How did Rockport manage to put itself on my travel map? I was simply looking for a place to spend Memorial Day weekend — somewhere to give my summer a proper kickoff.
After lengthy conversations with ChatGPT, my AI tool and faithful travel companion these days (I’d like to think we both enjoyed them), it narrowed the options down to a small coastal town on the Atlantic shore.
It was far more excited about this trip than I was. I have to admit that the older I get, the harder it is to get excited about any travel destination that doesn’t happen to be Norway or New Zealand.
The flight was long, the aircraft was new and modern, and the movie selection was rather meh… But even before landing in Boston, I started noticing subtle differences in people: the way they look, how they dress, how they talk. They’re a little more slender, their skin a little fairer. They seem to love their navy vests, and they don’t appear particularly concerned that “Everything is bigger in Texas.”
By the time I walked out of the airport terminal and boarded the free (!) public transportation shuttle, I had the distinct feeling that I was entering a different country — especially when you plan to travel from one town to another without a car.
The ticket agent at North Station was also strangely polite. He patiently overexplained everything and then asked us a question: “Why Rockport? First-time Boston tourists don’t usually know about this place.” He did convince us to buy a weekend commuter rail pass, though, which turned out to be a smart idea.
The train itself was rather old — almost like something from my old country. The ride felt like traveling through another country as well: endless stretches of red brick, towns where people actually take trains, and skies that could probably use a little more sun and a little more blue.
After more than an hour on the train, I stepped onto the platform and felt as if I had entered yet another country — one where the world slows down and surrounds you with such peaceful silence that you don’t want to disturb it by walking too fast. So off we went, quietly rolling our suitcases and taking it all in. The farther we walked from the station and the closer we got to the shore, the grander the houses became and the more magnificent the flower beds appeared.
Then I stopped. There it was: a familiar flowering shrub — lilac. I leaned in and caught its scent. It was insane. A smell from home. From my childhood summers. From the place where I came from. For a moment, I wasn’t standing on a quiet street in coastal Massachusetts. I was somewhere far away, many years ago. Oh, my love, could I take you back to Texas with me?
Soon enough, we reached the harbor, where the buildings became even more storybook-like, and I had to admit that I had been wrong about not being excited enough. Because yes, Rockport, you are a cutie, and we’re going to have a wonderful time together. You’ll see.
We ended up staying in one of those pastel-painted wooden houses, and another pleasant surprise was waiting for us there: a perfect harbor view from the living room, the kind that promises a classic New England coastal fantasy. The same view greeted us from the kitchen window, and I found myself getting excited every single time I washed the dishes. In fact, I briefly considered a career change. Maybe I should get a job here as a dishwasher, just so I could look at that harbor all day long.
I couldn’t wait to explore the harbor, and off we went, diving right into it. The ticket agent might have been wrong. There were plenty of tourists — Paris-level crowds at times. Every little fishing shack seemed to have been transformed into either an art gallery or a souvenir shop. But gosh, those shacks were cute. I could practically see everyone’s Instagram feeds exploding. Mine would be joining them soon enough. And honestly, I didn’t mind. Especially, now when the day-trippers eventually boarded their trains and headed home. Now when Rockport began to quiet down, and we had its streets almost to ourselves during blue hour. Now when we managed to get the best seats in town at Fleur Cuisine for dinner.
And that was the evening, and then was the morning and the day number 2 when I found myself on the empty streets, shopping for the breakfast croissant, dreaming what my mornings would be if I actually lived here.
The weather was not very cooperative for anything related to a summer kickoff. So, exploring nearby towns and museums was a smart rainy day idea. We ended up going to Salem, where we did get a portion of a witch trial history, red brick streets, and unsuccessful attempts to buy a decent grocery store. Ok, Salem does have a place in the East Coast Hall of Fame. It’s historic, haunted, buttoned up and well put together. Maybe it will speak to me at some other time, and probably in a different weather. But this time my mind was too focused on Rockport.
I would rather stay in that pastel-painted wood house, wash the dishes in the kitchen looking at the fairy- tale view, and spend time in that leather armchair with some travel book. All that happened that evening, and then there was the morning of day three when Rockport did show me another face. It was the morning fog.
What a time to be in such a place. Like the town wanted to tell a different story and again it was no one on the streets, just Rockport and me. Another cafe for croissants, the fish market for baked salmon, and another dream of another life.
The weather was not cooperating again and the plan to visit Gloucester and Manchester by the Sea was flooded by pouring rain and turned into wet feet, wet clothes, and an hour wait for the train to Boston, where we were supposed to be saved by dry shoes, hot soup, and anything we needed to be dry. By the time we got to Boston, the sky cleared, the sun shone up, and whatever was wet became dry. So we just ended up wandering Boston streets, looking at the shopping madness of Newbury Street, and did get some real food at Trader Joe’s.
Clearly, Boston did deserve more time than I was willing to give it this time. You could tell that that city did work hard to become itself— and maybe that’s why it felt a little snobby. It felt like it did have expectations for the visitors too. We weren’t quite ready for each other this time, but my daughter was happy. Boston was like her first love where she went with a friend on her first adult senior trip last year.
On the way back to Rockport, looking at the sunny scenery along the railroad, I was praying to be on time to catch some of that sunny weather in town. And my prayers were answered. I did get to see yet another face of Rockport. When the white painted trims of the wooden houses look a lot more cheerful in the sun, and when the local flower beds appear even more splendid. Not to mention the sunset at the harbor, where everyone is trying to get the best seats on the shore. Although Rockport is facing East. So it’s not a sunset city; it’s a city of sunrise, and the best one was yet to come.
Apparently, I had either suffered through too much New England rain or worked too hard for Rockport, because on my last morning I received my reward in all its glory. Waking up at 5 a.m. and seeing cotton candy sky over the harbor, I was ready to celebrate all the splendid views I could find. I ended up wandering the streets, peeking out of every corner, looking into the horizon and saw all the magic happening. It felt as though Rockport was generously waving me farewell in the best way it knew how. For some reason, the photographs I took that morning remain my favorite travel photos I have ever taken. I still don’t know why.
Maybe it was the light.
Maybe it was the sky.
Maybe it was the town.
Maybe I will never know, but I will remember it for a long time.
That happened to be my first trip to New England, and now I know it won’t be my last.
Many years ago, when I told a friend that I was moving to the United States and settling in Texas, he dismissed the idea immediately. “Come on,” he said. “All the life is on the East Coast.” I ignored him. And honestly, New England would have ignored my bank account too. It does want something from you in return. Considerable something. You have to earn your place there in more ways than one.
Maybe that’s why Texas has been my home for twenty-seven years now. But right after visiting Rockport, I started thinking maybe the East Coast is the place where I might belong. Not because “All the life is in here”, but because, damn, that lilac does smell like home. Far too much..
