It's hard to believe frankly that it’s been a week since we first moved in to the apartment above Mama’s Boy café in Winter Harbor. It seems much longer. But its been that way now for the past couple of years: move somewhere, rush around getting the necessary things for a household set up, getting into a new groove. Time becomes compressed. (photo: from Schoodic Point, France is right there over that horizon.)
But we are in fact settled in at last; the furniture rearranged, pantry stocked, those seemingly endless number of things one needs to get a home up and running have been put in their respective places (of course I’m still learning where Susan put everything) and we are now ready to get on with the next phase of our life. And each day as we linger over morning coffee, reflect on how truly amazing all this has been, we are here in the first place. If someone had told us six months ago, while we were walking the streets of Paris, that by late spring we would be living, living mind you and working, in a little café along the seacoast of Downeast Maine, not two hours from New Brunswick, Canada, we would have probably though them crazy.
But here we are.
From a city number in the millions to a village barely able to muster a few hundred registered voters. From a city of gardens, museums, and seemingly limitless culture to a village huddled at the end of Henry Cove overlooking the Atlantic Ocean with one Main Street and a tiny music hall to fulfill man’s desire for something more than work provides. From a city of man’s energy to one where man seems content to watch nature work its energy on the planet.
From one extreme to the other.
Our life “there” so very, very far from the life unfolding for us “here,” and yet we could hardly have chosen a place in the United States is geographically closer to France than Winter Harbor (OK probably Lubec, Maine).
Tres cool, eh?
Wish you were here,
Steve
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