The store by Shell flickered of late night graffiti and the riddling smell of cigarette smoke and gasoline. Anybody who didn't walk out with a carton of Marlboros was immediately labeled as a non-native.

I browsed the postcards of Portland without a sound, just an occasional metallic click of the rack but not a sound from me. In a trembled touch I gripped a card featuring the Acadia lighthouse and pushed it against my coat pocket where some stamps were. The woman at the register was stocking fresh cartons of cigarettes from an old Jack cheddar container.

Anzig, Maine, the town which wasn't supposed to exist. Expect to eat like a car would, consuming as much ethanol a day. Expect a drunk countenance as the staff here served you. The only restaurant in town was a drive-thru. No sit-downs welcome. Anything non-car related and someone's bound to be a foreigner.