Townie Staycation is a series spotlighting destinations around New England that make great day or weekend trips.
I often wonder how cities get their personality. No city emerges fully-formed from a factory, hammered into an archetypal mold. Its personality is shaped by geography, history, predominant trades, demographics – too many factors to count. Using these factors, travelers form a first impression and slot the city into a category they recognize and understand, like “quaint coastal town,” “gritty industrial center,” or “sterile suburban sprawl.”
Biddeford defies categorization.
Having become a little restless in my “quaint coastal town” in Massachusetts, I drove to Biddeford, Maine, for a weekend getaway. I knew almost nothing about the city, and assumed it would be similar to the coastal Maine communities I was familiar with.
When I arrived at The Lincoln Hotel, housed in a repurposed old mill building, I thought I could guess exactly what kind of city Biddeford was. Less than an hour later, I was proven entirely mistaken.
The Lincoln Hotel
If the Lincoln Hotel was a person, it would be a stylish urban socialite. I was immediately struck by the lobby’s “coolness,” balancing a chic, modern aesthetic with its industrial roots. My eye was drawn to the lobby bar, which wouldn’t feel out of place in a Manhattan cocktail lounge, and to the cozy library. Rather than sterile chandelier lights and marble floors, the lobby’s dim lighting and dark leather upholstery invite you to stay and hang out.
When the area’s textile production declined in the 1960s, many of Biddeford’s mill buildings were shuttered. These mills largely remained abandoned until 2015, when a restoration effort led to a citywide revitalization. The “Lincoln Mill,” which dates back to the 19th century, reopened as a hotel in 2022 with a clear respect for its working class roots.
At every turn, elements of its old identity are creatively incorporated into the hotel’s aesthetic, from exposed brick walls and salvaged machinery parts to names like the lobby’s Spinning Jenny’s Coffee Bar. There was even a wooden post in my bathroom that made me scratch my head, until I realized it was a remnant of the original mill.
When I tell you the rooms at the Lincoln are the most comfortable I’ve ever stayed in, it’s not because I’m easy to impress, or fond of hyperbole. It’s because I’m an incredibly sensitive sleeper. Since I need my bedroom to be as dark and cool as a cellar, I’ve become a connoisseur of blackout curtains and air conditioners. If you’re not careful, the curtains at The Lincoln will let you sleep till 2pm. The AC was easy to control and worked impeccably, and the bed (yes, third on my list of priorities) was comfortable without enveloping you into the mattress.
If you feel like crawling out of your cozy hibernation hole for a meal, just hop in the elevator. The hotel’s lower level is home to Batson River Brewing & Distilling, a full-blown restaurant with a bar as far as the eye can see. Refreshingly, you can tell this place isn’t just for hotel guests, but proves popular with the community too.
Much like an urban socialite with alluring perfume and a well-spun anecdote, the hotel certainly does its best to keep your attention. But try to resist the urge to spend your entire weekend at The Lincoln. Your impression of Biddeford would only be half-complete.
A city in transition
My preconceptions of Biddeford that had been formed in The Lincoln lobby were immediately thrown into doubt when I left the hotel. In stark contrast to the hotel, whose aesthetic had been carefully curated, downtown Biddeford was curated for no one. Walking down one road, I passed a pawn shop, second-hand vintage clothing store, upscale gin bar, and the office of U.S. Senator Susan Collins – all within a 45-second walk of each other. Brick mill buildings, many converted into shops and restaurants, seemed to anchor every corner; on one of them, a massive mural depicted a boy in a baseball cap crouched beside a chain-link fence, staring across a field.
After browsing some 90s-era bomber jackets at Biddeford Vintage Market, I stopped into Palace Diner for lunch. The Palace was built in 1927, and has the distinction of being the oldest diner car in Maine. You feel it the moment you walk in: there are no tables (just 15 counter seats), it’s cash only, and the car is so intimate you’d better prepare to get friendly with the person next to you. Given the limited seating, there’s often a wait, so I wandered to the shops across the street to kill time.
That’s how I stumbled upon Common Roots Studio, an artist collective that serves as a hub for local artists. When I walked in, I noticed everything from tie-dye T-shirts and coastal-themed paintings to handcrafted necklaces, coasters, and wood art. Nick, the owner, explained to me that this was more than just a shop selling local art — it gives artists a space to actually create, and even record music.
“We try to lift up local artists however we can,” he said. “Visiting artists keep 100% of everything they sell here.”
They’re also heavily involved in the community, often collaborating with other businesses on events to raise more awareness of the local arts scene. Nick’s passion for community arts is evident just by looking around the space, which I could have done for several hours. I had entirely forgotten my appetite until my phone buzzed, telling me my table at the Palace was ready.
Taking my seat at the counter felt like sitting down on a retro movie set. From the “Ice Cold Beer!” sign above the register to the dozen jars of ketchup on the shelf, and a billboard of foreign currency posted to the wall, the century-old diner oozed with character. Noticing the billboard of foreign currency, I took a Saudi Arabian 5 Riyal note – which had been in my wallet for three years – and gave it to the waitress, who tacked it up with the rest of the international bills. It was a reminder of just how many people had stepped into the diner’s long story over the years, and felt inspired to leave behind their own personal penstroke.
Leaving the diner, I walked a few blocks looking for a cafe where I could sit and work for the afternoon, and was almost run over by an old man on a moped, wearing a Viking helmet and aviator goggles from the 40s. Maybe he had just come from the Vintage Market.
Thankfully, the seating at Elements Books Coffee Beer was more abundant than the Palace Diner, and I didn’t feel guilty spending a few hours at the counter. True to its name, Elements is a coffee shop bookended (pun intended) by a bookstore, serving local craft beer. The walls on either side of the shop are lined with books – not just for the aesthetic, but actually for purchase. And because this little shop apparently needed more identities than just coffee, books, and beer, a four-piece band started setting up in the corner and the place turned into a live music venue.
As I listened to the music, I reflected on cities I had visited with a more developed tourism industry than Biddeford. Those places might have more upscale cocktail bars, wayfinding maps, cleaner streets, paid parking lots, and gift shops, but they also don’t have the same character. When a city is “up-and-coming,” that often means it’s transitioning from an artsy, bohemian culture to more gentrified, upscale living, exchanging street art for whitewashed walls, and quirky cafes for bougie smoothie bars. Tourism can certainly enliven and enrich a community, but it can also sanitize. Biddeford is often described as “up-and-coming,” though refreshingly, it hasn’t yet been sanitized; it’s lucky enough to be in the gritty, bohemian phase of its lifecycle, still very much defined by its color and character.
When I nearly got run over by the guy in the Viking helmet, my first thought wasn’t, “that clown should watch where he’s going.” It was, “I hope that clown is still here a decade from now.”
Hit the town to feel like a townie
I’ve always believed you can’t truly understand a city unless you talk to people who live there. When I wandered into The Martini Bar, which (silly me) I assumed would be a chill place to have a casual drink, I realized this was no classic cocktail lounge. The bouncer at the door was my first clue, the blue strobe lights were my second, and the third was the radio blaring Flo Rida’s “Low.”
It took less than five minutes after I sat at the bar for the bartender, a tattooed girl in her 20s, to say, “you’re not from here, are you?”
“What gave it away?”
“Well, it’s the same crowd every week, and I’ve never seen you before.”
Usually, I’m the “regular” at my local bar. Now the shoe was on the other foot, and I could somewhat anonymously get an outsider’s perspective on the local dive.
“Is this usually where people start their night?” I asked the bartender, whose name was Brynn.
“Yeah, after this is Mulligans, which is kind of the college spot. Then everyone ends at Champions. They have karaoke.”
Perhaps taking pity on my outsiderness, an older man included me in a round of shots. I was excited to have made a friend, but moments later he stumbled off into the night, never to be seen again.
“He always does that,” Brynn said, shaking his head.
A few minutes later, a different guy came from the adjoining room with a tray of pizza – there was a pizza place directly next door – plopped it down on the bar, and invited the whole room to, “dig in!”
“Does he always do that?” I asked.
“I wish,” Brynn laughed.
From The Martini Bar I headed to Mulligans, which, just as Brynn had said, was crawling with students from the nearby University of New England. After spending 30 minutes listening to a Junior regale me with tales of his basketball heroics, and tragic ankle sprain, I fell in with a friendly group who was going to Champions Sports Bar, the karaoke bar down the street. The line for karaoke looked about 60 people long, so I wouldn’t be singing my rendition of Backstreet Boys’ “I Want it That Way” that night (disappointing for me, fortunate for the masses).
“Wanna come with us to the last call bar?” my newfound friends asked me.
Turns out, the last call bar is a gay bar, and everyone – regardless of sexual persuasion – flocks there at the end of the night for their final drink. We piled into a girl’s cluttered Honda Accord, drove two blocks, and arrived at Velvet Lounge. There, I nursed a Sun Cruiser while talking to a woman in a massive overcoat and 20s-era tiara, who thought the Moon Landing was fake.
At the end of the night, they drove me back to The Lincoln. Passing through the chic lobby felt like coming out of a sauna into the brisk, refreshing night air. Drawing the blackout shades and sinking into the comfortable bed, I was eternally thankful for my luxurious oasis in the heart of this “up-and-coming” – though still refreshingly gritty – city.
It’s remarkable how quickly you can go from feeling like an outsider to a local in Biddeford. Everyone, from the Lincoln Hotel staff to Brynn the bartender, made me feel like a townie; like I could move there tomorrow and slide easily into the social scene; quickly become a regular at the Palace or Elements; get on a first-name basis with bartenders. Ultimately, I realized it doesn’t matter how cities get their personality. It only matters that they keep it. Whatever Biddeford’s next phase might be, I hope it retains its character, its edge, and its heart, and continues to defy categorization.
Eben Diskin
Editor, The Townie
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