UPdate

Northern California is sort of a weird place, man.

We have driven through a number of towns just today that seem to be completely populated by weirdo hippies, strange hippie-type shops, and little else. The employment opportunities and draw of these towns are not immediately obvious. The towns, at least at first sight, have little "draw" to them--no University, no major industry--nothing but a couple of shops and cafes.

The only answer we can come up with is that these towns have developed around the local Humboldt County "produce" that brings people to such places.

We have spent the last few days, last night not included, in relatively civilized conditions. A few nights ago we stayed in Seattle with our friends Alex, Matias, and Robin. The drive across Eastern Washington was fascinating, rolling out before us after crossing the Idaho border. Our first introduction was a drive-through espresso stand in Spokane, followed by the ubiquitious free coffee at Washington rest areas. Sleep the first night in Seattle was wired and fitful for some of us.

We walked around Seattle the afternoon of our arrival, checking out the strange depths of Underground Seattle (one can take a tour through the old, now underground portions of Seattle). In the evening we enjoyed some dinner, drinks and dancing around town at an interesting place filled with ridiculously dense clouds of fake-smoke. The Seattle bar scene we saw, mostly in the area called Capital Hill was interesting. It seemed less consciously hipster and slightly more daring than a Brooklyn style, but we've been told that it is equally conscious, just better disguised.



More than three weeks of traveling was supposed to allow for in-depth probing of places in this land when we felt appropriate. We would explore weird places, immerse ourselves in local culture. But there are just too many things to see, too many places to go. Instead, the trip has become a "tasting menu." We have interacted mostly with service people and fellow tourists, occasionally speaking with locals at our frequent haunts - gas stations and campgrounds. We have adopted Hemingway's writing mantra of always leaving a bit in the ink-well, so there would be something to come back to. We have left much ink in the well. This "tasting menu" of America does not allow for probing if we wish to reach even a small number of the flavors available. This is not to say that merely being in these places, experiencing these lands is not teaching us much about this country, but there is so much more.

We woke in the morning after our night of '80s dancing to begin what would become a two-day, apparently Pacific Northwest, Road Trip Tradition. Alex brought us to a delicious breakfast place, where he ordered a portion of "biscuits and gravy" for the table. However, a short while later the waitress brought out a small platter of oatmeal. Some discussion and probing ensued and it was revealed to us that the oatmeal was in fact a concoction of butter, cream, corn starch, copious amounts of sausage and lord knows what else and was curiously dubbed "gravy." Needless to say, such a potent combination was enjoyable, but heavy on the stomach. Somewhere within the oatmeal, biscuits existed, but their taste remains a mystery to even the most sensitive of pallets among us.

We left rather late and headed toward Portland to meet up with our friend Adam, who has been living in this beautiful Oregon town since the early part of the summer. The weather was hot but welcoming when we arrived, and we enjoyed a bit of hard core porch "settin" before heading off to play some bocce ball. For dinner we finally enjoyed a big-old buffalo burger, which while delicious, sort of tasted just like a normal beef burger.

In the morning we got into Adam's van and drove downtown to the weekly farmer's market. An entire section of the municipal park, a thin swath of land that runs the length of the city, was packed with stalls serving a variety of organic and local foods. Beautiful vegetables, brilliant flowers and local cheeses delighted in their scents and sights. After taking a loop of the stands, we made a beeline to the most important stand of the morning--the biscuit and gravy stand.

The Biscuit Stand (known as Pine State Biscuits) is owned by a couple of Adam's friends. This, unfortunately, seems to mean nothing, as the biscuits and gravy were just as pricey as always (five bucks for a moderately-sized plate, seven if you add a fried egg). They were pretty good though, the biscuits this time stood proudly and prominently and were scrumptious, but our now professional tastes suggest the gravy could have used less onions and more sausage, though a bit of paprika added some new excitement.

Portland is a charming town that seems to offer a healthy and balanced life. The rent is cheap, the people seem relaxed, and the whole town is surrounded by brilliant spots for hiking, climbing, and swimming. It was tough to leave, but the tasting menu is relentless and allows for little leeway. We spent a while cleaning out our car, reorganizing (twenty four hours later it is once again a total mess) and vacuuming in preparation for Yellowstone, where the bears are said to actually rip the doors off of cars that smell of food.

Our plan for last night seemed simple when we left. We thought that we would drive down Route 5 and head straight for Redwoods National Park. The drive was meant to take about four hours, which would have put us in the park around 8 pm. A few silly decisions, however, put us onto Route 101 (the coastal road), following our motivating desire to finally dip our toes into the Pacific Ocean. This turned out to be a beautiful but shocking cold experience. As night fell, we realized the coast on a Saturday night was no different here than in Seaside Heights, NJ, and our motel choices were close to nil. And so, we drove over nine hours, late into the night, searching frantically and futilely for a place to stay. We grew bitter as we read one sign after another turning us away from a place to rest our weary bones.



"No Vacancy" seemed the most normal of the signs, but some said "Sorry", which just seemed a bit weird, and to our bitter minds, somewhat sarcastic. And "No" struck us as just plain rude. After hours passing these signs, we finally found a campsite and settled in to sleep. As we had arrived in the evening, we had little chance to see the place.

We awoke in the morning to a mysterious, foggy air. The ground was drenched with the moisture of the temperate Redwood forest. Peeking out, and finally stepping out, we were greeted by a hearty call of "Howdy! You drink coffee?" Shaking cobwebs from our heads, we responded in the affirmative and went over to join our rather odd neighbor for a cup of "cowboy coffee" ("some might call it mountain man coffee," he told us).

The man, to describe him gently, was a freaking slob. His campsite was graced with two tents, both opened, one spewing forth a strange collection of clothing and garbage. His picnic table was strewn with open boxes and cans, books and papers, all sopping with water. Even his fire was a smoky, disorganized mess. Oddly, outside his tent sat a gleaming, brand-new mountain bike with front and rear suspension (as he would later proudly tell us). The man himself was dirty and hairy, in his early 30's. He was dressed in sweatpants and wore a pair of bent, wire-framed sunglasses.

He talked constantly, and about the strangest of topics. letting us know immediately that if we needed anything in town, he would be happy to help us out.

"Just pick your poison," he told us. "I personally am a pothead. But you let me know what you need and I can get it for you. Give me one day, and I can even get you an ounce of Columbia Gold." He looked at us over the rim of his battered sunglasses, eyeing us up to see if we understood the depths of his abilities as a procurer of illegal drugs.

"Really?" we politely responded.

"Yeah. Oh yeah."

Over the course of the next hour, we sipped coffee with the strange man, hearing of the time he had supposedly spent living around the country, of his time as a champion bull-rider (recording on the way) , of his girlfriend, his suggestions regarding the finest of California's wines, and of his record-breaking eight hour drive from San Diego to the Oregon border. After about an hour, we quickly and politely took our leave from this strange, generous, and apparently lonely man, leaving him with his sodden, messy campsite and a gift of a bag of rolling tobacco.



And today, a whole lot of driving, broken up by an overheating engine (now rectified), a Salmon Festival on an Indian Reservation, and numerous coffee breaks in strange hippie towns. All just snippets of so much more underneath the surface, but they will have to suffice for now.



(Note: This was written yesterday and published today--We are now in San Francisco--more to come soon)