Time does funny things once unmoored from the anchor of a schedule, and the outside world is both vivid and unreal. The coast rolls past in snapshots of billowing fog and beaming sunlight, sleeping in highway pullouts, conversations with middle-aged white men whose cousins once went to Banff or saw a documentary about igloos. We play hacky-sack in a mud hut with a lip-ringed software developer. We meet a Portlander in a neon bike costume who bounces from wall to wall in a cocaine-fueled fit of enthusiasm, waxing nonsensical on the Berlin drug scene. For days at a time, I manage to keep a few miles ahead of myself.
