Marshal Taylor

The Dinosaur Goes to Catalina Island

Through a series of misunderstandings (don’t ask), we found ourselves making a trip to Catalina Island.  On our first day, we drove to Long Beach to spend the night prior to taking a ferry to the island.  The Best Western in Long Beach had a really good deal; they charge a little more for the room, but they let you leave your car with them for up to seven days for free.  The parking lot for the ferry charges $15 per day, which means parking at the motel is half priced.  The hotel also has a shuttle that will take you to the ferry and pick you back up again, all for free.

We had dinner at a really nice Spanish restaurant called Sevilla of Long Beach, that offered a special sampler of six different tapas, and a nice paella.  Our choices of tapas included two with different kinds of cheeses, one of which was much like bleu cheese with a balsamic vinegar laced over the top, while the other was a dry sort of cheese, sliced in thin slices.  Our four other tapas included a chicken-liver pate, ham that seemed to be on a dab of romesco sauce, thin slices of chorizo, and an olive tapenade.  All six of the savories were on thin toasted bread and were topped off with a slice of pimento.

The paella was very nice, but I make one just as good.  However, I did rescue the scallop shells, because although you can get scallops in Las Vegas, I’ve never seen them for sale still inside their shells.  I wanted the shells as a bit of atmosphere for the next time I make paella.   Their Sangre de Toro red wine, often described as a rough and peasant-style red wine blend, added just the right touch to the meal even though paella is seafood, not meat.

We finished off the meal with desserts, which we aren’t supposed to have right now, but hey, we’re on our vacation.  Patsy had gelato with a thin string of caramel sauce over fruit and berries, and topped  off with whipped cream.  I finished off my meal with an Andalusia Apple Tart  (not to be confused with a French Apple Tart… language difference I suppose).

The next morning, we grabbed the continental breakfast and then took the shuttle to the Catalina ferry.  A woman at the ferry company offered us special accommodations on the upper deck for a mere $30 apiece extra, but we declined.  We sat in the un-crowded lower deck for the hour and something it took us to get to the island, and even had window seats.

After we checked into the Catalina Canyon Spa & Hotel, we walked around for a while.  Avalon, the main town on the island, is a very walk able place of some 4,000 plus people.  I found it sort of Steinbeckian, because it’s built around a harbor and on up into the hillsides, and while there is a lot of money here, there is also a lot of funkiness.  Avalon is not a cheap place to live; for example, a gallon of gas is around $6.40 per gallon.  You can see why, since almost everything has to be brought in by boat or plane.

English may be the official language here, but we heard more Spanish than English as we walked around town.  There is a plaza, called the Tour Plaza, that features a gathering spot called ‘Pete’s’ Café, a place where people can gather to talk and solve the problems of the world.  During our vacation, we passed the place several times a day on the way to and from our hotel, and I never did hear English being spoken at the cafe.

There is a restriction on the amount of automobiles that can be on the island, so the main form of vehicular traffic is golf cart, followed closely by bicycle and scooter.  Given the lack of space, plus the cost of operating a vehicle, the abundance of golf carts is not surprising.  We were told it takes between fifteen to twenty years to get a permit for an automobile.  Even the golf carts are limited to one per family, depending on need.  Most of the vehicles we saw were city owned, which was surprising.  Catalina has a lot of top shelf equipment for a town of only 4,000+.

We had lunch at a place called El Galleon.  After a tasty Greek salad, we took a ride on an ersatz yellow submarine that was powered by John Deere, or so it said on the dorsal fin.  The sub was actually a deep hulled boat with big portholes below the waterline.  There were also water cannons along the side so that you can blast fish food into the water.  Surprisingly, we were very popular with the locals… fish that is.  The ride takes you out for a ride through a stand of kelp that supports a healthy fish population.

Out on the pier, we met an interesting woman named Peggy.  She came to Catalina specifically to ride on the ersatz sub – the boat went out three times, and she was there all three times.  In between rides, she bought fish food pellets to toss off the pier to the fish, especially to the Garibaldis, which is a type we would call a pan fish.  Peggy asked us if we wanted to join her in feeding the Garabaldis, and I asked her if she meant we were feeding some old Italians.  A Garabaldi is about a foot  to eighteen inches long, and looks like a cross between a gold fish and a crappie;  think of a large, bright orange ping-pong paddle with fins.

Peggy was a hoot.  She was a butter-ball of a woman, wore round glasses, and had a floppy, soft brimmed hat shoved down on her head.  She was very enthusiastic about everything around her.   While she laughed when the fish came swimming by the portholes, she really got a kick out of firing the food out of the cannons.

There were several types of fish swimming around –  lazy drifts of dusky Opal-eyes, individual Kelp Bass,  schools of fast swimming smelt that looked like silver flashlights, and a lot of small black fish called, surprisingly, Blacksmiths… go figure.  When the food cannons went off, the Opal-eyes and the Blacksmiths would swirl, making a cloud around the portholes until all of a sudden a Garibaldi would jump in, looking like a spot-light on a dark night.

We had dinner at a small place called Armstrong’s, out by the water.  I had scallops kebabs, while Patsy had giant shrimp on a stick.  The food was pretty good, and I would recommend Armstrong’s if you go to Catalina.  Afterwards, we had an early night to get ready for the next day.

The next morning, we went down to the continental breakfast and met three pigeons named Bob, Jack, and Fred.  They came into the breakfast room and got chased out by the woman at the front desk; she scolded them by name – of course, the pigeons seemed abashed.

After breakfast, we walked about a mile and a half uphill to the botanical garden and the Wrigley Memorial at the top of a valley.  As we approached the memorial, I saw what I thought was a feral cat dashing across the front of the stairs, however after another sighting, I realized it was one of the native foxes.  These things are not much bigger than a large cat, so it’s easy to mistake a fox for a cat, but they have a bushy tail which is the give-away.

The memorial was a lovely spot in the form of a large campanile with Art Deco bas-reliefs and more of the Catalina tile work we have seen all over town.  There was a tile company on the island for about ten years, but then it got moved off to the mainland.   Apparently, the new company kept the original design presses and also the style of making picture tiles.  Even the new tiles for the zip-line rides have the same feel as the original tile work.

The floor of the memorial is paved with native Bluestone as well as marble from, I think it was Alabama.  Since it was built in the 1930s, the structure is high Art Deco.  The original idea was to use as much material from Catalina as possible, so not only is the concrete made with local materials, but the tiles, and even the red roof tiles were made at the Catalina Pottery plant.  On the way back down to the garden, I saw some great Art Deco gargoyles around the staircase.  I would have loved to see in full gush, but then again, maybe not, since it would mean I was out standing in the rain.

As we walked down the hill, we stopped at the Conservation Interpretive Center to see what they had on exhibit.  When we left, a gentleman who worked there asked us what our plans were, and we said we were looking for some hikes.  He asked if we would be interested in a way to get back to town other than walking down the road we came up on.  When we said yes, he directed us to a pathway that took us up over hills and down into gullies.  Our fifteen or twenty minute walk turned into a two hour hike, but it was very pretty.

The day had started out clear, but turned foggy in the afternoon.  We had a quick lunch at a place called Coyote Joe’s, and then took a bus tour to the top of the island to the airport, or as they term it, the Airport In The Sky.  Our bus driver told us three times that we were not supposed to go out onto the airstrip, nor were we to touch any airplanes.  Well, of course one of the first things we saw after we got off the bus was a small red and silver airplane sitting at the edge of the airstrip… however, we resisted the temptation.  As it turns out, there is a thousand dollar fine for going out on the strip and touching the planes.  Makes you wonder how often this has happened to make the authorities pass such a law.

We should have seen all sorts of amazing things on the tour, but the fog had rolled in, so our bus driver just described to us what we would have seen if the fog hadn’t been there.  On the way back down the mountain, he tried to scare us by driving right up next to the edge of the road.  If it hadn’t been foggy, we would have looked straight down several hundred feet into a canyon, however, his trick didn’t work and even he started laughing about it.  We got back late in the afternoon and walked down to the Avalon Casino to look around until it was time for supper.  We stopped at a restaurant called Villa Portofino for a nice meal, and then came home again.

During the night, a strong wind came up and blew a lot of branches down, but it cleared the air.  We were tired from the day before (our short cut, plus all the walking around town really took it out of us), so we planned to have a quiet day.

While the hotel we are staying in is nice enough, their continental breakfasts leave something to be desired.  We went down town to have breakfast at a place called Original Jack’s Country Kitchen, and then walked a little more.    I have no idea if there was a secondary Jack’s Country Kitchen, or if he was the first person with that name on the island.  I wonder if he knows he’s sharing a name with a pigeon?

After breakfast, we started back up the hill to read for the rest of the afternoon.  The wind kept up so that there was no fog, but there were no tours either, so we just decided to take it easy.  We did stop at the only market in town for some bananas and carrots, however.  On the way back home, we took the wrong road and ended up going another half mile or so out of our way, uphill of course, trying to get back to the hotel.  So much for taking it easy.

That evening, we went back to Armstrong’s and had dinner.  Before we did so, we stopped into a shop called ‘Afishianado’ – a store dedicated to all things piscatorial.  They have statues, paintings, photographs and more, all about fish.  The lady who owns the place invited us back on Saturday night for a late night shopping special, a glass of wine, and a chance to see them light up the Avalon Christmas Tree.

When we got to Armstrong’s, we switched around, so that I had what Patsy had ordered two nights before, and she had what I ordered.  After a nice dinner that included a slice of hot apple pie, we headed home for an early evening of ‘Boggle’, reading, and a little television.

They have all sorts of tours in Catalina, including one where you ride on Segways, those two wheeled scooters.  The also have a ghost tour here, because Avalon is supposed to be partly built on an old burial ground.  I’m not so sure we didn’t see a ghost, but if we did, both of us saw her.  The one who may have been a ghost was a little blond girl, about eight years old, with long blond hair, and dressed in a blue sweater and jeans.  The reason why we thought she might have been a ghost was that I kept seeing her when Patsy was doing something else, so she did not see the girl at first.  About the fourth time I saw the kid, I mentioned her to Patsy, who then saw her as well.  She passed by, going down the alley behind us, but when we got to the end of the alley, there she was again, in front of us.  There didn’t seem to have been time for her to get from where we last saw her to the place we were now seeing her.  Since we hadn’t heard about the ghost tours at that time, we speculated that she might have been twins, and that one was following the other.  Who knows?

The hotel has been fairly empty because of the season, so their restaurant was not open until this morning.  However, with the weekend coming up, we think there will be more people staying  at the hotel.  As an indication of this, we saw the board in the lobby, saying we could eat breakfast here, so we did.  We had eggs, bacon, and potatoes O’Brian, with a cup of coffee.

Now, I have come to the conclusion that nobody in Avalon knows what a really good cup of coffee tastes like.  While our meal was pleasant enough, the coffee was mediocre, so we went downtown to a coffee shop that offered Nicaraguan Organic.   Should have been nice, right?  It tasted a lot like the stuff we had at the hotel.

The day was spent walking around (what a change,right?) and looking at places we hadn’t been to yet.   We also started paying attention to all the golf carts.  Some of these have enclosures around them to keep out the weather, while others just have a windscreen.  There are fancy ones, ones for larger groups, maybe a family of four or even six, and then there are the smaller ones that could only hold a couple of people.   The differences included paint jobs (or those in need of a paint job), and hubcaps (some fancy, some not so); there was even one with raised suspension and big tires.  That cart stood almost two feet higher that the others!  We haven’t seen any golf carts with flames painted on them so far, but we did see one that looked like an old fashioned surrey.

Later on in the morning, we took a tour to the interior of the island.  This place is bigger than you might think!  By the way, our bus driver from the other day told us a story he claimed was true.  He was talking about the Pacific Ocean and how the tectonic plates raised up the land to make the island, when one of the tourists asked if Catalina was completely surrounded by the ocean.  The driver said he told the person that it was, but only at high tide.

The bus drivers are apparently supposed to know something of geology, botany, history, and more.  They also appear to be entertainers.  For instance they like to explain how the eucalyptus trees are planted along the side of the road to keep buses from going over the edge, and when you hit some, they shout, “You clipped us!”  (Ho, ho, ho!)

We had dinner at the El Galleon and then went back to the hotel for a game of Boggle.    If it sounds like we keep going to the same places to eat, there is a reason for that.  The El Galleon was offering a tri-tip dinner for $14.00, where a couple of doors down at a steakhouse, the cheapest steak was $22.00.  I didn’t mind it, but Patsy thought the tri-tip tasted fatty.  I guess so, but it seemed okay to me.

You have to look at the menus; for instance, you can pay $11.50 for a Buffalo Burger at one place, and $17.00 at another.  Now really, how much difference can there be in Buffalo Burgers?

The next morning was clear and cool.  We hiked down town for breakfast at Jack’s and then walked around for a while.  The Wrigley mansion, built on a hill named Mt. Ida, is now a B&B.  We decided to hike up the road to take a look at it.  As it turns out, you can’t get too close to the place, however you can hike to the main gate.  We understand the rooms go from $350 to $700 a night, but they feed you two meals plus evening snacks, and they even give you the use of a golf cart, so it all works out.  The tour bus drivers like to point out the mansion and the fence below it.  They make a joke about that fence being the longest fence in Los Angeles County without graffiti, which I guess is true.

On the way back down from looking at the mansion, we stopped and talked to a gentleman who told us Nicholas Cage wanted to buy his house for 8.5 million bucks, but that he didn’t want to sell it because he would have to pay so much in capital gains.  He said that the government would just waste the money.  When we all agreed that people in congress weren’t earning their pay, he said that those folks were not looking out for folks like him and us.  Yeah, like we have a house worth $8.5 mill.

The walk up the hill was a long one, so we went back to the hotel to nap and read for a while before dinner.

That night was a special one.  We had seen city workers putting up holiday decorations all around the place.  The town has a big Christmas tree in front of the harbor, and this was the night to light the tree.  There were carolers dressed in 19^th century outfits, St. Nicholas arrived on a fire truck with all the lights flashing, and there were booths giving out free coffee, hot chocolate, and pastries.  As has been our pattern so far, we went back to the Villa Portofino for dinner.  Patsy had the Italian turf and surf, while I went for the pumpkin ravioli in cream sauce.  We probably both put back on every pound we’ve lost on Weight Watchers just with that one meal.  The night was chilly, so when we got back to the room, we turned on the heat and played Boggle for a couple of games before turning in.

Our last full day was Sunday, another clear, cool day.  We stopped down at our usual breakfast spot and I had my first taste of steel cut oatmeal.  I have always had the rolled oats, so figured there would not be much of a difference, but I was wrong.  The steel cut is much nuttier and has a better texture.  I’ll be looking for that in the market when we get home.

We took the Cape Canyon tour, a four hour jaunt around the island.  Of the three tours we have taken, this was the most expensive but also the most comprehensive.  We stopped at the Fox Habitat (where we saw a fox) as well as the Eagle Habitat (where we saw a bald eagle and a golden eagle), and went down some trails that looked awfully suspicious.  The most suspicious trail was one called the Sheep Chute, where they used to drive the sheep down to the boats when there were still sheep on the island.  We also saw the pens where they take the extra Bison for shipping out to the Dakotas.   Tour guide joke:  What did the mother buffalo say to her son when they shipped him to the Dakotas?  “Bye, son.”  Bah dum-bump!

If any of you reading this Dinologue plan to go to Catalina, and if you decide to take just one tour, take this one.  If you go, however, be prepared.  The tour is in an open Hummer with a sun shade overhead, but otherwise you are exposed to the weather.  It got a little brisk, but it would probably be more comfortable during summer.

Our tour guide was a White Mountain Apache called Bear.  He filled us in on some of the things the other guides glossed over, including the story that we kept hearing, how Wrigley bought the island sight unseen.  That was partly true; he invested in a company that bought the island and then he came over to see what he had invested in.  When he saw Catalina, he bought out all the other partners, so in a way, he did buy the island sight unseen.  Bear also told us that the man who first owned the island planned to turn the small fishing village into a tourist attraction.  He had been reading about King Arthur going to the isle of Avalon, so he took that name for his planned attraction.

We had lunch at the airport and I had my first cup of coffee that had any taste; that was a nice surprise.  On the way back to town, Bear told us many of the same jokes the other guides used.  I think there must be a training manual for guide with the jokes printed out and they all have to memorize them.

After we got back to Avalon,  I just had to go down to Courtyard Coffee to try their Dancing Goat Blend coffee.  The story about coffee was discovered is that a young goatherd noticed that when his goats ate certain beans off bushes, they danced around, hence the start of our caffeine addictions.   The Dancing Goat blend was more in line with what we brew at home, which pleased me.  Too bad I had to wait for so many days before getting what I think of as a decent cup of coffee.

Following the general pattern we had set, we went to Armstrong’s for dinner that night.  Someone on one of the tours had said Armstrong’s served great salmon, and they were right.  If you go to Catalina, and if you have dinner there, be sure to try the salmon at Armstrong.

Well, that’s about it.  We got up early the next morning, hoofed our way down to Jack’s, then got to the ferry on time and came home.  It was a nice vacation, one I wouldn’t mind doing again.  Thanks for coming along, I hope you enjoyed our story.

Day one: As with a lot of our trips, this one began at McCarran Airport.  Nothing special happened other than we seemed to have timed our trip just right, and we were loading on the plane a half hour after getting to the airport.  Since it was such a short flight – the first leg was to Denver – we weren’t given snacks, but we could buy them.   No way was I going to pay a couple of bucks for a box of animal crackers, so we delved into our breakfast bars for a snack. The free coffee wasn’t so bad, however.

Denver airport was an interesting place: there are tornado safe areas around the place, and part of the airport looks as though it is made of those high tension white plastic/fabric tent things.   Between the safety room and the tents, it felt a little transitory.

Going to Denver, the plane wasn’t full, and I managed to score a couple of seats without a third seat passenger.  Patsy’s seat was next to the window, one not over a wing this time, but she had an interesting book, so neither of us looked out much.

On our flight out of Denver, I found that sometimes having a big person sitting on the aisle is not the worst thing in the world: having someone sleeping is worse.  I waited until it was uncomfortable before I woke her up so I could go to the restroom.  On the other hand, she did not want to stay awake for the warm chocolate chip cookie they passed around for snacks (if the flight is over two hours, they give you something), and she gave me hers.  Life has its balances.

We picked up a Mazda SUV at the airport, since five of us were going to ride in it.  Whoever the person was that designed the dashboard, should have to drive their creation around for a long, long time.   The speedometer is set in some kind of hole, which is supposed to be backlit, but guess what: If I wear my dark glasses, I can’t see how fast I’m going, and if I wear my regular glasses, I can’t read the road signs.  On top of that, the GPS unit that came with the car, has got a short in it so that the screen goes blank ever couple of minutes.

After several missed turns because I couldn’t use a map to guide me, and the voice on the GPS would suddenly come out of the void, we finally got to the hotel.  One of the first things we noticed was the Spanish moss hanging from the trees around the motel; very Southern.

Our son Morgan, his wife Sandy, and our grandson John joined us for dinner at a Bob Evan’s – a restaurant chain around here.    If we had any doubts that we were in the South, they were dispelled by our waitress.  We ordered iced tea and remembered at the last moment that we had to specify the tea should not be sweet.  Also, when we looked at the menu, we saw more fried things on there than baked.   We were able to order some baked fish dishes however, so things weren’t too bad.

Day Two:

Figuring we might have some jet-lag, we decided to keep things low level.  The only thing we did was spend the day at the Lowry Park zoo.  I don’t think Patsy and I have been to a real zoo since we were in Perth.    We spent a lot of time around the primates, I guess visiting family.  I mean the alligators are interesting, if somewhat toothy, and the elephants are just grand, but it always seems like you could have a beer with an orangutan.  I did notice there were some viewing areas with Plexiglass windows where there were primates; I figured you would stand there when the apes were in a sh***y mood.  They do have a reputation of flinging things around.

We also saw the zebras, rhinos, and giraffes.  Whenever I see giraffes, I am always amazed to think that they only have seven vertebras like the rest of us mammals.  Talk about stretching things!

True to expectations, late in the afternoon, the jet lag set in.  That, plus the high humidity knocked the pins out from under me.  We headed back to the motel for a nap and an early evening.  Dinner was, of course, at Bob Evens.  Interestingly enough, the grilled chicken had a tough surface on the bottom side, almost like it had been fried.

Day three:

We drove to Naples, and I can’t get Dean Martin’s voice out of my head… something about getting hit in the face with a pizza.  Anyway, we drove across the Skyway Bridge, which has a really, really, really high arch in the middle.  It felt like I was driving on some sort of automobile roller coaster.  The bridge is pretty in a way; it has two pilons with cables strung like a monster harp and running down the middle, between the two parts of the highway.  Those cables are the supports to the arch, so I guess the rest of the bridge is just resting on concrete struts.  Anyway, the Skyway reminded me of the Prince Edward Island Bridge in Canada, but at least the PEI bridge had some advantages.  It was as tall as the Skyway, but went on much longer… that was not the advantage.  The advantage at PEI was that I could not see the whole bridge at the same time due to the rain and fog.  Here, I saw the whole darned thing the whole darned time.

Despite all my concerns, we got over the bridge and were able to continue on.  Once we got to Naples and had lunch, we headed off to Captain Doug’s Airboat Rides in the Everglades.

There was a light rain falling, but nothing bad.  Amazingly, it stays warm here all the time, even in the rain.

As we drove along, we paid special attention to the kudzu, having heard so much about it.  Just about everything is covered with the vine, and I wondered if you could make a stew or something edible out of it.  Maybe they could use it for biofuel and turn the corn crop back to food, which is much more needed by the rest of the world.

When we got to Captain Doug’s we were assigned to a particular captain who would take us on our tour.  Our boat captain was younger than me, but not by much.  He cracked a few jokes for us and gave us ear protectors, because the noise of the airboat engine is really fierce.  I also used my ear protectors to help keep my cap in place.

Let me tell you about the part of the Everglades we were in.  There was a broad channel of open water leading away from the boat dock and running between heavily forested banks – the mangrove trees.  The trees had arching roots dipping down into the water, and grew so close together that it would be difficult trying to walk around in there.  The water is very dark and murky, probably from all the alligators doing things in it.

We went out into the channel and managed to locate a nine foot long ‘gator right away.    Interestingly, several boats from Cap’n Doug’s went out one after the other, so we had a traffic jam around the ‘gator.  Our boat captain was pushy however, and got us within a couple of feet of the reptile.   We all looked at the ‘gator and it looked at us until we all got bored and went off to the next thing.  The next thing for the alligator was going back into the tree roots.

Further along the channel, we saw a raccoon hanging in a tree.  It had draped itself over a branch and was just watching the boats go by.  The captain told us the ‘coons were tidal and that they liked low tide for hunting shell fish and other things, so this little guy didn’t have anything to do but look cute for the tourists until the tide changed.  The captain had stopped our boat so we could get a good look at the raccoon, when disaster struck: he couldn’t get the boat started again.  However, our good captain told us there was nothing to worry about, and that he would just anchor us out in the stream until a rescue boat got there, but when he opened the compartment there was no anchor.  We were adrift in the Everglades without an anchor or a paddle!!!!!

We finally drifted into some mangrove trees where we held on to the tree roots until a rescue boat could reach us and pull us out to the middle of the water.  A boat wasn’t long in reaching us; good thing too, because the deer flies found us and were braving waves of Deet to get to our warm, succulent bodies.

Once we were back out in mid-channel, we bumped around in a cluster of three airboats until the captain of one stepped into our boat and tinkered around with the engine.  Finally, he got the thing started and we were on our way again.  There would be no more stopping for us, but our stalwart captain made it up to us by cutting wheelies and 180s in the water.  I was enjoying the high-jinks until I thought, ‘This is the real thing.  We could fall out of the boat or it could sink.  This ain’t a Disney ride.’  Then I relaxed and just enjoyed the fun, I mean, what the hell?  Alligators need to make a living too, plus our captain was what you call an expert*

After our boat ride, we drove back and spent the night in Naples, ready to drive to Key West the next morning.  The next day would be our longest day, some 6+ hours of driving, but it would also get us down to the furthermost point of our trip.  Key West would have to be our turn around point:  any further and we’d be in the Gulf.

*Thanks to the Mythbusters for the term.

Day Four:

Off to the Keys!  We drove back down the Tamiami Trail, past Captain Doug’s, and on toward Miami.  We stopped at an Indian Village, but it was too early for a tour, and we didn’t want to take another boat ride just right now.  We would have loved a cup of coffee, but no such luck – there wouldn’t be coffee until we got to Homestead, where we got some Cuban coffee.  I wanted my coffee black, but the Abuela made it with milk and sugar.  Oh well.  We also had some nice guava turnovers, which went well with the sweet coffee.

On the way to Homestead, the sky was dark, but no rain fell until all of a sudden, it dropped by the bucketful.  Fortunately, when I tried to find something else the day before, I accidently turned on the windshield wipers, so the rain was no problem.  I slowed down to fifty in the heavy rain, but kept getting passed by cars doing seventy or more.  Apparently, Floridians do not understand Newton’s Laws, because it didn’t seem to occur to them that once they started to skid, they would most likely keep skidding on the wet surface until something made them stop.  That something might have been us.

Once we got to the Keys, we passed through Key Largo and continued on south.  As near as I can figure out, the Keys were formed over a long period of time by sand gathering in the roots of mangroves, the same way sand dunes form at the base of mesquites in the desert.  There are lots of small islands and clumps of plants out in the water, which by the way, ranges from a dull grey in some places to a bright Caribbean Blue in others.

There are keys of all sizes, some of which are privately owned.  Once upon a time, a train ran out to Key West, but apparently the track got torn up in a hurricane and they never rebuilt the line.   Some of the smaller Keys relied on the old rail line, but are now cut off if they did not connect somehow with the new highway.  The old railroad line runs next to the new road out to the Keys.

Speaking of that, did I mention that I don’t like bridges?  I have decided that what they have linking the Keys is a system of causeways, some of which can get very tall in the middle.  I can deal with causeways, even the one that is seven miles long and kind of humpy in the middle.

The speed limit to Key West is 45 mph, and the distance is a hundred plus miles.  By the time we got out of Key Largo, I was starting to feel like this trip would never end, since we had already been driving four or five hours.  We stopped at a place called Whale Harbor and had a nice lunch.

Whale Harbor was where I had my first taste of conch (pronounced ‘konk’ down here).   I was a little apprehensive, because I once had a fried oyster sandwich in San Luis Obispo, and it was grim, but this sandwich was a very nice.  We learned that they farm conch, because the native Queen conch is a protected species, so I was able to enjoy my lunch without qualms (the qualms cost extra, so I didn’t have them).

The day was marvelously clear after an early morning rain.  The dining area at Wahoo was on a second floor deck, so we had some good viewing.  We could see big sailing yachts out on the ocean, and a bunch of charter boats in the harbor below us.  Ah, the life aquatic.

I forgot to mention the lizards (I have to, it’s in their contract).  There are little lizards everywhere; they are as thick as flies… well not quite, but there sure are a lot of them.  They dart around at the edge of your view so they catch your eye, but when you turn to look, they are either gone or they freeze and pretend you can’t see them.  Most of them are little tiny things, and I think the largest I’ve seen so far was about the size of my finger.  The thing is, there has to be a lot of insect life in order to support so many lizards, but once I started to think about it, I don’t remember seeing many dragonflies.  Wonder why that is.

Florida is nothing if not green.  There is so much green around us, but interestingly enough, the greens are fairly uniform, and there are not forty-nine shades of green like in Ireland.   There might be twenty-five shades of green, but even that might be pushing it.  What there is here and wasn’t in Ireland is the bright color of flowers like Bougainvillea and Hibiscus or crepe myrtle, so I guess that’s a good trade-off.

Further down, near Parrot Key, part of the old railroad causeway is still standing.  People use it to walk around and to fish from, however I have no idea how they do it.  There are pieces of the causeway missing, entire arches are gone, and there doesn’t seem to be ladders going from the water to the top of the bridge… causeway.   I can’t think these people got stranded after the damage was done and have lived there ever since, but if they did, would they be Bridgetarians?

By the time we hit Key West, I was pretty well beat.  Even after the coffee at Homestead and our break at Wahoo, the six hours of driving at between 45 and 55 mph was taking its toll.  So when we turned left onto Duval Street in Key West, I was ready for a break.  I tried to fake a nap by driving with one eye closed, but it didn’t work.

We stopped at Douglas House, a lodging that combined two or three old houses into one business.  Patsy and I had a first floor room, while Morgan, Sandy and John had the upper room, complete with stained glass windows and a balcony that overlooked a rather Faulkneresque garden.  There were two different  areas, both of which had mossy fountains, but one was dark and mysterious; not a place you’d want to wander around in after dark.  There were also some very odd palm trees with trunks that looked much like bamboo, but with fronds that only showed up as top-knots.

Duval Street!  What a street!  It’s not too long, but you can find almost anything there.  You could get hand- made ice cream, an STD, some fine art from a shop beside one that sells tacky tee-shirts, and just about anything in between.  There were some great coffee shops as well as places I would think twice about going into.  We saw a couple of male strip joints, one of which offered a cabaret show called “Life is a Drag,” and at least two karaoke bars.  Now this was all during the day time, at night it really got interesting.

Since it was afternoon, we decided to get some ice cream before stopping at the room for a short nap and then hitting the town.  One of the big things is to be down at Sunset Pier at, well, sunset, because they have a celebration every night there.  Maybe it’s like “Black Orpheus,” only instead of singing the sun up, they party it down.

The street to the pier was more crowded at night than it was during the day.  There were buskers out singing and playing various type instruments.  Unfortunately, we stopped at a place called “Overboard Bar and Grill” for dinner.  The service was slow and it took a long time to get our food.  I ordered the conch fritters, which are basically hush puppies with chopped up conch bits.  My fritters were a little over done, but I didn’t realize that until I had the same dish, better done, at another place.  After dinner, I wanted a toothpick, only to be told that they were out!  How does a restaurant with a bar attached to it run out of toothpicks?

Anyway, by the time we had dinner and got down to the pier, the sun had mostly set, but there were still some bands playing.  We listened to a Cuban band play for a while and then wandered back toward the center of town.  We passed one busker playing a guitar and singing in a soft voice.  I was well past him when the words he was singing made sense to me.  He was singing: “I’m invisible to you, and you, and  you too.”  I don’t think I’ve ever run into a sarcastic busker before, but maybe so.  We’ve seen buskers in almost every country we’ve gone to, maybe they were all saying something about us and we just didn’t understand.  Maybe the next time we pass a busker singing in a foreign language (that’s foreign to me, not to him or her), I’ll turn around and say “Oh yeah?”

There was one man riding an adult tricycle, the kind us old folks ride to go to the grocery store, and he was peddling it down the street.  The tricycle was loaded with so many glo-sticks and light-up toys, the whole display waved like moss in a river.  He had his own float in the night’s parade, complete with a boom box (I hope they still call them that) playing music.  Apparently, the guy wasn’t looking for spare change or anything like that, he just wanted to be out and to be a little crazy.

Day Five

We woke up later than usual, and surprisingly, I wasn’t exhausted; tired but not exhausted.  We had breakfast down at the Southernmost Café, naturally.  We checked out of the hotel and went to see the big red and black buoy that advertises itself as being the southern most point in the United States, which I doubted.  The buoy is on dry land and there is some land between it and the gulf; the claim a lie right from the start.

With that, we were back on the road and the return trip to Tampa.  I know among other things, it’s a big deal to visit the Hemingway House where Ernest lived and worked, but I didn’t want to do that.  I figured he would have hated a bunch of people making a shrine out of his home.  He never minded first hand hero worship, but I think he would have thought making his home a museum a step too far.

Anyway, we were  back on the road, this time headed north to Ft. Myer.  We were part of the way out of town when I got a call on my cell phone.  We had forgotten a bag of stuff we’d bought, and the hotel was calling to let us know.  Good thing we weren’t too far out of town.

On the way out of the keys, we passed several signs that said we were in Key Deer Habitat.  The only way this area could be Deer Habitat is if they lived in condos!  There were motels, boat rentals, dive shops and restaurants, all with parking lots.  I think the deer must have done some sort of rock-paper-scissors thing on who would live here, and lost out.  Eventually, we did come to an area that was undeveloped, so maybe they had to move there, but still I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a “for sale” sign in the middle of the wilderness.

We got to Key Largo in the afternoon, just in time for a short rain.  They do that a lot around here – short rains.  The rain doesn’t cool off the temperature, just adds to the humidity.  We had dinner at a place called “Sharkies”  and enjoyed their beer and pulled pork quesadillas.  They had some pretty good brews; Patsy had a “Sweaty Betty Blonde,” an American pale wheat ale, and I had a “Monk in the Trunk,” an American red/amber ale.  They also had the sneakiest mosquitoes there!  I normally don’t get bothered by mosquitoes, but I guess being out next to the water and at night time, the critters take advantage.  Anyway, we all had bites on various parts of our anatomies the next morning.

Day Six

On the way out of town, we stopped at a place called “The Key Largo Conch House,” where among other things, they featured a conch omelet served it with home fries.  The menu said that this dish was mentioned in Joel Pierson’s mystery book, “Don’t Kill the Messenger,” so of course I had to try it, and it was delicious!   If I ever pass this way again, I will definitely stop for the omelet.  Their coffee was pretty good too, and as most of you know, coffee is a very important thing with me.

I thought we would be back-tracking along the route through Naples, but instead, the GPS had us go through Weston and across the Big Cypress area.  If we had gone back by the Naples route, we had talked about taking another boat ride, this time across the “River of Grass” rather than the Mangrove swamp.  There were miles and miles of nothing but grass – no trees, just grass.  However, we did stop at the Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki museum at Big Cypress,

However, we did stop at the Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki museum at Big Cypress, which is a cultural center for the Seminoles.  The museum is 18 miles off of I-75, and for a while, I thought it was some sort of joke.  I mean, we went for miles with no signs and nothing to indicate that the museum was still in existence.  However, once we made it, the museum was worth the drive.

It’s a small place but it still takes a little over two hours to see the whole exhibit, including a boardwalk through a swampy area and a village with docents to explain the Seminole way of life.

When we left the museum, it would have been faster to backtrack the 18 miles, but I did not know that.  The GPS took us on a winding tour through slower speed areas until finally, much later, we rejoined the freeway.  There had been a hellacious rain while we were in the museum, but that was over by the time we finished the tour.  It kept threatening rain for the rest of the drive, but nothing happened, and we made Ft. Myer in good time.

Dinner that night was, well, unexpected.  I wanted sea food, since we were still within range of the gulf.  We chose a place nearby that also featured crocodile tail, And since we were still near the ‘glades as well, I had that.  I don’t know what I expected, but crocodiles do feed on fish among other things, so the tail bits were, well, fishy.  That was okay, I made a paste of tartar sauce, ketchup, and hot sauce, so the taste wasn’t too bad.  Of course, being here in the South, everything was deep fried except for the green beans.

Day seven:

Since we had stayed in Naples, I wanted to see what the Florida town of Venice looked like.  We made a side trip down to a small place that looked like it was equally divided between tourists and retired folks.  We stopped at one little café for ice cream, a God-send in this weather, and then headed on to Tampa.  That night, we were back at the La Quinta and had dinner at the Bob Evan’s.  I was finally starting to get tired and looked forward to being home the next day.

Day eight:

We picked up Morgan, Sandy and John, and headed over to St. Pete’s Beach, where we walked along the water edge, looking for shells.  Florida has this really neat small shell they call “Cat Paws.”  The shells are smaller than my thumbnail, but look like a giant clam seen through the wrong end of a telescope.  We collected several of them, which I stuffed into my pockets.  Fortunately TSA didn’t consider them dangerous, because I forgot to take them out of my pocket when we went through security later on that afternoon.

We stopped at a place called Hurricane Seafood, so naturally I ordered a burger and fries.  They had really good burgers, and the fries weren’t bad either.

This pretty much wraps up the trip.  I guess I got the total body scan, because they put me in this tube-like thing that looked like something out of Star Trek and told me to hold still.  I guess it was okay, because they didn’t say anything  about the seashells; more importantly, they didn’t giggle.

There was nothing noteworthy about the flight back home.  We got here when the night time temperature was a hundred and something, but it was dry!  Wow!  So we were home and tired.  We had seen things we’d heard about, we had spent time with family, and we had done it all in a week; now it was time to recover.

Well, thanks for coming along with us to Florida.  Hop

What is a hero?

I’ve been thinking about heroes lately, partly because our writer group is putting together an anthology on patriotism and heroes.  But another reason I’ve been thinking about heroes is the budget mess we’ve had in Washington.  I haven’t seen a lot of heroes there.  What I’ve seen instead is a bunch of people caving to the extremes of both parties and voting, not their conscience, nor for the good of the country, but what will appease their leaders and, hopefully, get them re-elected.

These are difficult times; we are fighting two wars (yes, Iraq is still very much a war, even though we declared victory), our tax laws are in serious need of updating to correct inequities and remove loopholes, we owe money to a country that is not our friend, the real income of the middle class has dwindled in buying power, and we have people who are not qualified, making rules about our education systems.

However, I guess I’m a glass-half-full kind of person.  I have faith in the American people; I think sooner or later, we will correct the problems we have now and move on to newer ones.  I know that we have slackers and graffiti painters who seem to feel they owe nothing to society, but I also know that we have a core of young people who do things and who will eventually become our leaders.  Some of my friends moan about today’s youth not being serious, but I see the same things were talked about by the ancient Greeks.  Some things change, some things don’t.

Anyway, I started out by talking about heroes, so I should end up on that subject.  I think there are heroes walking amongst us every day, but that we don’t recognize them because we think hero begins with a capital ‘H’.  I think the poorly paid worker who gets up every morning to go to a grinding job is a mundane hero.  I think the ghetto kid who dreams about getting out is a hero.  I think the young people who have lived here all their lives and worked for an education, those who have considered themselves Americans, but who find out that their papers were false and that they are ‘illegals’, and yet they go on, are heroes, especially those who reveal their circumstances and work to change the system.

So, the next time you wonder where are today’s heroes, maybe instead of looking at our ‘leaders’ or at people with a lot of money and bad comb-overs, you should look around you.  I’ll bet you can find heroes all over the place.

Day one:

We left Las Vegas at a reasonable hour, which should have tipped us off to something.   Amtrak provided a bus that took us to Bakersfield, since no passenger trains run to Las Vegas, a premier tourist destination.  At Bakersfield, we would board the train to Martinez, California, and from there, on to Portland.  We were told our bus was more comfortable than a Greyhound, and it was true because we had ample leg room for once.  However, I seemed to have one of only two seats with the armrest upside down, so even though I would have enjoyed a short nap, I was worried about the bus going around a curve and dumping me out into the aisle.

Later on, when we stopped in Barstow, I watched a woman setting in the front seat, casually reach over and flip another upside  down armrest in place for a lady sitting across from her.  I tried to do what she did, however it didn’t work, so I spent most of the ride to Martinez trying to figure out how to flip up my own armrest.  I pushed and pulled the armrest and looked for some sort of button or lever, all in a nonchalant manner, as though that really wasn’t what I was doing.   I mean, I’m a guy, for God’s sake, and guys can do anything mechanical; I wasn’t going to call attention to my efforts. I tried to project an attitude that said if I wanted the armrest upright, I would have put the armrest up.  Right!

We made a lunch stop at the Barstow Station, along with about a dozen other buses, and were amazed at how such a crush of humanity got fed, watered, and toileted in short order.  There were people everywhere, buying food, knick-knacks, and tee-shirts that said dumb things like “I (heart) Barstow,” as if that were really possible.  Even the Barstow Chamber of Commerce doesn’t (heart) Barstow.

English was not the language of choice, but then again, neither was Spanish, so I didn’t feel put upon.  Most of the people pushing toward the various food outlets appeared to be either Japanese, Korean, or worst of all, Chinese, because the Chinese might be sending undercover auditors here to check out their investments before calling in their loans to us.  You never know.

Our driver told us we had twenty-five minutes until the bus pulled out, so we should hop to it.  Patsy and I accomplished our mission and wolfed down veggie burritos and horchatas within the time parameter.  I’m used to the drill sergeant-type drivers, who mean twenty-five minutes when they say twenty-five minutes, but this driver actually did a head count and waited an extra ten minutes for some stragglers, a young couple obviously in love.  He was a real wuss.  The couple acted as if it were natural to wait for them.  They got back onto the bus and promptly merged into one corporate being that would  have taken a surgeon with a laser to separate.

We swung around to the old Barstow train station, which is now a museum, on the off chance that someone may not  have recognized the change and was waiting there for the next train.  We did the  same thing four or five times before we got to Bakersfield.  Nobody ever got on the bus, but we were able to use the restrooms in Mojave.

When we reached Bakersfield, we de-bused to pick up our baggage and go get our tickets.  By the time we got into the terminal, the clock on the wall said it was 3:35.  Our train was supposed to leave at 3:45, and we were at the back of a long line.  There were only two ticket windows open.  A woman stood at one of them, trying to arrange for passage to LA on the next day.  She and the ticket agent were involved in some sort of complicated negotiations, and we were about twelve people behind her.  Well, I figured there was no way we were going to make it, especially since a conductor was on the mike, announcing boarding was now taking place.   I had visions of the time when we were at the Toronto airport and we almost missed our flight because the line was held up by a flight inspector who wanted to “wand” every zipper on my computer case.  At that time, I had visions of us having to stay in Toronto and learn to speak French.

Patsy kept telling me to relax, that they probably wouldn’t leave without us, but I was heaping silent abuse on the woman who was tying up the line.  Finally, when we got to the window I saw the official time clock beside the ticket desk – the clock in the lobby was about fifteen minutes fast and we had plenty of time.  I sauntered to the train, just to show I wasn’t worried about being late.

We soon found ourselves sitting in very comfortable seats in an observation car, watching the scenery scroll past us.  The train was an improvement from some we have taken before, in that there were loads of choices for seating; there was a snack bar where we could get coffee; and when you lifted the toilet seat, you weren’t staring at the railroad track under the train.  By this time the sun was going down; mostly what we saw were dusky fields stretching off into the horizon.  The menu in the snack bar was limited to snacks, some cellophane wrapped sandwiches,  or a couple of things that could be tossed into a microwave.  The sandwiches didn’t look all that great, so we ate multicolored micro-waved burritos that stuck to the wrapping paper, and drank bottled iced tea.

Disaster strikes!!!

Well, not quite.  While we were in Bakersfield, a young man came by and checked our bags for us.  We thought this was a nice gesture until we realized the full implications of what we had done.  We had put our jackets inside our bags because the weather in Las Vegas was hot, however as the day progressed, we got into cooler places.  When we got to the Martinez station, there was a cool breeze blowing.  That’s when we learned we weren’t going to see the baggage again until the next afternoon in Portland. We were cold, but our jackets were still in our bags, along with our clean socks, our change of clothes,  and our clean unmentionables.  It was a lesson learned:  we promised ourselves we wouldn’t make that same mistake again… not with so many other mistakes we can make.

While we were in the Martinez station, a young man panhandled us for a buck.  When I gave him the money, he turned around and bolted for the door, almost like he thought I would ask for it back, or maybe more like because he now had the money for a six-pack.  Either way, about five minutes later, a little old guy who could have been the model for a troll doll, came over and told us the young man had just collapsed trying to cross the street, and it was somehow my fault because I gave him a dollar.  He cautioned me to never give a panhandler money.   I said I did it because you never know, the person asking for spare change might be an angel, and who would want to stiff an angel, but the little old guy actually cackled at me and repeated that you never give a panhandler money.  I think he really was a troll.

We had gotten to Martinez at about 9:00, and had to wait until 10:45 for our train, and the temperature kept dropping.  It never got extremely cold, but even so, Patsy and I huddled together for warmth.  We finally entrained and found our compartment before we got too uncomfortable.

Our sleeping compartment was just borderline tiny – that is to say, over the borderline.  We had to turn sideways to get inside.  Once in the compartment, we had to do a sideways shuffle to get back and forth past one another.  We did have a private shower/toilet however, which was good, because at a certain time in one’s life, not having to toddle down a hallway to stand in line to pee is a desirable thing.

Our water closet was one of those where you not only can do what you need to do while sitting down, but also take a shower at the same time, sort of a full body bidet.  Unfortunately, it was not as well located as the one we had on the train in Australia.  The toilet in the Australian train was right across from the bunks, so that I could lean across the gap, grab the top of the door and swing from the top bunk directly into the room.  To use this WC, I had to undo a safety web that kept me from falling out of my bunk, put one foot on a tiny ladder and the other onto the lower bunk, while trying not to step on Patsy.  After that, I only had to take one more step and I was inside.

Trying to sleep on this train was an interesting experience, and I don’t recall it being this way in Australia, but it must have been.  The car rolled like a boat and jerked around as it groaned and made other noises.  We got nudged in two different directions at the same time while listening to what sounded like a large, unpleasant animal suffering.  Nevertheless we were both able to fall asleep at last, and I only had to do the aerial ballet twice.

Day two:

Because the dining car had to accommodate everyone, the waiter had to make sure all the booths were filled.  We ended up having breakfast with two young ladies we had never met before.  One of them told us she had hiked around Asia by herself, but now that she was back in the United States, she couldn’t get away from her extended family.  While we were eating, at least three of them came by and signaled to her that they were all gathering at the back of the car and that she should join them there; she just kept talking.

The other young lady was an interesting study of contrasts.  She was from Alabama, but didn’t have an accent.  Her blond hair was long, but one side of her head shaved so she could punk it up if she wanted to, or have the long hair cover the shaved area if needed.  She had a number of piercings in both ears, a small jewel stuck in her lower lip, a standard tongue piercing, and a small ring in her nose.  She said she was in advertising art and could find work wherever she wanted to, but right now, she was headed to Vancouver.  This caught our attention, since we knew of at least two other couples headed there.   We asked if there was some sort of event going on, but she said there was nothing that she knew of.  Apparently, everyone was just going to a pretty town.

Meanwhile, the countryside was an interesting mixture of forest and farms.  In some places, the train seemed so close to the mountain, that if the windows opened, we could have picked flowers off the hillside.  We passed through the club car going to and from the dining car.  The conductor had been asked everyone to limit their stay in the car to about half an hour so that everyone had a chance to view the scenery, but there were some folks who looked like they had taken out homesteads on their seats.

When we got to Portland, it was in the afternoon.  Since neither of us had slept all that well, Patsy and I looked a little woebegone; however, with a shower and a change of clothes, we were back to being street ready.  We stayed at the Vintage Plaza hotel, a very posh place in the old fashioned sense of the word.  Our bellhop du jour was named Cody.  He took us under his barely-out-of-his-teens wing, toted our bags, showed us where the miniature bottles of over price booze was kept, brought some ice, and generally went out of his way to make us feel comfortable.  I probably should have tipped him more, but he seemed to be grateful for the little I gave him.

Later on, we met another young man named Faisel, from Saudi Arabia.  He was in the US studying to become a civil engineer, and was having his first ever glass of wine.  The hotel offered a free wine tasting after six in the evening, so we all had a glass, or two.  We talked for a long time until our friends showed up.  As we left, we asked Cody to keep an eye on Faisel because he didn’t see what the big deal was with wine, and we all know that way lies a terrific hangover.

Our friends Piers and Rachelle Munro live in Portland, so they knew where to take us for a grand tour of the town and then to a fine dinner.  They explained that the train station is in Portland’s equivalent of San Francisco’s Castro District, and we hadn’t just gotten in on the last of a Gay Pride parade.  We weren’t sure, since we had seen a whole lot of people in various stages of dress or undress, lots of rainbow flags, and so forth.  I bet it would have required only one drum major to have turned the thoroughfare into a parade.

Our first stop was down by the waterfront, where we walked around and looked at the boats.  There was one sailboat, probably a 35 footer, which sported a really fine rowboat on its back deck.  The small boat was a truly a work of art, all glossy with different colored woods for the keel and for the sides of the boat.  It even had hand carved oars.  We complimented the boat owner on the small dinghy and learned that unfortunately, it leaked when you put it in water… but it was sure pretty.

After a lovely dinner and a tasty beer, Piers drove us around for a while longer until we ended up at an Irish bar named Kells.  There we enjoyed some rousing Irish music provided by a young man who played guitar and mouth harp quite well.  He was singing “Finnegan’s Wake” when we walked in, so we were able to sing along with him.

We all drank beer and were having a great time when I noticed the ceiling was covered in what looked like green bowties, so I asked our waiter what that was all about.  He said that if you wrapped two quarters inside a dollar bill and threw it against the ceiling hard, the whole thing would stick there.  He said that they left the dollar bills on the ceiling until once a year, when they swept them down and gave the money to charity.  Now I just happened to have two quarters and a dollar bill, so I said I would double his tip if he showed me how the trick was done.  The waiter put the two quarters in the middle of the dollar bill and twisted it up like a salt-water taffy.  He stepped away from us because he said that sometimes the bill fell back down and he didn’t want us to get hit.  Then he just tossed the twisted bill up to the ceiling and the darned thing stuck there!  Really!  Piers claimed the waiter put something on the dollar, but I didn’t see it, so I am still mystified about what keeps the bundles up there.  Finally, after a rousing hour at the Irish bar, Piers and Rachelle took us back to the hotel.  What a great start for the vacation.

One drawback, however… I was developing a stye, and my eye itched like crazy.  Thanks to all the beer, I had to get up several times during the night, so each time I did, I put a warm compress on my eye.  By morning however, my eye was swollen shut.  I walked around with my dark glasses on for the rest of the day.

Day three:

After breakfast, we went down to Courthouse square where there was a Farmer’s Market going on.  We found a place to sit for a while and listened to a swing band play some Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey hits.  There was a short man who danced around in front of the orchestra before he came over and tried to get some little kids to dance with him.  They didn’t, of course; little kids don’t like to be approached by a stranger doing something odd, but a bunch of them went out on the plaza later on and danced by themselves.  It was a pretty sight to see, all these little guys having fun.

After a while we decided to hike over to the Powell Book Store, one of the largest in the world, I would suppose.  We grabbed a couple of ‘Estrellas’, Mexican Danish (oxymoron?) to eat on our way over to the book store.  The Estrellas were about the size of a large saucer, soft, and tasted like the pastry was made with cream cheese.

At Powell, we were overwhelmed by how many books have been written and how few of them make it to the top: best seller lists, awarded prizes, and getting on required reading lists for college – things like that.   After visiting the store, we stopped at another small park and heard a busker playing his guitar and singing.  I thought about all the books we had seen at Powell, and about those of us who write without the slightest hope of getting on a best seller list or winning a prize.  I realized that we of the unwashed and unknown writing community are literary buskers who figuratively take our writings out to the park and offer them to strangers for spare change.

Portland is a great city for walking.  It’s green, it has a lot of interesting places, and a lot of small parks where people can gather to eat lunch or just talk.  This is what makes a city worth living in, and I think that a great city is one where we can all come together with others like or unlike ourselves, to be out and about in a desirable milieu, and freely be ourselves without fear.

After lunch, Piers and Rachelle took us back to the train station where we were ushered into a VIP lounge.  We were VIPs because we had a sleeping compartment, not because we were all that fancy, although we did carry jackets this time.  The train station was very clean, but it had an old feeling about it, like something out of the 1930s.  I could imagine Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall racing across the platform to catch a train in this station.  That was okay with me, because I like that kind of nostalgia.

A new disaster strikes!

After waiting for several hours, we were told that all train service east of Montana had been cancelled because of flooding!  We later found out that the floods were caused by those darned Canadians, melting their snow packs early, oh, and that a lot of rain was falling as well.  We had been going to Minot, North Dakota, but learned that the town was now being evacuated.  Heck!  We missed all the fun.

Two days later, we saw pictures of the motel where we were planning to stay, and if our room had been on the second floor, everything would have worked out, although driving might have been problematic.

When we heard our train had been cancelled, I got on the telephone and called for a room at the hotel where we had stayed the night before, only to find out that it was totally booked, and that all the other hotels around there were also full.  So, not only were we stuck in the station with no place to go, but we were also homeless, and I was down to 50% vision capabilities.  Fortunately, Piers and Rachelle were home and they were willing to take us in for the night, however, they were supposed to leave the day after for Hawaii, and we could only count on the one night.  That was okay, because we were planning on going back to Las Vegas as soon as we could,  so our timing was, well, timely.

By now, my eye looked like I had a tomato taped to my face.  Between my wild flyway hair and my eye, I believe I would have scared horses… well at least that’s what I felt like.   We were going to stay in Minot for a couple of days, and I had planned to see a doctor there, but now we needed to change our plans in more ways than one.

Rachelle picked us up at the station and took us back to their house.  I had to call all the B&Bs and hotels to disassemble our vacation, but first I called the airline for a flight back to Las Vegas; that’s when things got complicated.  We had already used all our air miles for a flight back from Sioux Falls to Las Vegas at the end of our Dakota tour.  Normally, if we had to cancel a flight,  the airline would just give us credit toward another flight sometime in the next twelve months.  However, either because it was an Act of God that made us cancel or flight, or that the airline was going to fly us first class for free because they had no cabin seats left on the day of our flight, they were willing to do something different this time.  The airlines would reinstate our air miles for a mere $125, and then we could use some of those same miles to get us home on an Alaskan Airways plane for $30.  What a deal.

It only took a couple of other phone calls to cancel the entire trip.  The motel in Minot was very understanding about our cancellation; so was the car rental place.  I think I heard the sound of running water in the background when I called these places, but I couldn’t be sure.

Day four:

The next day, Rachelle took me to a clinic, where the doctor saw me within fifteen minutes.  Miraculous!  The forms they used at the clinic were laminated with plastic, and they gave me a Sharpie to write down my information.  After I was done, they ran the sheets through a reader, which put the information directly into their computer, and then the computer guy wiped the sheets clean so they were ready for the next person.  This was obviously a Socialist plot:  quick service, green record keeping, and an immediate rapport with the doctor.  It all sounded very un-American… almost Canadian.   The doctor looked at my eye and confirmed that I did indeed have a doozy of a stye and gave me a prescription to help get rid of it.

It took about half an hour to get my prescription filled, during which time, we found a used book store that was less intimidating that Powell, and bought a couple of things to read on the airplane.

Back to Las Vegas and on to LA

After we got back home, we still had some days set aside for a vacation and we still had money left, so we decided to go visit our friends Bob and Claire Bellanti down in LA.  They had asked us to come down anyway, and this would be a great opportunity.  The drive down was uneventful if somewhat déjà vu… it seemed like we had come this way only a couple of days before.

We got settled in at Bob and Claire’s and had a great time that night with our friends, as well as Ken and Susana Ashton.  Before going to bed, we laid out some plans for the next couple of days so we didn’t get in the way, and to keep us from being bored or feeling as though we had lost our vacation.

Saturday found Patsy and me at the Skirball Museum, where they had an excellent exhibit on Houdini, as well as their standing collection of Judaica and their truly delightful Noah’s Ark exhibit.  The Houdini show was very informative: I had no idea that most of the great magicians in the early 1900s were Jewish.   They also had one of the straight jackets Houdini used for his escapes, one of the trunks he used for his illusions, and some of his manacles.  There were lots of posters and displays of other things related to magic.  We spent about an hour trailing behind a tour guide who didn’t seem to mind that we weren’t part of  her group.

They have a Noah’s Ark exhibit that was worth the trip over to the Skirball by itself.   This exhibit is so popular that you have to have a reservation to go in, and you can only stay for two hours.

Imagine the love child of Dr. Suess and Rube Goldberg being presented to the world by FAO Schwarz, and that’s what the Noah’s Ark exhibit was like.  The animals ranged from total junk sculptures – such as two birds whose bodies were boxing gloves with paint brushes for legs and heads made of badminton birds and oil cans – to mixtures of carefully sculpted parts combined with things like ceiling turbines, springs, ropes, and so forth to make up the rest of their bodies.  Mexican folk sculptures peered over shelves and peeked out at us from all over the place. There was an elephant head made out of ropes, that trumpeted every time someone pulled a lever to raise its trunk.  There was even an exhibit where you could create a lightening storm or make a rainfall.  They had a Habitrail above the sculptures, just for kids;  too bad, because it looked like fun.

We wrapped up the evening going to a play about the Cambodians living in Long Beach, a play called “Zero Year.”  The theater was small and our seats were close to the stage, which was nice, because we got more involved with the play that way.

Downtown in LA

Saturday found us traipsing around the old downtown of LA.  We saw the Bradley Building, a beautiful and historic building, full of wrought iron and sculpted wood.  I might have appreciated it a bit more if we hadn’t had to walk around the lobby next to the wall because the janitor was mopping the floor, and  I hadn’t been looking for a restroom.

Necessity pushed us along from the lovely Bradley Building to a utilitarian Subway shop, where we bought coffee and cookies so that I could use the Customers Only restroom.  We sat for a while, drinking colored water that claimed to be coffee and looked across the street to the Million Dollar Theater.

The Million Dollar Theater was Grauman’s first theater, he of the Chinese Theater fame, and had a Spanish Colonial Revival theme across the front.  There were also life sized sculptures all over the building, and for some reason, buffalo heads and cow skulls.  The marquee advertised the movie “Zoot Suit,” although whether this was true or if the theater was now closed down and that was the last movie shown there, we couldn’t tell.

When we left the Subway, we glanced in at the Grand Central Market (more on that later) and then headed uphill toward the Disney Hall.  Disney Hall is a grand structure, composed of what may be great  big stainless steel sheets,  making it look like the world’s biggest De Lorean.  We think it was designed by the same guy who designed the Science Fiction Museum in Seattle, although that one had a lot of curves to it, and the Disney Hall was more angular.  After the long climb up to the hall, we sat around the really pretty plaza for a while, listening to the monumental fountain.  Since today was a hot day, we needed time to catch our breaths, and of course there were public restrooms to be looked at.   Being old makes one appreciative of restrooms.

After we recovered, we moved along to the Los Angeles Cathedral, which is a very interesting structure.  It also had a more angular look to it, although the walls were of stone and not stainless steel.  A bell tolled directly above our heads as we entered, almost scaring the bejesus out of me, and I looked up at a carillon of bells, none of which actually worked, but each of which had a speaker inside it.  Again, the day was hot and there was a pleasant patio, plus nearby restrooms, so we had something to drink and a snack.  We bought an odd pastry, something they tried to tell us was a Napoleon.  While it had a flaky crust that turned soggy next to the a cream filling like a Napoleon does, it looked more like a quesadilla, but it was all decorated up with almonds and powdered sugar.  Although it tasted okay, it wasn’t a Napoleon.

Inside, the cathedral was beautiful, spacious, and cool.  There were wall sconces scattered around, and when we got close to a couple of them, we saw they were angels with wings made of free-form pieces of brass.  There were also two long murals painted on canvas, of various saints proceeding toward the altar.  A mass had just ended, so we walked around quietly, trying to be unobtrusive and looking at the art work, when we noticed a security guard following us.  Now I know I am not the most reputable looking person in the world, but come on, I had Patsy with me: she’s reputable.  Anyway, as we started down into the mausoleum area, I turned to him and said hello and asked if it was okay for us to go down there.  He shrugged his shoulders, but stopped following us… at least until we came back up to the main chapel.   By that time, we were headed toward the door anyway, so I suppose this gave him some relief.

We walked back down toward the Metro station, which took us by the Angel Flight, a small funicular that traveled a couple of blocks up the hillside.  I suppose this must have been much longer once upon a time, because I can’t see building something this complex just for two or three steep blocks.  Of course, we did take the ferry at Englishtown in Nova Scotia, and there the boat traveled all of 400 feet from bank to bank, so maybe this was the extent of the funicular.

We finally spent some time at the Grand Central Market, which is like an indoor Farmer’s Market, but with stalls.  The market has been operating in the same location since 1917, so this is not a slap-dash put together operation, even though it felt like an indoor carnival.  You can buy groceries there, as well as prepared food, ice cream cones, bakery stuffs, and more.  You can even get your eyebrows threaded (whatever that is) and have a massage right there on the premises if you wanted.  We found some young asparagus at a ridiculously low price by Las Vegas standards, so we bought a couple of bunches for dinner.

We see the sign.

Believe it or not, after all the times we had been to LA, I had never seen the Hollywood sign.  On Monday morning, Ken and Susana, took us all out to the Los Angeles Farmers Market for crepes.  The Farmers Market is a hodge-podge of food stalls and trinket shops, with food from all over the world – sort of like the Grand Central Market, but without a roof overhead.  There was a stand selling Spanish tapas near our French crepe stall, and just up from there was another stall that sold borekas (a sandwich made with phyllo and various fillings).  After the crepes, Susana bought a jacks set and demonstrated her amazing skill; I bet she was a jacks shark when she was a kid.  I didn’t even try to play because I know my own limitations, I just tried to get one of the jacks to spin, but I wasn’t very good at that either.

On the way back home, we stopped at the Kodak Theater where they present the Oscars.  They have a big façade of a Babylonian palace built there, a reproduction of the largest film set ever made.  We walked out on a viewing area between the theater and the façade, where I could see the Hollywood sign very clearly, even with one eye.  What great friends!  Not only did we get our vacation rescued twice, but we also got taken to a place where we had crepes and great coffee, plus I got to see the Hollywood sign, and there were restrooms nearby, too!

Speaking of Oscars, that night we went to a screening of Douglas Fairbank’s Robin Hood, a silent film that more or less set the character for all following characterizations of the robber.  The film was shown in the theater for the members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Science, so we felt very privileged.   There was an organ down near the stage, that had been modified to reproduce the sounds of some of the great pipe organs in other parts of the United States.  Ain’t technology great?  The young man who provided the background music for the silent film, played wonderfully for a couple of hours without letting up.

The wrap up

The next morning, we went to the Getty, because how can you go to LA without seeing the Getty?  They had a display of illuminated books and manuscripts that has convinced me the scribes who did these marvels must have been under four feet tall, with really tiny hands and really tiny quill pens, considering how small the calligraphy was in some of the books.  There were illustrations along with the small text, so tiny that if you could get at them at all, you could cover them up with just a thumb, and these were all polychrome and had gold leaf on them!  Genius!

We had spent almost a week visiting friends both in Portland and LA; we had feasted well, seen the sights – including the Hollywood sign – and had a marvelous time.  Now it was time for us to go home, and although we had not seen the Dakotas or Mt. Rushmore, we hadn’t gotten flooded out, either, so it had been a grand time.  We send our thanks to Piers and Rachelle, Bob and Claire, and Ken and Susana for making us welcome and saving our vacation.  Oh, and by the way, I finally got to take my dark glasses off after we got home.

Until the next time, thanks for coming along on our adventure.

Tony

Day one:

We left Las Vegas at a reasonable hour, which should have tipped us off to something.   Amtrak provided a bus that took us to Bakersfield, since no passenger trains run to Las Vegas, a premier tourist destination.  At Bakersfield, we would board the train to Martinez, California, and from there, on to Portland.  We were told our bus was more comfortable than a Greyhound, and it was true because we had ample leg room for once.  However, I seemed to have one of only two seats with the armrest upside down, so even though I would have enjoyed a short nap, I was worried about the bus going around a curve and dumping me out into the aisle.

Later on, when we stopped in Barstow, I watched a woman setting in the front seat, casually reach over and flip another upside  down armrest in place for a lady sitting across from her.  I tried to do what she did, however it didn’t work, so I spent most of the ride to Martinez trying to figure out how to flip up my own armrest.  I pushed and pulled the armrest and looked for some sort of button or lever, all in a nonchalant manner, as though that really wasn’t what I was doing.   I mean, I’m a guy, for God’s sake, and guys can do anything mechanical; I wasn’t going to call attention to my efforts. I tried to project an attitude that said if I wanted the armrest upright, I would have put the armrest up.  Right!

We made a lunch stop at the Barstow Station, along with about a dozen other buses, and were amazed at how such a crush of humanity got fed, watered, and toileted in short order.  There were people everywhere, buying food, knick-knacks, and tee-shirts that said dumb things like “I (heart) Barstow,” as if that were really possible.  Even the Barstow Chamber of Commerce doesn’t (heart) Barstow.

English was not the language of choice, but then again, neither was Spanish, so I didn’t feel put upon.  Most of the people pushing toward the various food outlets appeared to be either Japanese, Korean, or worst of all, Chinese, because the Chinese might be sending undercover auditors here to check out their investments before calling in their loans to us.  You never know.

Our driver told us we had twenty-five minutes until the bus pulled out, so we should hop to it.  Patsy and I accomplished our mission and wolfed down veggie burritos and horchatas within the time parameter.  I’m used to the drill sergeant-type drivers, who mean twenty-five minutes when they say twenty-five minutes, but this driver actually did a head count and waited an extra ten minutes for some stragglers, a young couple obviously in love.  He was a real wuss.  The couple acted as if it were natural to wait for them.  They got back onto the bus and promptly merged into one corporate being that would  have taken a surgeon with a laser to separate.

We swung around to the old Barstow train station, which is now a museum, on the off chance that someone may not  have recognized the change and was waiting there for the next train.  We did the  same thing four or five times before we got to Bakersfield.  Nobody ever got on the bus, but we were able to use the restrooms in Mojave.

When we reached Bakersfield, we de-bused to pick up our baggage and go get our tickets.  By the time we got into the terminal, the clock on the wall said it was 3:35.  Our train was supposed to leave at 3:45, and we were at the back of a long line.  There were only two ticket windows open.  A woman stood at one of them, trying to arrange for passage to LA on the next day.  She and the ticket agent were involved in some sort of complicated negotiations, and we were about twelve people behind her.  Well, I figured there was no way we were going to make it, especially since a conductor was on the mike, announcing boarding was now taking place.   I had visions of the time when we were at the Toronto airport and we almost missed our flight because the line was held up by a flight inspector who wanted to “wand” every zipper on my computer case.  At that time, I had visions of us having to stay in Toronto and learn to speak French.

Patsy kept telling me to relax, that they probably wouldn’t leave without us, but I was heaping silent abuse on the woman who was tying up the line.  Finally, when we got to the window I saw the official time clock beside the ticket desk – the clock in the lobby was about fifteen minutes fast and we had plenty of time.  I sauntered to the train, just to show I wasn’t worried about being late.

We soon found ourselves sitting in very comfortable seats in an observation car, watching the scenery scroll past us.  The train was an improvement from some we have taken before, in that there were loads of choices for seating; there was a snack bar where we could get coffee; and when you lifted the toilet seat, you weren’t staring at the railroad track under the train.  By this time the sun was going down; mostly what we saw were dusky fields stretching off into the horizon.  The menu in the snack bar was limited to snacks, some cellophane wrapped sandwiches,  or a couple of things that could be tossed into a microwave.  The sandwiches didn’t look all that great, so we ate multicolored micro-waved burritos that stuck to the wrapping paper, and drank bottled iced tea.

Disaster strikes!!!

Well, not quite.  While we were in Bakersfield, a young man came by and checked our bags for us.  We thought this was a nice gesture until we realized the full implications of what we had done.  We had put our jackets inside our bags because the weather in Las Vegas was hot, however as the day progressed, we got into cooler places.  When we got to the Martinez station, there was a cool breeze blowing.  That’s when we learned we weren’t going to see the baggage again until the next afternoon in Portland. We were cold, but our jackets were still in our bags, along with our clean socks, our change of clothes,  and our clean unmentionables.  It was a lesson learned:  we promised ourselves we wouldn’t make that same mistake again… not with so many other mistakes we can make.

While we were in the Martinez station, a young man panhandled us for a buck.  When I gave him the money, he turned around and bolted for the door, almost like he thought I would ask for it back, or maybe more like because he now had the money for a six-pack.  Either way, about five minutes later, a little old guy who could have been the model for a troll doll, came over and told us the young man had just collapsed trying to cross the street, and it was somehow my fault because I gave him a dollar.  He cautioned me to never give a panhandler money.   I said I did it because you never know, the person asking for spare change might be an angel, and who would want to stiff an angel, but the little old guy actually cackled at me and repeated that you never give a panhandler money.  I think he really was a troll.

We had gotten to Martinez at about 9:00, and had to wait until 10:45 for our train, and the temperature kept dropping.  It never got extremely cold, but even so, Patsy and I huddled together for warmth.  We finally entrained and found our compartment before we got too uncomfortable.

Our sleeping compartment was just borderline tiny – that is to say, over the borderline.  We had to turn sideways to get inside.  Once in the compartment, we had to do a sideways shuffle to get back and forth past one another.  We did have a private shower/toilet however, which was good, because at a certain time in one’s life, not having to toddle down a hallway to stand in line to pee is a desirable thing.

Our water closet was one of those where you not only can do what you need to do while sitting down, but also take a shower at the same time, sort of a full body bidet.  Unfortunately, it was not as well located as the one we had on the train in Australia.  The toilet in the Australian train was right across from the bunks, so that I could lean across the gap, grab the top of the door and swing from the top bunk directly into the room.  To use this WC, I had to undo a safety web that kept me from falling out of my bunk, put one foot on a tiny ladder and the other onto the lower bunk, while trying not to step on Patsy.  After that, I only had to take one more step and I was inside.

Trying to sleep on this train was an interesting experience, and I don’t recall it being this way in Australia, but it must have been.  The car rolled like a boat and jerked around as it groaned and made other noises.  We got nudged in two different directions at the same time while listening to what sounded like a large, unpleasant animal suffering.  Nevertheless we were both able to fall asleep at last, and I only had to do the aerial ballet twice.

Day two:

Because the dining car had to accommodate everyone, the waiter had to make sure all the booths were filled.  We ended up having breakfast with two young ladies we had never met before.  One of them told us she had hiked around Asia by herself, but now that she was back in the United States, she couldn’t get away from her extended family.  While we were eating, at least three of them came by and signaled to her that they were all gathering at the back of the car and that she should join them there; she just kept talking.

The other young lady was an interesting study of contrasts.  She was from Alabama, but didn’t have an accent.  Her blond hair was long, but one side of her head shaved so she could punk it up if she wanted to, or have the long hair cover the shaved area if needed.  She had a number of piercings in both ears, a small jewel stuck in her lower lip, a standard tongue piercing, and a small ring in her nose.  She said she was in advertising art and could find work wherever she wanted to, but right now, she was headed to Vancouver.  This caught our attention, since we knew of at least two other couples headed there.   We asked if there was some sort of event going on, but she said there was nothing that she knew of.  Apparently, everyone was just going to a pretty town.

Meanwhile, the countryside was an interesting mixture of forest and farms.  In some places, the train seemed so close to the mountain, that if the windows opened, we could have picked flowers off the hillside.  We passed through the club car going to and from the dining car.  The conductor had been asked everyone to limit their stay in the car to about half an hour so that everyone had a chance to view the scenery, but there were some folks who looked like they had taken out homesteads on their seats.

When we got to Portland, it was in the afternoon.  Since neither of us had slept all that well, Patsy and I looked a little woebegone; however, with a shower and a change of clothes, we were back to being street ready.  We stayed at the Vintage Plaza hotel, a very posh place in the old fashioned sense of the word.  Our bellhop du jour was named Cody.  He took us under his barely-out-of-his-teens wing, toted our bags, showed us where the miniature bottles of over price booze was kept, brought some ice, and generally went out of his way to make us feel comfortable.  I probably should have tipped him more, but he seemed to be grateful for the little I gave him.

Later on, we met another young man named Faisel, from Saudi Arabia.  He was in the US studying to become a civil engineer, and was having his first ever glass of wine.  The hotel offered a free wine tasting after six in the evening, so we all had a glass, or two.  We talked for a long time until our friends showed up.  As we left, we asked Cody to keep an eye on Faisel because he didn’t see what the big deal was with wine, and we all know that way lies a terrific hangover.

Our friends Piers and Rachelle Munro live in Portland, so they knew where to take us for a grand tour of the town and then to a fine dinner.  They explained that the train station is in Portland’s equivalent of San Francisco’s Castro District, and we hadn’t just gotten in on the last of a Gay Pride parade.  We weren’t sure, since we had seen a whole lot of people in various stages of dress or undress, lots of rainbow flags, and so forth.  I bet it would have required only one drum major to have turned the thoroughfare into a parade.

Our first stop was down by the waterfront, where we walked around and looked at the boats.  There was one sailboat, probably a 35 footer, which sported a really fine rowboat on its back deck.  The small boat was a truly a work of art, all glossy with different colored woods for the keel and for the sides of the boat.  It even had hand carved oars.  We complimented the boat owner on the small dinghy and learned that unfortunately, it leaked when you put it in water… but it was sure pretty.

After a lovely dinner and a tasty beer, Piers drove us around for a while longer until we ended up at an Irish bar named Kells.  There we enjoyed some rousing Irish music provided by a young man who played guitar and mouth harp quite well.  He was singing “Finnegan’s Wake” when we walked in, so we were able to sing along with him.

We all drank beer and were having a great time when I noticed the ceiling was covered in what looked like green bowties, so I asked our waiter what that was all about.  He said that if you wrapped two quarters inside a dollar bill and threw it against the ceiling hard, the whole thing would stick there.  He said that they left the dollar bills on the ceiling until once a year, when they swept them down and gave the money to charity.  Now I just happened to have two quarters and a dollar bill, so I said I would double his tip if he showed me how the trick was done.  The waiter put the two quarters in the middle of the dollar bill and twisted it up like a salt-water taffy.  He stepped away from us because he said that sometimes the bill fell back down and he didn’t want us to get hit.  Then he just tossed the twisted bill up to the ceiling and the darned thing stuck there!  Really!  Piers claimed the waiter put something on the dollar, but I didn’t see it, so I am still mystified about what keeps the bundles up there.  Finally, after a rousing hour at the Irish bar, Piers and Rachelle took us back to the hotel.  What a great start for the vacation.

One drawback, however… I was developing a stye, and my eye itched like crazy.  Thanks to all the beer, I had to get up several times during the night, so each time I did, I put a warm compress on my eye.  By morning however, my eye was swollen shut.  I walked around with my dark glasses on for the rest of the day.

Day three:

After breakfast, we went down to Courthouse square where there was a Farmer’s Market going on.  We found a place to sit for a while and listened to a swing band play some Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey hits.  There was a short man who danced around in front of the orchestra before he came over and tried to get some little kids to dance with him.  They didn’t, of course; little kids don’t like to be approached by a stranger doing something odd, but a bunch of them went out on the plaza later on and danced by themselves.  It was a pretty sight to see, all these little guys having fun.

After a while we decided to hike over to the Powell Book Store, one of the largest in the world, I would suppose.  We grabbed a couple of ‘Estrellas’, Mexican Danish (oxymoron?) to eat on our way over to the book store.  The Estrellas were about the size of a large saucer, soft, and tasted like the pastry was made with cream cheese.

At Powell, we were overwhelmed by how many books have been written and how few of them make it to the top: best seller lists, awarded prizes, and getting on required reading lists for college – things like that.   After visiting the store, we stopped at another small park and heard a busker playing his guitar and singing.  I thought about all the books we had seen at Powell, and about those of us who write without the slightest hope of getting on a best seller list or winning a prize.  I realized that we of the unwashed and unknown writing community are literary buskers who figuratively take our writings out to the park and offer them to strangers for spare change.

Portland is a great city for walking.  It’s green, it has a lot of interesting places, and a lot of small parks where people can gather to eat lunch or just talk.  This is what makes a city worth living in, and I think that a great city is one where we can all come together with others like or unlike ourselves, to be out and about in a desirable milieu, and freely be ourselves without fear.

After lunch, Piers and Rachelle took us back to the train station where we were ushered into a VIP lounge.  We were VIPs because we had a sleeping compartment, not because we were all that fancy, although we did carry jackets this time.  The train station was very clean, but it had an old feeling about it, like something out of the 1930s.  I could imagine Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall racing across the platform to catch a train in this station.  That was okay with me, because I like that kind of nostalgia.

A new disaster strikes!

After waiting for several hours, we were told that all train service east of Montana had been cancelled because of flooding!  We later found out that the floods were caused by those darned Canadians, melting their snow packs early, oh, and that a lot of rain was falling as well.  We had been going to Minot, North Dakota, but learned that the town was now being evacuated.  Heck!  We missed all the fun.

Two days later, we saw pictures of the motel where we were planning to stay, and if our room had been on the second floor, everything would have worked out, although driving might have been problematic.

When we heard our train had been cancelled, I got on the telephone and called for a room at the hotel where we had stayed the night before, only to find out that it was totally booked, and that all the other hotels around there were also full.  So, not only were we stuck in the station with no place to go, but we were also homeless, and I was down to 50% vision capabilities.  Fortunately, Piers and Rachelle were home and they were willing to take us in for the night, however, they were supposed to leave the day after for Hawaii, and we could only count on the one night.  That was okay, because we were planning on going back to Las Vegas as soon as we could,  so our timing was, well, timely.

By now, my eye looked like I had a tomato taped to my face.  Between my wild flyway hair and my eye, I believe I would have scared horses… well at least that’s what I felt like.   We were going to stay in Minot for a couple of days, and I had planned to see a doctor there, but now we needed to change our plans in more ways than one.

Rachelle picked us up at the station and took us back to their house.  I had to call all the B&Bs and hotels to disassemble our vacation, but first I called the airline for a flight back to Las Vegas; that’s when things got complicated.  We had already used all our air miles for a flight back from Sioux Falls to Las Vegas at the end of our Dakota tour.  Normally, if we had to cancel a flight,  the airline would just give us credit toward another flight sometime in the next twelve months.  However, either because it was an Act of God that made us cancel or flight, or that the airline was going to fly us first class for free because they had no cabin seats left on the day of our flight, they were willing to do something different this time.  The airlines would reinstate our air miles for a mere $125, and then we could use some of those same miles to get us home on an Alaskan Airways plane for $30.  What a deal.

It only took a couple of other phone calls to cancel the entire trip.  The motel in Minot was very understanding about our cancellation; so was the car rental place.  I think I heard the sound of running water in the background when I called these places, but I couldn’t be sure.

Day four:

The next day, Rachelle took me to a clinic, where the doctor saw me within fifteen minutes.  Miraculous!  The forms they used at the clinic were laminated with plastic, and they gave me a Sharpie to write down my information.  After I was done, they ran the sheets through a reader, which put the information directly into their computer, and then the computer guy wiped the sheets clean so they were ready for the next person.  This was obviously a Socialist plot:  quick service, green record keeping, and an immediate rapport with the doctor.  It all sounded very un-American… almost Canadian.   The doctor looked at my eye and confirmed that I did indeed have a doozy of a stye and gave me a prescription to help get rid of it.

It took about half an hour to get my prescription filled, during which time, we found a used book store that was less intimidating that Powell, and bought a couple of things to read on the airplane.

Back to Las Vegas and on to LA

After we got back home, we still had some days set aside for a vacation and we still had money left, so we decided to go visit our friends Bob and Claire Bellanti down in LA.  They had asked us to come down anyway, and this would be a great opportunity.  The drive down was uneventful if somewhat déjà vu… it seemed like we had come this way only a couple of days before.

We got settled in at Bob and Claire’s and had a great time that night with our friends, as well as Ken and Susana Ashton.  Before going to bed, we laid out some plans for the next couple of days so we didn’t get in the way, and to keep us from being bored or feeling as though we had lost our vacation.

Saturday found Patsy and me at the Skirball Museum, where they had an excellent exhibit on Houdini, as well as their standing collection of Judaica and their truly delightful Noah’s Ark exhibit.  The Houdini show was very informative: I had no idea that most of the great magicians in the early 1900s were Jewish.   They also had one of the straight jackets Houdini used for his escapes, one of the trunks he used for his illusions, and some of his manacles.  There were lots of posters and displays of other things related to magic.  We spent about an hour trailing behind a tour guide who didn’t seem to mind that we weren’t part of  her group.

They have a Noah’s Ark exhibit that was worth the trip over to the Skirball by itself.   This exhibit is so popular that you have to have a reservation to go in, and you can only stay for two hours.

Imagine the love child of Dr. Suess and Rube Goldberg being presented to the world by FAO Schwarz, and that’s what the Noah’s Ark exhibit was like.  The animals ranged from total junk sculptures – such as two birds whose bodies were boxing gloves with paint brushes for legs and heads made of badminton birds and oil cans – to mixtures of carefully sculpted parts combined with things like ceiling turbines, springs, ropes, and so forth to make up the rest of their bodies.  Mexican folk sculptures peered over shelves and peeked out at us from all over the place. There was an elephant head made out of ropes, that trumpeted every time someone pulled a lever to raise its trunk.  There was even an exhibit where you could create a lightening storm or make a rainfall.  They had a Habitrail above the sculptures, just for kids;  too bad, because it looked like fun.

We wrapped up the evening going to a play about the Cambodians living in Long Beach, a play called “Zero Year.”  The theater was small and our seats were close to the stage, which was nice, because we got more involved with the play that way.

Downtown in LA

Saturday found us traipsing around the old downtown of LA.  We saw the Bradley Building, a beautiful and historic building, full of wrought iron and sculpted wood.  I might have appreciated it a bit more if we hadn’t had to walk around the lobby next to the wall because the janitor was mopping the floor, and  I hadn’t been looking for a restroom.

Necessity pushed us along from the lovely Bradley Building to a utilitarian Subway shop, where we bought coffee and cookies so that I could use the Customers Only restroom.  We sat for a while, drinking colored water that claimed to be coffee and looked across the street to the Million Dollar Theater.

The Million Dollar Theater was Grauman’s first theater, he of the Chinese Theater fame, and had a Spanish Colonial Revival theme across the front.  There were also life sized sculptures all over the building, and for some reason, buffalo heads and cow skulls.  The marquee advertised the movie “Zoot Suit,” although whether this was true or if the theater was now closed down and that was the last movie shown there, we couldn’t tell.

When we left the Subway, we glanced in at the Grand Central Market (more on that later) and then headed uphill toward the Disney Hall.  Disney Hall is a grand structure, composed of what may be great  big stainless steel sheets,  making it look like the world’s biggest De Lorean.  We think it was designed by the same guy who designed the Science Fiction Museum in Seattle, although that one had a lot of curves to it, and the Disney Hall was more angular.  After the long climb up to the hall, we sat around the really pretty plaza for a while, listening to the monumental fountain.  Since today was a hot day, we needed time to catch our breaths, and of course there were public restrooms to be looked at.   Being old makes one appreciative of restrooms.

After we recovered, we moved along to the Los Angeles Cathedral, which is a very interesting structure.  It also had a more angular look to it, although the walls were of stone and not stainless steel.  A bell tolled directly above our heads as we entered, almost scaring the bejesus out of me, and I looked up at a carillon of bells, none of which actually worked, but each of which had a speaker inside it.  Again, the day was hot and there was a pleasant patio, plus nearby restrooms, so we had something to drink and a snack.  We bought an odd pastry, something they tried to tell us was a Napoleon.  While it had a flaky crust that turned soggy next to the a cream filling like a Napoleon does, it looked more like a quesadilla, but it was all decorated up with almonds and powdered sugar.  Although it tasted okay, it wasn’t a Napoleon.

Inside, the cathedral was beautiful, spacious, and cool.  There were wall sconces scattered around, and when we got close to a couple of them, we saw they were angels with wings made of free-form pieces of brass.  There were also two long murals painted on canvas, of various saints proceeding toward the altar.  A mass had just ended, so we walked around quietly, trying to be unobtrusive and looking at the art work, when we noticed a security guard following us.  Now I know I am not the most reputable looking person in the world, but come on, I had Patsy with me: she’s reputable.  Anyway, as we started down into the mausoleum area, I turned to him and said hello and asked if it was okay for us to go down there.  He shrugged his shoulders, but stopped following us… at least until we came back up to the main chapel.   By that time, we were headed toward the door anyway, so I suppose this gave him some relief.

We walked back down toward the Metro station, which took us by the Angel Flight, a small funicular that traveled a couple of blocks up the hillside.  I suppose this must have been much longer once upon a time, because I can’t see building something this complex just for two or three steep blocks.  Of course, we did take the ferry at Englishtown in Nova Scotia, and there the boat traveled all of 400 feet from bank to bank, so maybe this was the extent of the funicular.

We finally spent some time at the Grand Central Market, which is like an indoor Farmer’s Market, but with stalls.  The market has been operating in the same location since 1917, so this is not a slap-dash put together operation, even though it felt like an indoor carnival.  You can buy groceries there, as well as prepared food, ice cream cones, bakery stuffs, and more.  You can even get your eyebrows threaded (whatever that is) and have a massage right there on the premises if you wanted.  We found some young asparagus at a ridiculously low price by Las Vegas standards, so we bought a couple of bunches for dinner.

We see the sign.

Believe it or not, after all the times we had been to LA, I had never seen the Hollywood sign.  On Monday morning, Ken and Susana, took us all out to the Los Angeles Farmers Market for crepes.  The Farmers Market is a hodge-podge of food stalls and trinket shops, with food from all over the world – sort of like the Grand Central Market, but without a roof overhead.  There was a stand selling Spanish tapas near our French crepe stall, and just up from there was another stall that sold borekas (a sandwich made with phyllo and various fillings).  After the crepes, Susana bought a jacks set and demonstrated her amazing skill; I bet she was a jacks shark when she was a kid.  I didn’t even try to play because I know my own limitations, I just tried to get one of the jacks to spin, but I wasn’t very good at that either.

On the way back home, we stopped at the Kodak Theater where they present the Oscars.  They have a big façade of a Babylonian palace built there, a reproduction of the largest film set ever made.  We walked out on a viewing area between the theater and the façade, where I could see the Hollywood sign very clearly, even with one eye.  What great friends!  Not only did we get our vacation rescued twice, but we also got taken to a place where we had crepes and great coffee, plus I got to see the Hollywood sign, and there were restrooms nearby, too!

Speaking of Oscars, that night we went to a screening of Douglas Fairbank’s Robin Hood, a silent film that more or less set the character for all following characterizations of the robber.  The film was shown in the theater for the members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Science, so we felt very privileged.   There was an organ down near the stage, that had been modified to reproduce the sounds of some of the great pipe organs in other parts of the United States.  Ain’t technology great?  The young man who provided the background music for the silent film, played wonderfully for a couple of hours without letting up.

The wrap up

The next morning, we went to the Getty, because how can you go to LA without seeing the Getty?  They had a display of illuminated books and manuscripts that has convinced me the scribes who did these marvels must have been under four feet tall, with really tiny hands and really tiny quill pens, considering how small the calligraphy was in some of the books.  There were illustrations along with the small text, so tiny that if you could get at them at all, you could cover them up with just a thumb, and these were all polychrome and had gold leaf on them!  Genius!

We had spent almost a week visiting friends both in Portland and LA; we had feasted well, seen the sights – including the Hollywood sign – and had a marvelous time.  Now it was time for us to go home, and although we had not seen the Dakotas or Mt. Rushmore, we hadn’t gotten flooded out, either, so it had been a grand time.  We send our thanks to Piers and Rachelle, Bob and Claire, and Ken and Susana for making us welcome and saving our vacation.  Oh, and by the way, I finally got to take my dark glasses off after we got home.

Until the next time, thanks for coming along on our adventure.

Tony

I looked at some of Dan O’Neil’s Odd Bodkins comic strips today, and had a good laugh; I especially like the one about the Easter Bunny hallucination.  As usual, after I got done laughting, I felt guilty for having spent time goofing off and not working.  But work isn’t appealing right now.  I have one story that is dragging out, I mean d-r-a-g-g-i-n-g, and another one that keeps niggling at me.  The problem is, I really have no plan on how to sell these darned things.  Somehow or another, it doesn’t seem worth it to just keep pumpng out novel after novel and stacking them up in the garage.  I’ve met a couple of novelists that have done that, people who have come to a book signing and talked about their two or three books that nobody’s heard of and that just take up space.  The writers always seem sad to me, maybe because I’ve become one of them.

Well, today is too nice a day to get down in the dumps.  I’ve had my laughs, it’s time to get on with things.  Maybe I can d-r-a-g out a little more of the story.  Onward, Excelsior!

It will come as no surprise to anyone that knows me, that I opposed the Vietnam War.  I was regular Army back then, and if I had been sent to Vietnam, I would have gone.  I probably would have also gotten myself killed, since my record for getting eliminated in war games was pretty much 100%.

But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.  Even though I was against the war, and protested against it, I never was against the troops that got sent there.  Just as I don’t think we should have gone into Iraq, I don’t think we should have gone into Vietnam.  We wasted valuable lives and squandering treasure in both cases.

It was after the war was over that I learned about how some assholes had jeered at troops coming home.  Quite truthfully, it made me sick and I would have punched someone out if I had witnessed any of that, but I didn’t.

Today, I saw a car with a sticker that said the owner was a member of the “Association of Trench Rats.”  He was an older Polynesian gentleman, who was missing a lot of his teeth.  He had a grey beard, worn long enough so that he could have combed it over the bald spot on his head; sort of the reverse of what Donald Trump does.  The man was about five foot nine or so, and maybe close to two hundred pounds; in other words, stocky.

We talked for a while about what he had done in the war.  I mentioned that I thought the tunnel guys were smaller than he was, and he laughed when he told me he used to be very skinny.  But then he turned sad and told me how much it had hurt when the assholes railed against him and his buddies when they came home.  He was still hurt and angry about that treatment even after thirty-five years or so.

I told him that I had been RA; that I had gotten out before Vietnam; that I had protested the war; but had never protested the soldiers who had to fight.  I told him that I admired what he had done, and that I was sorry he and his fellows had been treated so poorly.  We parted after that, he with his Starbucks coffee and me with my thoughts.

After all those years, he is still carrying the weight of the tunnels without any real appreciation for the job he had to do.  I cannot imagine what dreams and nightmares such a man has, and I’m not sure I would want to know.  What I do know is that I met a hero this morning, and I wish I could have said something to make up for the years he has felt sad about his homecoming.  Somehow, I don’t think anything I said would have been enough.  Maybe I did as much as I could do by saying thank you.

I haven’t written much lately because I am truly gob-smacked.

Where to start… We have a billionaire with the world’s worst comb-over, borrowed from Bozo the Clown, saying he might run for president; his leadership qualifications being that he can use his money to bully people into doing what he wants.  Meanwhile, he’s making headlines over sending people to Hawaii to uncover the “truth about Obama’s birth certificate,” as if the certificate was not published over the internet and publicly upheld by the governor of the state, no less.

Here in Nevada, we have a congressional candidate who’s husband draws a Federal pension, but who wants to do away with Social Security (“transitioned out”).  In other words, “I got mine Jack.”

We’ve seen the governor of a state asking to do away with collective bargaining rights because of budgetary issues, then admitting the bargaining rights had no impact on the budget, and a state assembly trying to pass a law making it illegal to “prank the governor.”

In recent weeks, we’ve seen a television statement by congressmen, saying that what they said was not to be taken as factual, while another congressman thought that if the Senate did not act on a bill passed by the House, it automatically became law.

We’ve seen a continual cry to give tax breaks to the wealthy and to corporations, because they create jobs, yet at the same time, we see the jobless rate as high as it’s ever been since the great depression.  We also see bankers and investment managers who almost wrecked the world economy, giving themselves large bonuses.

Not to blame everything on the right, we have a president who talks about hope and change, but who continues the same policies that were in place when he came into office.  He seems to continually give in to the Republicans on just about every issue.

Sometimes I feel like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole, that’s what is up is really down, and that what was once a “yes” or “no” is now a “maybe.”

Gob-smacked!

Where to start?  There is so much ferment going on in the country right now, that it feels like the ‘60s all over again.  Surprisingly, we have a war going on that costs us billions of dollars, but nobody seems to be paying attention to, at least not the media.  What we do have eating up the media, is a governor in Wisconsin, who gave away the store to big business and now wants to make up the budget shortfall on the backs of the people, except that’s not what he really wants.  He got concessions of the workers, but he wants to take away their bargaining rights, which has nothing to do with budgets.

Was there a better way of doing business?  How about still giving away tax breaks, but only to the point that it didn’t break the budget?  How about taking the concessions the workers were willing to make and leaving their right to bargain alone?   Instead, he chose to give big business a break and now he wants to silence the workers.

What is the deal with business tax breaks anyway, and what is the deal with corporate welfare?  Does anybody really think businesses will stop if we don’t sweeten the pot for them?  So long as there is a buck to be made, somebody is going to try to make it, be that a big business or several small ones.

So who gets corporate welfare, and are they the same ones who have shipped jobs overseas?  I can’t say, but I really would like to know.  Shouldn’t there be some sort of restrictions on giving tax breaks and subsidies, something that couples the benefit with a requirement that there be a guarantee that the company will not move jobs away from the country?  In fact, why do we give any tax breaks to multi-nationals who do not headquarter in the United States?

I suppose that’s enough spleen for today.   I had more questions than I did answers.  There is such a smorgasbord of things to write about, I should take a few moments to decide what to address next.  Thanks for tuning in.

We had a family gathering at the Vermilion Cliffs National Monument the week before Christmas.  It was only a short trip, and normally, I would not write a log about it, but we stayed in a place that’s worth talking about; the Lees Ferry Lodge.

Since the rains had set in, and it looked like we were going to be in the storm all the way to Page, Arizona, Patsy and I decided to leave a day early and go to Kanab, Utah for the night.  This is not a very long drive, but the rains added miles and miles to the journey.

In Kanab, we stayed at a Holiday Inn that didn’t have a restaurant, but there was Grandma Tina’s Famous Café across the street.  I asked the front desk person why it was famous.  He told us it was because of her sauce, so naturally, we had to try that.   However, since it was too early for dinner, we went across the street to another place called the Three Bear Cottage where we had some very good ice cream.  The place was decorated with all sorts of kitsch; bears, Christmas villages, a Crèche with bears, and so forth.

When it was late enough for dinner, we went to Grandma Tina’s Place.  The sauce she has an old family Marinara that has been handed down in her family for generations.  It was pretty good, certainly worth trying if you are in Kanab.

By the time dinner was over, the rain had turned into a gentle sprinkle, so we wandered around for a while, checking out the town.  We wandered into a combination coffee shop/outfitters store and book shop next to the motel.  I found Bill Bryson’s book, the mother tongue (lower case is on purpose).  The book is about the vagaries of the English Language, and how things got the way they are.  I felt mildly excited to have found the book.  Later on, I learned that just about everybody else had already read it.

The next morning, the motel was taken over by a bus load of tourists who all wanted breakfast at the same time we did, so we didn’t linger over coffee.  Meanwhile, the rain had gone back to torrential, and while we didn’t want to rush it, we did have to get a move on so we could be at Vermilion Cliffs by noon.

Outside of Kanab, the rain got even harder, and we looked around to see if there were any arks or animal processions nearby.  However, when we crossed the Arizona border, the rain slacked off… Arizona is a notoriously dry state.

We arrived at the Lees Ferry Lodge, the place I wanted to tell you about, just before noon.  The lodge dining room and bar are in a central building, with wings of rooms on either side.  All the buildings are faced with sandstone slabs, and there is a peeled log railing around the porch, so the place looks pretty rustic

There was a white dog lying on the steps.  It seemed friendly enough, but had a detached attitude.  If we had had a conversation, it would have gone something like this:

Me:  Hey dog.  How’s it going?

Dog:  Um hum, yep.

Me:  You sure are a pretty dog.

Dog:  Um hum, yep.

And so on.

The lodge is furnished with pine tables and benches, the kind you expect to find in a place called a lodge.  We already felt comfortable when we came in, but then I notice they had around 100 different beers on display!   I knew this was my kind of place.  We were greeted by Maggie Sacher, one of the owners of the lodge, and another woman named Charlie, who is also a co-owner, and whose dry wit kept us amused the whole time we were there.

We sat around, drinking coffee and talking until the others showed up.  I swapped some war stories with a Vietnam Vet who called himself “Scary Larry.”   Well, he had war stories, I was in during peacetime.  Anyway, we drank a lot of coffee while we talked.

Now, as some of you know, I am a coffee snob, so I was pleasantly surprised to find the coffee was better than what you normally get this far out of town.  Charlie kept our cups filled until I waved her off from mine.  We got to talking beers, and she got me to try a Xingu Black Beer, a Brazilian dark brew that had plum and coffee overtones.  Good stuff!

When some of the others arrived, we all sat down at tables and talked.  Since it was noon, we ordered some onion rings to have something to munch on.  We didn’t want to order anything substantial since we were supposed to have lunch together when everyone got here.  Charlie brought us out two heaping plates of the best onion rings I have ever had.

Finally, when all the family was gathered, we had lunch.  The choices of sandwiches and soups were another pleasant surprise. Understand that this is some fifty miles or so out of town.  Usually places like this will have okay food, maybe some burgers, but nothing special.  The Lees Ferry Lodge is the exception.

Patsy and I had roast beef sandwiches with green chilies and Jack cheese.  The sandwiches weren’t glopped up with mayonnaise or sandwich spread, so they were pretty good; so were the fries that went along with them.    Charlie convinced me to have another beer, this time something called Moose Drool Brown Ale.  Once again, it was a dark beer, but this time with vanilla and nut flavors.

After lunch, we all took a drive out along the Vermilion Cliffs.  The rain kept coming, but just in little spurts, otherwise it was just cool and breezy.  The Vermilion Cliffs are just as the name says, and are something spectacular in an area full of spectacular scenery.   When you look out at the vast openness, out toward the volcanic necks in the distance and the colorful striped hills we passed along the way, words like spectacular and awesome are somehow not sufficient.

Dinner that night was another treat.  I have always had this fantasy that I would find a back country place with great food.  The Lees Ferry Lodge fits that daydream.  The food was excellent, complete with soup, salad, great baked chicken, asparagus done right, and a choice of pasta or a baked potato, or both if you were so inclined.  I wasn’t, but I picked up my extra calories with a Black Magic Stout that lived up to its name: black and stout.  The stout was full of chocolate and coffee flavors that fit well with our dinner.  I realized I had a problem: there were some 93 beers left that I wouldn’t have time to taste.  Oh well.  I consoled myself with a slice of Red Velvet Cake, and maybe a sliver of dark chocolate cake.

After dinner, I had a chance to talk to Maggie Sacher, and learned a few things about the lodge.  For one thing, it is not just a lodge, per se.  She is involved in the Condor Release program, and the field crews from the project live at the lodge.  Tours of the release sites, with field biologists leading the tours, can be arranged through the lodge. The tours are capped off with dinner, a bonfire evening, and talks.  There are also class rooms for environmental classes and a conference room on site as well.  You can see Lees Ferry Lodge is not just another pretty place.

Maggie said that the lodge opens in the spring when the weather changes, and closes in the fall as the weather turns cold.  However, family packages and tours, like ours, can be arranged almost year around.  She told me that she has a set of Russian tank binoculars available for sky viewing.  I would have like to see them, but given that we were still socked in by the rain, there didn’t seem much point in hauling them out.

The lodge sits nearer to the Colorado River than we realized, because Maggie said they had a river trip to count birds, coming up this spring.  She is not doing the river tours after this, but if you wanted one of those, Maggie could probably put you in touch with the right people.  The Lees Ferry Lodge flier/book mark also talks about boat parking and trout fishing, so like I said, the river had to be closer than I thought.

The next morning, Patsy and I rolled in for coffee. Charlie was there, along with Greg the cook, another co-owner.  We talked books for a while, comparing favorite authors and genres.  Greg said that he mostly read non-fiction, but he did enjoy Nevada Barr, C. J. Boxx and a few other names that got tossed around.  Charlie told us about her favorite authors as she kept us supplied with coffee and funny asides

Kristin and Tom, our daughter and her husband came in.  We all had coffee and chatted about the scenery, the rain, and the beers.  After due consideration for how early it was, plus some advice from Charlie, I didn’t start singing “99 Beers.”   We did talk about turning the song into a Gregorian chant however, but gave it up as a too complicated task for that early in the morning

After a fine breakfast, it was time to go.  Our trip back home was about the same – rain and drivers who either knew the road and could drive it, or didn’t understand the term ‘hydroplane’ and drove like the laws of physics didn’t apply to them.

We heard on the news that they were losing houses in Littlefield, a town near St. George, so we were worried about roads being closed and getting back home safely.  As we passed over the usually small Santa Clara River, we saw that it was in full spate.   The houses in Littlefield were being swept away by the Santa Clara, but we didn’t see any wood or debris on the water.

The trip through the Virgin River Gorge was about what we expected.  I drove the speed limit while being passed by cars and trucks that threw water up on our windshield.  As you can tell, despite the rain and the scary drivers, we made it home okay.

If you are looking for a place that is interesting, with good food and a great selection of beers, I would highly recommend the Lees Ferry Lodge as a destination.  Their motto is “Come for the view, stay for the fun.”  Maggie could also say, “Come for the view, stay for the Condors.”  Good food, good beer, good people to talk to, what more could you want?

Until next time, be well and happy.