Reflections from My 50th State: Maine

This past week, I crossed something off my personal bucket list. I finally visited my 50th state. Maine.

I have been to a lot of places over the years, but stepping foot in that last state meant more than just completing a checklist. It represented a lifetime of curiosity, a desire to explore, and a reminder that every corner of this country tells its own story.

Wow, what a welcome. :)

This time, I was not traveling solo. I was with my mother, my brother, and my sister-in-law, three of my favorite travel companions. We started in Boston, a city I have been to before but never quite experienced like this. Walking historic streets, visiting the Old North Church, and tracing Paul Revere’s famous ride hit differently when shared with family. It is one thing to read about history. It is another to stand in the middle of it and hear the echoes of the past in the cobblestones under your feet.

Mom and the Old North Church

I watched my mother’s face light up inside the Old North Church, her delight and curiosity glowing as she soaked in the history around her. Seeing that joy reminded me why these trips matter — not just for the places we see, but for the people we share them with. My sister-in-law, patient and kind as ever, brought a calm energy to the trip that balanced everything. She has a way of making any place feel welcoming, and her hospitality and grace never wavered, even when travel fatigue set in.

And then there is my brother. My amazing older brother. I found myself newly appreciative of his generosity, his sense of humor, and his desire to see others happy. We spent eight days boarding together, and not once did I want to strangle him — which, for siblings, says a lot. In fact, by the end, I was reminded just how lucky I am to have him as both family and friend. Boston did not disappoint on chowder and craft beer. I sampled enough of both to confirm two things. Chowder comes in more varieties than I expected, and while the East brews a decent pint, it still cannot compete with the craft beer capital of the world, Oregon. And no I did not drink a Sam Adams with a Valencia orange in it. Please.

Then came Maine, rugged and quiet and full of charm. The people were kind, the food was fantastic, and the landscape was beautiful in a wild, understated way. At one point I joked that Maine looks like Oregon got a crewcut. The forests, the coastline, the crisp air all felt familiar, just trimmed a little shorter. Like meeting a distant cousin of the Pacific Northwest.

The Ugly Duckling, Portland, Maine. Great coffee and English Muffins.

In Portland I found a morning rhythm I did not know I needed. I visited the Ugly Duckling coffee shop every day, notebook open, caffeine fueling the words and English muffins fueling the belly. I kept thinking about how much I want to return and spend six months there, writing every morning, chasing a novel from first light to lunch. Part of me would sit in that corner and pretend I am as good a storyteller as Rowling, who famously wrote in a coffee shop across the pond. Maybe it is the clatter of cups or the soft rise and fall of conversations, but that place made the pages feel possible.

We also discovered a pair of neighborhood gems that made the trip even better. Chaval and Calafia offered everything you could want after a day of exploring: incredible food, comfortable surroundings, and staff who make you feel like family after only a few visits. Both reminded me that good meals and good people have a way of slowing time down. They let you breathe, savor, and marvel at the simple pleasure that comes from sitting together around a table.

Try the Blueberry Pancake at Friendly Toast, Portland, Maine

And because every great trip deserves a few culinary highlights, the best blueberry pancake I have ever had came from the Friendly Toast Diner in Portland, Maine, and one of the best sandwiches of my life was at the Cambridge Deli in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Both were

worth the trip all by themselves.

As an author, travel like this always seeps into my writing. You notice the rhythm of small towns, the way people greet strangers, and how each place has its own heartbeat. From coffee shops tucked into old brick buildings to family diners where everyone seems to know each other, these moments remind me why I love storytelling. Every trip is a chance to listen, to observe, and to understand how people live, dream, and connect.

Selfie in Boothbay, Maine. Me, Bro, Mom, Sis.

Visiting all fifty states is not about bragging rights. It is about perspective. It is about seeing the different ways people build community, celebrate heritage, and face challenges. For me, it adds layers of authenticity to my characters and settings, whether it is a firefighter in Southern Oregon or a drifter trying to find their way home.

Touching soil and sand in Kennebunkport, Maine.

Maine was the final stop on this particular journey, yet it feels like the beginning of another. The satisfaction of being well traveled is not about miles logged. It is about what you carry back. I carry gratitude. For family, for the open road, for kind people, good coffee, a delicious craft beer, and for the stories waiting to be told.