1999mar18. I am back from my whirlwind Portland/Vancouver vacation. I took some notes. Not enough to create a coherent travelogue. I don’t do much of that anymore. Now I just throw some things up in the air and let you, the patient reader, figure out the underlying themeatic elements, even if there aren’t any.
Because of all the human traits I hold dear, my favorite is the underlying desire to make sense of a random, chaotic world.
I like when you do that. It brings a smile to my tired face.
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The first thing I have to say about driving to Portland is that it is just a little too far. When I used to drive from Detroit to New Jersery or New York City, that was okay. 660 miles, give or take 20. The drive from Detroit to Boston, which is actually a bit farther, was at least broken up by driving through Canada (yes. check a map, my friend) and the prospect of being pulled over by a Canadian police officer. What happens then? Who knows. “I’m just taking a short-cut, officer, don’t mind me.”
But Portland is about 700 miles away from where I am living now. Combined with the mountains, that is really too far. Unfortunately, I found Portland to be a rather pleasant place to drag about, so I’ll be visiting there in the future. By plane, I guess.
My trip started out with a nasty surprise. I-5 is quite sparse with the speed limit signs. You’ll drive for fifty miles and not see one. Less government for The People, but no speed limit signs means the officers can just make up speed limits – ”oh, the speed limit is 47 mph today.”
There’s not much to say about driving in California otherwise. There’s an interesting stretch of I-80 just out of San Francisco that’s populated by some strange undecipherable tourist traps, some closed, some open: “The Milk Farm,” “The Nut Tree,” etc ... The Milk Farm, although closed, had a few working lights at the top of their sign. That’s going to be some electrical bill a decade from now. The Olive Pit offers “free olive tasting,” “sandwiches,” and “shakes.” Never having had an olive shake, I pulled in. Too many olives. Back in the car.
One thing I keep meaning to do is document the strange differences in rest area amenities – I’m sure other people would understand why I was snapping picture of sinks and hand dryers. Rest areas seem to be in some sort of nationwide contest to offer the weary traveler the best and worst in ergonomic and hygenic design – California rest area sinks, for example, are sometimes equipped with a small metal handle hanging from the faucet. To turn it on, you have to push the lever. THAT’S intuitive.
Oregon restrooms have the best arrangement for toilet paper dispensers. One long bar, six rolls. Your chance of getting a roll distributed the way you like (over or under) is highly probable, unless your bar has been filled by someone who REALLY CARES about that sort of thing, as I have encountered (“everybody gets over and everybody’s going to LIKE it!”). Oregon restrooms also have sub-par sinks, long shallow metal affairs that are almost big enough to wash cafeteria trays in. They remind me of Utah urinals without the special contours especially designed to return as much urine to you as possible. Utah toilet paper dispensers are similarly engineered – up to eight rolls are stacked VERTICALLY in a contraption that only lets you access the bottom one. The significant weight of seven other rolls of toilet paper means you’re going to spend a long time getting enough to do the job, and if you run out you have to rip off the cardboard to get the next roll to come down. Avoid going to the bathroom in Utah whenever possible. Or, as I’ve always said, fast food restaurants serve one purpose and one purpose only.
HEAD NOW
3-11 THURS NIGHT
TRUCKERS CH3
– bathroom grafitti
Oregon is the proud home of The Enchanted Forest, a small amusement park tucked into a hill off of exit 248. A billboard advertises a “log flume ride.” An ENCHANTED log flume ride, obviously.
There was a golf course next to the freeway -- I saw a golfing group progressing from hole to hole. It made me sad. But then, fifty miles later, there was another freeway-side golf course. This time, a group of eight people were surrounding a flag. One man leaned over. Pulled back for the putt.
HONKKKKKK!!!! HONK HONK HONK!!!!
I silently thanked Jesus Christ for the opportunity to showcase my expert timing skills.
Oregon also has something called a “speedometer check.” These are on the side of the road. Each mile is marked off for five miles. That’s the “speedometer check.” You know, as if the mile markers weren’t good enough, as if you want to compute a 60mph speed check while the speed limit is actually 65mph, as if you want to compute this speed check over hills and around curves, which is where they put two of them.
There were many lambs in Oregon. They are always eating. There’s never a bold non-eating lamb facing into the wind, head held proud, leading the eating lambs into the next field. They’re all just chowing down. In one field, they calmly ate in front of the large billboard advertising a lamb service which could be reached at 1-800-A-LAMB-4-U. I don’t have enough grass for such a lamb-4-me.
There were other things on the road, but I’ve forgotten them. I’m sure they were important.