Hi there,
On a recent roadtrip to Maine with my husband, I found myself entertaining flashbacks of East Coast family reunions from many years ago.
One summer, a big group of my family convened in Waterville Valley, New Hampshire. Among other excursions, it involved my first (and only) experience mountain biking down hills of sticks and stones that may well have broken my bones. Another time, a family reunion took place in Saranac Lake in the Adirondack Mountains. We rented a house that accommodated my parents, my dad’s three siblings, my grandmother, my two cousins, and me—some having traveled from San Francisco and all the way from Lahore.
To the dismay of the adults, instead of enjoying the outdoors to the fullest and “unplugging,” Sairah and I were instead plugged into the biggest phenomenon of July 2000: the fourth book of the Harry Potter series, The Goblet of Fire. We had pre-ordered our two copies, judiciously picking them up from a Borders Books and Music in a New Jersey mall, just in time for our vacation. What I remember just as much as kayaking is Sairah’s shocked reaction when, minutes before me, she reached the biggest plot twist of our childhood: Voldemort’s return from the dead. My anticipation of a major reveal for the next few minutes as I played catch-up was intense, and I finally had an equally shocked response while reading the words, “Avada Kedavra”—which, for the uninitiated, signaled the murder of Cedric Diggory during the Triwizard Tournament. Haroon, in the meantime, was downstairs watching a VHS of Stuart Little (the anthropomorphic mouse) on repeat: compliments of the rental home.
The other image from the Saranac Lake trip emblazoned in my mind is that of all my family members strapped into their brightly colored life vests, a prerequisite no one dared challenge as we situated ourselves onto various boats: canoes, kayaks, and, briefly, a small motorboat that at one point sputtered and broke down. I’d seen all these fine folks countless times in their no-frills street clothes; I’d seen them in their wedding best—elaborate shalwar kamiz, ghararas, and other “joras” of great splendor. But this unlikely uniform was one I’d not yet imagined each and every one of us donning together, as we operated oars on a grand expedition across a well-traversed lake.
Yet another summer, at the behest of my aunt Rubina, a slightly different configuration of family reunited in Maine, a trip that had long slipped my memory until Gabe and I traveled to the state this past month. We had rented a house somewhere close to the Kennebec River—or perhaps on a lake, I can’t quite recall—though I do remember it was a remote enough location that, in the darkness of night, a van filled with one of our parties didn’t arrive at the destination until dawn, when the signs for the turnoff to our rental were more readily visible.
I’m fairly sure I had my first lobster roll at some point that week, perhaps on our stop to the coastal town of Kennebunkport. Some of my memories from this era have imaginations of their own: an era in which the adage “Pics or it didn’t happen” had not yet been made conventional by camera-phone technology. My cousin Adil, twelve years old at the time, famously ordered a whole lobster: a novelty to us all, so much so that it was worth capturing on camera—and so that many years later, the experience could be confidently corroborated.
Fast forwarding to 2025: Gabe and I drove up to a wedding in Portland a couple weeks ago, giving us the perfect reason for a few days’ getaway from the city. Departing from my parents’ place in New Jersey and crossing the bridge back into New York, we headed north through Connecticut, Massachusetts, and briefly New Hampshire for the mere minutes that the I-95 overlapped with the state. Some hours and several traffic jams later, we crossed state lines into Maine, our arrival made apparent by signs featuring its official slogans: “The way life should be,” and “Vacationland.” Road signs for “Vacationland” made it seem like the interstate would suddenly transmogrify into a yellow brick road, flanked by water slides, balloons, and rainbow-colored beach umbrellas. Alas, the highway stayed largely the same: gray, with thick-canopied trees forming a blur to either side.
But then we took our exit and were finally able to sight a coastline—and that’s when we knew:
We made it to Vacationland.
This may come as a shock to no one, but my singular desire to eat seafood was satiated in Portland. I realize, however, that my tunnel vision for seafood is not always shared by those around me.
I convinced Gabe to try oysters for the very first time. This action yielded mixed results at best, and, at worst, a mild panic that he was having an allergic reaction on the right side of his mouth. (The sensation was likely caused by him chewing gum on our long drive up—resulting in a sore jaw.) To be fair, Gabe hails from landlocked Montana, where the only kind of oysters are Rocky Mountain oysters—and let’s just say these don’t actually count as seafood.
As my dad noted, my husband is more of a “kebab guy.” In other words, he married into the right family; it’s only the wife who possesses more unconventional proclivities. In a similar vein, I once got Gabe to try white clam pizza at Frank Pepe’s in New Haven—to absolutely zero audible sighs of delight. It was not his cup of chowder (?) at all—nor is it so for either of my parents, incidentally!—though I love it very much.
It helped that the Portland food recommendations coming in from different friends often overlapped, which made it easier to decide where to go. These included buttered lobster rolls from Eventide Oyster Co (also the site of the aforementioned oysters episode):
…Belgian-style fries from Duckfat, fried in their eponymous specialty (I’m not even a “fries person” necessarily, but I’m grateful that the hype brought me here):
…more lobster rolls from Bite Into Maine (mayo and chives + smoky chipotle, respectively):
…and potato donuts from The Holy Donut (blueberry + maple glaze):
We also went to the town of Freeport to engage in some retail therapy, a required component of being in any Vacationland. We got sub sandwiches at Derosier’s, a deli and sandwich shop that’s been in business since 1904, and is still run by the same family. We sat at hightop counter stools, where framed on the wall in front of us was an amusing newspaper clipping from 1985 about the owner and the restaurant, painting a picture of life forty
years earlier: a time when the craze of outlet mall shopping was deemed particularly newsworthy.
Another framed poster on the wall bullet-pointed items that didn’t yet exist when the restaurant started up: In 1904, there was no theory of relativity, zippers, computers, sliced bread, frisbees, penicillin, or Mr. Potato Head, “but, there was…DEROSIER’s!” It even pre-dated the L.L. Bean flagship store (1912), comprised of an entire campus in Freeport that, along with all the outlet shops, is undoubtedly the town’s biggest attraction. It’s also where Gabe and I purchased an obligatory rain jacket and sweater, respectively, plus a keychain of a miniature trademark moccasin as a souvenir for my dad: a loyal L.L. Bean customer for 40 years.
Back in Portland, a continued spree included gifts of saltwater taffy, blueberry jam, and maple syrup for family (and for ourselves), a haul of records ranging from the Weather Report to the first 1959 studio album of the late singer Hanan—all from one unassuming clothing-vinyl shop—, a token tea towel with a block print of lobsters, and a book each from two local bookstores.
Unlike those family reunions of yesteryear, this vacation will probably make an appearance on my iPhone’s automated selection of memories, exactly a year from now—preserved and catalogued for me so long as my Apple ID remains active, a predictable reminder that “it happened”. But I hope, like those past trips, it may one day also come to mind unplanned: an unexpected turn down memory lane, truly worthy of revisitation.
From my vacationland to yours:
Have a wonderful week, and until soon,
Insia
Lovely stories and sweet recollections, Insia. Sohail nailed it by slotting Gabe among the kebab guys!
Rocky Mountain oysters made me chuckle haha. Ask Gabe which oysters he likes better :)