Your New York driver’s license doesn’t expire until 2009, and despite having lived in Oregon for two years, you refuse to trade it in. Because to do so would mean never again hearing bartender Andrew’s sing-song welcome: “New York City?! What in the dog shit are you doing here?” As if he didn’t know. The Skyline is like a summer camp for casual drinkers: The metronome of ping-pong balls clacking on the back porch, the clang and thud of horseshoes thrown in the pit, the smell of burgers sizzling on the BYO-meat community grill, all played out in front of a tree-lined view of the Willamette Valley that’ll put a lump in your throat. If friends from the Big City try to tempt you into coming back to Manhattan when they visit, this is where you take them to explain why that will never happen. You’ll sip in silence, frame the valley between two outgrowths of spindly pine and chase the most beautiful beer buzz in the country.

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