Call it the Montauk of Pennsylvania. We travelled across our brick shaped state to the end and stared out across the gray abyss of Lake Erie from Presque (“almost”) Isle under an off-and-on rain. We arrived on the state’s last day of indoor dining and mourned the impending ban with generous strangers. The next day we visited St. Joseph’s church, towering amid flat industrial blocks. It had been a pilgrimage destination of sorts, but the parish, like it’s namesake, kept silent and did not reveal any secrets. We made the long drive home across I80, it’s gloomy brown hills studded with Anabaptist homesteads, stopping only to eat fast food in the car overlooking a no man’s land of hotels and chain stores. We arrived home amid some of the densest fog I’ve ever driven through, happy to be back in our little town, in our little home, together.