Well folks, the eagle has landed back in the good ol’ U S of A and in the 7 days since I pulled up to a gorgeous AirBNB tucked into the woods on the Penobscot River in Hampden, Maine, my brain has been working overtime.

There’s a lot to take in.

First of all, as I’ve mentioned previously, I’ve witnessed a plethora of reactions and responses to telling people that I’m a nomad. Strangers and acquaintances alike, the floor has been set at curiosity. Well, I was checking out at a Hannaford grocery store this past Sunday and when the option to plug in my rewards card # came up, I inquired about the process of enrolling. The young squire manning the register mumbled a bit and handed me a form. I told him, “I’ll only be in Maine for a week, will it matter? I’m a nomad.”

This. This was hands down the best scene that statement has conjured to date. I can’t even properly describe it other than to say that high school boy looked at me like I pulled up in a UFO instead of a RAV4. The confusion…it was akin to aghast. I’d give the 2nd smallest toe on my right foot for a picture of his face from that moment (it’s already broken anyway – the toe, that is). It will live rent free in my brain for the rest of eternity.

Apparently Hampden, Maine, outside of Bangor is not a common stop on the Digital Nomad Trail. Who knew? Everyone can nomad in Costa Rica…you earn your stripes in Maine, Providence, Tallahassee and Charleston, WV.

Bitches.

Secondly, there are not one but several “No Hunting” signs posted at the various entrances to Dorothea Dix Park, which is a hop, skip and a jump away from the AirBNB. This isn’t in the middle of nowhere…the primary entrance is on Main Street and it’s nestled in a neighborhood. There’s even a large sign right on Main Street when you’re about to pass from Hampden into Bangor that says, “It Is Unlawful to Discharge Firearms From This Point To Bangor.”

Ok, people across the world bemoan the dangers of Chicago. But for fuck’s sake, at least we know it’s illegal. I felt a surge of excitement, thinking that somehow driving through the New Brunswick/Maine border magically shipped me all the way back to the rootin’ tootin’ Wild Wild West…in the farther NE reaches of 21st-century America.

Thirdly, they love their Whoopie Pies up here. You can’t go to a Circle K, grocery store, bakery, or anywhere that sells anything edible without stumbling across a choice selection. But my tip of the cap goes to the man or woman who saw the only appropriate brand name sitting right there for the taking and snatched it up like it were free pizza put out in the office cafeteria after a vendor lunch.

Bangin’ Whoopie. Bangor, Maine…it was right there all along.

Maple filling sandwiched between 2 pancakes is enough of a selling point as it is. But I’d buy a vegemite rice cake sandwich if it were called a Bangin’ Whoopie. Well played, sir or madam.

Fourthly, grassroots political campaigning is very much alive and well up here. Friday after work I needed to stretch my legs and immerse myself in nature. Again. So I pointed myself towards the Orono Bog Boardwalk on the edge of Bangor and off I went. As I was ducking under an overpass on the highway, I saw a few brave souls scattered on top waving “Vote for Troy” signs, pleading for honks of acknowledgement and acquiescence.

I was too taken aback to honk in the moment. Perhaps even flabbergasted. This is the internet age with umpteen social media platforms to wage a campaign of any kind.

Troy could be running for Sheriff, School Board, the Senate or to be President of the Loyal Order of the Moose – damned if I know, but the man rallied 9 people to stand on an overpass on a Friday evening to solicit votes for him.

This is the leadership our country is sorely lacking, and if I had a vote in Maine he’d have it. I’m all the way the fuck in.

Now to take this into a completely different direction, there are a couple of personal developments that have struck me this past week that are worth a few words. Or a few thousand given my penchant for longwindedness.

Is that a word? I say yes.

I’m incredibly pleased that my “give a shit” meter has bottomed out when it comes to my wardrobe choices. And no, I don’t mean I’ve joined the youth movement by wearing sweatpants for every occasion. I’m not a savage.

I have mostly abandoned belts for drawstring pants, however…that’s just common sense.

What I’m getting at is I no longer designate clothing for very specific purposes. The biggest example is my handy stone-washed Gap button-down jean jacket. I can’t believe I almost donated this bad boy before I blasted off on this adventure. I used to think I needed a specific type of jacket or hoodie for going to the gym, hiking, a walk, camping…whatever the occasion called for, I had just the thing to match it.

But that jean jacket has become completely unilateral – it is a one-occasion-fits-all mastercraft of fashion. If I happen to be shirtless and catch a chill and the jacket is within reach, on it goes. No shirt. I wear it to the gym, in the woods, hiking, dancing, meandering, sashaying…I just don’t give a shit.

I’ll admit, I have wrongly persecuted many men for wearing jeans and/or a collared shirt in the gym. Giggling as they were doing deadlifts with their dress shirts tucked in.

I owe every last one of them the sincerest of apologies – y’all deserve all the flowers. Revolutionary, groundbreaking lows on the give-a-shit meter reached. Undiscovered territory. You now inspire me.

I’d take this opportunity to rejoice in giving consumerism a big fat middle finger but alas, I’m part of the machine. I am a digital marketer for the Automotive Industry, for Pete’s sake. I’ll just happily move forward in life realizing I don’t need to buy specific clothes for day-to-day changes in activity.

Also, fuck you consumerism.

Another wonderful discovery – my tastes are evolving in real time and not over time. I suppose it’s logical – throw yourself on a bullet train hurtling towards one new experience after another and there are bound to be a few things that stick.

It’s no secret that nature is my jam and my first true love within it is mountains. I used to think that it wasn’t truly a great day in nature unless I scrambled up to a summit for a killer payoff view.

I was mistaken.

I’m finding as much, or more, joy in discovering random cool shit in the woods. A fascinating tree, stone outcroppings, ponds, creeks, the random loud cry of an animal that makes me shit my pants. It’s all marvelous to take in and I’m beginning to get a bit of a sense as to why Thoreau loved Walden Pond so much. It’s changed the trajectory of my nature side quests. No longer do I need to drive 3 hours one way just to get to a mountain. I will, but I don’t HAVE to anymore.

And this updated operating system has opened up a whole new world of curiosity to dive into…there are forests and intriguing landscapes EVERYWHERE. My 5 weeks in Providence, RI, just got a massive upgrade…the sea is great, but I’m not as curious about what’s under water as I am about what I can discover without fearing that I’ll get bitten or stung by a critter I can’t run away from.

I wish I had more than a week in this frontier of civilization. I still do have one more stop to make at a place called Vaughn Woods in the town of Hallowell, just south of Augusta. It’s right on my route to Providence and it’s garnered the nickname “Hobbitland.” I’m a once and forever unapologetic Lord of the Rings nerd. 

 And just like Frodo Baggins and his fellowship of misfits, I too am on an errand of immense importance to the future of humanity.

Someone has to find all the weird shit in the woods and report back on it. I nominate myself, and Troy, to get ’er done.