A long drive to the Fjord. The 11 year-old girl who drove drunk up the logging road and swerved off the edge. They leave flowers and candles there. A day the Sun’s out and bright enough for us to bare our pale limbs. 12,000 steps up 2,500 feet. The mountain behind town. The viewing platform. The tiny islands stretching out into the Pacific. The trees on them like hairs on a mole. On the viewing platform we meet a man from Raleigh whose son designs amphibious vehicles for the military. A market that doesn’t sell wine. The small bag of tortilla chips is 8 dollars. The tourists back on their ships. Their ships no longer in view. The locals walking their dogs. Riding their bikes. With a beer or two in their hands. We go to the top of the hill. Where the Russian castle once stood. We finally see the volcano. Its caldera capped with a frosting of ice. On TV the male gymnasts at the Beijing Olympics hold their bodies upside down. Lose a few points on the dismount. Something to do with their feet. On TV the Russian invasion of Georgia. Its future repercussions. The refugees. Young women with bare midriffs and stylish jeans. Seen pouting among the rubble like models on a difficult shoot. On the streets the Russian tourists. They’re staying in town. Surrounded in their black furs. Their faces chiseled and waxy like film stars from the 60’s. She falls asleep and I go down to the street. A local kid gives me the finger and calls me an asshole. Tells me and the other guy there that this is his street. Invites us to step into the alley to smoke some weed. Calls us pussies when we decline. In the middle of the night I hear him and his friends up on the ruins of the castle. Drinking and howling. Drawing knives while their girlfriends scream and plead. Dispersing at dawn when the guys in the next room bang around preparing for their fishing trip. Oiled boots clunking on the floor. The Weather Channel turned up a little too loud.