Getting there from here | The time-honored exercise of giving and getting directions, Maine-style
With Maine’s tourist season in full swing, it’s probably time to review some basic, time-honored Maine customs long practiced in our state’s tourist circles, which, as we know, can sometimes be more confusing than our popular, laugh-a-minute traffic circles.
Even in this highly sophisticated age of onboard GPS-like gizmos, most of us here in Maine still come in contact with wandering tourists when they finally give up on satellite systems and are forced to ask one of us locals for directions. At these times, members of the tourist class are generally the least dangerous, and we natives can have some innocent fun with them.
Anyone who’s been by the side of the road and has encountered tourists, knows that there’s no end to the types of things that they’ll want directions to. Some might want to know if you know Stephen King, and, if so, could you introduce them? I’ve been asked if I knew where Andrew and Jamie Wyeth hung out in the summer, and if they might be able to catch one of them outdoors doing a painting somewhere nearby.
Which leads, logically, to Custom Number One:
Mainers never say one word more than necessary when doing something like giving directions. Most tourists have heard all the stories about how we’re people of few words, so we shouldn’t disappoint them.
There was once a well-to-do tourist from the Back Bay section of Boston who went into a country store up north to get his bearings from the clerk. He said, “If I take that road to the left in front of your store, my good man, where will my wife, Muffy, and I end up?”
The clerk thought a minute and then simply said, “Mooselookmeguntic.”
“Okay,” said the fella from Boston’s Back Bay, “what if we took the road to the right? Where does that go?
“Mattawamkeag,” said the clerk.
“And if I took the road that goes straight?” asked the Back Bay tourist.
Without skipping a beat, like he had said it a few times before, the clerk said, “Wytopitlock.”
Annoyed, the tourist said, “Well, thank you very much.”
He left the store, got back in his Expedition and Muffy said, “Well, do you know where we are now?”
“Heck, no!” the man said. “Guy in there doesn’t speak a word of English!”
Back home, giving directions was more than just a diversion; it was a well-honed craft, a small cottage industry.
Which leads to Custom Number Two:
When us Mainers give out information to tourists, we try to get a little information in return. Which brings to mind the time I was sitting on Murray Seavey’s front porch and another couple from Massachusetts, who had long-since given up on the information their GPS was giving out, stopped for directions to Bangor.
Murray, a direction-giver of world-class standing, started right off giving one direction after another. The wife, on the passenger side, punched every word he said into her iPhone. (That’s a tourist — get everything in writing or into your iPhone.)
When Murray was done the wife zapped her window up and off they went in their fancy German car.
Five minutes later the same couple, in the same car, stopped in front of Murray’s house again.
You see, Murray had directed them up one side of town, across the river, then back down the other side of town and back across the river — in one complete circle.
When the wife realized what he had done, she zapped her window down and proceeded to give Murray a tongue lashing so severe the paint on the front of his house began to crack and blister. Murray hadn’t heard such language since the last Fourth of July parade, when a draft horse stepped on the Baptist minister’s foot.
When the wife was done her tirade, she demanded an apology from Murray for directing them around the town like that.
Murray refused. He said he wouldn’t apologize for anything.
Then he said: “Listen de-ah, I just wanted to make sure that the two of you could follow my directions before I wasted my time directing you all the way over there to Bangor. Now that I’ve seen how clever you are, I’d be glad to direct you.”
Well, they didn’t want to hear any more from Murray. The husband slammed the pedal to the metal and off they went with their tires squealing and sand and gravel flying in all directions.
After things quieted down a bit Murray turned to me and said, “It just proves once again that some people just don’t know how to take directions.”
John McDonald, an author, humorist and storyteller who performs throughout New England, can be reached at mainestoryteller@yahoo.com.
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