The door to the dining room was closed, but the man from Florida barged right in. Just minutes before the Northeast Harbor hotel dining room opened, waitresses in blue polyester dresses and waiters looking like penguins in black pants, white shirts, and bow ties scampered around the large yellow room, setting tables, filling water pitchers, polishing silverware.

The man from Florida scanned the dining room. His right arm hung by his side, weighed down by a Rolex the size of a turtle. His skin was the color of butterscotch pudding. After briefly discussing with me, the dining room manager, what table he expected to be seated at, he asked, “What’s the name of that lake?”

We both looked at the harbor. It was filled with sailboats and a few lobster boats, piled high with traps. The salty scent of the ocean was in the air, and I even heard the clang, clang, clang of a bell buoy. I was experienced in the strange ways of tourists, but this question caught me off guard.

“Um,” I stammered, “the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Of course,” he said, brusquely, and dashed off to his room to change for dinner.

Ah, tourists. Like kids, they say (and do) the darnedest things.

But with the fall foliage season ebbing, it’s time to take stock of who this species is that invades our state, beginning on Memorial Day, arriving in aircraft-carrier-sized RVs, in clothes that would make a golfer blush?

Over the years, I have been a careful observer of tourists, taking note of their habits, their customs, their manners, much like a field scientist living in New Guinea studying Pygmy tribes. I have come to a conclusion that some may question, even call controversial.

Tourists are people, too.

It’s sometimes hard to see this, because their behavior clouds our judgment. They crowd our narrow roads with their RVs, turn left with their car blinker pointing right, videotape rocks and buildings, and imitate (poorly) a Maine accent, peppering their conversations with “ayuhs.”

Of course, this isn’t everyone who visits our fair state. Most visitors are well-behaved, appreciative of local culture, and respectful of the people who live here year-round. Some tourists even end up moving here, because they love Maine, the people and the place.

But there are clearly a number of tourists who, well, leave an impression. Some examples:

. Tourists who dress oddly: For some reason, tourists who, back in, say, Bloomington, Ind., dress in conservative gray slacks, white shirts, and blue blazers, go on vacation and make strange fashion choices. For example: pairing colorful Bermuda shorts with sandals and black socks, pulled all the way up to the knee. It’s hard to imagine how you would make this choice.

Husband: “Hey, Marge, do the black socks I wear to my bank meeting go with these mauve and ochre shorts you bought me in Key West?”

Wife (not listening): “Of course, honey.”

. Tourists who drive strangely: This is the most common type of tourist. They somehow never seem to know where they’re going. They slow down, start turning left, then reverse to the right only to shift back to the left before finally continuing straight. An NFL running back would be fortunate to have such slippery moves.

Tourists also seem drawn down streets that say “Wrong Way,” or park next to signs that say “No Parking.”

Of course, driving can be challenging, in particular for RV drivers. In July, I saw an RV the size of a Greyhound bus pulling a Cadillac Escalade pickup truck. Imagine having to try to park that puppy. Docking the QE II would be child’s play compared to that.

. Tourists who are enthusiastic: Tourists quite often talk about the place as if everything needs to be punctuated with several exclamation points.

Friend: “Did you like Acadia?”

Tourist: “IT WAS AMAZING!!! YOU’VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE THAT!!!”

Friend: “Did you have lobster?”

Tourist: “OH, YES!!! IT WAS INCREDIBLE!!! THERE’S NO EXPERIENCE LIKE THAT, LET ME TELL YOU!!”

These are the people who get so excited about what they’re seeing that they actually take photographs out the window of moving vehicles. Yes, still photographs out of a moving vehicle. (I don’t think this is a photography skill that Ansel Adams or Eliot Porter would approve of.)

When I travel, however, I must say, this is how I behave. Everything seems so wonderful, the landscape, the air, the water, the traffic signs, McDonald’s. When I arrive back home, I gush about my trips with all the reserve and restraint of a carnival barker.

. Tourists who are not enthusiastic: Once, years ago in Arizona, two friends and I hiked down to a plateau overlooking the Grand Canyon. We ate lunch there, overlooking one of the great vistas of the American landscape.

Tourists traveling on donkeys arrived at this lookout. A woman in a pink pantsuit with white heels hopped off her donkey. She ambled over to the viewpoint and looked down. She shrugged her shoulders.

“Looks like a big ditch,” she said, and lit a cigarette.

. Tourists who ask odd questions: In late July, my wife and I hiked Mount Katahdin. Halfway down the Knife Edge, a narrow, rock ridge that falls off approximately a thousand feet on each side, we encountered a nice young couple from Baltimore. We chatted with them a bit about the weather, the view of Katahdin, the steepness of the trail, before the man casually asked us, “So … where are we?”

These are a few of the more common classifications of tourists, although there are, of course, many more. But I have come up with an explanation for these odd behaviors.

Tourists are away from their natural habitat.

They’re away from home.

They’re away from their familiar landscape, away from their favorite coffee shop, away from their local hardware store, away from their streets, neighbors, landmarks, all the cornerstones of home. This is why people travel in RVs. They want to bring a bit of home with them.

So, loosened from their own bearings, they make some questionable decisions. Like thinking seagulls are cute and should be fed, all the time. Like buying an “I Love Bar Harbor” T-shirt and wearing it in Bar Harbor.

Of course, anyone who travels knows this displaced feeling. It’s disorienting being in an unfamiliar place. You don’t know the lay of the land, you don’t know the rules, the customs, the way of life. I remember once traveling in Europe with my wife and some friends when I ordered a cappuccino after lunch. This is apparently not done. Our European friends acted just as shocked as if I had announced that I was leaving my wife.

It’s easier to stay home, easier to stay where everything is familiar, where everyone knows your name. It’s harder to travel, harder to pursue new places, harder to explore unknown regions and roads.

So now when tourists ask me to “do” my Maine accent or cut me off in traffic or ask me to take a picture of them in front of the Paul Bunyan statue, I try to remember this and practice a little patience.

But I do have one simple request.

Please … no more black socks with shorts and sandals. It’s too much.

Mark Condon is a freelance writer based in Bangor and can be reached at mcondon40@yahoo.com.