Wish We Were There
Homesickness, like the flu, is an illness with discrete stages.
Agnes Bushell
I was in Brittany recently, which was just like Maine, only in French. There were fishing villages and fishing boats, the pungent, briny smell of the Atlantic, and every so often a fleeting image — a curve in the road, a field, an inlet — that would look so exactly like a picture of some idyllic spot in Maine it might have jumped off the pages of this very magazine. Of course, there were differences — houses made of stone, not wood; trees more likely to be palms than pines; ashtrays on every café table — but my husband and I still kept assuring each other that Brittany was just like Maine. By that time we had been away four months and were homesick. [ For the rest of this story, see the April 2008 issue of Down East.]
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Reader Comments:
How can my friends in the UK read this story? They can't very well just go to the local shop and pick up a copy of Down East, now can they?
I think they would enjoy this story because we're all heading for France this fall!