Postcards from Billy (Oregon Coast)

Passing through Brookings, our last Oregon coastal town, so naturally we have stopped for petrol because they pump it for you here--it's terribly charming. We just stopped at the local sporting good store, where the really nice guy with a lonely, tusk-like bottom tooth directed us to Bi-Rite, where we got a hot plate, a colander, a wok, a knife sharpener, and some manicure supplies (it's the road, not some kind of cosmetic purgatory). He also told us about the Superfly Distillery across from Bi-Rite, where we did not go for a "delicious lunch and a damn good vodka." We still do not yet have a knife to sharpen, but we did find some pretty old silver forks and spoons and a dinner knife at the last antique store.

Ben is putting oil in the truck at the gas station where a sweet, lanky, shaggy-headed young man is filling our tank and admiring Billy. Our sample size is admittedly small--fewer than a half dozen--though it seems this town is primarily inhabited by the kind of smiling, kind-hearted, wild-toothed characters whom I would like as not-too-terribly distant neighbors.

Entering California, the road veers away from the sea for a spell, and suddenly all is pastoral, green, and warmed by the sun. It is as if the coastal storm through which we drove last night and to which we woke this morning had never happened at all. It is like the sky and the land stating in their most matter-of-fact tones that our new life is beginning.