Without fail, fog and rain delayed my flight to Portland from LaGuardia the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Excited to have nothing better to do than read emails and articles on my phone, I waited at the gate. On the flight, I sat at the window, face pressed against the safety glass watching the lights pass miles bellow. Flying out over the Connecticut sound and up 95 through Mass and New Hampshire, the pilot signaled the initial approach some 25 minutes into the flight.
Walking through the airport with its familiar windows and posters, I bypassed the baggage claim and stepped into the cold November air. I didn't see a single cab.
For the next three days, I wondered the familiar country with my college roommate and frequent accomplice, Tucker.
I like this hanging light.
Enjoying the warm light afforded by a mere eight hours separating sunrise and sunset, I shot often. Protecting my cold fingers in the wool pocket of my Mackinaw jacket, my memories of living in Maine for four years quickly came back. However as a visitor, my perspective changed slightly, making me thankful to smell the cold sea air and see the dark night sky far from the shinning lights of twenty million people.
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