A three year Maine-iversary

Has it really been three years already? Couldn't be.

Feels like just yesterday that I rolled into town with a carload of nonsense I couldn't seem to part with, not knowing a soul, flooded with equal doses wanderlust and panic.

But when I recall the me of three years ago - well, then it seems like ages.

See, back in Illinois I had a developed a "routine" problem. I'd grown overly fond of the familiar.

Not much changed about where I ate, where I drank or how my weekends were spent.

I drove out of my way on nearly empty tanks of gas so I could use a familiar gas station (never did run out of gas - lucky me). I was stifled by the thought of walking into a bar or restaurant alone to meet up with a friend. "Meet me outside," I'd insist.

I was particular about making lists too - lists of things I needed to buy, things I needed to do. I was particular about my calendar and being early to appointments (sometimes awkwardly early). I was particular about cleaning my apartment from corner to corner every week.

My adventurous spirit was suffocating and there I was pressing the pillow to its face with all my might.

So how I came up with the idea to pack up my stuff and move, alone, to somewhere generally in the east, I'll never know. New York? Too big. Baltimore? Too criminal. Boston? Too confusing (you've driven around there, you know what I mean).

And then there was Portland, a place in Maine I'd never heard of. A place with it's own chapter in a New England travel guide.

Portland. Sure, why not.

In the beginning I used to revel in the randomness of how I ended up here.

But my story was met with similar ones - people who came here by happenstance. A job transfer, a vacation that turned permanent, a followed boyfriend who soon thereafter became a followed ex-boyfriend. I have one friend that intended on moving to Portsmouth and came to Portland on accident - and stayed.

I suppose that explains some of Portland's unique spirit. It's an off-the-beaten path kind of city - almost a secret. Some of us unwittingly tripped over it (three cheers for being clumsy).

Portland is also a city that can change you (in a good way, not in that what's-happened-to-you-I-don't-even-know-you-anymore kind of way).

For me, that routine thing went straight out the window. I still make lists at work, but that's mostly so I have evidence to show how "busy" I am. (Kidding. Please don't lay me off.)

And the weekly apartment cleanings fell by the wayside (in fact, when I first moved into my current apartment, I didn't have a vacuum. Rather than throw down a whole $40 right away, I decided to see how long I could go without one. FYI, two months is too long).

And the unfamiliar? Let me at it.

Snowboarding? Tried it (stunk at it). Surfing? Tried it (wasn't completely awful). I've learned to knit, cross-country ski and kayak. I've tested mountain biking, salsa dancing and karaoke. I've white water rafted and run two 10Ks (well, 2.5 if we want to get technical) and went to the batting cages for the first time. I bought snowshoes, took an acting class and floated the Saco.

And on my official Maine-iversary last weekend I decided to follow a suggestion from Yamo (who posted a comment on last year's Two Year Maine-iversary blog entry) and test out the champagne of Maine.

You heard me. I had Allen's Coffee Brandy. That's how serious I am about experiencing Maine.

Overall, I'd rank the "Biddeford martini" somewhere between learning to knit and the crushed tailbone pain of learning to snowboard. (If you're offended by the drink's name, take it up with the Portland bartenders. I learned it by watching them, alright? I learned it by watching them.)

So thanks, Maine, for being you. And thanks, Portland, for making it so easy to stay.

Happy Maine-iversary

I've come to understand that to officially call yourself a Mainer, at least three generations of your family must have lived, worked and died on Maine soil. That's an adequate enough time to erase any bad habits that may have been picked up in other states or countries.

Lucky for me, the rules slacken the closer you get to the Portland city line.

It's been exactly two years since I fled the Midwest.

Two years since I announced to my stunned friends and family that I was selling whatever wouldn't fit in my car and moving to Maine ("Yes, Maine" I had said. "Of course you know it, it's that coastal state in the northeast corner…yes, the one with the lobsters…yes, people really live there.")

Two years since I woke up in a rented room on the East End, surveyed my colorful new surroundings, took a deep breath of the cool almost-autumn air and thought, "Oh my God…what have I done?"

Every day since, I've felt less and less like a visitor. And on Labor Day weekend I was feeling 100% local.

A friend and I had ferried back to Portland from Peaks Island, where we'd spent what might have been the last warm day of the year, with plans to meet a friend for drinks at Portland Lobster Company. But as the sun set and the air temperature dropped, both of us were cursing our short sleeves. Home - where the stack of fleece and sweatshirts lay in wait - was close, but not that close.

But, my keen friend noted, just across the street a row of tourist shops stood before us, flaunting their lobster magnets, Maine shot glasses and framed photographs of various Maine scenery. And just beyond the 99-cent trinkets rose a wall of soft fleece and cotton sweatshirts # each emblazoned with those familiar five letters: MAINE.

We didn't care, at first, about entering the shop, tearing sweatshirts from the rack and pulling them over our heads. We chatted with the cashier as we paid, and she told us a about a recent visitor who didn't approve of the store's Made in China merchandise.

"This woman got so offended when she saw our sweatshirts were made in China. She ended up laying down in the middle of the store in protest. We just went about our day and she lay there, going on and on about China and whatnot. Finally when we were closing my boss was, like, 'You need to go, we're closing,' and the lady went to stand up and whacked her head on a rack of hangers and my boss was like, 'yeah, those hangers are from China too.'"

As I moved toward the door to leave, the sudden realization hit me: a Portlander I may be, but a tourist I looked. And I wasn't a tourist. This is my home! I live here!

So I flipped the sweatshirt inside out. Phew! Misperception diverted!

Until the guys selling Duck Tour tickets meandered over and said, "While you're here, you should go inside that pet store," he motions over to the Fetch pet store. "They have all kinds of stuff for pets. People here just love their animals."

"Yes, I've been in there. I live here."

"So if you have time, go in and look around."

"I have. I live here."

Maybe two years isn't enough time to shake off the out-of-town look. Maybe I'd rather not completely shirk my Midwestern past. Maybe I should just wear the dang sweatshirt right side out.

And it doesn't matter if I look like a tourist. It doesn't matter if I pronounce the "r" in lobster. In my book, you are a Mainer if you 1) love this state and 2) consider Maine home.

Check, check.