Way up north in New York, a long dogleg-left from Syracuse, is a little place called Cape Vincent. It is here, at the mouth of the St. Lawrence River, where one country ends and another begins.
Cape Vincent is a way of living far from anything I've ever known. Here the locals make sure to hit the post office at 11 a.m., not because that's when it's least busy but because it's busy--and when the best local gossip can be had. A block away, at Aubrey's Market, if two folks are in line, they open a second register. If another shopper arrives, a third cashier matches him. For a guy who frequents a dirty and crowded urban Safeway, Aubrey's "one man, one cashier" pledge borders on food shopping pornography.
Across the street and down the hill is the arts center. The Cape's art lovers tossed their dollars in a pile to open the place. On any given workday you might find a Caper there, happily forsaking keyboard and mouse for paint, scissors and glue.