“Is this ok to eat?” I asked the chef standing near the grill.
He snickered to himself, and said, “Oh yeah. It’s good isn’t it.”
“Mm hmm,” I murmured mid-bite.
It was terrific. It was salmon. Fresh North Atlantic Salmon to be exact, and it was delicately seared on the outside and raw in the middle. The chef told me that’s the best way to serve it. He could tell I wasn’t from around here, and that I’d been eating less-than-fresh and overcooked seafood all my life. It made the three-hour stop in Portland all the more worth it.
It was the major stop on a six and a half hour drive from Boston to Presque Isle, and just the welcome to Maine moment I was looking for. Although, the billboard just across the border was a tremendous sigh and sign of relief as I entered the Pine Tree State. 
Turns out that was the only billboard I’d see the remainder of my drive. There hasn’t existed a roadside billboard in Maine since 1977. It was a law passed to preserve the natural beauty of Maine along its scenic highways. Instead of “Cracker Barrel Exit 32” or “Old Fashioned Antiques and Gifts: Take Route 155 North”, it was a distraction-free drive. Nothing but rolling hills, acres of trees and a 75 mph speed limit lay ahead of me.
I made up my mind to stop in Portland, Maine’s largest city. I knew I’d find beauty there. It’s a fantastically wonderful town. It’s motto is Resurgam, Latin for “I will rise again,” alluding to the four fires throughout the ages that have nearly destroyed the town. But you’d never guess from the looks of the place. It was a quietly bustling New England town on this Thursday afternoon. I parked in a 6-story parking garage that would allow me to take in a panorama of the town.
It was a sight to see. Seagulls were circling as I walked around the top of the garage, gazing into the downtown, the Atlantic Ocean, the Back Cove. There’s something special about taking in a cityscape for the first time. So many thoughts go running through your mind: What building is that? I wish I had time to take a boat ride. Whoah, look at that stadium. That’s where I’d get an apartment if I lived here. What’s that smell? Wonder what that street looks like on a Saturday night at 9:30 pm? Man, these seagulls have so many statues to crap on! And so forth.
After all those deep thoughts crossed my mind, I succumbed to a much more primal instinct. I needed to get something to eat. And being in the heart of the downtown Arts District, a good meal was surely not far.
Shay’s Grill and Pub is where I decided to sit down for a meal. I bellied up to the bar, ordered a house salad with salmon and a Portland-brewed craft beer I can’t remember the name of. As I waited for my meal, I chatted up the bartender and opened up a magazine on the bar that featured profiles of the three gubernatorial candidates: the outspoken Paul LePage, Independent Eliot Cutler and the newcomer Mike Michaud (me-SHOW).
After reading the profiles, I couldn’t make up my mind who I’d vote for. LePage is a straight shooter, pulled no punches, and was prone to saying dumb things that were often misunderstood out of context. Cutler’s a former finance man for the Carter administration, who’s fought hard for Clean Air and Clean Water. Michaud is a Franco-American, a former millworker, and if elected would be the first openly gay governor in the United States.
The reason it may have been so hard to decide who to vote for is because I have admittedly never voted in a city, state, or national election. It’s not just out of simple laziness and half-hearted registration attempts, but I never bothered to research any election or candidate at its core issues because I’m just not that interested in politics. Call me ignorant.
I don’t really pay attention to talking heads unless you’re talking about David Byrne. But I found myself interested and captivated in the race to be Maine’s next governor after reading the life stories of these three men.
I’m now registered to vote in the state of Maine, and will be in the booth this November.
I left Portland around 3:30pm and made my ascent to the Northeast corner of the country. The unadvertised drive through Maine was as gorgeous as the brochures made it out to be. The constant dipping and diving through the pine tree lined grooves gave a sense of rugged rustic accomplishment. Halfway to Presque Isle I saw a roadside sign for “Mt. Katahdin Scenic Overlook.”
Katahdin is the tallest peak in Maine, and a Penobscot Indian word meaning, “Greatest Mountain.” Wow. Just wow. With a lake in the immediate foreground and Katahdin in background, I was awed at the beauty of my soon to be home. I spent a half hour taking it in, which caused me to reach Presque Isle in the darkness and not in the daylight as I’d hoped.
As I turned off I-95 and onto U.S. Route 1 north towards my destination, nighttime fell. For the final hour of my drive it was a 2-lane highway that passed through a half a dozen small towns I would surely get to know over the next couple of years: Littleton, Monticello, Bridgewater, Blaine, Mars Hill, and Westfield. All about 10 miles apart, all with populations less than 2,000.
As I got to be about fifteen miles outside of Presque Isle, I began to see a luminous glow above the ridgeline. It was broad and indistinct, but certainly illuminated the night sky. I wondered what it could be? My mind instantly jumped to the conclusion: Oh! That must be the Northern Lights! My goodness! The Northern Lights have come out tonight to welcome me to Maine! Hot dog!
Once I got into town and secured a hotel room, I texted a fellow reporter at the station, Tyler Michalowski, and met him for a beer. I told him about my trip and all the things I’d seen. I lastly explained to him about the lights I saw coming into town and how dazzled I was by them.
“Yeah, that’s not the Northern Lights, dude. That’s just the light pollution from Presque Isle,” Tyler explained.
Wah, wah.
The Matthew McConaughey of Maine
Jake Berent 
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