Dear Wigleaf,

Last time I wrote you, a couple of years ago, I was wandering the country in an orange Subaru. I spent a year between highways, AirBnBs and friends' couches, looking for a home.

So, here I am in this little town I found. It's not too far from Oakland and San Francisco, but it's another world, another century. I won't call its name because I fear the vampires of tourism. It's a town of old hippies, old rednecks, factory workers, a few artists. One stoplight, a good sandwich shop and a coffee cart. I like to tell friends: "There are two bars in town. One has a 'No Fighting' sign. The other... doesn't." The train hollers past several times a day. The electricity goes out whenever the wind blows too hard. The hills rise and fall and the sidewalks are happy to throw you off the edge and sprain an ankle or two. It's a somewhere. When I was wandering America, I couldn't find many towns with somewhere.

So I have this window, here at the top of a rickety Victorian which is like a mad scientist's mansion. My window looks down to streets and water. It's a place for writing. The crickets start creaking around dusk. The train wails past. The neighbors shout and squabble. At midnight, my window is the only one lit up for miles around. Come round and see me some time.

love

Judah