Maine. Between Indian Summer and Lobster Dreams

A Hop to Boston?

Compared to flying to Los Angeles, a flight to Boston is a breeze. A hop.
At least that’s what you think—until you add eight hours in the air, six hours of jet lag, and another 180 miles through New England with sleepy eyes. Our destination: Oakland, where part of our family lives.

Breaking Down and Finally Arriving

We used to be optimistic: drive straight from Boston to Oakland—what could possibly go wrong?
Well… for example, the rental car could decide to retire somewhere between Boston and Portland. No sputtering, no coughing—it simply died.

We pulled onto the shoulder. Giant trucks thundered past, as if trying to blow us right off the asphalt. We kept trying—nothing. Then: flashing lights. A police officer walked up to our window, friendly and curious. “Where are you from? Where are you headed?” We explained. He nodded, called a tow company, and said, “I’ll drive by every twenty minutes or so to make sure you’re safe.” And he kept his word.

It was well past midnight when we finally—tired but relieved—pulled up to Tanja’s in the replacement car. She had been holding the fort on the sofa for hours. Her three men had long been asleep. A firm hug. And then: bed. More tomorrow.

No Heroics This Time

Next time, we decided, we’d do it differently. We’d allow ourselves a little break along the way—this time in York Harbor, at a bed & breakfast straight out of a New England picture book.
At the long breakfast table sat two Scandinavian couples. We talked about politics, religion, and money—all the topics etiquette books tell you to avoid. The hosts joined in, and we laughed so loudly you could probably hear us all the way to the next lighthouse.

Maine Is Family

We come in every season. It’s never just a visit—it’s coming home for a while.

I think back to a special autumn evening: Tanja and I, bundled up in blankets by the fire pit in the yard, talking about life, the universe, and the things we never usually say. It smells of smoke, earth, and closeness.

I love winter in Maine—so still, so white, so stubbornly itself. I watch Sam, Robin, and Kieran—strongly backed by Reinhold—taking on the snow chaos. I stand at the window with a steaming mug in my hand and think: it doesn’t get better than this.

Sometimes we head out for a wine tasting just around the corner. Tanja and I sit on stools at the counter, listening to the sommeliers’ praise—medals here, awards there—and silently think the same thing: to us, it all tastes like vinegar. In the end we pick up two bottles of Kendall-Jackson at the supermarket. We know what we’re getting.

Or: apple picking in Fairfield. An absolute New England classic—one I already knew from Connecticut. We stroll through rows of apple trees, picking, tasting, laughing. In the end, we head home with a basket of apples and a gallon of freshly pressed cider. In the evening: hot cider. Happiness in liquid form.

Extra Protein, Honey?

We’re on our way back from a day trip, almost home in Oakland – just a few hundred metres to Tanja and Sam’s house. On the left side of the main road, an oversized “Dairy Queen” sign towers above the small shopping square. Reinhold loves milkshakes – vanilla milkshakes – and only from Dairy Queen. Thick enough to almost eat with a spoon.

So we pull in and park right in front of the shop. From here, the sign is out of sight.

It takes a while before Reinhold comes back out, cup in hand.

“Can you believe it?” he says. “She actually asked me if I wanted an extra shot of protein! Do I look like I need that? No thanks. Those were the days when they used to ask if you wanted an extra scoop of vanilla ice cream instead…” He shakes his head, takes a sip – and frowns: “Doesn’t taste right. Different somehow.”

We drive off, circle the building – and there, right behind it, is the actual Dairy Queen.

Only then do we realise Reinhold got his milkshake from a nutrition shop.

At dinner that evening, the story has everyone in stitches – and creates the running gag of the day: “Extra protein, honey?”

Self-control on four paws.

Lobster & a Surprise

In Augusta, they say you can get the best fresh lobster. So—off we go, because Maine without lobster is like Paris without a baguette. We find a few magnificent specimens and look forward to cooking them together the next evening.

The next morning, Tanja suddenly disappears. No sign of her. For hours. Sam shrugs. I start to worry. And then—finally—her car pulls into the driveway. The door opens … and in walks Lena!

 

 

We had pictured her in Florida, far away. And yet, here she is—wide awake, mischievous, with a suitcase full of surprises. Tanja drove six hours—just to meet her at the Boston train station. One of those quiet acts of heroism that truly deserve a medal.

That evening: lobster for everyone, laughter, and love. Family happiness, served with melted butter.

The next day brought Lena’s very own highlight: a trip to Bangor, to her personal pilgrimage site—the home of Stephen King. No horror this time, just the magic of fresh snow.

Indian Summer – The Great Glow

New England—six states in the northeastern USA, from Maine to Rhode Island. In autumn, Indian Summer reigns supreme.
In Maine, the pines stand guard—90 percent of the state is forested. And yet, autumn pushes through. A firework of yellow, orange, and red.

It starts shyly, at the tips of the trees. A few days later, the forest blazes in every shade the paintbox has to offer. The sun bathes everything in gold—and you know: this is something you have to see once in your lifetime.

Favorite Places & Little Adventures

On the Way to Acadia

A quick stop at the Kennebec River Brewery—an “All-American Burger” and a short walk in the nearby woods. Then we head on toward Mount Desert Island, into a landscape that shifts between coast, rocks, and forest like a well-blended paintbox.

Acadia National Park

The best-known—and perhaps most beautiful—national park in Maine. Scenic overlooks, quiet lakes, rugged ocean. And right in the middle—unique in the USA—lies a town:

Bar Harbor

They say it’s one of the most beautiful towns in America. During the day, cruise ship passengers fill the streets, yet Bar Harbor keeps its charm: shops, cafés, a small park by the water, and quieter side streets. A place that doesn’t push itself on you—but stays with you.

Jordan Pond

A lake straight out of a landscape painting. We hike along the west side, through dense forest and right beside the clear water. Above us, the trees whisper; beside us, gentle ripples; ahead of us, the glint of the water. And in the distance: the “Bubbles.”

Cadillac Summit

1,530 feet high—the highest point on the US East Coast. A winding road leads up, with views all along the way. At the top: islands, coastline, ocean—a panorama like an open promise. We linger. Of course.

Portland

A small big city with maritime roots and a heart for good food. Together with Tanja and Sam, we wander through the historic harbor district, past old brick buildings, boutiques, and seafood restaurants.
We end up in a stylish home store that holds us captive until our shopping mood is overtaken by thirst. A wine tasting sounds like a great idea—until we realize that here everything is either very dry or very sour. We take it with humor. Portland still remains in our minds as a charming harbor city with salty sea air and character.

Camden

One of those typical New England coastal towns: charming, maritime, with sailboats in the harbor and pubs along the main street. No spectacle, no “must-see” in the guidebook sense—and yet one of those places you’re always happy to return to.

The highlight is Camden Hills State Park. At the entrance, we’re politely informed that the senior discount is unfortunately only for American passport holders.
Anyway. A winding road takes us through lush green forest up to Mount Battie—about 820 feet high.

At the top: a view that makes you go quiet. Penobscot Bay lies at our feet. From here, Camden looks like a miniature harbor from a children’s book—surrounded by wooded hills and the deep blue Atlantic. Discount or not, it’s worth the climb.

Farewell

Once again, we can’t avoid it: saying goodbye.
As always, we try to make it quick and painless. It never works.
Drive to Boston, return the rental car, shuttle to Logan Airport.
Same procedure … only this time, we’re carrying photos that are already calling us back.