Vacationland, known for many things including, but not limited to, its almost 3,500 miles of coastline, the plethora of still standing lighthouses illuminating said coastline, the banishment of the letter 'R', our claim to fame and slice of heaven on earth, Acadia National Park, and, of course, lest we forget, the spiders of the sea, the poor man's chicken: lobster. 

To those of you who have driven over the Piscataqua River Bridge, and experienced a tingle as salt minerals attach themselves to the insides of your nostrils, I expect you to vouch for me when I say that crossing the New Hampshire border into Maine is an ethereal experience. That may seem like a stretch - like I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel to make a point, but I promise, that is only slightly true. In those couple minutes of crossing the river, I swear stress levels shrink, colors start appearing more vibrant, and the faint taste of salt and pine coats the inside of your mouth. "Welcome back my friend", you can hear the wind whisper. "Welcome home". 

Home is, by all accounts, a familiarity defined by all five senses. It's a place of family, of memories, of love and acceptance. Each time I cross the bridge into Kittery, I find myself greeted at the door, I know which stairs creak, and despite the blanket of nostalgia that suddenly covers me, I finally feel present. 

Yes, Maine is my home and for that, I think I'm allowed to be a little biased. I've been exposed to its beauty, its whimsy, and the wicked nice people it produces for 27 years. Maine is a warm bed, a feeling of relief, both privacy and community, a starlit sky, sand in your shoes, sap on your hands, and all other remnants of a good day.