Maine. You know, it’s the only state with only one syllable. Clean, succint, resolute, no-frills, plain Maine.
“What kind of a place is this,” Mr. Pinault asked as we drove around the Carthage/Dixville/Mexico area, “where they have paintball supply stores, well-drilling stores, and deer-skin glove stores, but not one supermarket?” Indeed, in the span of road that we traveled before stumbling upon a Wal-Mart Supercenter, we passed a half-dozen residence-based beauty salons with names like “Just Teasin’,” “Curl up and Dye,” and “Snippers.” We passed an equal number of general stores carrying identical stocks of snack foods, comprehensive assortments of jerky, coolers stacked with 30 packs of Budweiser, and jars of pickled eggs on the counter. But to buy produce, we had to go to Wal-Mart.
We camped at Mt. Blue State Park, which had a campground of 100-plus sites alongside large, clearwater Lake Webb. Some of the campers were like us, with spartan set-ups of a tent and a few accessories to faciliate cooking, lighting, and a semblance of comfort. But most campers had RVs, and all the trappings of the RV-lifestyle. Table-clothes. Gas Grills. Hammocks. Generators. Thick men watching portable televisions. Thick women fetching beer and food from a cluster of coolers.
The campsite next to us featured an RV brand called Chateau, and it was inhabited by a large extended family who were perpetually cooking some form of pork. They got in a terrific argument over the meaning of business days, as in this BB gun will be shipped within 3-5 business days. “This company ships by calendar days, not business days,” a teenager kept insisting, to the infuriation of his drunk father. I sneaked peeks at the Chateau, imagining how the name was coined in a fit of White Trash cheekiness: “This here’s my Chateau.”
The campground outhouses were quaint until my nose revolted by physically attempting to pucker itself shut. Baring my ass to the swarm of fat flies circling around the seat didn’t thrill me either. “Indoor plumbing wasn’t a fad,” I sneered to Mr. Pinault as we washed our hands with Volvic bottled water like total yuppies. Later, as I watched a roving band of teenagers on bicycles take turns pedaling full speed into a volleyball net, it occurred to me that Maine is what you would get if you bred Wyoming with Canada: A hokey, rugged, charming simpleton.
