The Bristol Road

If the Pemaquid Peninsula is the body of land that my life revolves around, then the Bristol Road is the main aorta. Known as Route 130 to outa towners, this road is a prominent vein connecting Pemaquid Lighthouse, a tourist landmark and the symbol on the Maine state quarter, to the rest of the world. My friends often poke fun at me for never leaving The Peninsula. Indeed, sometimes it feels like the 100 k miles that I've put on my Camry since I've owned her were tallied by driving up and down The Peninsula millions of times a week. But you just can't understand the reason behind that until you've seen this place. Why would you ever want to go anywhere else?

You see my world is quite simple really. I live on the northern end of the Bristol Road. My folks live on the southern end. My street address is merely a smaller number than that of my folks on the same road. My aunt and uncle and my best friend also live to the southard. My grandma's house is on a fork off of the very same road and my grandpa resides just a stone's throw across the river from me. One could say that the Bristol Road is metaphorically (and quite literally, actually) a representation of my family tree. We need not waste jet fuel to visit one another. It makes family reunions less complicated.

My work destination is on the east side of the Peninsula, also accessible via the road in question. On the way to work I often pass and wave to my 65-yr-old friend who bikes 10 miles round trip down the Bristol Road and back every other day. He probably knows that road even better than I, having a more intimate perspective of it from a bicycle.

There is only one person who is even more familiar with the Bristol Road than my biker friend. "Fred" is a long-time resident who walks this road daily from his home half way down the Peninsula to Town year round. (Locals rarely utter the word "Damariscotta," the town constituting the origin of the BR, instead calling it "Town." As in: "I'm headed up Town today.") Practically the sole reason for going to Town is to go grocery shopping. This is precisely the motivation for Fred's pilgrimage. Fred is an elderly fellow with few teeth and a whopping Maine accent. He never sticks his thumb out or asks for a ride, but locals routinely pull over to offer Fred a lift, since they know his two destinations according to the direction in which he's walking: Town or Home. I give Fred a lift whenever we're headed the same way on the BR. To listen to Fred talk, any outa towner would hear garbled consonants. But I've grown to understand his friendly chit chat and I enjoy his company on the sometimes redundant ride.

In addition to family, friends, and work, my education is also represented on this road as it is the location of my grammar school. Even before I was able to drive, I travelled deep into the recesses of the Peninsula's every capillary on the school bus. I never did figure out why I had to ride on the bus for a painful hour and a half every morning and afternoon to get to school, when it was only three miles from my house. I was the first and last on the bus. Needless to say, I hated riding the bus.

The only asset that one could say that we're lacking on the Peninsula is a little something called "cultchah." I mean we have plenty of culture, but not in the refined sense of the term as urban folks tend to think of it. The nice thing about coastal Maine is that right when you think that you're gonna strangle your neighbor for blowing his leaves onto your lawn for the bagillionth time (in other words, when you're starting to go a little stir crazy after a long winter) the cultchahed folk start filtering in. And in order to keep them entertained, we start importing entertainment: reggae concerts, wine tastings, ethnic dishes at local restaurants, etc. So if you are feeling cooped-up, all you have to do is wait for summer to roll around!

In other words, I have everything I need and want right here, somewhere along the Bristol Road. Occasionally I venture beyond it to find night life, but I'm rarely moved to do so. Hey, if I can live happily within a 12 mile stretch of pavement, then so be it. There's something to be said for simplicity in life. And why burn fuel if you don't have to?!