Why Downeast Maine Reminds Me of Beirut, Lebanon. (Spoiler alert: it's not the potholes.)
People are skeptical when I tell them that living in Downeast Maine reminds me of living in Beirut, Lebanon. But I mean it sincerely. These two places look very different on paper, yet they share some deep traits, and it's those shared elements that make me excited to bring 20 years of international experience to small businesses and non-profits on the Blue Hill Peninsula.
What do they have in common? Rough roads, frequent blackouts, delicious food, a dramatic coastline, and people with grit, resilience, and a strong entrepreneurial spirit. But the thing I loved most about Beirut is the same thing I love about Downeast Maine: a fierce sense of community. People take care of each other, show up for one another, and are proud to call this place home.
There are other, quirkier similarities too. In both places, people give directions using physical landmarks rather than street addresses, and sometimes those landmarks are no longer actually there.
It took me months to figure out how to direct a taxi to my apartment in Beirut, which was tucked down a maze of one-way streets. I'd give the address and the dispatcher would say, "Yes, yes – but what is it next to?" I was stumped.
Then one day, a colleague got the same blank look on her face when I tried to explain where to drop me off. When we finally turned onto my street, she smiled with sudden recognition. "Oh, of course — this is where the Rizkallah gas station used to be!" I asked how long ago. She told me it was destroyed in the 70s during the war – nearly 20 years before she was born.
The next time I called a taxi, I tried it. "Turn where the Rizkallah gas station used to be." The dispatcher didn't skip a beat. "Yalla, we'll send someone now." I had cracked the code.
Directions in Maine often feel the same. "Take a right where the oak tree was, before the Allen place." (The tree came down in a 1954 hurricane. The Allens lived there three owners ago.)
These kinds of directions point to something deeper: people in these communities have roots that go back generations, and they're proud of it. The landmarks that make a place knowable are etched into collective memory long after they're physically gone. Drawing your own map of these emotional signposts – even those from before your time – is a sign that you've begun to make a place your own. That you've become part of the fabric.
I ended up living in Lebanon for five years, managing a USAID-funded grant-making program. I worked with local organizations across the country to make meaningful change in their communities – renovating public spaces damaged by war, using art and culture to bridge divides, and training nonprofits and activists to advocate for the issues that mattered most.
My international work took me across the Middle East and Eastern Europe: significant time in the Occupied Palestinian Territories and Ukraine, and shorter assignments in Egypt, Jordan, Georgia, Kosovo, Serbia, and Yemen. Again and again, I saw the same thing: organizations doing vital work, held back by the operational weight of running themselves.
That's where I came in: building teams, writing grants, facilitating strategic planning, leading training – the capacity-building work that frees organizations to focus on what they do best: their mission, their craft, and serving their community. I'm excited to bring that same approach to supporting and empowering small businesses and non-profits through Waxwing Business, and to do it in a community I'm proud to call home.
At Waxwing Business, we help mission-driven organizations build the systems, infrastructure, and executive capacity they need to thrive. We embed alongside leadership teams — not as outside consultants, but as working partners invested in long-term outcomes.
— Oriana Wuerth, Partner, Waxwing Business
