Postcards from Vacationland

Or, how I lost my fucking mind in Maine

Going to grind a couple of these up and snort them until I feel better about not being in Maine anymore.

I cried 5 (five) times when leaving Maine. More accurately, I cried once on the second day we were there, already bereft at the thought of having to leave; twice the night before we left; once as we pulled out of the driveway; and one last time, back in my bed in Brooklyn.¹

I’ve been to Amsterdam and Paris and Hawaii and the Bahamas, and yet I have never been more sad than saying goodbye to a New England state a mere five hours north, in which the average January temperature hovers somewhere around 30 degrees Fahrenheit. Of course, it wasn’t January — it was July, in coastal Maine, a utopian slice of my personal heaven that provides the ideal summer weather (hot enough to go to the beach during the day, cool enough to sleep with the windows open at night) as well as tiny wild blueberries, periwinkle-filled tidal pools, and fresh-caught lobster on butter-slicked buns. July in Maine has deluded me into listening to that annoying ache that settles into your stomach during a humid New York summer, when you walk by a stinking, overflowing trash can full of other people’s garbage and think to yourself: I pay how much to live here? And before you know it you’re clicking on every Maine Zillow listing of a white house with green shutters and googling “l.l. bean headquarters graphic design jobs.”

Duh, yes, I also felt this way because I was on a two-week vacation from work (mostly) and adult responsibilities. We were staying at Chris’s parents’ house, where we do not pay any bills or have to winterize the pipes in December. Every morning, we played tennis, split a danish at the bakery in town, and then either walked to the beach or drove to a nearby town to explore. We had two straight weeks of unfettered access to in-unit laundry. Of course I never wanted to come back!

Still, there was something deeply special about the place, something that transcended the complete abdication of our routines here in New York. Part of it is spending time in a place where my partner spent much of his childhood, and seeing it through his eyes. The other part, for me, is the cultural specificity of Maine, and the way daily life is completely informed by its environment and landscape. Its history—especially its visual history—is still clearly apparent everywhere you look; it is a place that appreciates its own tradition and heritage without being hokey about it. Yes, someone could argue that what I’m talking about also exists in Nantucket / Cape Cod / The Hamptons or every other northeastern vacation spot, and maybe it does. And someone else could argue that Maine is not a monolith or merely an aesthetic,² that I’m viewing it with come-from-away rose-tinted glasses, and maybe I am.

Regardless! Even with emotional biases and tears in my eyes, the cold-blooded design detective in me knows that Maine really is a land of Perfect Designs. Below are some of the objects I saw and noticed in my two weeks there!

York is the little seaside town of my dreams: a sandy beach, the grungiest arcade you can imagine, a diner where all the employees are sunburnt teenagers. Chris and I shared a banana split for dinner at The Goldenrod, which has a really charming neon storefront and 13 flavors of saltwater taffy. Through a window on the street, you can watch the taffy be pulled, which is cool — but not as cool as watching it be packaged, by a machine that portions it out and spins it into the most satisfying little wax wrappers. Goldenrod is truly old school (established in 1896!) and there was a true array of typographic goodness on display. I love a “brand” that uses a bajillion typefaces in a single design!! I also loved the colors and chunky type on the old school sticks of clove gum at the register, even though it sounds super gross. And you all know that I am a sucker for a hand painted sign. I love the way you can see the letterforms get thinner as the word “Surfside” continues, and I will be thinking about the chunky black arrow with “FRIED CLAMS” for a long time.

What’s this… more hand painted signs? Chris says the deli sign on the left used to hang outside Old Salt’s Pantry. They have a modern banner up there now but I’m so thankful that they chose to archive the original by hanging it on the side of their building. On the right, a truly beautifully hand-painted sign at the local lobster roll place doubles as a swinging door to the bar, where they make fresh lemonade that’s a little grainy because the cane sugar hasn’t dissolved yet (but I still kind of like it). If you’ve ever tried to make a Happy Birthday banner and ran out of room, you know how difficult hand-lettering can be. To do it with this kind of precision is nuts — a true art.

Before I started dating Chris, I never thought about “New England” as a concept. As someone who lived in California and the south before moving to New York City, “the northeast” was everything north of Washington D.C. and to me, was culturally homogenous. Not so! New England is definitely its own subculture, and I’m starting to parse out its specific visual grammar, as demonstrated here by two different kinds of Paine’s Balsam Fir Incense as well as the cutest little incense burning log cabin (the smoke comes out the chimney!). The type on the green box, of course, is incredible — the way the ‘i’ in “incense” wraps cozily around the letters in the word “balsam” — but so is its use of a single color green, plus the tree-shaped hole where you can sample a sniff. I was also really taken with the green tin of Vermont Bag Balm, which I read about earlier this year. I’m terribly allergic to one of its ingredients, but I wish I wasn’t, because this little illustrated cow would look so cute on top of my dresser! I’m also including a can of Canadian maple syrup, which is obviously not from New England but spiritually similar, with its cozy red barn and snowy forest landscape.

After a long beach walk one afternoon, we wandered into a little Episcopal chapel tucked between some residential homes. I am not religious but was immediately taken by the sense of community I could feel here. Around the walls, there are models of ships that were historically relevant to the area. I don’t think I’ve ever looked at a model ship up close before, they’re so tiny and detailed and clear labors of love. I also really liked the chunky folk needlepoint of the chapel, and the serif number tiles that I’m assuming (??) are used to direct the congregation to pages or verses in their bibles (someone please fact check me on this, I have never been to church!). But my favorite bit of folk design was on the volunteer sign-up list, where someone embellished the “refreshments” and “altar flowers” columns with stickers of cookies and floral arrangements. Swoon!!!

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A few more snippets from my time in Maine.

• Truly cannot overstate the impact playing tennis every morning had on my mental and physical health. If I lived in a place where I had access to an open court seven days a week I would be a literal different person!

• We went to a Portland Sea Dogs minor league game. They feed into the Red Sox, and I’ve never been around so many people from Massachusetts before.³ I ate a Fenway Frank and watched a lighthouse emerge from behind the outfield every time the Sea Dogs hit a home run.

• There’s no greater joy than driving by a roadside flower stand, leaving $5 in a little pot, and taking home a bouquet of fresh cut hydrangeas.

• My new favorite ice cream flavor in the world is called Maine Black Bear (raspberry with a raspberry swirl and raspberry jam-filled chocolate cups).

• This is the part where you tell me to shut up: despite just coming back from vacation (and complaining a lot about not being on vacation any more), I am going to Cape Cod next week on a little pals trip. Shut up, Suze!!

Thanks for reading! I still have Maine on the brain, so be on the lookout for a verrrrry fun Sublime Online post that I think everyone is really going to dig. I also might write something about the Olympics, since it’s such a fertile ground for a design historian, but it also seems like all the vintage fashion substackers have that covered around here with all the dope t-shirt roundups. See you later alligators! 🆗

1. Chris joined me for two of these cries, thank you Christopher.

2. In writing this, I’m trying to avoid the corny-but-relatively-harmless aesthetic fetishization of “East Coast summer” or “Connecticut-core” or “coastal grandma” or whatever the fuck label TikTok is ascribing to steamed mussels and cardigans over Doen dresses. I’m also not trying to give away the exact coordinates of where I was staying (though it wouldn’t be that hard to figure out from the pictures), so I’m using “Maine” as a catchall even though it’s a really big state and I’ve never been north of Bar Harbor.

3. No comment.