The Diamond Willow Inn, located on another one-street town in the middle of nowhere, takes the prize (so far) for least-deserving-of-it's-cute-name award, where the bed sheets had that greasy unwashed look and there were dead flies on the carpet, and the owners, despite their Christian zeal (announced by hand-painted mottos all over the reception), obviously had no truck with the old adage that Cleanliness leads to Godliness. No willows or diamonds, either.
Wandering up the main street in admittedly atmospheric twilight I passed the high school football park, where guys were either hanging out or playing (couldn't quite discern which) in their bright team sweaters with those ridiculously over-padded shoulders and cage-fronted helmets. One of them flipped me the bird. For some reason I was drawn to the road bridge on the way out of town - perhaps because the road out of town has become to feel more like home to me than some of the places I've been staying at; or because it made me think of the thousands of people that must have driven past without even knowing the place existed.
