Last weekend we thought it would be fun to do what the tourists do. You know, stand in long lines, pay too much for food and try to learn how to relax.

We started with a baseball game Saturday evening in Portland that by all indications from every weather report known to civilization should have been rained out. The stadium was pretty full but not compared to what it is on Saturdays that are not enhanced with storm warnings. Clouds lingered menacingly, taunting us with a tiny sprinkle at one point, but somehow the torrential rain and storms skirted around us. In the meantime, the umpires had made a calculated decision to delay the game for an hour and a half. That seemed like kind of a silly idea to me, waiting for it to rain instead of playing before it did. But I’m not an umpire. I’m just your typical baseball semi-fan – hungry from the minute I stepped in the stadium.

There’s something fascinating about how ballparks lure us into craving a hot dog or ice cream – some kind of ballpark sustenance. Maybe it’s the scent of fried food wafting through the bleachers, or the fact that we were there for a 6 p.m. game that wasn’t going to start for another 90 minutes. That’s a lot of time to sit in a slippery plastic seat and smell fried food. All this makes me wonder – was “batter up” a term originally invented for baseball or were they really talking about fried dough?

It turned out to be a very enjoyable night even though our team lost and the fireworks that had been planned were cancelled due to the late hour. Spouse, Second Born and I admired the pink and purple hues as a gloomy sky became a glorious one until it got dark, and we sang along to “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” as well as “YMCA” and “Sweet Caroline.” It was pretty darn cool.

The next day was

even more beautiful and meant to be enjoyed. The three of us set out once again to join the throngs of tourists boarding boats to various islands not too far from Portland. We loaded onto a ferry in cattle-like fashion and scoped out a spot along the rail to admire the view while we slipped along the sea. Long Island was our destination that day, even though we knew little about it and weren’t absolutely sure we’d find a place to get some lunch.

As a side note, having been raised by New York natives, I was brought up to understand that the other Long Island is pronounced “LonGisland”.

The ferry made a couple of other stops, and after about 45 minutes we reached our destination. While Spouse attempted to GPS us to some sort of dining experience, I took the old fashioned route. I asked a small group of folks who looked to be locals. They had a golf cart. That screams local to me. They directed us to a local deli just yonder up the hill. As we walked slowly along, a couple pulled up and asked if we wanted a ride. As we peered out the car’s cracked windshield it struck us that vehicle inspections aren’t quite the norm on the islands. Good thing, too, because we passed a few cars that were being held together with duct tape and a lick and a promise.

The deli had a great selection and an outside deck where we ate and took in the gorgeous view. It wasn’t long before our non-vacationing selves felt the need to move on. We walked around somewhat aimlessly, vowing to take an earlier boat next time so we could explore more. Personally, I’d rather take an earlier boat so we have more time to do nothing.

By time we got home I was ready to collapse. I don’t know how these vacationers do it. I do know they’ve probably learned to relax a lot better in a week than we did for a day. That’s something I want to work on … maybe after the tourists go back home. — Janine Talbot is adjusting to her empty nest in southern Maine with her spouse of 32 years and two and a half cats. She can be reached at janinevtalbot@gmail.com.