I wasn’t sure which way the political wind was blowing. Next morning we got a call from the manager of the restaurant, who said I had left my reading glasses on the table. We stopped by Saturday afternoon and it was closed, so I knocked on the front door. No answer. I knocked again. Then the door opened, and it was clear that all the men standing just inside had been listening to me knock. I asked for my glasses and the bartender handed them over. The other guys just stood there.

There I was with six Secret Service agents staring at me, and I didn’t get it; my news antennae were dead. And those guys aren’t hard to spot: Young, obsessive and worried-looking, the agents in Bar Harbor dressed down, in khakis and T-shirts, but they just didn’t look that relaxed.

Later Saturday night, we were heading out of town to dinner when we passed Havana again. Roadblock. State troopers. I was driving, but not for long. I left the car running with my husband in the passenger seat and jumped into the crowd. A Secret Service agent “wanded” all of us in the group. He said, “If the president comes to say hello, let him reach out his hand to you. And please keep your hands where I can see them.”

As he walked into the restaurant with his wife, Obama did not look as if he’d just sent Hillary Clinton to manage a crisis in Afghanistan and was agonizing over the leak in the gulf and struggling with the depressed job market. He looked relaxed and casual in a light blue shirt and slacks. I wanted to shout, “Order the paella, Mr. President,” and as it turns out, he did.

What I learned on my summer vacation was that Americans are basically very good, open-hearted people. Those standing on the sidewalk, waving to the president, clearly felt proud of him and of our country. We all wished him good luck and godspeed, no matter how we voted, because if he does well, we will, too.