A small village on the east end

It felt as if I were trapped in a space where life had suddenly come to a halt—empty and still.

Leaving behind the crowds of tourist hotspots, we drove up the US Route 1 in Maine, heading all the way to Eastport, the easternmost town in the United States, near the Canadian border. The misty little islands reminded me of the scattered islands along the southern coast of Korea.

As we entered the quiet, hilly town center, it felt like stepping onto the set of an old Western film—except for the utility poles and a few scattered cars. Some of the old red-brick buildings, now mostly abandoned, shared the same architectural style as many public buildings in Brooklyn from the same era.

In a small park near the shore, old black-and-white photographs showed rows of women working in white uniforms. Signs told the story of the town’s former life—and its quiet decline.

In 1875, the first sardine cannery opened here. At its peak, there were 13 bustling companies bringing life and prosperity to the town. But as the industry gradually collapsed, residents left in large numbers, leaving Eastport a sleepy, fading port. It reminded me of northern Brooklyn along the East River, where I live now.

After the Civil War destroyed most sugar factories in the South, the world’s largest sugar refinery was built right under the Williamsburg Bridge. That was the Domino Sugar Factory, which operated for over 150 years before finally closing in 2004—like the last dinosaur drawing its final breath.

The old, oval-shaped smokestack and buildings, weathered and worn, still stand as they wait for a new chapter. Fortunately, in Brooklyn, many of those warehouses have found new life as trendy homes. But here in far-northeastern Eastport, there seems to be no clear vision for what could replace the once-thriving sardine industry.

The town has a clean, open sea that could attract tourists, but sadly, no sandy beaches—an unfortunate limitation. Maybe that’s why the drink I had on the balcony of our waterfront inn tasted a bit more bitter than usual.

We walked toward a red-brick warehouse with empty windows, its concrete pillars standing in the sea. Between the crumbling columns, the shallow waves slapping the shore mixed with the cries of seagulls created an eerie echo.

It almost sounded like the muffled noise of a once-busy town, now buried in time—or like the heavy sighs of the few remaining elderly residents mourning the past.