Over three months ago, Cade and I spent a long weekend in Portland, Maine. I meant to blog about it while the experience was still fresh, but my camera memory was acting up and I got really sick and then I started a new job and five more good excuses. So here's a quick chronicle, minus precise details.

I can't remember how many days I was in Maine now. Three? Four? What I do remember is that the vacation sublet Cade was skeptical about (it was my brilliant idea) turned out to be great. It was a one bedroom unit in a duplex. The other unit housed a doggy daycare. The shrill barks of lapdogs weren't much of an issue, as Cade and I knew we'd be out during the days.

The only issue we had with the accommodations was an incident in which I received an email saying that Cade or I had jacked up the thermostat to 80 degrees. I still doubt it was that hot, and I don't think I'm responsible. Cade argues that it must have been me, intoxicated and shivering, after one of our nights of walking around. That he heard me tinkering with something in the kitchen the first night, hellbent on increasing our subletter's bills. I counter that, no, I was just admiring a kitchen larger than an H&M dressing room. Apartments with real kitchen drawers and separate living/sleeping quarters are neato.

Half of the trip was rainy; 90% of it was chilly. Cade and I spent lots of time walking until numbness set in, and then thawing out in a coffee shop where we observed the locals. I found the people about as fashionable as Bostonians, but much nicer with lots of unkept facial hair to boot. If you and a friend sit at a bar in Maine, you're hanging out with every other person at the bar, too. Everyone is listening and commenting on what everyone else says. It's nice, but I had to adjust.

Cade loved this chowder house we found and insisted on eating there every day. "When in Portland, do as the Portlanders do," I thought, so I tried fishy foods I'd normally eschew. Cade and I ordered lobster one night, shocked that we were expected to tear apart the creature ourselves. I expected pieces that looked like chicken, because everything always looks and tastes like chicken, right? Lesson: You can't pretend it's chicken when its claws and antennae are touching your French fries. Poor dinner - it'd been killed earlier that day and we later found out that it had been expecting. My apologies. Poor little gal. (I made Cade wear the lobster bib the rest of the night as an homage to the lobster family we ate. I'm easily amused).

The waitress urged us to eat the liver and heart, and right before I passed out, Cade agreed I could visit the local thrift store the next day. Ah, something to live for! We'd visited an L.L. Bean store earlier that day and I was jonesing for some Bean Boots. The rubber-leather combination is so cute in a rubber ducky meets lumberjack way. At the store, I couldn't find a pair in my size that had blue rubber toes. At my favorite thrift store chain ever, I found the Bean Boots of my dreams new and unused for $7. I seriously think God or someone speaks to me via secondhand shopping.

Cade wanted to walk along the water the rest of the day. I foolishly decided to wear my new shoes, so I could splash around. My feet took weeks to function normally again. Ouch. The view was great, but I wanted to sit in the marsh and moan.

Airline security was insane on the way back. I was searched and forced through security twice after an airline security person noticed the pepper spray on my keychain, which I've carried onto planes to and from New York for the last six years. I felt so persecuted. Minutes away from a full cavity search, I was released. Turns out, the Portland airport checked in and boarded some of the 9/11 hijackers. Now they overcompensate for the error.

Portland, in my experience, was really pretty and kind of like Austin without the self-consciousness and mild temperatures. My Bean Boots are broken in now, and I've nixed the pepper spray. I guess I'm ready for another trip.