More of my idiosyncratic logic: Before last month, I’d been to Portland, Oregon, but I’d never been to Portland, Maine, and that would never do. I rectified the situation early on the afternoon of April 15 as I traversed Maine near the coast, partly on US 1. It was a short visit, so I focused on the historic downtown of Portland, known as the Old Port, even though I understand it still has elements of a working port.

Still, much of the Old Port is indeed old buildings, many handsomely repurposed for one sort of retail or another in our time. Wander around only a short time, and the overall impression is bricks. Everywhere bricks. Buildings of various sizes and shapes.

Even buildings of various vintages, made of bricks. Most are older buildings, or course, built one brick after another by masons themselves long gone. But their expert brickwork abides.

There are newer brick buildings too. At least, I think they’re newer — some of these buildings might be a combination of older structures with newer additions. It’s a little hard to tell. But anyway, more bricks.

Streets paved with bricks.

Sidewalks paved with bricks.

That one was a little tricky to walk. But I was paying attention.

Among the bricks and other hard surfaces, other details.

It was in Portland that I began to get a sense of the strength of Maine’s regional identity. Growing up in Texas, I know expressions of regional identity when I see them, and I saw a lot in Maine.

Texas has the longhorn. Maine has the lobster.