The Swedish firecracker and I are now in the middle of nowhere somewhere between Portland Oregon and San Francisco. The small town we are camped up in is one of many almost identical towns along coast highway 101. The vast empty spaces of southern Oregon and northern Californian apparently allow people to spread the little towns out as wide as possible. Every place you stop is build up by blocks and square streets. In the smallest town, where their might be 1500 inhabitants, there are maybe fifteen gas stations, ten fast-food joints and the obligatory antique shop. Everywhere you find these gad damn antique shops. Something’s are not meant to be sold twice.
Our trusted car works like a charm and encourages us to adapt a real American lifestyle; we drive absolutely everywhere. We pretty much haven’t walked anywhere (not that you can in this with these distances) since we left Vancouver two days ago. Well, when in Rome.
Tomorrow we head for the wine districts north of San Francisco in hope of good wine, great food and fantastically sophisticated conversation over to many bottles of red.
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