the people, the house I live in. Learning how to live here, or anywhere new for that matter, is like unraveling a knot. Idiosyncrasies are gradually revealed; the puzzle pieces that comprise a place get put together. The quirks of home, in particular, are soothing; I noticed just the other day that the Observatory is perfectly framed in the attic window, that I can get the weather forecast from the bedroom by looking at the Time and Temperature Building, and I’ve figured out the rhythm of Portland Head Light’s flash in the distance. I’ve grown accustomed to the creak of certain floorboards, the way sunlight makes its daily course on walls and floors, and the sounds that kept me awake the first night are comforting now. The reach of switches and cabinets, the commute to work, and other repeated motions of daily life are becoming more and more fluid. My biggest unearthing about Maine, however, has been the people—all of whom have been welcoming and warm. Mainers are both hardy and full of heart, exuding a sense of resiliency and calm that is contagious. I remember learning that about my roommate when I first met her; I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised when neighbors bring over pastries and assure me—as we all hold shovels—that winter is usually less severe.

Expectations are tricky things. The worst of them climb too high, leaving only disappointment behind, and the best start out lower than reality, resulting in a happy revelation. I expected this transition to be more instantaneous—like the sensation of stress fading the moment you step off a plane and onto a sun-drenched tropical island. I pictured it a bit more jarring than that though, as if I would wake up one morning and be hit over the head with my new surroundings and new life. It hasn’t happened like that. There has been no culture shock, no sudden realization, or any “Ah-ha!” moments. Instead, I feel a pleasant, gradual, and subtle settling in, like the settling of a house. The process is slow and, though sometimes clumsy, always energizing. As I continue to acquaint myself, I still wonder if that day will come when it abruptly hits me just how different things are.

For now, I sit at tables by the sea catching up with an old friend and—amid a whirlwind of newness—find myself being able to say for the first time in awhile, “Nothing has changed.”