Mating Season
There’s an old saying that Maine has three seasons: winter, mud, and tourist. Summer doesn’t officially begin until June, but I know from my years working in the Old Port that tourist season starts in May, on Memorial Day Weekend.
By then, a fourth Maine season and its rituals have already started: mating season.
It gives me hope for the human race when the spring sun returns and we all go outside. There’s a strong impulse to see and be seen. In most cities this bubbles over into the bars, restaurants and breweries. Twenty- and thirty-somethings flock to whatever watering hole will have them; no patio is safe. And those who’ve spent the cold, dark winter alone start searching again for a buddy to bring to weeknight happy hours and day-drink with on Saturday afternoons.
Having grown up in Portland and spent my twenties trudging along its cobblestone streets, I’d like to think I know the scene and its rhythms pretty well. These days, with tourist season busier than ever, “the scene” is anywhere you can get in, and the hot spots are mostly the same spots that were hot 10 years ago, even those with different names.
When I turned 21, we went to the breweries. That’s how we learned to drink. Back then, East Bayside wasn’t what it is now. Industrial Way, out in Riverside, was the place to be on a Saturday.
We’d start at Allagash around 1, then walk down the way to Foundation, then around back to the original Austin Street. Usually there was a food truck in the parking lot and everyone would split something — a Kobayashi dog from Mami if we were lucky.
Once we’d hit all the breweries, whoever was the least tipsy — I mean, the preselected designated driver — would drive us to the Old Port. We’d start at the top, hit Hunt + Alpine for popcorn and a round of Green Eyes (if you know, you know), then work our way down.
Novare Res still has the best patio in town and the widest variety of beers. If we were craving more cocktails, we’d go to Blyth & Burrows a bit further down Exchange Street.
We avoided Wharf Street, unless we were prepared to run into our high school bullies, and even then there were places we wouldn’t be caught dead in. Mash Tun and Amigos were safe, and The Bar of Chocolate made us feel sophisticated. If you ever saw me in Oasis or Bonfire, no you didn’t. Maybe I’d venture to Rosie’s if friends from high school were in town, but begrudgingly.
If you’re reading this and thinking, That’s a lot of drinking and not a lot of eating, you’re not wrong. We were 21- and 22-year-olds, powered by lust and adrenaline. We got our calories from beer, the occasional Kobayashi dog, and free popcorn. Sometimes we’d split a hummus plate or something if we were really famished. If we were out late enough, we’d get tater tots drenched in cheese from The Blue Rooster, one of the many great Old Port late-night nosh spots lost to time and inflation.
Every weekend we did this. We’d don our best going-out tops from the Anthropologie or Urban Outfitters sale sections and put on so much mascara we could barely keep our eyes open. We’d go sit at picnic tables and on bar stools and in dark corners and wait for the loves of our lives to see us and save us from the drudgery of being young.
No one ever did. Not once in nearly a decade of mating seasons did a man approach me in a bar or give me his number. I never got so much as smoldering eye contact from across the room. Neither did my friends, unless they were lying to protect my feelings.
We went on first dates with guys from Bumble and then never heard from them again, or thought about messaging that one guy from high school on Facebook, or met each other’s guy friends during rare group hangs and talked about having crushes on them that never went anywhere. Maybe we were bad and left our numbers on receipts for bartenders a few times.
Mating season mostly winds down come August — the pressure of college and choosing what we wanted to be when we grew up would once again take over our lives.
This summer I’ll be raising a glass from the safety of my porch, unreachable after 8 p.m. If you’re out in the wild and see a gaggle of girls on their third round, sunburnt and underfed, leave them be. This is their season.
Emma Chance also writes The Overshare at emmachance.substack.com.
