It was time to get out of California, so we drove north, and crossed into the state of Oregon. We were off to visit some of my wife’s family, who live just over the border in the town of Medford. It was a long old drive, too; we may be nominally living in ‘northern’ California, but I tell you, there’s a lot more north to this state than Arnold’s letting on. Passing beneath the shadow of Mt Shasta (it was a big shadow too, because it was night-time, and I couldn’t see the thing), whizzing past towns with names like Weed and Talent, overtaking huge trucks careering through the mountains carrying enormous tree-trunks, I eventually got my first taste of one of the other West Coast states. I didn’t imagine it could be all that different really.

Well, the first thing I noticed when the sun came up was the trees. I’ve gotten used to the flat, ochre expanse of the Central Valley, so to suddenly be surrounded by dramatic mountains and hills covered in glades of red, green, orange, yellow; well, it was like Christmas had come early. Or Thanksgiving, at least. Trees everywhere bore the mark of autumn – I mean, Fall – and in the morning sunshine they were every bit as glamourous as those New England headline-grabbers. Trees are a big part of Oregonian life – most of the towns in these parts owe their existence to the logging industry What’s more, I felt we were really in the country, or as real a country as I’m used to, where you get up and hear roosters and horses, and driving a big truck is like waving a flag.

Places felt different, older, stuck in time somewhere; I played Donkey Kong Jr for the first time since the 80s in a traditional diner, while sipping on a 32oz strawberry and orange milkshake, half expecting Biff Tannen and his gang to march in (I got top score on Donk Jr, by the way – I still have the magic). We went to Harry and David, a gourmet food and gift-basket store which began in Medford selling pears and has gone on to become well known nationwide. They had a guy outside carving three enormous pumpkins into a totem pole for Hallowe’en, quickly becoming the town’s main attraction. Shopping also highlighted one of the other differences between California and Oregon – they don’t add on any sales tax at the register. This was such a novelty I couldn’t help but grin – but then I realized I gre up living in europe, where we don’t do that sort of thing anyway.

One of the other peculiarities of Oregon is that motorists are not allowed to pump their own gas at the petrol station. It is state law that you must wait for the attendant to do it for you. I’m told that this comes from a time when the state wanted to make sure everyone was employed, but I reckon it’s because years ago they didn’t want people to put too much gas in their car, in case the little out-of-the-way rural gas stations ran out. Ah, what do I know. I can tell you that gas was cheaper up there. We didn’t drive to too many other places, but we did catch a few local sights – a trip to historic Jacksonville, a jaunt down the Rogue River valley in search of a brewery – and we didn’t visit Ashland, home of the famous Shakespeare festival, but I think I saw enough to feel like we’d visited a different state, gotten out and breathed some fresher air. I’m feeling restless at the moment; I want to see more of these colourful states, preferably those with lots of trees, and not so much Bush.