Two Thousand Miles to Pictou: Part III

Coming home.

Fishing buoys in Rockland, Maine

My brother and I crossed the border from Houlton, Maine to Woodstock, New Brunswick on Wednesday, October 8. The checkpoint was less complicated than I thought it’d be, mostly because I wasn’t technically arriving in Canada as a new permanent resident. That would come later, after a confirmation letter arrived in the mail.

The day before our border crossing, we’d passed through Massachusetts and stopped in Portland, Maine for lunch. Brady and I crawled down Commercial Street in the Jeep, dodging tour buses and foot traffic from the cruise ships tied up on the pier. We parked on Custom House Wharf and ate at the Porthole, which is either a Portland seaside classic or tourist trap depending on who you ask. I had oysters on the half shell and gave Brady a hard time for ordering steak tips.

“Seafood’s not really my thing, but you seemed excited.”

At least he was matter of fact about it.

I wondered why he hadn’t said anything the dozen times I’d brought it up while planning the trip. Perhaps my enthusiasm was a bit overbearing. Some of my former coworkers would probably agree.

“Look, that seagull’s eating a french fry,” I said.

He held my gaze for an extra beat before turning his attention to the bird.

I figured I could still take him in a fight if I had to, but it wouldn’t be pretty for either of us. I immediately felt guilty for even thinking it. It’d been two decades or more since we’d laid hands on each other and even then it had only ever been kid stuff, really. Then again, he’d traveled harder miles than me in the intervening years. Maybe I was being cocky. I exhaled and pushed the thoughts away.

There’s a lot to feel bad about these days. Most of it isn’t our fault.

We’d had one blowout argument on the drive, which was sort of about politics but really about our respective media environments, the differences between public policy and public performance, and the responsibilities of citizenship.

The problem with arguing with your sibling is that you both know every single button to push. You can anticipate what the other will say with pretty good accuracy. Or at least you think you can, so you’re too busy preparing to parry the next thrust to actually listen. With a lifetime of assumptions built in, it takes a lot of patience and rhetorical excavation to get to the actual point.

We were almost 24 hours into the drive with no escape in sight. There was nothing to do but work through it.

By the end of conversation, we realized we were on the same page for most of the fundamentals. We agreed to disagree on a few other things.

Road trip companions circa 1996 and 2025

After lunch, we explored the waterfront. We lingered at Maritime Antiques, pointing out the diving helmets, ships’ wheels, and brass instruments we’d buy someday if either of us ended up with the money and space. A few months later, the shop and its neighbouring businesses were destroyed by a fire on the wharf. So much for delayed gratification. At least we’ve got the memories.

As we made our way up the coast on U.S. Route 1, we passed the world’s largest inflatable lobster on the roof of Taste of Maine Restaurant near Bath.

“Want to stop?” I asked.

“I think I get the idea,” Brady said, snapping a fly-by photo from the road.

After wandering the streets of Rockland for an hour and gazing over the waters of Penobscot Bay, we cut north for Bangor. We pulled up to Stephen King’s house just before dusk and took some pictures of the wrought-iron fence adorned with cobwebs, spiders, and bats.

We settled in for the night at the White House Inn, a Best Western off the interstate next to an asphalt plant and truck stop. Our room was in the East Wing, which is still standing unlike its Washington counterpart. Chalk up the hotel’s staying power as a win for the common man. Take ‘em where you can get ‘em these days.

The 75 mph (120 kph) speed limit on I-95 north of Bangor is the fastest on the eastern seaboard. There’s a lot of land but not many people in Penobscot and Aroostook Counties. Most are coming or going. We flew north, eager to get to Nova Scotia.

Brady was cleared right away at the border. I was invited inside to talk with an immigration agent.

“Everything in the computer says you’re good to go,” the officer said. “But you don’t have a confirmation of permanent residency letter?”

His Canadian-French accent felt official despite his informal manner.

“No sir,” I said. “Not yet. I had to send new photos to Ottawa. My lawyer says the letter should arrive any day.”

He clicked the mouse a few times, then leaned back and shrugged.

“Good enough. From what I can see, it’s probably already on its way. Bring the letter back here when you get it. We’ll fill out a few forms and you’ll be a landed permanent resident. Until then, you’re a visitor.”

That sounded good to me.

“See you soon,” he said, then stuck out his hand.

“Welcome to Canada.”

Brady and I arrived in early afternoon. The drive across New Brunswick and northern Nova Scotia was easy considering the long journey behind us. Hayley had just pulled in after picking up our black lab, Duke, from his second knee surgery.

Hayley, Duke, and our cat, Cleo, had been living in Bayview since July, but this was different. I was here to stay. I grabbed the sling under Duke’s back legs and carefully helped him up the step and into the house.

Brady checked out the yard while I gave Hayley a big hug. That evening, the three of us sat in the screen porch as my brother and I recounted our adventures. We’d already made some minor embellishments. You know how it goes.

We laughed a lot. It’d been a long time since I was so happy and so tired.

It felt good to be home.