Something about a real New England accent makes me assume everyone I meet who has one is a longshore dock worker. And they should be weyarin a knit cayhp, ideally, and probably carrying a hahpoon but naut in a threatening way because that would reqwuiyah eye contact. Pahk the cah. Wicked pissah.
I rode up to Maine last week with a carful of sober friends, Girltalk mashups on the iPod, and had a terrific weekend of Maineitude, culminating in a dinner on an em-effing BOAT. I had filet oscar – steak covered in crabmeat and béarnaise sauce. I died, a little.
I was fresh off a lovely week-long holiday visit in No.VA with the fam and an extra little brother to boot, and I’d re-realized that I feel super squirmy in suburbia these days.
I like D.C., and I’m glad to have spent my formative years there, and I love my Southern relatives and how gosh darn polite everyone is down there, but the No.VA public is some weird mix of nosy and snobby. Like they’re not afraid to be up in your business but they look down on you for having it. My particular neighborhood in Brooklyn, like much of the rest of NYC, is filled with people who pretend they don’t see eachother but once engaged, are friendly and usually helpful. The vast majority are Gracie fans.
Mainahs, and the other New Englanders who’d come up for the conference, are awesome because they are totally friendly and unreserved to eachother but do not speak to anyone else unless totally necessary. A formerly-of-Connecticut blogger I used to read once described experiencing a mugging in New England that was polite, efficient and nearly silent.
I totally freaking dig it. When they did talk, they sounded delightful, and the rest of the time they evaded eye contact and went on their way.
The one weird thing about Portland was that within the town proper (which I didn’t get to see nearly any of, sadly) there are no chains, but where we were staying was apparently right outside city limits because it was CHAIN CENTRAL. It was like a strip mall wrapped in a retail center centered around a shopping plaza, and I’m forced to admit we went to Cracker Barrel for dinner the first night, where my born-and-raised New Yorker friends were puzzled and confused by the old timey store shenanigans.
Until I explained that it’s like Applebees or T.G.I. Fridays, only country, then they nodded and went back to browsing bonnets.