Maine, at last

I’ve been in Maine since Monday night. Internet is spotty here and I’m behind my writing.
After Vail,Colorado, another ski paradise and a multi million resort town, Denver and its sprawling suburbs smelled of the common fabric of the USA. Strips of malls with names as familiar as your kids’ names make somehow anyone feel at home.
The big Wyoming sky welcomed us as did the lovely Little America hotel in Cheyenne. We left early morning for Omaha since storms were threatening Des Moines and Chicago, our original destinations.
Omaha as any place with harsh winters knows the true meaning of summer. Musicians played outside, people of all ages crowded the terraces and laughter rolled along the paved streets of the Old Market district.
We spent a lovely evening in South Bend, home of Saint Mary College and Notre Dame University. The night before winds howling as fast as 90 MPH un-rooted many trees and the old campuses were littered with branches and debris. It didn’t take away the old fashionned charm and sense of peace of the campuses.
The name of Rochester brings images of industries, Kodak and harsh weather. The old part of town however soaks in rich history. Unfortunately museums were closed on Monday and we only saw the High Falls, a mini Niagara Falls in the heart of Rochester.
Our last stretch to Maine took us through more familiar landscape reminding me of my first years in Massachusetts. I keep a special place in my heart for the Northeast, still uncertain of the reasons. Is it because my son was born in Boston, one of my favorite American cities? Is it because I became a US citizen in Massachusetts? Is it because of our lake cabin in Maine? Is it because France is only an ocean away?
In this upper corner of the country, history is too loud to ignore it. Often, as I do in France, I think that if stones could talk, they would have a lot to tell in New England.
I am now in Maine. At last.

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