I found it, even though it did not impose itself at all. I was looking for a simple breakfast, and Reedsport, OR was the next town down the road. I saw the “Cafe” sign and pulled over. Hailing from North Dakota via Nevada and raising six children on her own, the waitress was personable and quick. The food and decor were another matter altogether. My bacon-less Eggs Benedict arrived as two slices of untoasted wheat toast drowned in yellow sauce (I fear the hollandaise flavor was artificial), and the poached eggs had obviously just left their shells. The side–peaches–came immersed in syrup. Meanwhile, an American flag clarified which country I’m currently in; pink wall paint resembled human skin right after sunburn-induced scab has fallen off; neon tubes on the ceiling served as bright reminders that the place had in fact been renovated at some point in the 1970. Clearly this place was loved by the hoarse-spoken octogenarians who accounted for ninety percent of its clientele. Why then wouldn’t I love it, too?