Who knows where it starts. An early episode of Murder, She Wrote? Maybe. Maybe it was just growing up under the cloudless California sun. I've always wanted to go to Maine. Well, go to as in have a beach house on a rocky shore where I sometimes man the lighthouse. You get the picture. It just felt classic to me. Like a crisp oxford shirt. Like a wicker picnic basket. Like America.
It's funny how lots of things say America. California says it, but in a sunny, smiley, sandy, Beach-Boys-summer-sun-roller-skating-on-the-pier-in-your-bathing-suit kind of way. New York says it, in a Brooklyn-accented, we-got-this kind of way. Maine says it with lighthouses, and men wearing salmon colored shorts, and everyone hailing from somewhere.
We were just there a weekend, and I didn't get a chance to tend any lighthouses, but it was still everything I wanted.