I usually fly when I travel, but this time I decided to drive to Portland, Maine. It gave me an excuse to swing through Philadelphia and visit my parents and family. I don’t get to Philly nearly enough, so it felt good to sit around familiar tables, hear old stories, and enjoy that unmistakable Philly energy before heading north.

If I could describe Portland in one line, I’d say it’s one of those iconic northeastern fishing towns that feels pulled straight from a painting — rugged, salty, historic, and proud. Maine has always had that reputation for producing serious, no-nonsense people, the kind formed by hard winters and harder work. They were the most feared fighters of the Civil War for a reason. There’s a conscience to them — a toughness paired with a sense of duty. And you can feel that everywhere in Portland.

It’s an old whaling town, an old naval town, an old fishing town. It’s also home to the very first U.S. lighthouse, commissioned by George Washington himself — a detail that adds an extra layer of that early-American mystique. I stayed at the Inn at St. John’s, the oldest inn in town, dating back to the late 18th or early 19th century. The architecture still holds its original character, and walking those creaking floors felt like stepping into a world where whaling vessels were still setting out to sea at dawn. You could almost smell the tar and saltwater in the boards.

Every morning I’d walk down into the port — busy, loud, full of life. Trendy restaurants and breweries lined the waterfront, mixed in with working boats heading out and coming in. Portland is a real foodie town, no question about it. The restaurants were incredible: fresh seafood stews, fish pulled straight from the Atlantic, potato donuts that should be illegal, and blueberries everywhere — peak season, bursting with sweetness.

I went on a ghost tour, too — because any old port city worth its salt has legends and spirits to share. Portland didn’t disappoint: ship captains, tragic lovers, sailors who never made it home. The next day I took a historic bus tour to learn about the city’s long maritime life and its iconic lighthouses. I had planned to stay in Portland the entire week, but some ship issues forced a detour to Kennebunkport so I could switch vessels for a whale-watching trip.

Turned out to be one of the highlights of the whole journey.

It was a small boat — maybe 15 people — with an onboard eco-scientist who, to my surprise, graduated from George Mason University. We ended up seeing 20 to 30 whales. Huge, magnificent animals rising and falling like breathing mountains. I learned more about whales in three hours than I had in my entire life, and the group on board was warm, curious, and full of stories. Afterward I explored Kennebunkport, a quaint, charming town with its own deep maritime history. I took a boat out near Walker Point where the Bush compound sits — multiple houses for different family members, plus a Secret Service house guarding the entry. Even from the water you can sense the weight of American history there.

The next morning I went out on a lobster boat. We pulled up 14 traps and I learned the rhythms of the lobstermen — the early mornings, the reading of currents, the careful handling of each lobster, the sizing, the banding, the release of juveniles to keep the population thriving. It’s tough, honest work, and you gain a real respect for the people who do it.

Midweek I got an unexpected email from my old Army buddy, Adam Ramsell — we were stationed in Europe together. He lived close by so I took an Uber to his house to visit with him and his family. We had dinner together, a meal that somehow managed to hit every nostalgic note: venison appetizers, fresh lobster salad, and a schnitzel that took us right back to our days overseas. We finished with a huge slice of fresh blueberry pie — hands down the best I’ve ever had. It was a great night, full of old memories and laughter, the kind of reunion that fills your tank in a way nothing else does.

On my last day I explored more of the port. Great shopping, great energy. Picked up some gifts for my daughters. Even got a haircut from a 90-year-old barber who’s been cutting hair for 70 years — and he still had a steadier hand than most barbers half his age. Took a lighthouse boat tour, too — 15 or 16 of them, scattered along the coastline like stone guardians. Owls perched on rocky outcrops, sea lions lounging in the sun. Those lighthouses stand as monuments to the centuries of seafaring life that built this corner of the world.

It was a fantastic week. Portland lived up to every expectation and then some. But, as always, I was glad to return home to the quiet mountains of Virginia. I always miss them when I’m away.

Next up? A journey that will be very different. I’ll be traveling to Poland — to Krakow, Auschwitz, and Birkenau. A trip I expect will be heavier, quieter, and more reflective. Some places feed the soul with beauty. Others remind you why remembrance matters. Poland, I know, will do both