Beeps at short intervals. A voice message or two. This is how I am stirred from slumber on Sunday morning. It’s not lilting and pretty like the Velvet Underground & Nico tune of same name. It’s an abrasive, too loud siren that bores its way into your skull like a drill commanding the start of a new day. And for what, to inform me that Ian is sitting outside my house in New Jersey and no one is answering the door. Thanks for the wake up call, asshole.
It has been four weeks. If I had a little sequined cap and a cupcake with one candle I would celebrate. Alas, cash is tight and Eugene, OR, that bastion of progressive (dare I say socialist?) thought must be in my rearview mirror soon so I can greet the great state of Washington.
I drove through the University of Oregon campus. It’s lush and winding. All the local stores sell Oregon duck memorabilia. The city bleeds yellow and green and black. The city also makes no secret of their nostalgia for the sixties counter-cultural movement. Ever since San Francisco I’ve seen a lot of this. Today was no exception. The northwest feels like the northeast. One wrong word and you’re sure to hear about it. This is the same region where the conservatives feared to tread in the 80s. In Portland, detractors would line the streets chowing down on red and blue mashed potatoes, only to chase them with ipecac. Smile and greet the natives from your cavalcade, Mr. Reagan!
Along the path from Eugene to Seattle/Tacoma, you’rere given two options. You can stick to I-5 for the duration, or wander off onto I-205 for 30 miles and head in the direction of The Dalles. As a long-time fan of that classic Apple IIgs video game Oregon Trail, I headed for the Dalles. My first stop came at the Willamette River. I chose to caulk my wagon and float it across. Actually, I took a bridge. If the westward bound settlers of the 19th century had the benefits of civil engineering, who knows how many fewer folks would have perished from cholera and diphtheria?
The Willamette was a sight to behold with its waterfalls and locks. I walked along the ledge overhanging the river for a few minutes, peering across to the houses along its banks and spying displaced water from boats and assorted crafts. Couples canoodled and fat people from Idaho spit and tossed their refuse on the ground. I just stood and watched.
I rolled into Washington confident and making great time. Mount Rainier loomed in the distance. I took an obligatory photo of the Aberdeen exit. Traffic slowed as I approached the state’s capital (Olympia), so I decided to take a few minutes to explore the city. If I thought Eugene was a laid back slice of America, Olympia was, by comparison, horizontal. I walked around for an hour, talked to folks and bought some locally brewed beer to take home. I stopped in various stores, including a record store, a thrift store, a store for witches and the occult, and a bookstore. It being Sunday, the streets were relatively empty. One man sitting on the corner of the city’s central street, stopped me for a moment. He was clearly homeless, with a long ratty beard, tattered clothing and a long wooden walking stick.
“Are you from Vermont?” he asked.
“No, I’m from New Jersey.”
“You’ve come a long way.”
“I sure have,” I replied.
“It’s nice here.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” I said.
“I really love cows.”
This statement threw me for a loop.
“Yeah, I do too.”
“No, I mean. I really love cows. A lot of people can’t see the beauty in a creature like that but I do.”
“They’re stunning animals.”
“Can I have some change?”
“You sure can.”
I gave him whatever was in my pocket and took off. I’d seen enough of Olympia.
There was an accident on the freeway so I sat in traffic (video!) for almost an hour before I reached the Tacoma exit. I called Adrienne for directions and she provided me with a perfect course. When I arrived and unpacked my things, we hopped in her car and she gave me a driving tour of the area. We stopped for a copy of the local paper to see if there were any good shows tonight, but there were stunningly few options. We decided instead to get dinner and catch a movie. We ate at a restaurant and brewery called Ram, I tried a pint of their hefeweizen and it was good. The service was awful so Adrienne left a tip of roughly 3%. She even left a note to the server stating why we were so displeased. What a great, ballsy move. Adrienne thinks that this string of bad service in restaurants is solely my fault, and that I attract negative attention from servers. I intend to prove this theory wrong over the course of the next two weeks.
We returned to her house and watched several episodes of Aqua Teen Hunger Force before venturing into Lakewood (which is aptly named because we saw neither a lake nor woods) and caught a showing of Hustle and Flow. I don’t like happy endings so I was disappointed by the film, but I managed to whisper some very timely racist remarks throughout the film. You have to watch yourself in those situations, you never know who is within hearing distance. Adrienne called the film a “cultural experience,” which I guess meant there were lots of black people in it.
Tomorrow is Montana. I got two very nice e-mails from Jim and Jefre telling me how much fun they had meeting me and telling me how to contact them for further information. Plus, they included contact information for more folks, which is a huge bonus. They’re just all-around good guys.
