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This beautifully battered old Stetson belonged to Christian’s grandmother. And the similarly beautiful and battered case belonged to her grandfather. They have traveled far over the years, and now they are accompanying us on a train ride to Annapolis.

We followed a river upstream into the Cascades, rolled through the night past the foothills on their Eastern slopes, past smaller and smaller cities and towns, placed farther and farther apart. We realized anew that small Victorian seaports are rare items, that some inland skies rival those of the oceans in breadth, that train tracks stitch all those disparate places together in ways that highways never will, because cars and trucks are too free, and not incidentally that travel with my bride is the best kind of travel.

More later.

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