One of the essentials of travel for a man my age is Ibuprofen. Strange beds conflict with my back. The long hours of driving have made my hamstrings disagreeable. It hurts to stretch down to tie my shoes. The relaxing effect of pain management is helping me get around in a pleasant state of mind.

Two full days of sightseeing behind us. Eight more to go. I have a large supply of Ibuprofen.

I have been thinking of almost nothing but lobster since we first started planning this trip. Fresh, succulent, buttery lobster. Lobster in dipping sauce. Warm bowls of lobster bisque. Lobster served in authentic New England rolls, which look almost exactly like authentic hotdog buns except they are sliced differently.

I’ve had lots of advice about how and where to eat lobster. My son-in-law threw in his two cents. I have had several suggestions from friends. I have even received FB notifications indicating the best places to eat lobster.

I have looked forward to lobster overload so much that I’ve been eating cheese-cracker-pepperoni hors d’oeuvres and grapes for lunch the last two days so I could justify the splurge. That, and the crackers make it easy to “fix lunch” in the truck without having to stop.

On our first day in Maine, we headed for the coast. We only have one ticketed event planned for a specific day later this week. And though we have several destinations in mind, we are mostly playing out this trip in a free style fashion. The coast just seemed to be the right thing when we got up that morning.

Just in the 30-minute ride down US Route 1 we saw exactly 342 restaurants advertising lobster. Little reddish-pink lobsters adorn nearly every restaurant sign along the roadsides in every direction. Lighted signs. Hand painted signs. Billboards. Inflatable lobsters tied to a post. Lobsters with big happy faces begging me to eat them.

Even while we were gawking through our camera lenses down at the shoreline near the small village of Winter Harbor, there were a half-dozen boats working out in the narrows between us and the islands. Clear, cold water. The north Atlantic on the horizon.

And what do you think those boats were doing? Hauling in lobster traps. What else?

After climbing over rocks and taking more pictures than anyone should ever take, we headed back up the winding road toward town. We passed a frou-frou looking restaurant. Too cute for our liking. Then, on the corner just down the street a little ways, we saw a white tent.

They had a small sandwich board standing out by the road. “FRESH MADE LOBSTER ROLLS” it said.

“You hungry?”

Marion knows that asking me this is like asking me if I’m breathing.

“Of course, I’m hungry.”

“You want a lobster roll?” she says.

“Yes. Where do we park?”

It turns out that the tent is set up in the parking lot of a restaurant that is closed. The same guy that owns the restaurant owns the tent. We asked him about his choice to move outside.

“More visibility,” he said quite matter-of-factly.

I have to admit, it got our attention.

There were three men working this roadside eatery. One guy in back handling the money. The owner behind a small cooker handling the prep and serve line. Then an older gentleman doing the greeting and taking the orders.

Our greeter wore a red rubber lobster hat with eyeballs on long tenacles that bobbed around every time he moved his head. Don’t think baseball cap. This was more like a hospital latex glove stretched and pulled over the crown of his head.

“How are you fine folks today,” says the man with the wayward lobster eyeballs.

He went on to explain in a clear and charming Maine accent that their lobster was fresh, the haddock sandwich was hot, and the blueberry pie was homemade. That was the entire menu. Which was fine with me since I’m here to eat lobster.

The lobster roll, by-the-way, boasts a full quarter pound of perfectly cooked lobster meat, lightly seasoned, and soaked in a butter bath guaranteed to make your taste buds slap your tongue.

“We’ll have one lobster roll. One fried haddock sandwich with tartar sauce on the side. And we might come back for pie.”

For the last several months I’ve been dreaming about this meal. And in my dreams, I’ve been calculating that eating lobster in Maine is surely going to be cheaper than one of these chain restaurant lobster meals that I’ve paid for in the past down home.

Lobster in Georgia is not natural. If a lobster is served in a restaurant at home, that lobster has to be caught somewhere up in this part of the country along the coast. Then, it has to be processed, maybe frozen, shipped in a box, sometimes shipped live with little rubber bands around their claws, prepared and served.

There’s a lot of money tied up in getting such a delicacy to a southern table. I get that.

I figured it this way. Maine has lobster everywhere. I just saw a couple of boats pulling in fresh lobster right out of the water. There’s no processing, no freezing, and the shipping is minimal. The lobster I’m about to eat could have been delivered in the back of a pickup truck to this very tent, just this morning, not even a mile from where it was caught.

Thusly, in my mind, lobster in Maine should be cheap, which should therefore pave the way for me to have lobster every day and as much of it as I want while I’m here.

It’s not a huge jump to say that my lobster cost/eat ratio calculations were off just a little bit. I severely underestimated the entrepreneurial spirit and the rule of supply and demand as applied by the guys who own little white tents up here.

I’m actually ashamed to tell you how much we paid for lunch. Two main entrees and one piece of pie. The lobster roll was no bigger than a hot dog. The other looked exactly like a fish sandwich at the local burger joint. Both were served in little cardboard boats, no different than the ones that French fries are served in at the high school football game.

Now, it was good food. Really good food. The lobster was to die for. The fried haddock was absolutely delicious. Even the blueberry pie was good.

But I’ll not be eating as much lobster as I thought I would be on this trip. Let’s just say that I could have bought two decent tickets to a Braves game for the same money that I paid for less than a half-pound of seafood served on bread.

I don’t care that the paper boats were cute. Or that a nice, older, funny man wore a lobster hat. I won’t have enough money to get home if I eat lobster every day like this.

Marion has reminded me, “We don’t come to Maine every day, ya know.”

She’s right. I know this.

Maybe I will have another lobster roll. I’ll ask her if I can borrow $50.