Some of my faithful readers (isn’t it nice to know that some of you are faithful to something?) will recognize that the title is a take-off of a 1989 shlock-fest of a movie starring Keanu Reeves, who has the uncanny ability to ruin any movie in which he is cast, no matter how good it might otherwise have been. However, the movie also stars George Carlin, and since a co-worker once told me that I reminder her of George Carlin, or maybe it was Lenny Bruce, it was at least eight years ago, well, somehow in a cosmic sort of Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency way (read up on your Douglas Adams now), it fit. Seriously try Dirk’s method. Pick a random car, follow it, and see if you don’t ultimately end up somewhere you needed to be even if you didn’t know you needed to be there. That is the way I write these things: following random thoughts, or Delta route maps, until I end up somewhere even I didn’t know I needed to be. Ah, the segue maestro!
As those of you who slogged through the War and Peace-like “summary” of the Dakotas and beyond trip will know, our next destination was the divine Pacific Northwest, which I can safely and easily say was the opposite of everything in the center of the country. If the Dakotas are obsessed with saving the “unborn,” the Pacific Northwest is obsessed with saving what we already have be it the whales, the polar bears, or even, gasp, ourselves! The northern Midwest was unrelentingly red (not Canada though, no, they really hate red) but the Pacific Northwest is equally unrelentingly blue AND green. Recycling is everywhere and as a stunning consequence, the place is as clean and tidy as Canada. Well, OK, almost as tidy and wonderful as Canada. Perhaps needless to say at this point, I didn’t spend my time here in half a panic that some red-necked freak would decide that my first name being Matthew was enough to make me the second Mr. Shepherd. It was a relief after the last trip. And the climate, not just in the political/social sense, but in the actual meteorological sense as well suits my temperament, unpredictable, but rarely sunny nor to most anyone’s direct advantage.
The outbound trip was non-eventful. The plane left on time and arrived early, which in a sense, is sort of anevent when that actually happens. Breakfast on planes is hideous by the way. I don’t know why SkyChef can’t make a decent breakfast, but the fact remains that they can’t. But lunch on the return, spare ribs, you wouldn’t believe it was airplane food, it was that incredibly yummy! But I digress.
We landed in Seattle, and the best things about that were the incredible view of Mount Rainier as you approach and then the direct fly-over of Boeing Field, the home of the aircraft we were on, which is a neat sort of cosmic coincidence I thought. For those of you who don’t know, Mount Rainier, while a snow capped giant of the Cascade Range, is also an active volcano. Granted, it hasn’t done anything active in a long time, but they said that about Mount St. Helens as well, and I hope you all remember what she did. This volcano business is true also of Mount Baker to the north, as well as Mount Hood, Mount Shasta, and Mount Lassen, making Washington (Baker, Rainier, St. Helens), Oregon (Hood), and northern California (Shasta and Lassen) all potential volcanic disaster zones. And given the proximity of Rainier to Seattle and Hood to Portland, depending on which side of the mountain gave way, it could be very ugly indeed. By the way, that is NOT an exhaustive list of the MANY volcanoes in the area. You can view a list and map of them all here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cascade_Range#Cascade_Range_volcanoes
But you don’t really dwell on that in the moment, instead I think you dwell on the stunning and rugged beauty of the Cascades, still snow capped, and marvel at the glimpses of natural lakes formed from snow melt that is trapped in the crevices of the sharp peaks where natural bowls are formed. It is a great approach if you are lucky enough, as we were, to have a clear day for it. Rest assured, it would be the last clear day we would see, until we left of course!
We had decided to head straight down to Portland on arrival, which is a not unpleasant drive of about 3 hours. Well, it isn’t unpleasant unless you have an issue with confronting the direct consequences of clear cut practices used to feed our ravenous appetite for wood and wood pulp products such as paper in all its forms. Clear cut forest looks exactly as though someone took a giant weed-whacker to huge tracks of forest. NOTHING is left standing over 2 feet tall. It is frankly hideous and it is everywhere in evidence in Washington State. The direct view of it might be enough to make you reconsider any wasteful paper product practices you might currently have and perhaps viewing clear cuts should be mandatory for us all in the same way that perhaps we should all have to see what really happens when you slaughter a cow, pig, or chicken before we eat another animal product. That isn’t to say that you will turn into a green vegan after the experience though. Rest assured I will print out at least one copy of this narrative on paper, have my soda resting on a paper napkin while I type, we don’t recycle, and while I have seen cows slaughtered from the bolt in the head to the chainsaw down the spine, I firmly intend to cook and eat a tri-tip roast for dinner. I don’t recommend the experience of knowing reality with a view to change everyone, rather just the view that everyone would then at least be aware of the impact they make, and if you are OK with that, then OK. Tim and I just say, “what the hell, we don’t have children who will inherit the cesspool we leave behind, we end with ourselves, so pillage on!” Beef and pork ribs with a side of chicken wings with plenty of paper napkins on paper plates anyone?
The Mount St. Helens site wasn’t far from our intended route so we detoured out to it. Remembering that the eruption was in 1980, 28 years ago, the amount of barren, non-recovered land, is stunning. Weyerhaeuser, the wood and paper company which claims to “release the potential in trees,”implying that they somehow are useless when standing and alive, provides lots of info-mercial signs in the area explaining how wonderful logging is and what a service they did when they “salvaged” the thousands of acres of dead trees after the eruption. Oddly, they never mention how many millions of dollars they made from that process. The company also graciously replanted the forest, but in mono-culture stands of profitable wood products species. Trust me, having grown up in the middle of a forest I know it really shouldn’t be mile upon mile of nothing but spruce or fir with nothing else in it. Granted, it looks green, but it is as fake a Christmas tree farm. Once you enter the actual boundaries of the National Monument though, you revert back to the slow and natural process of re-growth that has a long way to go before it is very green once again. I grew up visiting Mount Lassen National Park in California and I have been to Yellowstone as well, so for me the consequences of a volcanic eruption and the landscape associated with active volcanoes was a not a huge shock, but for an Easterner like Tim, I think it was truly eye opening and awe-inspiring to realize the potential and actual stunning power of a volcano.
Mount St. Helens is most famous for its catastrophic eruption on May 18, 1980, which was the deadliest and most economically destructive volcanic event in the history of the United States. Fifty-seven people were killed; 250 homes, 47 bridges, 15 miles (24 km) of railways, and 185 miles (300 km) of highway were destroyed. The eruption caused a massive debris avalanche, reducing the elevation of the mountain’s summit from 9,677 feet (2,950 m) to 8,365 feet (2,550 m) and replacing it with a mile-wide (1.5 km-wide) horseshoe-shaped crater. The debris avalanche was up to 0.7 cubic miles (2.9 km³) in volume. The more complete scoop on Mount St. Helens is available in many places, including:
http://www.fs.fed.us/gpnf/mshnvm/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_St_Helens
http://vulcan.wr.usgs.gov/Volcanoes/MSH/
Warning seems fair here: the last website above is SERIOUS science stuff, not for the faint of heart!
We also had a bite of lunch in one of the small logging towns, Toledo, near the mountain, and this is an experience also not for the faint of heart. Logging, at least on the brute labor end of the bargain, is not the road to prosperity and this poor little burg proves that to be true. There isn’t much there, but the people are working hard with what they have and for reasons both past and present I think you really have to respect that even if you wouldn’t want to live there, have your kid date or marry someone from there, or spend your vacation there. In these respects, it highly resembles its much larger namesake in Ohio.
In Portland itself, across the Columbia River from Washington State, we stayed downtown at the Embassy Suites, which is housed in the former Multnomah Hotel, which was a lumber baron glamour house in its day. It is a rather opulent property and I can honestly say that I have truly lived in apartments smaller than our hotel room, or rooms since there was a living area and separate bedroom. That feature would prove useful when Mr. Politics wanted to watch the Vice-Presidential debate, which I thought was silly waste of time akin to watching a train wreck in that you are horrified every time she opens her mouth but you are powerless to stop her, so I was able to close the bedroom door and read a book until it ended.
For me, Portland is a magical sort of town. I can’t pin it down as to exactly why I like it as much as I do, but I unmistakably enjoy the place for its big city amenities with a small town friendly feel and its classic old houses that people actually take an interest in preserving and maintaining. Portland without doubt has a young vibe to it, which makes sense given that there are several universities in town, and while I am no longer young in that sense, it still makes for an interesting and energetic place. If I could, I would move there, probably about the only place in the United States that I feel that passionate about. My fondness for Portland ranks almost as high as my fondness for all of Canada, well, not Winnipeg or Regina, but most of Canada.
One of my favorite things to do in Portland is to make a trip to Powell’s Bookstore, an independent used and new book selling monolith whose main annex alone occupies an entire city block. They have other locations as well for specialty titles, but I like the main building even if I am not looking for anything in particular because I enjoy the experience of being surrounded by so many books. We wandered a bit, bought a book about dogs since we were missing our burdensome beast, and strolled down nostalgia lane with Tim reviewing the Hardy Boys shelf and me re-reading Richard Scary picture books. Powells is rather a magical place if you like to read and if you don’t, well, I don’t have time for you anyway!
One of the great things about our hotel location, and about Portland in general, is that the city is very walkable and mass transit in the downtown core is free! We were able to leave the car parked and hoof it where we most wanted to go. So, after Powells, we continued farther into the Pearl District, the up and coming artsy-fartsy district, headed for Silk, a Vietnamese restaurant. Now I realize that for many of you living in metropolitan areas where the cuisines of the world are at your fingertips this might seem like an odd choice, but remember that we live in the armpit of nowhere in northwest Georgia where the food adventures are limited to courting gastrointestinal distress at the closest “Chinese buffet” (see my commentary about those in the Kansas edition of these chronicles). So when we see Vietnamese or Indian food, we leap!
Silk is rather an upscale version of Vietnamese, not at all like Pho Number One on Buford Highway in Atlanta, but nonetheless we had beef noodle soup, known as Pho Bo Thi Chien. I can’t do the accent marks but you get the idea. It is simple, highly liquid, and absolutely delicious with lots of jalapeno peppers, fresh sweet basil, red pepper paste, and lime wedges. But the best part of it was the amazing cocktail concoction, whose name escapes me, that featured fresh black cherry purée (they grow lots of cherries in the Pacific Northwest). That alone was worth the walk for me. My next attempt was something with fresh ginger that unfortunately had an aftertaste that reminded me of the aftermath of projectile vomiting in the bathroom after too many Kamikazes, while my friend Christopher did the same in the kitchen sink, while poor Craig looked on in sober horror and disbelief. Perhaps needless to say, I didn’t finish that drink.
The next morning I discovered that Tim was now officially 42, although those who know him realize that he went from about 13 to 50 years of age LONG ago and has sort of remained frozen in the fuddy-duddy state, although the experience of living with me thaws him and makes him in some senses younger every day. I also discovered that I had neglected to get my hair cut to the point that it was so long that I had to use conditioner to make it even remotely behave, and if you don’t know, I don’t believe in things like conditioner or hair products. I use in total only shampoo, soap, toothpaste, and deodorant. And yes I realize that ruins my demographic, but that’s it for the product list for me, so having to use conditioner was heinous! Of course, I promptly forgot to brush or comb my hair, probably because I don’t own those appliances, which are generally useless since I try to keep my hair to a comb/brush-free manageable length. Oh well, it was the Pacific Northwest so being shaggy was more or less OK.
For Tim’s actual day of birth, we ventured out to the Columbia River Gorge, the enormous canyon cut over millions of years by the Columbia River, forming much of the border between Oregon and Washington. The Columbia River is what allows eastern Washington, in the rain shadow of the Cascades, to be an agricultural powerhouse for everything from apples (70% of the nations apples come from Washington) to potatoes (side note, the French word for apple is pomme while potato is pomme de terre or “apple of the earth” literally, so my choice of products does make sense). And while that is important in some respects, the true wondrous beauty of the Columbia River is to be found in the Gorge. If you want to see essentially none of it, take Interstate 84 towards Boise, but if you want to be treated to some of the most stunning, and easily accessible, scenery of your life, take the Columbia River Highway which was built by two pioneering men, Samuel Lancaster and Samuel Hill, who were inspired by mountain road design in Switzerland. The gorge abounds in ferns, trees, and stunning waterfalls and most reminded me of the sets used in the making of the Lord of the Rings or of the Forest Moon of Endor in Star Wars. We wandered the Gorge from the observatory to the turn off to Mount Hood, stopping at waterfalls, hiking short trails, and soaking it up. Granted, you won’t be the only person doing this, but still it is highly worth it and if you are ever in the area take the time to explore the Gorge, or better yet, make it a reason to go. A word to the wise though is that airfares to Seattle are MUCH more reasonable than into Portland itself.
If you want to know more about the Gorge (I sound so CDC-INFO here), including far better photos than we can take, try these places:
http://www.fs.fed.us/r6/columbia/index.shtml
http://www.crgva.org/getting.htm
We left the scenic highway in Hood River, forgoing the chance to visit the fence surrounding the massive Google data center in The Dalles. Of course, you can also visit the massive hydro-electric generating dam there, which is why the data center is there in the first place, but I have been to the dam before and Tim wasn’t that enthused, nor should you really be either as the dam just isn’t all that, and besides, we had a better view of the data center on Google Earth than you would in person anyway. Google does not let you wander in among the server banks.
Tim is obsessed with Honey Crisp apples and I do feel that obsessed is the only word that describes it adequately. So, being in the land of apples we had to stop at the first apple barn we saw, a place by the name of Pearl’s. Pearl was fresh out of Honey Crisp apples, her husband had pulled out the trees. Later we learned he did this because he had planted them where he was supposed to plant peaches, oooops, and that mattered because of pollination or some such horticultural thing. But she assured us that Cody’s, “number 12 on the Fruit Loop” had them. Now of course we had a laugh about “the Fruit Loop” but turns out that there really is such a thing, a group of fruit growers and sellers who cooperatively advertise and each have a number on the map that identifies them.
Cody’s is literally a large barn of a place with the quintessential Pacific Northwest Earth-mother hippie survivor at the helm, but regardless of what you think of her type, she does grow really good apples, pears, and other produce. Honey Crisp apples, if you ever been lucky enough to eat one, are the epitome of crisp and just tart enough. Never mushy or mealy and not overly sweet, they are pretty damn good eats! But they are hard to find, only having been developed by the University of Minnesota in 1974 and not released to growers until 1991. Its popularity is such that is has become the state fruit of Minnesota and Nova Scotia, recognizing market potential as Canadians will do, is enabling apple growers to replace their existing trees with Honeycrisp trees between 2005 and 2010 at government subsidized rates! Over time they should become more readily available and less hideously expensive to buy in markets not near growers, but for now they are a treat with a very limited market period. The harvest is already done in Georgia and we have eaten all we had from local growers, so this was our chance! We ended up with 80 pounds of apples, which we would give Delta as checked bags for the return flight. We each can check up to 150 pounds in three bags for free, so we can carry a lot of swag back with us from our adventures.
While Tim was checking out, I was checking out some of the advertisements in the place, including a card for Hood River Lavender Farms. I have grown lavender, which is easy to do in most any California garden, as a low water, flowering, quick growing bush, but had never really considered visiting a lavender farm. But I knew that my co-worker Danielle had visited one and had decided from that experience that she wanted to own and operate one. So I figured this was a chance to find out what she found so intoxicating about them. My experience of Danielle has been that she is a pretty sensible woman so for her to find value in such an enterprise there must be something to it. And besides, it might give me a chance to snag unique Christmas gifts or something.
So off we go along Straight Hill Road, which was anything but straight! Eventually we arrived at the farm, which was rather obvious with rows of lavender growing and a stunning view of Mount Hood in the background, complete with the requisite friendly Labrador dog to greet you. It really was too picture perfect right down to the small white wooden potter’s shed serving as the gift shop. The farm closes at the end of October so we were just in time. Now I confess that despite having grown lavender I didn’t know diddly about it. I always assumed it would have that sickly sweet smell of old-lady perfume, but perhaps that is lilac, for it surely isn’t real lavender which instead has a heady but spicy, almost peppery, scent. Now if I had thought that the Cody’s apple lady was an Earth-mother hippie survivor, the proprietor of the lavender farm was more a Venusian by comparison. She was a bit out there and started her conversation with observing how “moody” the mountain was. Granted Mount Hood had a great cloud wreath on its summit, but I hadn’t really considered ascribing emotions to the mountain, and besides, describing an active volcano, the one statistically most likely to erupt in the Cascades with a 7-10% calculated chance of erupting in the next 30 years, as moody would sort of worry me. Pensive maybe, petulant perhaps, but moody sounds ominous. Or maybe I just inhaled too much lavender. She also described how lavender essential oils, which they distill on site, have calming effects and are used to help get a good nights sleep, and how the oils penetrate to the blood stream as well as enter the nose, blah blah blah, and you find yourself thinking this woman is really a hard-nosed business woman masquerading as a New Age Guru-ess bilking the gullible. But I have to admit that I didn’t realize that there would be such differences between not only French and English lavender, but also among the sub-species of English lavender. The scents really are different. And Tim decided to try some French lavender essential oil to add to his CPAP machine humidifier, and I can assure you that one drop really does do it, and that we both slept better than usual. And, after testing all the oils and breathing in the lavender laden atmosphere of the place, I did leave feeling very pleasant, almost giddy, pain-free, practically euphoric! It isn’t as good as the high from primo Humboldt County marijuana, no, but it wasn’t bad and legal! Even Tim was feeling the effect, so there well might be more to it than I had thought. Thankfully Danielle, even though approximately 2,700 miles away, guided me to the lavender farm. If you would like to know more about the farm, visit them at: http://www.lavenderfarms.net/hoodriverlavender/index.html
Continuing on Oregon 35 and US 26 takes you in a loop around Mount Hood, which provides amazing views of at least 270 degrees around the mountain and we reached a high point of 4,648 feet on Bennett Pass, less than 150 feet lower than the highest point in all of Georgia and about 500 feet higher than the highest point in Kentucky. That was just the road pass, Mount Hood itself is over 11,000 feet high, almost twice the highest point in the Great Smoky Mountains, which contains the highest point east of the Mississippi at 6,684 feet at Mount Mitchell. There really is nothing to even remotely compare out here to the 11,000 to 14,000 foot monsters of the Sierras, Rockies, and Cascades.
Honestly, in my many many many miles of experience in driving this country from West to East, the Interstates are great to get you quickly from point A to point B, but if you really want to see something aside from fast food emporiums and truck stops complete with lot lizard hookers, you have to take US highways and local roads. It takes longer but it is infinitely more rewarding. And to do that, it helps to know that American Automobile Association maps, while free to members, really do focus on the Interstates. In fact, most of the roads we have travelled in Georgia to cover all 158 counties, hardly appear on AAA maps. Instead, spring for the $5.00 or so it will cost you to get a Universal Brand or Rand McNally map at the gas station. It will lead you to far more excellent adventures.
Tim’s birthday dinner was at a venerable institution of the Portland restaurant scene, Jake’s Famous Crawfish, established in 1892. It has been, and continues to be, a popular spot for performers after the shows at the Portland Center for the Performing Arts, and so it should be with great cold draft beer (it really is all about the beer) and amazing seafood aside from crawfish, which are fresh water crustaceans anyway, so not really seafood. Aside from beer, I ate 3 pounds of steamed clams, well more like 2.5 pounds since I couldn’t actually finish them all, and before you gasp at what a pig I must have to be to eat 3 pounds of anything, remember that most of the weight of a clam is in the shell, which is included in the weight of your order. But yes, I love steamed clams. In fact, I wanted to buy clams at Costco yesterday, but then read the directions that said, in part “tap the shell of any clams that are open and discard any that do not close.” Now I realized that the shell is only going to close if I tap it because the clam inside is still alive. I have NO issue with eating a variety of things that were once alive, but I will not be the one directly responsible for killing something to eat it. I know, it is a weak consolation to think that indirectly I am responsible for the death and exploitation of thousands of animals over my life but since I don’t do the killing or exploiting directly it makes it OK, but hey, there it is. At least I draw a line somewhere! Besides, boiling something alive, unless it is any number of people I have worked with (Suzi Gates, Bonnie Ortiz, Norma VanSant all spring to mind, otherwise the only effective method is to drop a house on them) just seems wrong. Tim had an awesome Bouillabaisse with still more clams but also mussels, crab, and yes, crawfish.
At this point, our good luck with Pacific Northwest weather ran out and it started to rain. Now it is important to note, I think, that Portland is usually lumped into the dismal Pacific Northwest weather category, but in fact, Portland receives only 60% of the rain that Seattle does. But everywhere in the Pacific Northwest it seems that rain doesn’t stop people from being outside and often they didn’t even seem to bother with umbrellas, only tourists do that. The rain is just part of life and if you get wet, well, you will dry out someday. And on those rare days when the sun is shining, everyone it seems calls in sick to work and the rest of life to get outside and drink it in with outdoor activities and sports of one sort of another. Grab you kayak, etc, and go for it.
I also had to observe, as we arrived in Seattle in a downpour, that while it never seems to rain on Grey’s Anatomy, the actual weather in Seattle would explain why Meredith’s hair looks like that.
We made the mistake of going down to the Pike Street Public Market, which was closed at that time of night, but since we have both been there before and seen the fish flying etc, we were not devastated. We were devastated by the lack of anything resembling an open restaurant and ended up being fleeced by a tourist trap on the water where we got 1/8 the amount of clams as the night before for about 3 times the cost. Shame on them!
The next day we decided to see if we could discover why McDreamy had a thing for ferries and to see if we would be lucky enough to spot McSteamy on a ferry. We can see why someone would have a thing for fairies, but ferries we were not so sure about. Or how about it was our chance to ride a ferry instead of a fairy? Oh the word fun goes on and if you don’t have a sense of humor or if you are overly sensitive you have no business reading my narratives anyway! But seriously, I realize some of this won’t make a bit of sense if you have not, or do not, watch Grey’s Anatomy. And if you do, don’t tell me anything, I only see it when it comes out on DVD and we are not past season 3 yet.
Our first ferry went from Seattle to Bainbridge Island, and for the low cost of the ride, especially if you go without a car, and the frequent service, you really won’t get a better view of the city of Seattle, including the only realistic location of Frasier’s Elliot Bay Towers, than you will from the ferry to Bainbridge. In what struck me as a very unusual display of government sensitivity and cooperation, the ferry stopped midway for someone to dump a loved one’s ashes into the waters of Puget Sound, which turned an otherwise uneventful trip into a somber moment of some gravitas and meaning. And what a beautiful location for it, on the waters with Seattle receding and heavily wooded Bainbridge up ahead.
The Puget Sound islands are bedroom communities for Seattle but only if you can afford it, because believe me, those houses didn’t come cheap, although in today’s economic climate you might pick one up easily enough. We crossed Bainbridge and left the island on a bridge to the Olympic peninsula, home of the only rain forest in the continental United States, albeit a temperate rain forest. We were headed to Port Townsend of the purported charming Victorian waterfront, when I spotted a pho restaurant which seemed perfect for the dismal wet weather of the day. The kid who rang us up was fascinated by our adventures of visiting all 50 states and I think was rather in awe that two blokes from Georgia ended up in his family’s pho noodle house in the backwoods island of Washington State. And admittedly it probably isn’t something that will happen every day and that is part of the joy and mystery of travel. Ponder that idea and then come back to it when you strike out on your own adventures.
Personally, I would rate Port Townsend as a wash at best or a waste of time at worst. Whatever I felt about the waterfront, charmed doesn’t come to mind. And I wouldn’t really call it Victorian either. Old, perhaps; charming not really. But it was the place to catch the ferry over to Keystone on Whidbey Island. From Clinton on Whidbey, the ferry goes to Mukilteo, which is north of Seattle proper, and if one has forgotten that Seattle is a very large metropolitan area with the usual woes associated with travel in such an area, the sight of the ferry commute lane will remind you. Starting about 1.5 miles from the ferry terminal is a lane dedicated to ferry traffic, with a sign that informs you that from that point you have about a 90 minute wait to get on the ferry. Imagine that wait every morning to say nothing of having much more time to be stuck in Seattle proper traffic, with waits we witnessed of over 30 minutes and then perhaps one rethinks their vision of idyllic island living or the attractiveness of the exurbs. At that point I think I would be seriously looking to telecommute or move in-town no matter how lovely the island is, and it is, but loveliness wears off when viewed through the windows of a parked car than runs on expensive gasoline.
On the way into town from Mukilteo we decided we would not be fleeced again on a meal in Seattle and settled on trying out The Cedars, an Indian/Middle Eastern restaurant close to the University of Washington. I assumed that everyone knows of the University of Washington, as it is to West Coast academics of the same level of prestige as Stanford or Ivy League schools, but based on Tim’s lack of recognition it would appear I am wrong about that. However, it was clear that The Cedars had it going on! The place was packed with students as well as a handful of oldsters like ourselves, although we were rather outnumbered by the young vegan types, so I was rather pleased to eat dead animals in front of them. But the food was divine and just as Lonely Planet promised, “we ate there today and dreamt of it that night.” Tim and I crave Indian food, but just like most anything, good is better than bad, and this was GOOD. The unusual combination of Indian and Middle Eastern was explained by the proprietors, an Indian man with a Lebanese wife. But let there be no doubt that the wife was the one running the show. I didn’t care who ran what, all I knew was that the food was about the best Indian I had ever had. Yummmmmy!
One thing about consuming curry that should be noted is that at some point after eating you will have to urinate unless you have a devastating kidney or bladder disease. And when you do, beware of the fact that your urine WILL smell strongly of curry. That is just the way of it, so don’t despair or panic thinking that you have some terrible disease, no, it is just post-curry urinary syndrome. And to those of you wondering, it was the sainted Mr. Timothy who pointed this out to me, so stop assuming that I am the only one amongst us who would ever notice or comment on such a thing! Shame on you assuming it is me all the time…you’d be amazed at how different Mr. Mild Mannered and Perfect can be when you are not looking…but I won’t tell all, well, not unless handsomely compensated for it! LOL!
By the way, we discovered this syndrome while consuming our second pitcher of beer at the Seattle Eagle, a small and not heavily trafficked drinking establishment within uphill spitting distance of our typically over-priced Seattle hotel. Whatever else Seattle may be, add expensive to the list. The first pitcher of beer was OK, the second rather wretched, but it served to flush us of curry since as you most of you know beer is a beverage you only rent for a short period of time and once you start recycling it, you can’t stop, so hold off on that first release for as long as possible, for after that one your evening consists primarily of knowing the bathroom really well, which in some cases is NOT something you want to do. But imagine that, drinking AND in public too! What will we do next that you will know about? Stay tuned…
Did we dream of the food at The Cedars that night? I think Tim did, but most people I think would just call that acid reflux. But if you ask him, he will tell you it was totally worth it. So much so, that on our last night in Seattle we would be back at The Cedars eating again, correcting our only mistake of the first night when we ordered our food “medium-hot.” The second time we got it right by asking for “HOT!”
The Cedars not withstanding, which it just occurred to me are named for the famous cedars of Lebanon, I have to say that I massively prefer Portland to Seattle. Don’t get me wrong, Seattle is perfectly nice and fun, but it is hideously expensive and overpriced for what I think you get and it just can’t compare to Portland in my mind. Portland is large enough to have all the amenities of Seattle but it isn’t so big as to have the same expenses or traffic issues, it is easier to navigate as opposed to the rabbit warren of freeways and ramps in Seattle, and probably most important, the Portland environs, consisting of mountains and rivers, are more to my liking and preference. I did like the Seattle seascape and the islands, but I prefer Portland. That said, if you have never been to either of these cities, I do think you owe it to yourself to try them out so that you can make your own informed choice. My opinions, while 100% correct 100% of the time for me personally, might not be the same as yours, so don’t take my word for it, instead go and find out what you prefer.
Our next destination was Vancouver, British Columbia in the most perfect nation on Earth, Canada. Vancouver is really a shining star in the Canadian crown, with the fastest growing population, and economy, of the entire nation. Of course this makes sense given that Vancouver is the “sunbelt” of Canada with rarely freezing temperatures, a seaside location with easy, less than 2 hours, access to world class winter resorts like Whistler, which will host many of the 2010 Winter Olympic events when Vancouver is the host city. I have a huge fondness for Vancouver, as one would expect I would for most any Canadian city (except Winnipeg or Regina) but I really can’t see how anyone couldn’t like Vancouver. The setting is stunning, the city built seemingly primarily out of glass to catch every bit of available sunlight, and there are active shopping, drinking, sports, art, and music scenes to suit any and every taste. In fact, there was even a film festival going on while we were there, although since my cinematic tastes run more to James Bond and other things I won’t mention, we didn’t duck in. But the point is that in Vancouver you COULD do anything from dine at the finest place to eat falafel in a store front joint with only six seats, or you could view fine art at one of the museums or have art inked onto your own body, go for a nature hike in Stanley Park or head into the mountains for skiing or hiking depending on the season.
To get to Vancouver, we took a brief detour along Washington 11, a scenic state highway that hugs the coast, also known as “The Chuck-A-Nut Highway” because it passes through a bump in the road of the same name. Granted, it takes a bit longer but the views of the forest and peaking through the trees across Puget Sound to the San Juan Islands, a place I didn’t get to given ferry transit times, but which I intend to return to Seattle for, is worth the extra 30 minutes or so away from Interstate 5 and the run for the border.
On arriving at the border station, the only thing the border guard wanted to know was why so many apples! Sometimes I ask myself that until I eat one and then I remember. On arrival in the city of Vancouver itself, we went towards Stanley Park and across the Lions Gate Bridge, sort of the Vancouver equivalent of the Golden Gate Bridge, except a great deal smaller and painted green. We returned into Stanley Park, which has suffered extensive damage from a freak wind storm, but because Vancouverites so love their park, there is an active volunteer clean up and restoration process underway.
Vancouver might momentarily cause you to think that you had accidentally somehow arrived in China due to the very large Chinese immigrant population. This population got a huge boost right before the handover of Hong Kong from the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (known to geographic midgets as “England”) to the People’s Republic of China in 1999. No one knew what might happen, not much as it turned out, so lots of Hong Kong Chinese with the means were looking to leave, and Canada, typically pragmatic and with a long history of accepting lots of refugees and others seeking political and economic asylum (hey Canada, let me in!!), accepted lots of Hong Kong Chinese, but typically only the wealthiest who would pose the smallest burden on the state. Generosity doesn’t have to equal stupidity! The Chinese of Hong Kong have thrived and according to the most recent Statistics Canada report, they in fact thrive educationally and economically beyond even Canadians who are born to generations of native-born Euro-Canadians. So it would seem that Canada made a good bargain in accepting those folks who are now enriching Vancouver and British Columbia in ways both economic and social.
One of the direct benefits to me of the influx of energetic Chinese in Vancouver occurred soon after checking into our hotel. We were in our room when the doorbell rang. Yes, the hotel room had a doorbell to provide a more civilized experience than someone banging on the door with their fist to get your attention. I wasn’t expecting anyone, so while intrigued, I opened the door to a nice young man asking me, “Mr. Staley, do you like chocolate?” while extending a nicely wrapped box of Belgian chocolates to me. Silly question, everyone likes Belgian chocolate, and I am no exception! I was on the phone at the time and the person I was talking to, not to worry Craig, I won’t tell anyone it was you, had some choice words for me related to me being spoiled or some such nonsense. What he actually said isn’t fit to print here, but I chalked it up to Vicodin and envy, while calmly pointing out that if you stay enough with the Hilton Family of Hotels and Resorts, you too might have chocolate delivered to your room without asking or paying for it. And if it is any consolation to those of you out there who are yourselves envious, the next night all I got was two bottles of room temperature water, so perhaps there is justice in the end. But in Vancouver, Miss Suzi Lueng, Director of Sales, made a very nice impression with great style. Bravo Ms. Lueng, you have almost rehabilitated the name Suzi to mean something other than an insane psycho-bitch from the lower depths of Hell.
For dinner that night we walked a bit to get to the Atlantic Trap and Gill, a rather dark pub with long communal tables and some church pews for seating. It isn’t really the sort of place to go for alone time or to sit at a small table for two, but it is a great place for Vancouverites to come and hang with their 20 best friends to drink beer and watch a game on the big screen television. Now, given that description, those of you who know me best are wondering what in the hell I was doing there. The answer to that is simple: all you can eat fish and chips on Sunday. It was Sunday and we like fish and chips. And damn, true to Canadian form, this was good eats! It was obscenely good in fact but sadly I can’t eat very much at any one time anymore, but I valiantly tried to justify the moniker of the dinner and ate all that I could. And amidst the flags of the Atlantic Provinces draped about us, I discovered some of the best beer ever, Granville Island Brewing Pale Ale. It was a heavenly good combination of fish, chips, and beer. At heart, I guess I really am a simple sort of guy.
One of the many things I love about Canada is that the condiment caddy contained not only ketchup, salt, and pepper, but also one’s choice of malt and white vinegar. You know that a pub serving fish and chips really knows what it is doing when the vinegar, both kinds, is already on the table waiting for you, in this case in Corona Beer bottles with salt shaker snap on tops, instead of having to ask for it and then having the wait staff look at you as if you just lost your mind. In Canada they know that fish and chips without vinegar are just downright wrong.
Some of you will also remember our joy at discovering “The Beer Store” in Ontario, and our lesson in Manitoba liquor sales laws in Winnipeg. In British Columbia we discovered Jimmy’s Cold Beer, somewhat of a step down from the Ontario version in that you have to actually retrieve your beer from the case yourself instead of having it come down a gravity conveyor at you on the counter, but it was cold beer as opposed to the Manitoba version of room temperature so they don’t have to accept the cans back. Two cases later, only one of which would survive the night, we left full of fish, chips, beer, and Canadian good cheer.
As we left Vancouver the next day, we had our Middle Eastern fix of falafel for me and shwarma for Tim. I think the combination of a Sky Magazine article about Petra in Jordan plus his fondness for Middle Eastern food have convinced him to go to Jordan on the non-stop JFK to Amman service with Delta, so the stop had its good points aside from satisfying my craving for falafel which also can’t be filled in northwest Georgia. And if anything was emblematic of Vancouver and the Canada I don’t think many realize exists, it was the young Chinese man who only spoke Cantonese and English, trying to help an older Chinese lady who only spoke Mandarin, order lunch from a woman whose primary language was Arabic but who had learned English to partake of the Canadian dream. Really folks, it isn’t all just ducks, geese, fish, timber, and diamonds up there! Oh and don’t forget that all of you who use a Blackberry, myself included, owe that nifty device to the Canadians too! See, I told you it is the greatest country on Earth!
Our return to Seattle the following day was uneventful as well, other than our much anticipated return to The Cedars and food properly spiced, ensuring more curry pee and acid reflux, although I avoid at least part of that through the miracle of “the purple pill” otherwise known as Nexium, which my brilliant health insurance plan pays for with no complaint, or at least if they complain my pharmacist gives it to me for free, not as improbable as it sounds since Juli (don’t you know your pharmacist, her husband, and her child by first name?) has been known to give me lots of things for free; she is just that kind of class act.
We stayed close to the airport to simplify the departure process and also close to the Boeing headquarters. If I had any disappointment it was that the tours of the Boeing plant were cancelled due to the striking machinists union, which bummed me since I really wanted to see how they put together the machines that I spend a fair amount of time on and which transport me about the globe helping me to realize life long dreams. Oh well, maybe they will be open for tours again when I return to visit the San Juan Islands and go orca watching, otherwise known as killer whale watching, but really orcas are only deadly to seals, sea lions, and fish. Well, OK, one or two have attacked their handlers in marine theme parks like SeaWorld, but really can you blame them? Those places are hideous mockeries of the real world and for the good of the animals they imprison would be better off closed. Orcas are highly intelligent social creatures that maintain matrilineal families such that locking them in a tank for the amusement of screaming children is obscenely cruel. Personally I would rather lock up the screaming children somewhere and let the orcas visit, and occasionally eat, them instead of the reverse version. But alas, that vision of the world has not yet come to pass, but when I return to Seattle to catch that ferry from Anacortes out to Orcas Island and others of the San Juans, I will broadcast my good intentions to the denizens of the deep.
In the meantime I will remain full of good memories of the excellent multi-cultural eats and experiences of the Pacific Northwest, bask in the remembered filtered sunlight coming through the tree canopy of the Columbia River Parkway trails, and the receding Seattle skyline seen from the Bainbridge ferry. Seriously, give the area your time and attention. It richly deserves it and we only scratched the surface of all that you could do there.
Our next destination is Las Vegas for Thanksgiving with my parents and sister, a choice alternative to someone having to cook and clean for the holiday. I may, or may not, write anything about that trip, depending on how brave I feel knowing that my parents and my sister know my address, but if I don’t do anything for that journey, rest assured I probably will following the January epic voyage to Easter Island and Santiago Chile!
Some of my faithful readers (isn’t it nice to know that some of you are faithful to something?) will recognize that the title is a take-off of a 1989 shlock-fest of a movie starring Keanu Reeves, who has the uncanny ability to ruin any movie in which he is cast, no matter how good it might otherwise have been. However, the movie also stars George Carlin, and since a co-worker once told me that I reminder her of George Carlin, or maybe it was Lenny Bruce, it was at least eight years ago, well, somehow in a cosmic sort of Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency way (read up on your Douglas Adams now), it fit. Seriously try Dirk’s method. Pick a random car, follow it, and see if you don’t ultimately end up somewhere you needed to be even if you didn’t know you needed to be there. That is the way I write these things: following random thoughts, or Delta route maps, until I end up somewhere even I didn’t know I needed to be. Ah, the segue maestro!
As those of you who slogged through the War and Peace-like “summary” of the Dakotas and beyond trip will know, our next destination was the divine Pacific Northwest, which I can safely and easily say was the opposite of everything in the center of the country. If the Dakotas are obsessed with saving the “unborn,” the Pacific Northwest is obsessed with saving what we already have be it the whales, the polar bears, or even, gasp, ourselves! The northern Midwest was unrelentingly red (not Canada though, no, they really hate red) but the Pacific Northwest is equally unrelentingly blue AND green. Recycling is everywhere and as a stunning consequence, the place is as clean and tidy as Canada. Well, OK, almost as tidy and wonderful as Canada. Perhaps needless to say at this point, I didn’t spend my time here in half a panic that some red-necked freak would decide that my first name being Matthew was enough to make me the second Mr. Shepherd. It was a relief after the last trip. And the climate, not just in the political/social sense, but in the actual meteorological sense as well suits my temperament, unpredictable, but rarely sunny nor to most anyone’s direct advantage.
The outbound trip was non-eventful. The plane left on time and arrived early, which in a sense, is sort of anevent when that actually happens. Breakfast on planes is hideous by the way. I don’t know why SkyChef can’t make a decent breakfast, but the fact remains that they can’t. But lunch on the return, spare ribs, you wouldn’t believe it was airplane food, it was that incredibly yummy! But I digress.
We landed in Seattle, and the best things about that were the incredible view of Mount Rainier as you approach and then the direct fly-over of Boeing Field, the home of the aircraft we were on, which is a neat sort of cosmic coincidence I thought. For those of you who don’t know, Mount Rainier, while a snow capped giant of the Cascade Range, is also an active volcano. Granted, it hasn’t done anything active in a long time, but they said that about Mount St. Helens as well, and I hope you all remember what she did. This volcano business is true also of Mount Baker to the north, as well as Mount Hood, Mount Shasta, and Mount Lassen, making Washington (Baker, Rainier, St. Helens), Oregon (Hood), and northern California (Shasta and Lassen) all potential volcanic disaster zones. And given the proximity of Rainier to Seattle and Hood to Portland, depending on which side of the mountain gave way, it could be very ugly indeed. By the way, that is NOT an exhaustive list of the MANY volcanoes in the area. You can view a list and map of them all here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cascade_Range#Cascade_Range_volcanoes
But you don’t really dwell on that in the moment, instead I think you dwell on the stunning and rugged beauty of the Cascades, still snow capped, and marvel at the glimpses of natural lakes formed from snow melt that is trapped in the crevices of the sharp peaks where natural bowls are formed. It is a great approach if you are lucky enough, as we were, to have a clear day for it. Rest assured, it would be the last clear day we would see, until we left of course!
We had decided to head straight down to Portland on arrival, which is a not unpleasant drive of about 3 hours. Well, it isn’t unpleasant unless you have an issue with confronting the direct consequences of clear cut practices used to feed our ravenous appetite for wood and wood pulp products such as paper in all its forms. Clear cut forest looks exactly as though someone took a giant weed-whacker to huge tracks of forest. NOTHING is left standing over 2 feet tall. It is frankly hideous and it is everywhere in evidence in Washington State. The direct view of it might be enough to make you reconsider any wasteful paper product practices you might currently have and perhaps viewing clear cuts should be mandatory for us all in the same way that perhaps we should all have to see what really happens when you slaughter a cow, pig, or chicken before we eat another animal product. That isn’t to say that you will turn into a green vegan after the experience though. Rest assured I will print out at least one copy of this narrative on paper, have my soda resting on a paper napkin while I type, we don’t recycle, and while I have seen cows slaughtered from the bolt in the head to the chainsaw down the spine, I firmly intend to cook and eat a tri-tip roast for dinner. I don’t recommend the experience of knowing reality with a view to change everyone, rather just the view that everyone would then at least be aware of the impact they make, and if you are OK with that, then OK. Tim and I just say, “what the hell, we don’t have children who will inherit the cesspool we leave behind, we end with ourselves, so pillage on!” Beef and pork ribs with a side of chicken wings with plenty of paper napkins on paper plates anyone?
The Mount St. Helens site wasn’t far from our intended route so we detoured out to it. Remembering that the eruption was in 1980, 28 years ago, the amount of barren, non-recovered land, is stunning. Weyerhaeuser, the wood and paper company which claims to “release the potential in trees,”implying that they somehow are useless when standing and alive, provides lots of info-mercial signs in the area explaining how wonderful logging is and what a service they did when they “salvaged” the thousands of acres of dead trees after the eruption. Oddly, they never mention how many millions of dollars they made from that process. The company also graciously replanted the forest, but in mono-culture stands of profitable wood products species. Trust me, having grown up in the middle of a forest I know it really shouldn’t be mile upon mile of nothing but spruce or fir with nothing else in it. Granted, it looks green, but it is as fake a Christmas tree farm. Once you enter the actual boundaries of the National Monument though, you revert back to the slow and natural process of re-growth that has a long way to go before it is very green once again. I grew up visiting Mount Lassen National Park in California and I have been to Yellowstone as well, so for me the consequences of a volcanic eruption and the landscape associated with active volcanoes was a not a huge shock, but for an Easterner like Tim, I think it was truly eye opening and awe-inspiring to realize the potential and actual stunning power of a volcano.
Mount St. Helens is most famous for its catastrophic eruption on May 18, 1980, which was the deadliest and most economically destructive volcanic event in the history of the United States. Fifty-seven people were killed; 250 homes, 47 bridges, 15 miles (24 km) of railways, and 185 miles (300 km) of highway were destroyed. The eruption caused a massive debris avalanche, reducing the elevation of the mountain’s summit from 9,677 feet (2,950 m) to 8,365 feet (2,550 m) and replacing it with a mile-wide (1.5 km-wide) horseshoe-shaped crater. The debris avalanche was up to 0.7 cubic miles (2.9 km³) in volume. The more complete scoop on Mount St. Helens is available in many places, including:
http://www.fs.fed.us/gpnf/mshnvm/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_St_Helens
http://vulcan.wr.usgs.gov/Volcanoes/MSH/
Warning seems fair here: the last website above is SERIOUS science stuff, not for the faint of heart!
We also had a bite of lunch in one of the small logging towns, Toledo, near the mountain, and this is an experience also not for the faint of heart. Logging, at least on the brute labor end of the bargain, is not the road to prosperity and this poor little burg proves that to be true. There isn’t much there, but the people are working hard with what they have and for reasons both past and present I think you really have to respect that even if you wouldn’t want to live there, have your kid date or marry someone from there, or spend your vacation there. In these respects, it highly resembles its much larger namesake in Ohio.
In Portland itself, across the Columbia River from Washington State, we stayed downtown at the Embassy Suites, which is housed in the former Multnomah Hotel, which was a lumber baron glamour house in its day. It is a rather opulent property and I can honestly say that I have truly lived in apartments smaller than our hotel room, or rooms since there was a living area and separate bedroom. That feature would prove useful when Mr. Politics wanted to watch the Vice-Presidential debate, which I thought was silly waste of time akin to watching a train wreck in that you are horrified every time she opens her mouth but you are powerless to stop her, so I was able to close the bedroom door and read a book until it ended.
For me, Portland is a magical sort of town. I can’t pin it down as to exactly why I like it as much as I do, but I unmistakably enjoy the place for its big city amenities with a small town friendly feel and its classic old houses that people actually take an interest in preserving and maintaining. Portland without doubt has a young vibe to it, which makes sense given that there are several universities in town, and while I am no longer young in that sense, it still makes for an interesting and energetic place. If I could, I would move there, probably about the only place in the United States that I feel that passionate about. My fondness for Portland ranks almost as high as my fondness for all of Canada, well, not Winnipeg or Regina, but most of Canada.
One of my favorite things to do in Portland is to make a trip to Powell’s Bookstore, an independent used and new book selling monolith whose main annex alone occupies an entire city block. They have other locations as well for specialty titles, but I like the main building even if I am not looking for anything in particular because I enjoy the experience of being surrounded by so many books. We wandered a bit, bought a book about dogs since we were missing our burdensome beast, and strolled down nostalgia lane with Tim reviewing the Hardy Boys shelf and me re-reading Richard Scary picture books. Powells is rather a magical place if you like to read and if you don’t, well, I don’t have time for you anyway!
One of the great things about our hotel location, and about Portland in general, is that the city is very walkable and mass transit in the downtown core is free! We were able to leave the car parked and hoof it where we most wanted to go. So, after Powells, we continued farther into the Pearl District, the up and coming artsy-fartsy district, headed for Silk, a Vietnamese restaurant. Now I realize that for many of you living in metropolitan areas where the cuisines of the world are at your fingertips this might seem like an odd choice, but remember that we live in the armpit of nowhere in northwest Georgia where the food adventures are limited to courting gastrointestinal distress at the closest “Chinese buffet” (see my commentary about those in the Kansas edition of these chronicles). So when we see Vietnamese or Indian food, we leap!
Silk is rather an upscale version of Vietnamese, not at all like Pho Number One on Buford Highway in Atlanta, but nonetheless we had beef noodle soup, known as Pho Bo Thi Chien. I can’t do the accent marks but you get the idea. It is simple, highly liquid, and absolutely delicious with lots of jalapeno peppers, fresh sweet basil, red pepper paste, and lime wedges. But the best part of it was the amazing cocktail concoction, whose name escapes me, that featured fresh black cherry purée (they grow lots of cherries in the Pacific Northwest). That alone was worth the walk for me. My next attempt was something with fresh ginger that unfortunately had an aftertaste that reminded me of the aftermath of projectile vomiting in the bathroom after too many Kamikazes, while my friend Christopher did the same in the kitchen sink, while poor Craig looked on in sober horror and disbelief. Perhaps needless to say, I didn’t finish that drink.
The next morning I discovered that Tim was now officially 42, although those who know him realize that he went from about 13 to 50 years of age LONG ago and has sort of remained frozen in the fuddy-duddy state, although the experience of living with me thaws him and makes him in some senses younger every day. I also discovered that I had neglected to get my hair cut to the point that it was so long that I had to use conditioner to make it even remotely behave, and if you don’t know, I don’t believe in things like conditioner or hair products. I use in total only shampoo, soap, toothpaste, and deodorant. And yes I realize that ruins my demographic, but that’s it for the product list for me, so having to use conditioner was heinous! Of course, I promptly forgot to brush or comb my hair, probably because I don’t own those appliances, which are generally useless since I try to keep my hair to a comb/brush-free manageable length. Oh well, it was the Pacific Northwest so being shaggy was more or less OK.
For Tim’s actual day of birth, we ventured out to the Columbia River Gorge, the enormous canyon cut over millions of years by the Columbia River, forming much of the border between Oregon and Washington. The Columbia River is what allows eastern Washington, in the rain shadow of the Cascades, to be an agricultural powerhouse for everything from apples (70% of the nations apples come from Washington) to potatoes (side note, the French word for apple is pomme while potato is pomme de terre or “apple of the earth” literally, so my choice of products does make sense). And while that is important in some respects, the true wondrous beauty of the Columbia River is to be found in the Gorge. If you want to see essentially none of it, take Interstate 84 towards Boise, but if you want to be treated to some of the most stunning, and easily accessible, scenery of your life, take the Columbia River Highway which was built by two pioneering men, Samuel Lancaster and Samuel Hill, who were inspired by mountain road design in Switzerland. The gorge abounds in ferns, trees, and stunning waterfalls and most reminded me of the sets used in the making of the Lord of the Rings or of the Forest Moon of Endor in Star Wars. We wandered the Gorge from the observatory to the turn off to Mount Hood, stopping at waterfalls, hiking short trails, and soaking it up. Granted, you won’t be the only person doing this, but still it is highly worth it and if you are ever in the area take the time to explore the Gorge, or better yet, make it a reason to go. A word to the wise though is that airfares to Seattle are MUCH more reasonable than into Portland itself.
If you want to know more about the Gorge (I sound so CDC-INFO here), including far better photos than we can take, try these places:
http://www.fs.fed.us/r6/columbia/index.shtml
http://www.crgva.org/getting.htm
We left the scenic highway in Hood River, forgoing the chance to visit the fence surrounding the massive Google data center in The Dalles. Of course, you can also visit the massive hydro-electric generating dam there, which is why the data center is there in the first place, but I have been to the dam before and Tim wasn’t that enthused, nor should you really be either as the dam just isn’t all that, and besides, we had a better view of the data center on Google Earth than you would in person anyway. Google does not let you wander in among the server banks.
Tim is obsessed with Honey Crisp apples and I do feel that obsessed is the only word that describes it adequately. So, being in the land of apples we had to stop at the first apple barn we saw, a place by the name of Pearl’s. Pearl was fresh out of Honey Crisp apples, her husband had pulled out the trees. Later we learned he did this because he had planted them where he was supposed to plant peaches, oooops, and that mattered because of pollination or some such horticultural thing. But she assured us that Cody’s, “number 12 on the Fruit Loop” had them. Now of course we had a laugh about “the Fruit Loop” but turns out that there really is such a thing, a group of fruit growers and sellers who cooperatively advertise and each have a number on the map that identifies them.
Cody’s is literally a large barn of a place with the quintessential Pacific Northwest Earth-mother hippie survivor at the helm, but regardless of what you think of her type, she does grow really good apples, pears, and other produce. Honey Crisp apples, if you ever been lucky enough to eat one, are the epitome of crisp and just tart enough. Never mushy or mealy and not overly sweet, they are pretty damn good eats! But they are hard to find, only having been developed by the University of Minnesota in 1974 and not released to growers until 1991. Its popularity is such that is has become the state fruit of Minnesota and Nova Scotia, recognizing market potential as Canadians will do, is enabling apple growers to replace their existing trees with Honeycrisp trees between 2005 and 2010 at government subsidized rates! Over time they should become more readily available and less hideously expensive to buy in markets not near growers, but for now they are a treat with a very limited market period. The harvest is already done in Georgia and we have eaten all we had from local growers, so this was our chance! We ended up with 80 pounds of apples, which we would give Delta as checked bags for the return flight. We each can check up to 150 pounds in three bags for free, so we can carry a lot of swag back with us from our adventures.
While Tim was checking out, I was checking out some of the advertisements in the place, including a card for Hood River Lavender Farms. I have grown lavender, which is easy to do in most any California garden, as a low water, flowering, quick growing bush, but had never really considered visiting a lavender farm. But I knew that my co-worker Danielle had visited one and had decided from that experience that she wanted to own and operate one. So I figured this was a chance to find out what she found so intoxicating about them. My experience of Danielle has been that she is a pretty sensible woman so for her to find value in such an enterprise there must be something to it. And besides, it might give me a chance to snag unique Christmas gifts or something.
So off we go along Straight Hill Road, which was anything but straight! Eventually we arrived at the farm, which was rather obvious with rows of lavender growing and a stunning view of Mount Hood in the background, complete with the requisite friendly Labrador dog to greet you. It really was too picture perfect right down to the small white wooden potter’s shed serving as the gift shop. The farm closes at the end of October so we were just in time. Now I confess that despite having grown lavender I didn’t know diddly about it. I always assumed it would have that sickly sweet smell of old-lady perfume, but perhaps that is lilac, for it surely isn’t real lavender which instead has a heady but spicy, almost peppery, scent. Now if I had thought that the Cody’s apple lady was an Earth-mother hippie survivor, the proprietor of the lavender farm was more a Venusian by comparison. She was a bit out there and started her conversation with observing how “moody” the mountain was. Granted Mount Hood had a great cloud wreath on its summit, but I hadn’t really considered ascribing emotions to the mountain, and besides, describing an active volcano, the one statistically most likely to erupt in the Cascades with a 7-10% calculated chance of erupting in the next 30 years, as moody would sort of worry me. Pensive maybe, petulant perhaps, but moody sounds ominous. Or maybe I just inhaled too much lavender. She also described how lavender essential oils, which they distill on site, have calming effects and are used to help get a good nights sleep, and how the oils penetrate to the blood stream as well as enter the nose, blah blah blah, and you find yourself thinking this woman is really a hard-nosed business woman masquerading as a New Age Guru-ess bilking the gullible. But I have to admit that I didn’t realize that there would be such differences between not only French and English lavender, but also among the sub-species of English lavender. The scents really are different. And Tim decided to try some French lavender essential oil to add to his CPAP machine humidifier, and I can assure you that one drop really does do it, and that we both slept better than usual. And, after testing all the oils and breathing in the lavender laden atmosphere of the place, I did leave feeling very pleasant, almost giddy, pain-free, practically euphoric! It isn’t as good as the high from primo Humboldt County marijuana, no, but it wasn’t bad and legal! Even Tim was feeling the effect, so there well might be more to it than I had thought. Thankfully Danielle, even though approximately 2,700 miles away, guided me to the lavender farm. If you would like to know more about the farm, visit them at: http://www.lavenderfarms.net/hoodriverlavender/index.html
Continuing on Oregon 35 and US 26 takes you in a loop around Mount Hood, which provides amazing views of at least 270 degrees around the mountain and we reached a high point of 4,648 feet on Bennett Pass, less than 150 feet lower than the highest point in all of Georgia and about 500 feet higher than the highest point in Kentucky. That was just the road pass, Mount Hood itself is over 11,000 feet high, almost twice the highest point in the Great Smoky Mountains, which contains the highest point east of the Mississippi at 6,684 feet at Mount Mitchell. There really is nothing to even remotely compare out here to the 11,000 to 14,000 foot monsters of the Sierras, Rockies, and Cascades.
Honestly, in my many many many miles of experience in driving this country from West to East, the Interstates are great to get you quickly from point A to point B, but if you really want to see something aside from fast food emporiums and truck stops complete with lot lizard hookers, you have to take US highways and local roads. It takes longer but it is infinitely more rewarding. And to do that, it helps to know that American Automobile Association maps, while free to members, really do focus on the Interstates. In fact, most of the roads we have travelled in Georgia to cover all 158 counties, hardly appear on AAA maps. Instead, spring for the $5.00 or so it will cost you to get a Universal Brand or Rand McNally map at the gas station. It will lead you to far more excellent adventures.
Tim’s birthday dinner was at a venerable institution of the Portland restaurant scene, Jake’s Famous Crawfish, established in 1892. It has been, and continues to be, a popular spot for performers after the shows at the Portland Center for the Performing Arts, and so it should be with great cold draft beer (it really is all about the beer) and amazing seafood aside from crawfish, which are fresh water crustaceans anyway, so not really seafood. Aside from beer, I ate 3 pounds of steamed clams, well more like 2.5 pounds since I couldn’t actually finish them all, and before you gasp at what a pig I must have to be to eat 3 pounds of anything, remember that most of the weight of a clam is in the shell, which is included in the weight of your order. But yes, I love steamed clams. In fact, I wanted to buy clams at Costco yesterday, but then read the directions that said, in part “tap the shell of any clams that are open and discard any that do not close.” Now I realized that the shell is only going to close if I tap it because the clam inside is still alive. I have NO issue with eating a variety of things that were once alive, but I will not be the one directly responsible for killing something to eat it. I know, it is a weak consolation to think that indirectly I am responsible for the death and exploitation of thousands of animals over my life but since I don’t do the killing or exploiting directly it makes it OK, but hey, there it is. At least I draw a line somewhere! Besides, boiling something alive, unless it is any number of people I have worked with (Suzi Gates, Bonnie Ortiz, Norma VanSant all spring to mind, otherwise the only effective method is to drop a house on them) just seems wrong. Tim had an awesome Bouillabaisse with still more clams but also mussels, crab, and yes, crawfish.
At this point, our good luck with Pacific Northwest weather ran out and it started to rain. Now it is important to note, I think, that Portland is usually lumped into the dismal Pacific Northwest weather category, but in fact, Portland receives only 60% of the rain that Seattle does. But everywhere in the Pacific Northwest it seems that rain doesn’t stop people from being outside and often they didn’t even seem to bother with umbrellas, only tourists do that. The rain is just part of life and if you get wet, well, you will dry out someday. And on those rare days when the sun is shining, everyone it seems calls in sick to work and the rest of life to get outside and drink it in with outdoor activities and sports of one sort of another. Grab you kayak, etc, and go for it.
I also had to observe, as we arrived in Seattle in a downpour, that while it never seems to rain on Grey’s Anatomy, the actual weather in Seattle would explain why Meredith’s hair looks like that.
We made the mistake of going down to the Pike Street Public Market, which was closed at that time of night, but since we have both been there before and seen the fish flying etc, we were not devastated. We were devastated by the lack of anything resembling an open restaurant and ended up being fleeced by a tourist trap on the water where we got 1/8 the amount of clams as the night before for about 3 times the cost. Shame on them!
The next day we decided to see if we could discover why McDreamy had a thing for ferries and to see if we would be lucky enough to spot McSteamy on a ferry. We can see why someone would have a thing for fairies, but ferries we were not so sure about. Or how about it was our chance to ride a ferry instead of a fairy? Oh the word fun goes on and if you don’t have a sense of humor or if you are overly sensitive you have no business reading my narratives anyway! But seriously, I realize some of this won’t make a bit of sense if you have not, or do not, watch Grey’s Anatomy. And if you do, don’t tell me anything, I only see it when it comes out on DVD and we are not past season 3 yet.
Our first ferry went from Seattle to Bainbridge Island, and for the low cost of the ride, especially if you go without a car, and the frequent service, you really won’t get a better view of the city of Seattle, including the only realistic location of Frasier’s Elliot Bay Towers, than you will from the ferry to Bainbridge. In what struck me as a very unusual display of government sensitivity and cooperation, the ferry stopped midway for someone to dump a loved one’s ashes into the waters of Puget Sound, which turned an otherwise uneventful trip into a somber moment of some gravitas and meaning. And what a beautiful location for it, on the waters with Seattle receding and heavily wooded Bainbridge up ahead.
The Puget Sound islands are bedroom communities for Seattle but only if you can afford it, because believe me, those houses didn’t come cheap, although in today’s economic climate you might pick one up easily enough. We crossed Bainbridge and left the island on a bridge to the Olympic peninsula, home of the only rain forest in the continental United States, albeit a temperate rain forest. We were headed to Port Townsend of the purported charming Victorian waterfront, when I spotted a pho restaurant which seemed perfect for the dismal wet weather of the day. The kid who rang us up was fascinated by our adventures of visiting all 50 states and I think was rather in awe that two blokes from Georgia ended up in his family’s pho noodle house in the backwoods island of Washington State. And admittedly it probably isn’t something that will happen every day and that is part of the joy and mystery of travel. Ponder that idea and then come back to it when you strike out on your own adventures.
Personally, I would rate Port Townsend as a wash at best or a waste of time at worst. Whatever I felt about the waterfront, charmed doesn’t come to mind. And I wouldn’t really call it Victorian either. Old, perhaps; charming not really. But it was the place to catch the ferry over to Keystone on Whidbey Island. From Clinton on Whidbey, the ferry goes to Mukilteo, which is north of Seattle proper, and if one has forgotten that Seattle is a very large metropolitan area with the usual woes associated with travel in such an area, the sight of the ferry commute lane will remind you. Starting about 1.5 miles from the ferry terminal is a lane dedicated to ferry traffic, with a sign that informs you that from that point you have about a 90 minute wait to get on the ferry. Imagine that wait every morning to say nothing of having much more time to be stuck in Seattle proper traffic, with waits we witnessed of over 30 minutes and then perhaps one rethinks their vision of idyllic island living or the attractiveness of the exurbs. At that point I think I would be seriously looking to telecommute or move in-town no matter how lovely the island is, and it is, but loveliness wears off when viewed through the windows of a parked car than runs on expensive gasoline.
On the way into town from Mukilteo we decided we would not be fleeced again on a meal in Seattle and settled on trying out The Cedars, an Indian/Middle Eastern restaurant close to the University of Washington. I assumed that everyone knows of the University of Washington, as it is to West Coast academics of the same level of prestige as Stanford or Ivy League schools, but based on Tim’s lack of recognition it would appear I am wrong about that. However, it was clear that The Cedars had it going on! The place was packed with students as well as a handful of oldsters like ourselves, although we were rather outnumbered by the young vegan types, so I was rather pleased to eat dead animals in front of them. But the food was divine and just as Lonely Planet promised, “we ate there today and dreamt of it that night.” Tim and I crave Indian food, but just like most anything, good is better than bad, and this was GOOD. The unusual combination of Indian and Middle Eastern was explained by the proprietors, an Indian man with a Lebanese wife. But let there be no doubt that the wife was the one running the show. I didn’t care who ran what, all I knew was that the food was about the best Indian I had ever had. Yummmmmy!
One thing about consuming curry that should be noted is that at some point after eating you will have to urinate unless you have a devastating kidney or bladder disease. And when you do, beware of the fact that your urine WILL smell strongly of curry. That is just the way of it, so don’t despair or panic thinking that you have some terrible disease, no, it is just post-curry urinary syndrome. And to those of you wondering, it was the sainted Mr. Timothy who pointed this out to me, so stop assuming that I am the only one amongst us who would ever notice or comment on such a thing! Shame on you assuming it is me all the time…you’d be amazed at how different Mr. Mild Mannered and Perfect can be when you are not looking…but I won’t tell all, well, not unless handsomely compensated for it! LOL!
By the way, we discovered this syndrome while consuming our second pitcher of beer at the Seattle Eagle, a small and not heavily trafficked drinking establishment within uphill spitting distance of our typically over-priced Seattle hotel. Whatever else Seattle may be, add expensive to the list. The first pitcher of beer was OK, the second rather wretched, but it served to flush us of curry since as you most of you know beer is a beverage you only rent for a short period of time and once you start recycling it, you can’t stop, so hold off on that first release for as long as possible, for after that one your evening consists primarily of knowing the bathroom really well, which in some cases is NOT something you want to do. But imagine that, drinking AND in public too! What will we do next that you will know about? Stay tuned…
Did we dream of the food at The Cedars that night? I think Tim did, but most people I think would just call that acid reflux. But if you ask him, he will tell you it was totally worth it. So much so, that on our last night in Seattle we would be back at The Cedars eating again, correcting our only mistake of the first night when we ordered our food “medium-hot.” The second time we got it right by asking for “HOT!”
The Cedars not withstanding, which it just occurred to me are named for the famous cedars of Lebanon, I have to say that I massively prefer Portland to Seattle. Don’t get me wrong, Seattle is perfectly nice and fun, but it is hideously expensive and overpriced for what I think you get and it just can’t compare to Portland in my mind. Portland is large enough to have all the amenities of Seattle but it isn’t so big as to have the same expenses or traffic issues, it is easier to navigate as opposed to the rabbit warren of freeways and ramps in Seattle, and probably most important, the Portland environs, consisting of mountains and rivers, are more to my liking and preference. I did like the Seattle seascape and the islands, but I prefer Portland. That said, if you have never been to either of these cities, I do think you owe it to yourself to try them out so that you can make your own informed choice. My opinions, while 100% correct 100% of the time for me personally, might not be the same as yours, so don’t take my word for it, instead go and find out what you prefer.
Our next destination was Vancouver, British Columbia in the most perfect nation on Earth, Canada. Vancouver is really a shining star in the Canadian crown, with the fastest growing population, and economy, of the entire nation. Of course this makes sense given that Vancouver is the “sunbelt” of Canada with rarely freezing temperatures, a seaside location with easy, less than 2 hours, access to world class winter resorts like Whistler, which will host many of the 2010 Winter Olympic events when Vancouver is the host city. I have a huge fondness for Vancouver, as one would expect I would for most any Canadian city (except Winnipeg or Regina) but I really can’t see how anyone couldn’t like Vancouver. The setting is stunning, the city built seemingly primarily out of glass to catch every bit of available sunlight, and there are active shopping, drinking, sports, art, and music scenes to suit any and every taste. In fact, there was even a film festival going on while we were there, although since my cinematic tastes run more to James Bond and other things I won’t mention, we didn’t duck in. But the point is that in Vancouver you COULD do anything from dine at the finest place to eat falafel in a store front joint with only six seats, or you could view fine art at one of the museums or have art inked onto your own body, go for a nature hike in Stanley Park or head into the mountains for skiing or hiking depending on the season.
To get to Vancouver, we took a brief detour along Washington 11, a scenic state highway that hugs the coast, also known as “The Chuck-A-Nut Highway” because it passes through a bump in the road of the same name. Granted, it takes a bit longer but the views of the forest and peaking through the trees across Puget Sound to the San Juan Islands, a place I didn’t get to given ferry transit times, but which I intend to return to Seattle for, is worth the extra 30 minutes or so away from Interstate 5 and the run for the border.
On arriving at the border station, the only thing the border guard wanted to know was why so many apples! Sometimes I ask myself that until I eat one and then I remember. On arrival in the city of Vancouver itself, we went towards Stanley Park and across the Lions Gate Bridge, sort of the Vancouver equivalent of the Golden Gate Bridge, except a great deal smaller and painted green. We returned into Stanley Park, which has suffered extensive damage from a freak wind storm, but because Vancouverites so love their park, there is an active volunteer clean up and restoration process underway.
Vancouver might momentarily cause you to think that you had accidentally somehow arrived in China due to the very large Chinese immigrant population. This population got a huge boost right before the handover of Hong Kong from the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (known to geographic midgets as “England”) to the People’s Republic of China in 1999. No one knew what might happen, not much as it turned out, so lots of Hong Kong Chinese with the means were looking to leave, and Canada, typically pragmatic and with a long history of accepting lots of refugees and others seeking political and economic asylum (hey Canada, let me in!!), accepted lots of Hong Kong Chinese, but typically only the wealthiest who would pose the smallest burden on the state. Generosity doesn’t have to equal stupidity! The Chinese of Hong Kong have thrived and according to the most recent Statistics Canada report, they in fact thrive educationally and economically beyond even Canadians who are born to generations of native-born Euro-Canadians. So it would seem that Canada made a good bargain in accepting those folks who are now enriching Vancouver and British Columbia in ways both economic and social.
One of the direct benefits to me of the influx of energetic Chinese in Vancouver occurred soon after checking into our hotel. We were in our room when the doorbell rang. Yes, the hotel room had a doorbell to provide a more civilized experience than someone banging on the door with their fist to get your attention. I wasn’t expecting anyone, so while intrigued, I opened the door to a nice young man asking me, “Mr. Staley, do you like chocolate?” while extending a nicely wrapped box of Belgian chocolates to me. Silly question, everyone likes Belgian chocolate, and I am no exception! I was on the phone at the time and the person I was talking to, not to worry Craig, I won’t tell anyone it was you, had some choice words for me related to me being spoiled or some such nonsense. What he actually said isn’t fit to print here, but I chalked it up to Vicodin and envy, while calmly pointing out that if you stay enough with the Hilton Family of Hotels and Resorts, you too might have chocolate delivered to your room without asking or paying for it. And if it is any consolation to those of you out there who are yourselves envious, the next night all I got was two bottles of room temperature water, so perhaps there is justice in the end. But in Vancouver, Miss Suzi Lueng, Director of Sales, made a very nice impression with great style. Bravo Ms. Lueng, you have almost rehabilitated the name Suzi to mean something other than an insane psycho-bitch from the lower depths of Hell.
For dinner that night we walked a bit to get to the Atlantic Trap and Gill, a rather dark pub with long communal tables and some church pews for seating. It isn’t really the sort of place to go for alone time or to sit at a small table for two, but it is a great place for Vancouverites to come and hang with their 20 best friends to drink beer and watch a game on the big screen television. Now, given that description, those of you who know me best are wondering what in the hell I was doing there. The answer to that is simple: all you can eat fish and chips on Sunday. It was Sunday and we like fish and chips. And damn, true to Canadian form, this was good eats! It was obscenely good in fact but sadly I can’t eat very much at any one time anymore, but I valiantly tried to justify the moniker of the dinner and ate all that I could. And amidst the flags of the Atlantic Provinces draped about us, I discovered some of the best beer ever, Granville Island Brewing Pale Ale. It was a heavenly good combination of fish, chips, and beer. At heart, I guess I really am a simple sort of guy.
One of the many things I love about Canada is that the condiment caddy contained not only ketchup, salt, and pepper, but also one’s choice of malt and white vinegar. You know that a pub serving fish and chips really knows what it is doing when the vinegar, both kinds, is already on the table waiting for you, in this case in Corona Beer bottles with salt shaker snap on tops, instead of having to ask for it and then having the wait staff look at you as if you just lost your mind. In Canada they know that fish and chips without vinegar are just downright wrong.
Some of you will also remember our joy at discovering “The Beer Store” in Ontario, and our lesson in Manitoba liquor sales laws in Winnipeg. In British Columbia we discovered Jimmy’s Cold Beer, somewhat of a step down from the Ontario version in that you have to actually retrieve your beer from the case yourself instead of having it come down a gravity conveyor at you on the counter, but it was cold beer as opposed to the Manitoba version of room temperature so they don’t have to accept the cans back. Two cases later, only one of which would survive the night, we left full of fish, chips, beer, and Canadian good cheer.
As we left Vancouver the next day, we had our Middle Eastern fix of falafel for me and shwarma for Tim. I think the combination of a Sky Magazine article about Petra in Jordan plus his fondness for Middle Eastern food have convinced him to go to Jordan on the non-stop JFK to Amman service with Delta, so the stop had its good points aside from satisfying my craving for falafel which also can’t be filled in northwest Georgia. And if anything was emblematic of Vancouver and the Canada I don’t think many realize exists, it was the young Chinese man who only spoke Cantonese and English, trying to help an older Chinese lady who only spoke Mandarin, order lunch from a woman whose primary language was Arabic but who had learned English to partake of the Canadian dream. Really folks, it isn’t all just ducks, geese, fish, timber, and diamonds up there! Oh and don’t forget that all of you who use a Blackberry, myself included, owe that nifty device to the Canadians too! See, I told you it is the greatest country on Earth!
Our return to Seattle the following day was uneventful as well, other than our much anticipated return to The Cedars and food properly spiced, ensuring more curry pee and acid reflux, although I avoid at least part of that through the miracle of “the purple pill” otherwise known as Nexium, which my brilliant health insurance plan pays for with no complaint, or at least if they complain my pharmacist gives it to me for free, not as improbable as it sounds since Juli (don’t you know your pharmacist, her husband, and her child by first name?) has been known to give me lots of things for free; she is just that kind of class act.
We stayed close to the airport to simplify the departure process and also close to the Boeing headquarters. If I had any disappointment it was that the tours of the Boeing plant were cancelled due to the striking machinists union, which bummed me since I really wanted to see how they put together the machines that I spend a fair amount of time on and which transport me about the globe helping me to realize life long dreams. Oh well, maybe they will be open for tours again when I return to visit the San Juan Islands and go orca watching, otherwise known as killer whale watching, but really orcas are only deadly to seals, sea lions, and fish. Well, OK, one or two have attacked their handlers in marine theme parks like SeaWorld, but really can you blame them? Those places are hideous mockeries of the real world and for the good of the animals they imprison would be better off closed. Orcas are highly intelligent social creatures that maintain matrilineal families such that locking them in a tank for the amusement of screaming children is obscenely cruel. Personally I would rather lock up the screaming children somewhere and let the orcas visit, and occasionally eat, them instead of the reverse version. But alas, that vision of the world has not yet come to pass, but when I return to Seattle to catch that ferry from Anacortes out to Orcas Island and others of the San Juans, I will broadcast my good intentions to the denizens of the deep.
In the meantime I will remain full of good memories of the excellent multi-cultural eats and experiences of the Pacific Northwest, bask in the remembered filtered sunlight coming through the tree canopy of the Columbia River Parkway trails, and the receding Seattle skyline seen from the Bainbridge ferry. Seriously, give the area your time and attention. It richly deserves it and we only scratched the surface of all that you could do there.
Our next destination is Las Vegas for Thanksgiving with my parents and sister, a choice alternative to someone having to cook and clean for the holiday. I may, or may not, write anything about that trip, depending on how brave I feel knowing that my parents and my sister know my address, but if I don’t do anything for that journey, rest assured I probably will following the January epic voyage to Easter Island and Santiago Chile!