The trouble with snow, Maine and the tourist-drenched town of Freeport is that you can never tell what is a legitimate parking spot and what it made up.
Behind the Rite Aid, where I'd stopped to buy some forgotten items from home, I parked next to a car that was behind the building.
In all honesty, it was probably wishful thinking on my part, that the place was actually a spot. And I, with my loathsome MA license plate, was looked upon with disdain, when I returned to my spot after my errand, by the pepe unloading trash into the dumpster situated next to my made up parking spot .
I smiled at him and said, "Hi."
He looked at my car and said, "Chuh, this is a bad spot," in his Lewiston-y French Canadian accent (hence my naming him a pepe).
A crunchy, compact layer of snow is compressed onto all lots, so it's "use your imagination" time when in comes to parking.
I'm so self conscience, having a MA license plate here in Freeport. And staying at the relatively "swanky" Hilton. I want to holler to all prejudiced locals, "But I worked at M a st La ndin g! I'm relatively local! I know this area!"
'Tis no use. With the license plate from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts comes all its inherent Mass-hole prejudices, no matter the fact that I've driven down Bow St a bigillion times to get to work, no matter that I lived in five different towns and worked in 12 different towns of Maine. I have the dread Mass plates. I am guilty of being not from here.
Sad.
And also a microcosm of my feelings on being in Wey-boring again, instead of up here.
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