Seduced by the American fall.

A postcard from Belfast, Maine

Me and my partner, Mila, wanted to celebrate our one year anniversary so we went to Belfast for four days that turned into seven. Hurricane Milton was approaching Florida, so we thought, why not wait it out here in Maine, as if we weren’t already looking for an excuse to stay longer. The people were friendly, the Victorian homes, rich with history and ghosts, lined the streets as the riotous, postcard-perfect reds and oranges of autumn surrounded them. It was the kind of place built for fantasies of a slow small-town life.

I walked a lot. There were no rental cars left (we weren’t the only ones that had the brilliant idea to come see the leaves change) so it was thirty minutes from the cabin into town and thirty minutes back, but I didn’t mind. I’m not one to be ungrateful for strolling on a sidewalk, picking berries in a pretty town for an hour a day. I’d listen to the “sad girl starter pack” Spotify playlist and pretend this slow, New England life is familiar to me. And what’s funny is it almost was. My sister grew up in Maine while I got the childhood in the concrete ocean that is Athens. Boohoo me. I marinate in my self pity before I’m distracted again by the architecture.

In Belfast I’d stop at the library, I’d take too long to choose where to sit. The reading room had tall ceilings, surrounded by windows and a grand piano but it was always claimed by a cluster of old men and I like solitude more than ambiance so I’d settle in the less impressive room lined with DVDs instead of books. I’d work, write, and sometimes read Lapvona, then make my way to the co-op, grab fresh local food that we wish we had access to in Florida and walk back to the cabin, playlist blasting in my headphones.

The cabin we rented was stuffed with dusty marine treasures and distressed secondhand shop finds, the kind of curated clutter that leans into nostalgia without trying too hard. An iron stove with artificial blue embers provided overwhelming heat, out of place in its impersonation of a real fire, but every morning I’d curl up in front of it, cradling a cup of coffee I kept vowing to give up while reading Fates and Furies, understanding none of it. But this, this fall that Americans can’t stop talking about, I understand it now. I get it.

Maine in the fall doesn’t just invite you to slow down, it dares you. It seduces you into researching hygge, into nesting, into devouring books like they’re going out of print. One book turns into ten, and suddenly you’re fantasizing about writing your own mystery novel. Having a kid, maybe three, feels like a logical next step, and you catch yourself eyeing vintage sweaters like they’re talismans of a life lived in perpetual coziness. You consider investing in hiking boots, in giving in to that craving for dessert you’ve been resisting for weeks. You give in and then, you eat more of it. You smile at strangers. You wave at them!

The people here are so open, sweet little fawns with wide eyes, while you, a big-city, scratched up tiger, prowl the edges. You could tear this place apart, consume it whole, yet something happens. Your eyelids grow heavy, your claws retract, and you forget what it ever felt like to be sharp, to be dangerous. You begin to shrink into something smaller, softer, fur smooth and lustrous, and for the first time, you purr.