We awoke to the pouring of the rain, but seeing as how it was supposed to clear off, we decided to follow through with our plan for a belated celebration of our anniversary. Although our original idea was to kick off the day with a hike in Acadia, a road detour sort of dumped us off in Northeast Harbor, where we took a stroll of its gilded streets. Every house is a study in the posh but understated old world wealth you read about in fat biographies. We wondered where the regular people (the hired help, in other words) live because we did not seem to come across a single regular house (defined as costing less than a couple million dollars). In fact, there were no gaudy real estate signs on any of the well-manicured lawns, but Cara crossed the street to check out the info sheet on the one house that was presenting itself as for sale. I declined to cross the street, saying, "what's the point?" since it would be too much to even dream about. But Cara, in her straight-faced way that I've always found so amusing, came back to me saying, "it's 4 million, but that's for two cottages, so if we went in on it with Alice and Chris..." My little comedienne is pictured above in front of one of the tallest hedges I've ever seen (though it seems to me now that perhaps I'm forgetting my days of prowling around Quogue).
This birch bark wigwam was recently constructed at Sieurs du Mont in Acadia by a Penobscot family. These 100 square foot structures are what American Indians lived in thousands of years ago. I mean, talk about being ahead of the curve: they pre-date the small house movement by a couple of generations, wouldn't you say? We enjoyed a visit to the Abbe Museum (awesome little display of archaic tools), then hiked the stone steps of Dorr Mountain.
There's the mothership, awaiting its load of passengers who are busy fueling the economy of Bar Harbor. I sort of wished its passengers wore name tags so I could separate them from the flotsam and jetsam of typical tourists (among whose number I suppose we'd have to count ourselves).
Our coup of the day. About to head for home, we stop into a bakery. Cara asks how much for the onion rolls. The guy behind the counter says "$1.75." She says, "we'll take it." Me, knowing the little lady too well, intervene to say, "he means for one, not the whole bag." She's a bit crestfallen, but then somehow wangles her way into a dozen onion rolls, six baguettes and a loaf of sourdough bread all for the grand total of $9. As Jake pointed out when we got home, the whole batch should have cost over $40, but, hey, she's a professional. Ironic, it is, since I always have my "rip-off artist" antennae up when I visit tourist traps, but, like I say, that woman can hunt a bargain.
We awoke to the pouring of the rain, but seeing as how it was supposed to clear off, we decided to follow through with our plan for a belated celebration of our anniversary. Although our original idea was to kick off the day with a hike in Acadia, a road detour sort of dumped us off in Northeast Harbor, where we took a stroll of its gilded streets. Every house is a study in the posh but understated old world wealth you read about in fat biographies. We wondered where the regular people (the hired help, in other words) live because we did not seem to come across a single regular house (defined as costing less than a couple million dollars). In fact, there were no gaudy real estate signs on any of the well-manicured lawns, but Cara crossed the street to check out the info sheet on the one house that was presenting itself as for sale. I declined to cross the street, saying, "what's the point?" since it would be too much to even dream about. But Cara, in her straight-faced way that I've always found so amusing, came back to me saying, "it's 4 million, but that's for two cottages, so if we went in on it with Alice and Chris..." My little comedienne is pictured above in front of one of the tallest hedges I've ever seen (though it seems to me now that perhaps I'm forgetting my days of prowling around Quogue).
This birch bark wigwam was recently constructed at Sieurs du Mont in Acadia by a Penobscot family. These 100 square foot structures are what American Indians lived in thousands of years ago. I mean, talk about being ahead of the curve: they pre-date the small house movement by a couple of generations, wouldn't you say? We enjoyed a visit to the Abbe Museum (awesome little display of archaic tools), then hiked the stone steps of Dorr Mountain.
There's the mothership, awaiting its load of passengers who are busy fueling the economy of Bar Harbor. I sort of wished its passengers wore name tags so I could separate them from the flotsam and jetsam of typical tourists (among whose number I suppose we'd have to count ourselves).
Our coup of the day. About to head for home, we stop into a bakery. Cara asks how much for the onion rolls. The guy behind the counter says "$1.75." She says, "we'll take it." Me, knowing the little lady too well, intervene to say, "he means for one, not the whole bag." She's a bit crestfallen, but then somehow wangles her way into a dozen onion rolls, six baguettes and a loaf of sourdough bread all for the grand total of $9. As Jake pointed out when we got home, the whole batch should have cost over $40, but, hey, she's a professional. Ironic, it is, since I always have my "rip-off artist" antennae up when I visit tourist traps, but, like I say, that woman can hunt a bargain.
Let me just get my checkbook...
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