It could be seen as overly simplistic to end an a geocultural exploration of America where many of its ideals first set foot on the continent’s shores (or at least where the story often starts)… but in a country defined by rampant change, I find myself returning to the place who’s identity seems most constant.

The streets, the homes, the covered bridges, the small churches… everything feels preserved exactly the way it was when Europeans first got there, an living museum of cultural history. Its history is physical — we picked our way through the artefacts of a colonial America in the Athenaeum of St. Johnsbury VT, in the antique shops of Kennebunkport ME, in the homes of old witches in Salem MA.

It’s the hermits in the mountains, the old-money upper-class summering on the chilled Atlantic shores, the book-worms in Harvard Square — they all seem to share a quiet sense of confidence that they figured out a better way to live a hundred years ago, a contentment they’ve used to shelter themselves from the changing winds. The lighthouses that guided wayward sailors to its shores still stand today, with the communities that support them ready to guide our national spirit back when we’ve lost our way.