I just took a cold shower. And I mean just now, not in the context of the Oregon trip. I took a cold shower, cracked open a beer, and promptly chopped it like I was at a college kegger. It's been that kind of day. I'd love to tell you more about it, but I think I was talking about something else here. Where was I? Oh, yes: Astoria.
Soon after driving over the Astoria-Megler bridge, I was haunted by a lingering deja-vu. It wriggled into my senses and hung there like a sneeze that can't decide whether to come or go. Was there something about the double-story homes: their proximity to each other, how they peered through the hill top pines? Or was it the angle of the street to the sea? I just couldn't put my finger on it. It was as though some distant memory was projecting the town against a screen like a slide show or a reel of dusty celluloid.
I kept driving. Astoria was behind us in a matter of minutes, but the answer to the mystery still lay ahead.
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