Like Godzilla he arrived, from across the ocean, out of the sea. The old man’s hair long an untamed, his eyes partially crazed with excitement. He talks in rapid fire, about the trees, the plans, smells and rain. All so new. He packs us more gifts than his own clothes.
Outside, miserable weather awaits. For two days we watched the rain, from the comforts of of our high rise, and wondered how there was anything left in those clouds. But the Oregonians didnt seem to mind, which only reminded me how soft I had become living in the southern sun, protected by the mountains. The rain reverted us back to our old tricks; art, bookstores and cafes but mostly unhealthy amounts of coffee and beef pies.
On the third day we escaped, my white knuckles paired to the stearing wheel of a car called “Sunny-Super Saloon”. Undoubatably named by some unwhitting Korean engineer, with a hilarious subconscious. Past the suburbs, sub-suburbs and industry we drove. Until we found our salvation amongst the winding road and green highway 5. Divinely quaint towns and purple soaked hillsides.
