This is me, eating our first real meal in 21 hours after taking an 11 hour bus ride and then a 1 and a half hour van ride to an island off the coast of Maine. First bite, pretty much awesome. We start it off right with fried whole belly clams. A food that makes me nostalgic for days spent driving to the coast of Connecticut with my mom so that she could go to this specific fish shack and gorge on briny, crispy, delightful bivalves. Whole belly, as in the whole damn clam, none of this clam strip nonsense the rest of the country seems to think friend clams are. I am looking right at you New York, with your snotty food culture. You have an artisinal mayonnaise store, but you can’t figure out how to properly fry a clam? New England has point one on that.
The main steward of our northbound trek was one Mr. Galen Owens, a bus driver of such old timey charm and manners, if there were a movie version of him, they would have to reanimate Jimmy Sterwart to play him. His announcements on the bus where both authoritative and apologetic. “These aren’t my rules, I just have to enforce them.” He had a way of presenting them, that if you broke the rules, you kind of felt like you were disappointing your dad all over again. At one stop, he dropped off Tupperware containers of cake to two handsome New England ladies. One every port. Galen, you player.
Then we made it to Bangor. The Greyhound bus depot is at the back of a gas station. We got on to our van driven by a lovely ex-school teacher, Helena. She made sure that we knew, again and again that we were going to biking heaven, Hear that biking heaven!
So far Maine, you’ve given us a little strange, but I am waiting for full on Stephen King weird. And I kind of hope that Galen Owens has our route back to Boston.