So, in the summer of endless travel, Mer and I are now kicking it in San Fran’s sister city (cosmopolitan-wise), East Livermore, Maine.

We took our normal two-day trek to get here, stopping in Albany the first night, so we had a relatively short drive of about six hours on Monday to get to Dad’s. Fun times in Albany: we stayed near the airport. I did not realize how close to the airport we were until the next morning when a plane flew right over my head as I was loading up the car. It was a real jet (not a small one), and it was probably only a few hundred feet off the ground. Nifty. We also ate at the Wolf Road Diner near the hotel, just to continue our SF diner experiences (except we got away with a bill of under $20).

I like Maine very much – it is pretty, and it is home. I also sleep like a rock here. I don’t know if it is the darkness (no city lights), the quiet, or the fresh air, but I sleep really well. I managed to get up around 9:30 this morning, and I feel much better for the rest.

What made me feel less better was my first run since getting back from the Dominican Republic (about three weeks ago). The area around Dad’s is  not very runner-friendly; your only option is to run on the road. Adding to the fun is that Maine has many hills, and the ones around Dad’s are pretty noteworthy. I ran for a total of about 24 minutes, but I had to walk some, and I did not feel all that great. Still, it is a (re)start.

When I got back from running, Dad was outside installing anti-deer whistles on his car (to try to scare deer off from the car so as to avoid collisions with large mammals). So, I started chatting with Dad while I stretched. Before too long, a neighbor pulled into the driveway, got out of his car, and started chatting.

This is one of the greatest things about Maine, and I cannot seem to get Ohio folk to process it. People drop by in Maine. You swing by; you drop in. You don’t need to “get on the calendar” or call days or weeks in advance. There is no expectation of a big meal, or a perfectly clean house (although Dad’s house is always spotless). People just want to visit. It is how things should be – good friends should be comfortable enough to swing by when they feel like it – if the person is not home or too busy, then you just keep going. It is simple. Yet, no matter how I try to explain this to my Ohio friends, I can not remember anyone in seven years ever taking me up on my open-door policy (with the notable exception of my former neighbor Sara, who understands this policy perfectly well). To me, dropping by is the ultimate expression of natural hospitality – it says that you are always welcome, and that you are important enough to stop most things to visit with you. We get way too busy in Ohio, and work and chores become more important than our relationships with our friends and neighbors. Phah, say I! Drop by my house, darn it! You are welcome.

I’ll put the soapbox away now – I have some visiting to do.