After a long bus ride, I stand at the apex of Pointe du Raz, one of the westernmost points in France. The strong winds blow in the crisp, salty smell of the Atlantic Ocean and whip against my hair, face, and clothes and the rocky cliffs. Waves thrash below. The Bretons borrowed the word "raz" from Norman, meaning, "strong current of water," and when you stand at the height of Pointe du Raz, the name feels both obvious and ominous. Before and below me are rock outcrops leading to Le Vieille lighthouse and, beyond that, the Atlantic. Looking in that direction, you sense the isolation that make this region feel like the end of the earth.
At Fisherman's Village in Marina del Rey we ate calamari and drank cold white wine, bittersweet like grapefruit, and then walked along the stone pathway adjacent to the dock. The Village is years past its prime and in need of repairs, but its neglected look inspires nostalgia. To my right were a defunct lighthouse and quaint buildings painted burgundy, sky blue, and pale yellow, which housed a hodgepodge mix of restaurants and tourist shops. To my left were docked boats big and small and a collection of seabirds, like pelicans and seagulls, and the marina, where the sun glinted off the lapping waves. 
We'd just eaten a lunch of fried cod and lemonade at Malibu Seafood and were driving back to Los Angeles on the Pacific Coast Highway. We wanted to get closer to the ocean, so we found a place to pull over and parked. The beach there was all rocks and old cement blocks. We tottered over them while taking in the view. The cars roared and the waves crashed. The air smelled like salt and, just a little, rotting vegetation. Everywhere I looked I saw lines: the coastline, the ocean abutting it, the highway, and a line of wooden posts, water- and wind-worn, holding up the ghost of an old pier.
