Atlantica - 01.12.2006, Blaðsíða 35

Defining Maine by its nickname, “Vacationland,” is a bit misleading – it’s like defining
Manhattan as Times Square. The most northeastern American state is more than
its storied 80-foot triple-masted wooden schooners, 200-year-old antiques,
and sprawling summer homes where people like the Bushes drizzle butter
over their lobster from the comfort of their seaside wicker chairs. As it
turns out, local Mainers are the real, down home, hardworking, extra
thick, Grade A folks. And boy, do they work long hours.
Daybreak: Becky’s
The cook arrives at 3 am. The first waitress shows
up at 3:30. Becky’s diner opens its smudged double
glass doors at 4, every morning, 362.5 days a year.
(They’re closed on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and
half a day on Christmas Eve).
Then the four wisecracks roll into the greasy
spoon on Commercial Street, the gateway to
Portland’s busy fishing and ferry harbor.
Ed Walsh, Pete Matthews, Mark Siegler, and
Bob Babson have almost never missed a morn-
ing at this local institution. And they’ve never
switched stools. There’s always one seat between
Ed and Pete. Pete, Mark, and Bob sit together, in
that order.
Sarah O’Brien, 27, who works the early shift
three – sometimes four – mornings a week,
knows their orders by heart. The guys pay sepa-
rately, and almost always leave the same amount
of tip on the table using the same combinations
of change and bills.
“Well, sometimes I throw a curve ball in there,”
Babson says. “She’s got a calculator.”
“WELCOME TO MAINE: The Way Life Should
Be” is what the blue and white traffic sign posted
on Interstate 95 says as you enter the state’s south-
ern border from New Hampshire. Maine’s stan-
dard issue license plate has a chickadee perched
atop a pine cone with the word “Vacationland”
written in italics.
I’ve spent four years of my life in Maine –
though not exactly on vacation – where I attended
Colby College, a liberal arts school founded in
1813. Colby is located in Waterville (pop. 16,000),
Written by
Sara Blask
Photos by
Páll Stefánsson
an hour north from Portland, the state’s largest
city (pop. 64,000). My friends and I referred to
our college’s tired textile town as “Watervegas,” a
sarcastic reference to a place where the local pub
is called “Mainely Brews” and sputtering 20-watt
lightbulbs outnumber the fresh ones.
This fall, I returned to rub elbows with old
Mainers and new Mainers, artists, farmers, and
locals like the four grizzled men in their fifties
and sixties sitting next to me who’ve ordered the
same thing for the last fifteen years. I may have
returned to Vacationland, but these guys don’t
take vacations.
Walsh drives the Irving oil truck parked out-
side. His usual: a coffee and a “medium rare”
blueberry muffin (read: fresh out of the oven).
Plus one to go.
Matthews is a recreational fisherman. He
appears to be the ringleader of the crew, and
sticks to three heavy mugs of black coffee, each
doctored with two creams and an Equal.
Siegler works the graveyard shift at a distribu-
tion plant that prints the local newspapers. He’s
all about the scrambled eggs, homefries, wheat
toast (“less cholesterol”), and coffee.
Babson has exactly half an hour to eat his
scrambled eggs, homefries, white toast, and cof-
fee before he has to check in for work at the local
semi-conductor plant.
I take the empty chair between Ed and Pete,
asking Pete about his usual hours around this
joint.
“Unusual. Usually from dahk to 3:30 in the
mahnin,” he says in his thick Maine accent. “Some
nights I don’t sleep. I took the night off tonight
AT L A N T I CA 33
Portland
Head Light
BECKY’S
034-44MainAtl606.indd 33 18.10.2006 21:51:45