On my day off, I'm heading out on a date with my favorite state, to the neighboring tourist town of Freeport. It's precisely because of this feature that it appears on maps and in brochures more often than Yarmouth, even though it's barely larger in population or size.
Sometimes in these brochures, a single leather boot is drawn where Freeport should be, labeled: L.L.Bean. Or not labeled at all, because for Mainers, this symbol needs no explanation. It—just like the famous bags and everything else with the brand logo—is synonymous with 100% quality. For those of us who don't know, let me explain. Exactly one hundred years ago, in July 1912, a shoe factory opened in little Freeport. The quality of the boots was the top priority, and over time, L.L.Bean earned a reputation as a reliable firm whose products last for decades. Nowadays, proof of this is their lifetime guarantee: if the quality of a boot fails, it will be exchanged for an identical one for free, after any (!!) number of years. The company grew, specializing in goods for travelers, athletes, hunters, and fishermen. It has long since ceased to be just a shoe company, and the huge boot in front of the entrance serves as little more than an object for tourist photos. Inside, in addition to the departments mentioned, there is clothing, pet supplies, all kinds of souvenirs, and its own cafe, where even the coffee has the branded "L.L.Bean" on the packaging. It is precisely this "brand identity," the fact that everything is made right here and often by hand, that distinguishes this shopping center from the rest. And also its appearance. Those who have been to foreign malls (or to a local IKEA in Russia) know how blindly similar they are to one another. Each of the L.L.Bean buildings is distinguished by some special flair, take the door handles for example. Yes, I forgot to mention that there are several such buildings, including some outside the city, and L.L.Bean centers exist all over America. And it is strange and somehow pleasant to realize that it all started in this modest town in your state, fifteen minutes' drive from work and home.
You could say that Freeport consists of one main street where all the shops are located. You can walk from one end to the other in 15 minutes without stopping. If you do stop—in all the souvenir shops, cafes, and shopping centers—you would have to walk for seven years, like in the Hermitage.
I spent only seven hours, and for the first time, that was quite enough. Partly because I didn't buy anything, but I admit that resisting the values of consumer society in Freeport is quite difficult.
Besides L.L.Bean, there is the so-called "Freeport Village," where, contrary to the name, outlets of global retail chains are gathered, such as Reebok, Calvin Klein, etc. ("Etc." means very famous chains... um... what are they called again...). The prices in them are reduced significantly and, even without considering the fame of the brand, are very reasonable. I tried on some clothes, which I hadn't done in a long time, but that was about it.
The real excitement happened in the L.L.Bean building dedicated to bicycles. Yes, I'm quite the racer now. Can you imagine a floor where bicycles are hung from all the ceilings, and also placed on the floors and blocking the walls in some places? It's a blast, until you look at the prices. But they didn't upset me too much; I wasn't planning on buying a bicycle anyway, but it's a pity that the helmets are out of reach. I was thinking: what if a helmet costs around 10 dollars? But it turned out to be all 50. So, it's my fate to ride without one; it's no big deal, the main thing is that the police don't stop you for it, I found that out today and a weight was lifted off my shoulders.
The real drooling starts with all the little things, for which you don't even always know the use. I can't explain what it is, but it's terribly pleasant to wander past shiny new wires, keys, and screws of unknown purpose with the learned air of an expert. Of these, I actually do need one thing, specifically, an anti-theft lock with which a bicycle can be tied to special racks in the parking lot, or just to anything at all. The proximity of Freeport has sparked a persistent desire to visit it myself on my own two (wheels), and without such a thing, you can't leave the owner's bicycle.
You can get stuck in souvenir shops for five of the seven years allotted to us, but it's better not to. Here, the virus of consumer society reaches its maximum risk level. Moose, lobsters, blueberries, seagulls, sailboats, lighthouses, and other local attributes in the form of keychains, magnets, figurines, on t-shirts, mugs, books, underwear, and everything in the world look very cute and attractive, but thank God I have enough strength to understand that they are not needed at all.
Of course, in the new city, I immediately found a McDonald's. My attachment to this company is reaching some new heights that I am surprised by myself. Be that as it may, thanks to it, I understood and felt an important thought—that you need to love your work, and when that is the case, a person is very happy. And the Mac in Freeport is large and overly elegant for America and McDonald's, more like a European mansion with very good taste, or a sanatorium building in Crimea.
By the way, a lot of attention is now paid to the appearance of buildings. Freeport strives for the look and lifestyle of a "village," so all houses must be painted in pastel colors. When a veterinary clinic painted itself neon pink a few years ago, a wave of fierce indignation arose, with which, however, nothing could be done. The clinic still stands, because the law on building colors was passed after that (actually, because of this precedent).
This pink irritant is located at the exit from Freeport, and it really does slightly disrupt the impression, causing confusion. And the impression is good. Although, perhaps, it will remain the only one from this trip—after all, I didn't buy a bicycle lock;)
