From a dead sleep, I shot awake at about three in the morning, my throat full of vomit. I sat rigidly on the edge of the bed and instantly choked it down. I wasn’t nauseous. It just happened. Perhaps it was that I ate dinner so close to going to bed — I’ve heard that can happen. Perhaps the soft Airbnb bed sort of had me a bit more inverted than I usually sleep — probably both. But then I simply couldn’t get back to sleep. I tossed and turned, got up, walked around, made some tea, came back to bed, and stared out the window as a light London A.M. rain came down on the Kensington street below. Something was buzzing around in my head, as if the energy of the city had seeped in and wouldn’t allow my mind to quiet. Point is, I lost a lot of sleep that night. Which was unfortunate, because the next day would involve major walking, for it was
HARRY POTTER DAY!
Tiffany, Charlie, Chase and I Ubered our way across London to some tour company office, where we convened with a large group of other assholes we didn’t know to get on a bus which then transported us to WARNER BROS. LONDON!! Raw and exhausted, I tried to sleep on the 90-minute bus ride to Warner Bros. London. But that was of little use, as a great majority of the trip was the bus jerking and weaving in and around London traffic.
What is Warner Bros. London you may ask? It’s essentially a collection of sound stages where productions still take place — One of those productions was the Harry Potter franchise. And Warner Bros London, in their sage thinking, have created this fantastic sound stage tour of the multitudes of Harry Potter sets and props and special effect techniques…from ALL the movies. There is nothing like it here in the States. Of all the things scheduled on our trip, I was most skeptical about whether this would be a valuable use of our time — but it was marvelous and definitely worth it.
We spent the bulk of the day there with the tour being divided into two parts. Halfway through we had lunch with exclusive Butter Beer soft serve ice cream and ate outside in the courtyard next to the Hogwart’s bridge as a light drizzle sprinkled down on us…along with the fake snow from the attraction! But it was also fantastic to people watch. Apparently, when kids in Britain go on field trips they all have to wear dayglo green reflector vests. BRILLIANT! At the end of the tour, we wandered into what must singlehandedly be the largest Harry Potter gift shop in all of Europe…where we dropped significant goblin gold for two absolutely lovely Quiddich sweaters for Charlie and Chase.
Once we returned in the afternoon, Daddy took a quick nappy-pooh, and then we tackled part two of our Harry Potter Day as we went on a nighttime London by Foot Harry Potter Tour. What a fantastic tour! Given under the guise of showing various locations of where the Harry Potter movies filmed, our awesome tour guide subversively snuck in just as much, if not more, London history and factoids than Harry Potter tidbits.
The one thing that really started to sink in for me was the indelible impact that Harry Potter author JK Rowling has had on the U.K. There is, obviously, the cultural phenomenon of her novels. But more than that, her ideas have created thousands upon thousands of jobs that no author even thinks about when they sit down to create. Her novels have built an entire tourism industry that has been an absolute boon to the U.K. And it really goes even deeper than that but I don’t want to turn this into a book report. I’ll never forget walking along the damp nighttime London streets in awe of the true impact this modern woman has had on an entire country…and it all started with a pencil and paper.
Over the span of about three hours we hoofed it from Parliament Square to 10 Downing Street to Old Scotland Yard to Trafalgar Square to St. Paul’s Cathedral to the Millennium Bridge to the Globe Theatre to the Borough Market. It was one hell of a trek — the tour even took us on the tube. It was the perfect way to take in the city. But by the end I was so tired I could barely put one foot in front of the other. I did more walking on this day than I ever have in my entire life combined. Over 17 thousand steps, our smartphones told us. All sorts of hurt was washing over me as we made our way back to our Airbnb to repair for the night…for the next day, we WALK MORE!!!
So…here’s the deal…I didn’t blog right away after a very big, important trip. I don’t know why. I think somewhere in the back of my head I just wanted to enjoy it all and then process it later. Or maybe I was just being lazy. Maybe a combo of both. But now I’m putting down what I recollect as best as I can remember. So take a trip back in time with me to a few months ago, won’t you…?
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“Hey, Raspberry Bun Surprise?”
“Yes, my sultry slice of Sex Lime Pie?”
(Tiffany and I may or may not actually have dessert-based pet names.)
“Thanksgiving. One hitch, what about those we usually eat bird with—”
“—We can do Turkey Day early or after we get back. They’ll understand. Hell, we’d understand if the script were flipped. Shall we bring the kids?”
“I think we shall.”
“But…they’re expensive.”
“I know, however, there’s all that love stuff that we feel for them.”
“Good point. Okay, then. Let’s go big or stay home.”
“Done.”
The next thing I know I’m on a Virgin Atlantic flight bound for London. I’m not the most relaxed flyer. Usually, I try my best to throw back a quick drinky-poo before I pop my magic relaxer pill and get on board, but LAX’s International layout has changed since I last dragged myself through there and the terminal’s bar was this crazy, roped off bullshit with a line— as if it were an exclusive club. Fact is, me and most lines aren’t friends to begin with so that wasn’t going to happen. I was worried. I was excited. I’ve wanted to take this trip my entire fuckin’ life.
From the moment we set the U.K. plan in motion I had promised myself I’d lose some weight. Airline seats were becoming a tighter and tighter fit for my rear thruster as of late, and over the last year or so I’ve experienced some gloriously searing humiliation with my fattiness, being kicked off of rollercoasters and go-carts in front of family and friends and such. I really didn’t want something as horrifying as me being escorted off the plane with my family bitterly in tow simply because I just couldn’t seem to get my shit together and pull my ass out of its terminal velocity. So I started to work out…as it turns out, barely. Tiffany made the mistake of telling me that our Premium Economy seats were wider than what the common folk has in the back, so I did some measuring of my foundation and let life seep back into distracting me from losing weight — which I am very very good at. Funny enough, I still fretted about it every single day leading up our departure, as if I had no control over it. Hopefully, soon I’ll get that aspect of my personality in order…but there was a trip to the U.K. to be had and I needed that drink before the flight, not only because of my usual flight-time jitters, but also because I was trying to fight back the visions of not fitting on a go-cart times a billion. But no drink. I gulped my numb numb pill bare-throated as soon as our section was called over the PA and into the plane we all shuffled.
And good news! No walk of shame was required. If my ass were a hand and the seat was a glove…Gosh bless Premium Economy! And Gosh bless Premium Economy even more because we were served champagne before take-off. I was surprised the flight attendant even offered me any because when she approached I was in the midst of a Santa Claus impression using the oddly shaped airline pillow as a beard for my seat partner Chase, bellowing out hearty Ho Ho Ho’s as if I were already under some sort of influence…maybe I’m not the first person to make an ass out of himself for his teenage kid’s amusement/horror. And off we flew, and we drank, and watched bad movies, and ate, and tried to sleep and watched more movies, and snacked, and then watched more movies as the land and ocean passed underneath us.
Our flight was a redeye, so we landed in Heathrow in the afternoon…where our driver Nathan was waiting for us, holding up an iPad that read “THAI.”Nathan was a stout, soft-spoken, pleasant man— imagine if James Corden played rugby. We stepped out of the airport elevator into the parking structure and the cold braced us. Then, Nathan hauled us from Heathrow to Bath…
It should be pointed out here that back when Tiffany was planning the trip, for a good spell we were planning on just renting a car and having me drive us from London to Bath, but every time I shared this idea with friends who had been to London it was greeted with a wide-eyed, “Bad idea. Bad fuckin’ idea.” So, we opted for a driver. And let me tell you, I truly feel it was one of the best decisions we’ve ever made in our lives.
My first impression of London…well, the UK in general, is that it’s like entering what the U.S. would be like in another dimension. Things are similar, yet so completely different. Traffic, for example, there’s the obvious bit, driving on the opposite side of the road, but that’s not really what I’m talking about. There are just a million little nuances in style and technique that I’m sure are gained by the British driving public that I wouldn’t be able to grasp merely by watching some youtube instructionals…which would have ultimately led to some sort of disaster…ESPECIALLY when I was completely knackered from a cross-Atlantic redeye flight. It would have been a bad idea, indeed. I’m not sure I could have even gotten us out of London, let alone all the way to Bath.
Nathan conducted some friendly small talk as we looked out the window at this new, old world, at the traffic going in the wrong direction, at the buildings and billboards selling products we aren’t used to. After a while, as the sun started going down at around four, I passed out. When I awoke Nathan was already coursing through narrow country roads with no shoulder, tackling roundabout after roundabout, passing by houses that everyday people lived in which were older than America herself. Then we pulled up to our castle.
I’m telling you the truth…we stayed in a castle.
Imagine Sir Richard Attenborough: “Step into the world of 19th-century nobility with a stay at Bath Lodge Castle, a protected historic building dating back to 1806. The regal castle, complete with towers, battlements and an imposing iron gate, is set amid three and a half acres of landscaped gardens outside the city of Bath, in southwest England.”
As we dragged our luggage into the castle we were greeted by a mild-mannered German man who, unfortunately for him, ended up being on call the entire time we were there because the other employees had called in sick…he pleasantly got us to our rooms.
The castle was cozy inside, replete with old, thick red carpet and white walls painted over and over again for generations. The room required an antique key, weighted down with a heavy brass keychain baring our room number. Our hotel room had two bedrooms. In the side room, twin beds awaited Charlie and Chase on opposite sides of the wall, while a cushy queen welcomed Tiffany and I. The decor of the room was cozy. Thick red velvet curtains hung to keep out the bitter cold near the windows. The linens smelled musty but clean. Maybe it was because they don’t wash with as much perfumed detergent as we do in America but I found that wherever we went the sheets smelled that way. The toilet, small and round, demanded priming before a flush was possible. The sink had a separate faucet for hot and a faucet for cold— what we would later learn is a common thing in the UK – which made warm water an impossibility, because the hot was from hell and the cold practically frozen. The shower had zero water pressure, merely drooling out when turned on in full, making soaping up and rinsing off comical and full of prayer. Our window glass was crisscrossed with metalwork and constantly condensed with moisture due to the country chill on the outside contesting with the room’s warmth on the inside. The whole thing was utterly comfortable and delightful.
One of the first things I did was turn on the TV to watch commercials. It was November, and since there is no Thanksgiving in the UK, they were already lobbying hard for Christmas. Ironically, Turkey is a Christmas staple there…so the commercials all had turkeys in them. Can’t escape the turkeys. As it turns out the UK public every year seems to rate the commercial for which one is the best of the season…
We ate dinner downstairs, then came back up and got comfy in bed. I watched some Graham Norton and some Black Adder and I was happy.
The next morning our adventure would finally begin. As we were finishing breakfast Nathan arrived with our Blue Badge tour guide, Mike.
I want to point out that this is the way to take tours. Piling into buses with a platoon of assholes you don’t know is something that I’ve always detested. But having a guide personally talking to you and only you makes the experience personal and meaningful. It’s less of a wholesale presentation and more of a conversation. And Mike was a splendid English conversationalist. A retired police officer, Mike stood erect, was direct, charming, dry-witted and opinionated, and knew a lot about a lot.
Our first stop was, of course, Stonehenge.
The thing I love most about Stonehenge is that nobody knows what the fuck it is. There is an entire museum dedicated to how they don’t really know the what or the why of it all. It could be a calendar. It could have been a BBQ joint. It could have been a religious site. But who really knows? It’s brilliant. Walking around the stones themselves is far more impressive than I ever imagined it would be. Ropes kept us from walking right up to it, but we were a lot closer than I thought we’d be able to get. During the solstice, park services are obligated to open up Stonehenge to let the public congregate within it. Early on, Mike kept talking about how this is a problem because all the “druggies would leave their needles and trash lying about.” I assumed that he was just being a bit of an old fella who was exaggerating. But alas, when we were walking around the structure itself, the park rangers were saying the same thing. Apparently, it’s a problem that they endure to let the public exercise their freedom of religion. People camp nearby and then go and shoot up within Stonehenge!Of course, not everyone does that— not even the majority of the people. But enough that it’s a problem. Which is nuts.
And speaking of nuts…
When we first started our loop walk around Stonehenge, a wild-eyed woman stepped over the ropes with her seven-year-old boy and made a break for the stones as if they were the Beatles…all the rangers politely yelled at her, telling her she had to come back…and she quipped, get this, “WHAT ABOUT MY HUMAN RIGHTS?” She came back, completely irate, snapping at the rangers, yanking her kid by the hand…but they politely kept talking to her as she walked around on the path. They didn’t give up on her the entire way, to the point whereby the halfway point this one female ranger had won her over and they were politely conversing…ONLY IN THE U.K., MAN!!! In the U.S. they would have just beaten the shit out of her and kicked her out while everyone around them filmed it to put up on youtube. To be honest that interaction confused me. I haven’t seen figures of authority act with such professionalism, grace, and patience…maybe ever. Then again, maybe that’s what the stones actually do…they broadcast energy that bring out the best in people. Hocus Pocus Alakazoo.
After our walk around Stonehenge, we toured the museum and gift shop, and Chase got a meat pie called a Pasty. As she was eating it she declared that if all she ate were Pasties during the trip she’d be happy. By the time she was done she was so full she was already swearing them off for the rest of the trip.
After Stonehenge, Nathan and Mike took us to Salisbury Cathedral, where we milled about a bit. Mike pointed out the world’s oldest working clock (from about 1386) within the cathedral. Hey you can see Mike here in the corner of this pic:
Charlie marveled at buildings right across from the cathedral, which served as an all-boys school where William Golding taught before he wrote Lord of the Flies. Think he enjoyed his job? You do the math.
We lunched in the ancient town of Salisbury and Mike walked us through its open air market, which was really no different than any farmer’s market here in the States — with the exception that it was surrounded by buildings older than all of us combined — where we bought a few more pasties to go.
I guess this is an American tourist rite of passage but I just couldn’t get over the fact that everything is so god damned old! The castle where we were staying at was the youngest structure we visited and it was built in 1806! As we were being shown around that was one thing that always popped out, when Mike would remark, “This wasn’t built so long ago, maybe about 1780 blah blah…” I just kept wondering if that sort of ancient continuity serves as a settling effect on one’s cultural identity. To be associated with such solid, lasting things around you gives you a patience and perspective.Eh, maybe not, but that’s what I kept thinking.
After a quick lunch in Salisbury, we were on our way to Lacock Village and Abbey — the site of a few Harry Potter filming locations. Again, here is this ancient, small village that hasn’t changed in forever and we are just strolling around in it. It was just absolutely lovely. And Mike would fill us in on every little detail of everywhere that we went as we walked up one street and down another, so by the end of the day, we really had a solid idea of what life was like in that area.
By evening, Nathan and Mike gave us a quick driving tour around Bath to orient us for our solo exploration the following day, and then they said their goodbyes to us as they dropped us off at Bath near Pulteney Bridge. We were exhausted and overwhelmed, and this was just Day One. We dined at a wonderful steak joint in Bath and then Ubered back to the castle. But our time in Bath wasn’t over.
The next morning we said farewell to the castle and made our way back to Bath for a full day. We checked our luggage into a Chinese snack shop/internet cafe. (That’s a thing there: you pay them money, they throw your luggage into a back corner of the shop and you return for your stuff later…)
At this point, Tiffany realized that one of her shoes was falling apart. So we went to a shop called SCHUH and she bought a swanky pair of Timberlands. Bath was already teeming with Christmas shoppers, so we fit right in. I tried to coax her into letting me take a photo of her doing the flying splits in front of the store with her new shoes on, but she declined.
Then we hit Roman Baths…which, if you haven’t guessed by now…is how…this city…got its…yeah…
Still an active hot spring, the Roman Baths are now a museum — a museum like I’ve never experienced before. They encourage people to touch the ancients artifacts. They used projections layered over artifacts to show what they looked like back in the Roman times…in certain rooms they used projections of Roman bathers to show what it must have been like in those rooms…nudity and all. Imagine that in America. There’d be protesters at the entrance every day. But here it was just no big deal.
People from all around the world mulled about, touching ruins and taking in this experience. And at the end you got to sample some of the water. Not quite delicious, to be honest. But I did it, anyway! Glug. Glug. It tasted of ancient history.
After a quick look at Bath Abbey (I’m not much of a chapel/abbey person…they are kind of like gardens for me…just usually filled with a lot of old people and I can’t relate to anything I’m looking at.) we made our way to the Jane Austen Center, where after a brief introduction by a costumed and quite nervous first-time tour guide holding note cards and sweetly apologizing over and over again…we made our way upstairs and had a legitimate tea time up in the “Darcy Room.”
But time was getting tight and we needed to get to the train station. On our way back to our luggage we stumbled through quite a pleasant shopping area, with hordes of happy Christmas shoppers…let me tell you Christmas in the U.K. really gets you in the mood for the holidays…and then we waited for our train to London.
Okay, the train to London…
At first, we were the only ones waiting. No problem, we thought. Then a few more people showed up. Then more. Then even more. By the time the train was about to arrive it felt like we were in a crowd waiting for a Disneyland ride…but that’s not the bad part…nonono! The bad part? The train came into the station ALREADY FULL.
We fought our way on. Everyone was Britishly pleasant, but it was a tight-assed fit. It was so crowded that we didn’t even make it as far back as to where the seats were in the train car…we were all squeezed near the door…for part of the hour and a half trip I was leaning over some guy sitting against a wall, my tilted position forcing me to prop myself up against the wall, my underarms right over his face…for the other part of the trip I was jammed up against the bathroom, my back hitting the automatic door button, causing the great curved bathroom door to slide open over and over and over again. But it was so crowded we all had no choice but to humorlessly watch it taunt us with its obnoxious repetition. At least the experience gave Charlie some inspiration…
Apparently, Bath to London on a Sunday afternoon is absolute chaos — one of those things you really wouldn’t know unless you lived there. By the time we got to London I was soaked in sweat and my back was murdering me.
At the train station we got into our first black cab and off we tumbled to our Airbnb. As we were weaving and speeding and jerking along, my mind kept going to the Knight Bus sequence in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban…it was very much like that. Now I know where JK Rowling found her inspiration…London traffic.
After we checked into our Airbnb in Kensington we walked down to the pub on the corner and enjoyed our first Sunday Roast. And a pint. Oh, and Charlie had a pint, too. Seems that in Britain 16-year-olds can drink beer if accompanied by an adult, so Charlie indulged…I got the sense she enjoyed the act more than the taste…which, of course, filled Chase up with about a pint’s worth of jealousy, causing her to demand that I sneak her some sips, too.
Until my next recollection…of “HARRY POTTER DAY!!!”
So it was time to come back. Our road trip up to Vancouver and back was done. Another notch in our belt for Tai/Dodge/Yu Travels, Inc. And thus another road trip for the books. Back to school. Back to work. I actually love it when we come back from a trip because I’m filled with excitement about what’s to come during the fall. Fall is my favorite time of year. There really isn’t much more to add…well, we did hit Bravoland, as Tiffany had promised, and the “comical taxidermy” was complete and utter bullshit! I don’t know about you but when I hear the term “comical taxidermy” my head automatically fills with visions of chickens wearing little Hawaiian shirts, or squirrels playing golf, or alligators playing banjos. What Bravoland had was a poor man’s Disney animatronic bison and moose head that sang only a fourth of “Ghost Riders In The Sky.” And it cost a dollar. Boo, Bravoland, BOO I SAY!!!
I’m just going to come right out and say it simple:
I love my family.
And there is nothing more awesome than traveling around with Joyce, George, Eric and Tiffany — with experiencing new things with them. We make a fucking fantastic unit.
I’m proud of our bond. It’s weird how well we get along. We could have done double the distance and still had enough to talk about.
And I couldn’t ask for a better wife than Tiffany. Make no bones about it — she’s the ring leader of our operation. This trip and most of its planning was all due to her. Without her and Joyce this trip wouldn’t have happened, and I don’t think I’ve shown my appreciation for it. I don’t think there is really a way to show it..other than by pointing out that these trips are like treasure for the kids…
The one thing I really haven’t written that much about is how wonderful the kids were on this trip. I think with all the hustle and bustle we forget that at the end of the day we sort of do these things for them, otherwise every vacation would just be Las Vegas for two weeks.
I’m really proud of all of our children. They are wonderful travelers. And they get along really well. We are lucky. So often as I was driving along I could hear them all goofing off and laughing with each other in the background. I know it is the hope of every single one of us adults that the kids grow up to love each other and want to spend as much time with each other as we do…and I’m hopeful that the kids are well on their way to that.
My only regret with this dumb blog is that it’s all from my point of view. I wish the kids were able to chronicle how the road trip was for them. But then again that might be a disturbing sight to find Piper up until 3 am working away on a six hundred word blog entry. As our trip was nearing its end I sort of came to peace with one of the truths about being a kid. And that is, you’re not gonna remember everything you experience, but that’s okay. Because it all still helps shape you into the person you become.
Piper has grown so much since our last road trip. She was intent on being a part of whatever was going on. She even lost a tooth on the trip! One of my favorite things she does right now is she’ll overhear part of an adult conversation, then she’ll ask out loud… “Whhat?” There’s something about her tone in that “Whhat?” that just tickles me so. It means the gears are turning in her head. She’s starting to try to make sense of the world. She wants in on hubbub. Piper is bubbly and defiant and turns off like a light switch at about 9pm sharp — no matter the circumstance. Thus, that means she’s also a morning person, up at the crack of dawn. Piper is growing up to be quite the exquisite young girl and just watching her makes me excited to see how she’ll change in the future.
When Cayden was younger he was very uneasy around me, but now I can count on Cayden to walk up to me and randomly play a drum solo on my gut. He’s thoughtful and sweet and I can tell that he is a romantic at heart. You’d think that being surrounded by nothing but girls would bend a boy out of shape after a couple of days, but Cayden thoroughly enjoys hanging out with his cousins. It was a joy to see him whoop as he jumped off of the river raft to float along in the Klamath. And he’s so polite and considerate with the adults it’s very hard to say “no” to him when he asks for something…but I confess it’s hard to say “no” to any of them. If only they realized that they all would have ended up with tons of toys this trip.
Now, Tyler REALLY hated me when she was a baby. I used to accuse her of being racist, even though she didn’t understand words at the time. Ultimately, she succumbed to my relentless bribes and cajoling…Tyler has grown up to be an effervescent little lady, and I can chat with her for hours on just about anything. As you can see from the picture this seemed to be the first vacation where she was really able to stretch out and do things the older kids do, and I was very thrilled for her. As mentioned before, she took on some thorn scratches, and she handled it cool as a little cucumber. I’m not surprised. She’s an awesome gal.
Chasie, my Demon Dodge. I’m not exaggerating when I say that she was definitely the “Captain” of our group of road trip kids. She kept tabs on them, laid down the law, played with them, endlessly, tirelessly, and was so insanely considerate for each and every one of them that she really put all of the adults to shame. Months before the trip, Chase had prepared a travel bag for each of the kids, loaded with crayons and activities and stickers, and even assembled a coloring book catered to each other their individual tastes. And she even brought some of her own money to buy them souvenirs! I’m not sure if she realizes how much we all appreciated her help as we were constantly bustling about. But every single one of us did. I didn’t realize that Chase had such a taste for adventure, and was amazed at her shooting the rapids in the kayak. She’s thoughtful and fearless. Picky, too. Very picky. But that’s okay. I’m working on that. And this girl can cut me down with her humor in a split second. She’s dangerously funny, but will never admit it.
And then there’s the Devil herself, Charlie. Look, I’ve already gone on and on about why this was such an important road trip for me in regards to her, and I don’t want to get choked up here so….moving on… I think during this vacation, more than any other, Charlie hung out with the adults. But at the same time, she had a chance to really hang with the younger ones in a way that she doesn’t get to when we are in the midst of the daily grind back home. She’s the furthest from the kids, age-wise, and has always been concerned about them not relating to her as well as they do to each other, but she doesn’t have to worry. Charlie is insanely curious, loves museums and concerts and went to Powell’s a total of three times this trip…so you get it, she loves books. She’s easy to hang out with, but is very passionate about social justice and is ready and willing to conduct debate judo over any issue close to her heart, no matter how exhausted you are. But that’s not a complaint. I’m glad she’s cutting her teeth on all of that because it’s very important in life to be able to articulate a thought… it’s also important to learn how to get your ass kicked in a debate as well. Hee Hee. Charlie and I also tend to lob jokes back and forth to make each other roar with laughter. I hope I’m not teaching her to be too cynical. It’s a big flaw with me and I don’t want to poison her worldview with it. So maybe I’ll stick with Dad Jokes.
And thus I’ll close out this blog with a moment I had with all the kids during this trip…
When we were standing next to the state seal on the floor of the very echoey Oregon Capitol, a joke occurred to me, so I gathered all the kids around to tell them.
Me: “Hey Kids, what did the Eagle say after he pooped?”
The day after our wonderful river rafting experience it was time to pack up and get out of Oregon. We said our goodbyes to the Treesort, took some photos……and then hi-tailed it outta there… We were goin’ back to Cali…
But our adventure wasn’t over yet. Tiffany, Charlie and I had a Green Day concert to go to in their hometown of Oakland. But that was for the next day. We had a nighttime Alcatraz tour planned the very day we were coming down from Oregon. It was going to be a tight schedule, time was of the essence to make it to the tour on time. As we got into Oakland, Charlie and I bailed out of the van to hit a Green Day pop-up store at the famed 1-2-3-4 Go! Records store……where we waited in line, for not that long, and then were ushered inside to spend our shekels on “Oakland Exclusive” Green Day paraphernalia.
Now, I’ve never really been to Oakland, before. I’ve only known it by its stereotyped reputation of being a rough town. As we waited outside in the line, an assortment of locals — lots of body ink, piercings, urban attire…what you would unfairly equate as “rough” or “dangerous” people by their outward appearance alone — weaved through our line, and very politely said “‘Scuse me” as they pressed through. Oakland Coffee was outside offering free samples, and talking up a homeless person who showed up to sample the coffee. They treated her just like she was any other potential customer, talking about the beans, the roasting process, the various flavors, and letting her have as many samples as she wished.
Juxtapose that to SFO, where Charlie and I Ubered to afterward to rendezvous with the rest of the family for the nighttime Alcatraz tour. Our feet hadn’t even touched SFO cement for three seconds before some arrogant cyclist whizzed by and yelled at Charlie to “watch out!” calling her a “Dipshit.” As far as I could tell we were far from any pedestrian/cyclist faux pas — as we were simply getting out of a car at a tourist drop-off point. Maybe he thought Charlie was gonna be the one pedestrian to finally go nuts and take a leap at him, taking both him and his precious, over-priced bike to the ground, where his carbonite bike frame would inevitably crush the small, fragile, spindly nonnecessity which, on only his best days, he fancies as his penis. Anyway, it was a nail-biter getting on the boat to Alcatraz, as the rest of the family was stuck on the Oakland Bay Bridge for a millennium. However, we all made it, literally at the last possible moment. We resembled a Mentos commercial, minus the jovial knowing glances to one another as we leaped onto the boat. Instead we were all dripping with flopsweat as the adrenaline and annoyance drained out of our pituitary glands onto the boat floor.
But back to that fucking fucker of a bicyclist…I only learned about what that cyclist said to Charlie later as we were on the boat, and I felt sorry that Charlie had to experience that. Calling me names is one thing. I almost nearly deserve it at least 10% of the time. But Charlie is just a kid! There’s something straight up ugly about being verbally assaulted by someone who then disappears, rendering you powerless to confront them, to answer back, leaving you surrounded by witnesses, stuck with facing an embarrassment among strangers. It’s a complete pussy move. But sometimes, that’s life. Frankly, it clearly bothered me more than it did her, so I’m overthinking it…
…while we were walking around The Rock, the whole thing kept sloshing around in my brain. And really, the only conclusion I could come up with was, “Man, Fuck San Francisco.” I kept thinking how San Francisco traffic is some of the worst in the world, and for all their progressive environmentally friendly agendas they can’t seem to master it. It’s bullshit. I kept thinking how it felt like every time we visit this city I like it less and less. That I rarely ever want to actually “stay” in San Francisco. It’s a different big city vibe than New York, for sure. In New York, to me, there’s no pretention. When visiting San Francisco, I’d rather stay in the neighboring areas and maybe pop in and out. And I’m sorry but if you want good Chinese food…come to the San Gabriel Valley. “Fuck San Francisco” is what I was feeling as I strolled through the abandoned prison, listening to the sound effects of “shanking” re-enactments on the tour headphones…
But I realize now, in light of the events in Charlottesville these past few days, that although I stand by all of my opinions of San Francisco: it’s crowded, it’s arrogant, it’s been living off of the hippy movement for wayeee too long, it has few things to offer that other towns don’t have, it’s not my flavor, or maybe I’ve just never seen the real San Francisco in the dozens of times I’ve been here etc etc — there’s one thing that would never happen down the streets of SFO:
Militiamen walking along with assault rifles defending white nationalists waving Nazi flags as they protest the removal of a confederate statue.
And for that, I kind of love San Francisco.
When we were deliberating what our road trip should be this summer, we briefly considered something through the south. We’ve always wanted to go to New Orleans. Many of my musical heroes hailed from Memphis and I’ve always wanted to experience that with the girls. We’ve spent some time in Texas (Austin, call me, I love you.) We want to see America. But in the end we had no choice but to weigh the rise of intolerance towards non-whites that is bubbling up to the surface all across our country…particularly in the South. Racists are becoming too comfortable, feeling too free to express their bigoted feelings not just out in the open, but often right up in the faces of those they hate. The sense of shame with such hateful, ignorant rhetoric is dwindling. We’ve just seen too many headlines and, more importantly, heard too many personal accounts to risk taking a van full of Asians, half of whom are children, through regions where the mood is seemingly primed to aggress any shade of color darker than white. Road trips involve too many unpopulated rest stops, quiet gas stations, 100-mile stretches of country roads, and other unpredictable possibilities to take that risk right now. And that’s not even considering the casual racism that’s so easy to float into the ether via verbiage or regard. How can I prove to my daughters how great their country is when I’ve accepted there is a decent chance someone will call them a “chink?” How can the mantra of every state capitol we visit, “This is your government, your state, your country…” ring true in their hearts if I vacation them to places where they might be crudely presumed as “foreigners.”
So I’ll take “Dipshit” in SFO. Because that’s just an idiotic proclamation from an asshole that has nothing to do with the color of my daughter’s skin. That’s just existing in a city…
********
After the Alcatraz tour, as we ate a late dinner at Fisherman’s Wharf, I felt my strength draining out of me. All that day I felt a tinge of pain in the back of my throat with every swallow. I kept trying to deny it but by the day’s end, there was no avoiding the truth.
I was sick.
Now, see, this is what pisses me off about myself and vacations. In about 20% of the vacations I take, I end up sick. I don’t understand why, but it happens and it chafes my hide. At least this time asthma didn’t set in… but my joints got achy and my throat hurt like a sunnuva bitch. So much so that I decided if I had any chance of making it to the Green Day concert the next evening I was going to have to convalesce in bed all the next day while everyone went out to explore more of SFO. For a brief moment I thought that I might have somehow come down with the flu…but sleep did a body good, and by late afternoon the next day I was mobile. Sweaty, a bit dazed, but mobile.
I joined everyone for our last “Road Trip” vacation dinner, for the next day we were driving home to Los Angeles. And afterward, Tiffany, Charlie, and I peeled off and Ubered to the Oakland Coliseum for our Green Day concert.
A concert which we didn’t really think through. We had decided to get floor tickets. Which meant standing room only. Which meant we had to arrive early and stand there loooong before even the opening act set foot on stage. Factoring in the entire show, this meant about five hours of standing.
By the time the opening act “Catfish and the Bottlemen” had finished playing, my back was aching so bad I wasn’t sure how I was going to even make it through the 45 minute wait for Green Day to take the stage, let alone their nearly three-hour long performance. But I was determined not to spoil things for Tiffany or Charlie. We have been to many Green Day shows, it’s a band that we all love together, but we’ve never been on the floor. I kept my mouth shut and tried to shift the weight on my feet to alleviate the building pressure…but not much was helping. And hell, I couldn’t even go drown my pain in booze because that meant leaving our spot to get to the bars…from which there would be no chance of returning.
So here’s the thing about Green Day concerts for the uninitiated. During the performance, in the floor area, mosh pits spontaneously break out. From our usual viewpoint in the seats higher up these mosh pits resemble storm patterns on a doppler radar map…sudden swirling pools of flailing limbs and madness. We calculated that if we got up close enough to the stage the mosh pits would be safely behind us. I looked around and saw that we were primarily surrounded by an older demographic, too, and felt even safer…not to mention Tiffany and I had worn our sandals to a punk concert. Our toes were vulnerable. I even commented to Charlie, “We’re good, I don’t see any moshers around us…
The lights went down…Morricone’s “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” started to play. The roadies peeled off the black curtain and the roar of the stadium went to 35 as the members of Green Day strutted out on stage…
AND THEN THE FUCKIN’ CRUSH SET IN.
The entire crowd impossibly lurched forward twenty feet, filling in every spare nook and cranny that didn’t exist. We were pressed clean up against the person in front of us, and people behind us, too, pressed flush against our backs. Like a flash fire, the temperature from the compressed body heat rocketed up twenty degrees hotter. Everyone was instantly drowning in sweat — all within a few seconds. I’ve never experienced anything like it. It was instant. “Know Your Enemy” raged to life from the band. Everyone went apeshit. And you had no choice but to scream, and jump up and down along with the huge mass of humanity! Chaos reigned through the song as water bottles flailed in the air, people thrashed and pushed, and some people from the front, succumbing to the fear of the crush, fought their way back through the crowd to a clearing somewhere far behind us, tears in their eyes, shellshocked by the suffocating crush. People would part for them as much as they could. Nimbus clouds of pot smoke wafted over our ocean of humanity, but the heat from our bodies never allowed it to land. The music screamed on and we screamed with it.
By the third song, “Revolution Radio” the mass of humanity started to find its groove. Everyone found their footing in a more reasonable stance, the crush loosened just a tiny bit. People could breathe.
…And then the moshers rushed the rear, wedging up through the tight seal of bodies, working their way up closer to the stage.
Right to where we were.
As the power chords churned so did bodies, explosions of limbs and sweat and torsos. Swirling and bashing and thrashing about. There was even a shirtless guy wearing a Hannibal Lecter mask on his face, colliding into anything near him. Men ripped off their shirts, slick with sweat, and commenced mosh battle.
At first, Tiffany, Charlie and I were completely taken aback. Very soon after this, Tiffany, who was standing behind me, literally flew off of her feet, as if connected to a tether and pulley and yanked backwards into the air — a mosh pit exploded behind her and a mosher collided into her then pulled her into the mosh pit. I spun around, grabbed Tiffany, threw her back behind me and was ready for a fucking fight. But everyone was just smashing into each other at full speed, having a good time. There was no ill intent.
As the concert raged on I started to find the rhythm, predicting, as the tempo of each song picked up, when people would begin moshing. I’d take a defensive stance, keeping Charlie and Tiffany on the other side of me, then as bodies starting careening into me I’d use all my weight and strength to send them flying right fucking back into the pit. And there was no time for considering who I was sending off… boy, man, girl, woman…I fuckin’ threw haymakers at all of them. All around us moshers would be hurled out of the pit, flying like rag dolls into unsuspecting people standing nearby, colliding in full force, taking them out NFL style. I was hellbent to make sure that this wouldn’t happen to Tiffany or Charlie. That, matched with the mad pace of the music, made it chaotic and astounding to behold. Two things I learned during this experience:
I’m a lot stronger than I have any justification being. I mean look at me. But I sent some of those fuckers flying.
This activity made my back FEEL GREAAATTT!!!!!
My back stopped hurting during the concert! In fact, I started to feel really good. Maybe it was the adrenaline, I don’t know…but I started to sort of get into it. It sort of tapped into something…deep…inside me. It felt good to work shit out on other people…
Here’s the other thing about a Green Day concert that I find so completely awesome. Yes, people in the mosh pit may be trying to take each other out with all their might…but when a mosher goes down in the pit, everyone stops, picks them up, and makes sure they are okay. It’s the oddest combination of aggression and brotherhood, and it seems to work seamlessly. One guy got knocked out cold right in front of us, and moments later, after being revived, he’s singing a song arm-in-arm with those who bashed him about. People who I ragdolled — a girl being one of them — ended up putting their arms around me to sway in unison to a slower song mere moments later.
And maybe in part that’s because of the band Green Day themselves. Their message is love. Is unity. Is togetherness. At one point, they had the entire stadium chanting “No racism! No sexism! No homophobia!” During the show they not only brought two different fans up on stage to sing (then stage dive) but they also brought a girl up play guitar with them and then gave the guitar to her as a keepsake. By the way, think about that one… if they do this in every city they play, imagine all the future rock bands they are kickstarting by giving these kids an inspirational taste! That’s a lot of good music in our future.
In an age where every medium around you is trying to separate and categorize you, dividing us and conquering us in the modern age…. everyone in that stadium simply existed as one. And I left slick from both my own sweat and the sweat of others, exhausted, and high from the rush of such a fantastic show. We had survived. And it was awesome.
Wednesday Morning we woke up bright and early to depart Portland, took some quick photos in front of Multnomah Falls, then commenced the 5 hour drive to Takilma, where the Out’n’About Treesort happily stands. The Dodge Four had previously enjoyed this same Treesort and white water adventure before (See: http://blathersciolist.blogspot.com/2011/08/raft-down-river.html for a trip down memory lane.) and now it was time to share it with the rest of the family. For those uninitiated in what is only one of the most fun ways to spend the night, a “Treesort” is a place where you sleep…in treehouses!
The Dodge Tribe stayed in the “Yertree.” The Yus stayed in the “Mastree.” And the Tais stayed in the “Cabin” – which overlooked the entire vast meadow and ziplines. The moment we arrived the kidlings were chomping at the bit to take a swim in the watering hole, so we gladly obliged their request, and I’d just like to point out here that I didn’t use the term “oblige” merely because it was in reference to a watering hole…I actually use that word frequently in my daily vernacular…just ask anyone…and fetch me a sarsaparilla while yer at it, ya varmint!
The watering hole was bracingly cold…as in testicle-bouncing, speech-swallowing, thought-erasing cold…as the water that feeds into the watering hole comes from the melting Oregon snowpack, but the weather outside was so hot that we found it refreshing, anyway. Later that night George cooked fresh hot dogs made locally, and we finished the evening off with S’mores! All the kids got to engulf their marshmallows in violent flames, and wildly blow at them in a panic, and nearly set everyone else around them on fire, too…what a beautiful childhood rite of passage! You’re welcome, children. You’re welcome.
What I love about this place is that it seems like everyone’s heart rate slows down just a few beats when here. Everything is calm around you. You can hear the horses in the distant meadows during the day, huffuffling the way horses do — I don’t know why they do it but it’s nice. Then crickets at night, vibrating their jazz to the night sky. It’s not a manufactured calm like you’d find at a spa, but genuine serene tranquility, almost as if a transfer of energy is happening, as if the trees themselves are absorbing some of our collective bullshit for us, allowing our shoulders to rise higher, giving our rib cages more room for our hearts to beat more freely…
Holy shit was that obnoxious! But I meant it. For breakfast, the staff made a variety of quiche and fresh berry muffins, and you eat and just listen to the wood of the main house creak around you. Sure, you have to battle some bugs…George had an ongoing feud with the entire mosquito population…but for me this place has an awesome type of peacefulness that I’m not sure I’ve found anywhere else.
But speaking of mornings, the next morning we awoke to HIT THE KLAMATH, muhufuggas!!! White water rafting. ALL OF US! Tiffany was able to find the guide we used when we rode the Klamath before, the eternally perfect Rael.
I mean look at him! Look how he sits on that raft as he explains all things “rafty” to us. This guy is as calm as a dragonfly. During the drive to the river he fills you with local history of the area, as well as ecological facts about the region, and he does it in a way that makes it all sound so casual and interesting and meant just for you that you really want to take it in and listen. And that’s the other horribly wonderful thing about Rael. He’s a brilliant listener. He wants to know about everyone. Not just a name, not just small talk, but he asks for real human facts about you, and he listens as you talk as if he cares. And this is a guy who’s only going to be with us for a day. And to boot, the bastard hasn’t gained an ounce of body fat. Not that I was counting…but I was.
Because of our massive number of people rafting this time, Rael was accompanied by Matt. Rael shared with us that Matt is a veteran Green Beret who spent ten years in Afghanistan — but you wouldn’t know it from his youthful face. I’ll never be able to imagine ten years in Afghanistan, but I can imagine that the river is a good place for someone who can. Matt took the other family that came with us on our excursion…four of them, single mom/three daughters, while Rael took the ten of us. (It’s okay, his many muscles did fine helping row us down the river.
So we shot the rapids again!
But this time Rael also brought along a kayak, which George decided to take for a spin. And of course, he worked that sucker to perfection…even down the “Rattlesnake!”
Look at that guy! That’s a real man, right there! Mind you, George has never kayaked in rapids before. And he never flipped it. Not once! I mean, what does pulling something like that off do for your confidence? I kept imagining a scenario where the day George returns to work he struts right into his boss’s office, a glass bottle of milk in his hand (I always imagine cocky people chugging milk from bottles)…George coolly takes the phone handset that his boss is demanding figures into out of the boss’s hand, softly places it on the receiver then TELLS his boss that the boss WILL give him a promotion, because he just shot the god damn rapids in a god damn kayak…and then George chugs the entire bottle of milk, without a single dribble George would never be that sloppy, unceremoniously smashes the fucking bottle against the boss’s wall, and struts out.
(Note: I’m not sure if George actually did that when he returned to work.)
But of course, Chase isn’t one to be left out of the adventure. She rode with George on the kayak for a spell after watching George on the Rattlesnake, and then decided that she wanted to do it all by herself on an upcoming churner!
And she never flipped, either! (Point of fact: the mother from the other family did flip her kayak, after humble-bragging about all of her previous experience – some people just can’t handle greatness.) It was pretty insane as a dad to watch my young teenage daughter shoot the rapids by herself. Pride, terror, more pride washed over me. Rael, by the way, trains the military and emergency responders in the art of “Fast Water Rescue” so I knew Chase was in good hands, but still…
As we worked our way down the Klamath, we were able to jump out of the raft, here and there, and simply float down-river, bobbing along in our life jackets, looking up at the ospreys as they flew by, up at a bashful young eagle, turtles cynically sunbathing on rocks. We pulled to shore to traipse a few hundred yards up river to survey the Rattlesnake for George, so that Rael and Matt could help him plot how not to smash up against the rocks and kill himself. Along the way we plucked wild blackberries off of a bush. To be able to pull fruit off of a bush and bite into it seconds later, the juices warmed by the sun…well, it’s not really a modern thing most people do, is it? Tyler took a spill into the bush, scratched up her hand a bit, but wasn’t any worse for the wear. In fact, she took it like a trooper. I probably would have been mewling like a baby for the rest of the trip, but it’s no secret that Tyler is much tougher than me. And hey, I bet she didn’t know that blackberry bushes had thorns before falling in…so see? She learned something the old-school way. Through experience.
And that’s the part that I loved most about that day. Seeing the kids live life completely differently from what they are used to. Being able to happily jump into a river and bob along. Piper officiously inquiring Rael with demanding tones whether or not there are more rapids immediately after shooting through one. Cayden happily jumping into the river water, bold and bubbly and happy. Eating berries off of a bush. Chomping a sandwich outdoors while standing by the riverside. Hanging on for dear life as the raft bucks over rude river wash and weaves between warning boulders in the waters…laughing and hooting the entire time. Being bounced into each other, onto each other. Over the years I realized that there is a very specific feeling of satisfaction a parent feels when their child is doing something that is particularly nourishing for them: When they were babies it’s when they eat. As they grew older, when they read. Recently I’ve also realized I get that feeling while watching Charlie and Chase spar each other in jiu jitsu…because I think it creates a bond that they can’t achieve in many other ways. Watching Tyler, Piper, Cayden, Charlie and Chase experience the Klamath gave me that same feeling, too. Again, you’re welcome, kids.
During the drive down to the river, Rael told us about a forest fire modestly far away that was/still is burning in such rough terrain that the authorities decided it is too dangerous to try to fight, so they are going to just let it burn…and projected that it will probably keep burning until October. As fate would have it, about midway through our rafting trip, the winds pushed the smoke from that fire down over the river, but didn’t then pick it back up and blow it away. The deeper we traveled, the more thick the smoke became. Everyone commented it was like something out of KONG: SKULL ISLAND. I later reflected how interesting it was that nobody equated it with APOCALYPSE NOW, but I guess different times demand different pop culture references.
It became eerie toward the end, because it really felt like we were floating into the unknown. But as I was floating down river I thought to myself that this situation is the perfect allegory to life. We are always drifting toward the unknown…
For this entire vacation, a recurring thought has stubbornly kept scratching at the back of my brain like a dog that wants in from the rain: In many ways, things will be different the next time Tai/Dodge/Yu get to vacation together, because at this point next year, our Charlie will be heading to college.
Which college is still up in the air, but the dynamic just won’t be the same. She’ll be more grown up than ever. She’ll be locked and loaded, ready and willing for a level of independence that will be shiny and new and scary and wonderful. But the where and the how and the what and the how and the where of it all is still yet to be sought, applied for, responded to, and resolved. And lately, as Tiffany and I have been squinting into that unknown future over the shoulders of our Charlie Girl, we just can’t help but to feel very bittersweet about how inhumanely fast time has gone. There are many days recently where I can practically feel the weight of my 3 year-old girl in my arms. It comes out of nowhere, it hits me unexpectedly. I can practically feel her stubborn cowlick of soft hair against my cheek. I can practically smell that chubby, new skin of hers. I can feel her squirm in my arms, yearning to toddle off to some toy or 3 year-old adventure. I can hear her little chipmunk voice using chatty words. Her little arms squeezing my neck with a monster hug. Her little chubby lips giving me a wet puckered kiss that’s, of course, too hard, so I feel her little round plastic glasses pressed on my face, too. I can practically experience it all again, but not wholly. Because it’s all just memory now. It will never be that way ever again for her and us. And that thought only makes me crave it more. Fucking cruel. Fucking cruel. Fucking cruel…
You can squint and stare directly into the haze and spend all of your time wondering/fretting about what’s hidden up ahead. You can spend your precious time looking behind you, trying to trace through the veil where you’ve just come from. Or you can happily enjoy the company of everyone around you, bobbing along in the exact same direction. Maybe you pass certain points at different times. Maybe sometimes you are closer to some people on some parts of the journey than others, but the truth is we are all moving forward, whether we like it or not. And if you are lucky to be with the ones you love it makes any kind of journey that much better. So together we’ll figure out how to pull each other back into the raft, together we’ll paddle to the shore, and brush the sand off of our feet, and then ride up the highway, up and out of the smoke, back into the blue sky.
And nobody, of course, is the same as when we all started out. Journeys change everyone.
Monday morning Dodge/Tai/Yu woke up in Vancouver with a mission: Get the hell back into America and infiltrate Portland. But we loved Seattle so much that we couldn’t just drive right past her without another quick hello…so we swung by for brunch at a joint called:
I know it would be easy to assume that I was the one who picked this place out, but I wasn’t. I’m pretty sure it was Tiffany. I’m not sure if you can gauge what the theme of this place is…so here’s the menu sampling, if you can read it:
If you can’t just know that every biscuit dish is named “bitch.” Straight-Up Bitch. Easy Bitch. Hot Mess Bitch…you know…fun!
So we ordered a bunch of bitch dishes and scarfed them all down before we hit the road on the way to our final State Capitol visit of this vacation, in Olympia.
Although very plain on the outside, the Washington State Capital is COMPLETELY MARBLE inside. I’m talking every surface. All the stairs…with no sure-grip tape or anything. I can only imagine how hilarious it must be during the rainy season…it must look like some sort of Mr. Bean episode.
So the family took their photos with the capitol and it was time to hump our way back to Portland. If you remember, Portland and I last saw each other under very awkward circumstances. I think we just mutually decided to pretend that it didn’t happen and move on…for today was a very special day on our road trip…it was GEORGE’S BIRTHDAY!!!
We feasted in George’s honor at some place called THE COUNTRY CAT – which everyone seemed quite pleased with. I, personally, was a bit annoyed because during our meal, when we couldn’t find our waiter and therefore asked the passing restaurant host for more water she told us that “our server would be glad to help us” and then, without helping us find our server, she spotted some of her friends at a nearby table and proceeded to spend the next ten minutes hugging and chatting with them. Okay, I know it seems I have this building “thing” about restaurants and customer service. I know I’ve mentioned it a few times…but what in the hell is going on? Am I just becoming more ornery or are the most recent influx of hip and sometimes truly masterful restauranteurs feeling like generic friendliness not only isn’t a basic necessity for business but for common courtesy as well? I’m not demanding much. I don’t think…eh, maybe I am. Anyway, it seemed that our host was happier to see her friends than the other way around, so I think she was trying to show off a bit. I just imagined later that night, after she brushed her teeth and decided to skip flossing, our restaurant host looked in the bathroom mirror, reflected on how firmly she hugged her friends and told them about how the place would just go to shit without her, she gave herself a wink as she told her reflection, “Hannah, you did good tonight, you did good.” right before hitting that bathroom switch with a sassy little flick.
But the duck plate was amazeballs. I mean, on a bed of toasted hazel nuts? See? This is how they win and you lose, but your stomach wins, but your integrity loses after they win.
But to me it was what happened afterward, that was even MORE special…George, Eric and I went to a placed called the WHISKEY LIBRARY.
You get it? They made it look just like a library, but instead of books there’s whiskey on the shelves!!! Before allowed in, they make you, of course, wait in another bar downstairs called “The Green Room,” where George, Eric and I “pre-gamed” while we waited. When they finally called our names for entry the weirdest thing of the night happened. The hostess led us to the stairs and stopped…so I just thought that this was as far as she goes, that we were to go up the stairs and go on in. So, I went around her and started up the stairs. Because she didn’t say anything, otherwise.
Oh, nonono…apparently I committed a faux pa! Because someone else was coming down the stairs…stairs, mind you, that are of standard American width that allows both directions of traffic at the same time…but I digress. The hostess stopped me, “No, just wait one second, I will lead you.” So I had to come back down and get behind her as, and maybe I’m being self-conscious here, she shot me just a lightning quick look with her eyes as if to say “Know you NO DECENCY!” But once we were allowed in the room all annoyance instantly evaporated as we were greeted by the sight of thousands of bottles of beautiful, beautiful whiskey being whisked up and down via bartenders on rolling ladders. There were no waitresses…just an army of bartenders to help you satisfy your thirst as you sank deeper into their rich leather chairs. For those who desired cocktails and not whiskey, the bartenders rolled out wooden carts geared with every old-timey bartending tool right to the table, and prepared said drinks with such panache and flair I thought that maybe I had indeed become the Greatest Gatsby. It was quite lovely.
By the time we left there we had a bit more “stumble” in our step, so we sagely decided to finally brave the perpetual long line at Voodoo Donuts to finally make our obligatory purchase. We were, of course, regarded with a pretty impatient sneer from the donut mistress because we took a moment to figure out what in the hell we wanted… but I’m thinking that’s what they think the tourists partly come for here at Voodoo Donuts.
The next morning it was time to hit Cannon Beach and the Tillamook Cheese Factory.
At Cannon Beach – most famous in our hearts for being in the end sequence of GOONIES – we actually met a family who decided to bring their pet ferret to the beach for the day. I mean, what else are you going to do with a ferret? Then, of course, at Tillamook we crammed as much free cheese as we could down our gullets, curds and all.
Tiffany, Charlie and I had been to the Tillamook factory before but nobody else had, so it was fun to share the experience with them, although the Tourist Greeting Center was under renovation and official tours weren’t happening…but that’s okay, I don’t think our group seems to be the type that prefers “talkie tours.” After eating as much cheese from the sample bins as could be humanely allowed, we then went over and had grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch – of course accompanied with creamy tomato soup with cheese curds, and then rounded it all off with fetus-sized scoops of Tillamook ice cream for dessert.
Needless to say there was a lot of sleeping going on during the drive back to Portland. No, not from me. But it’s okay, our troops needed as much rest as they could get, for the next day we were making our way to the pinnacle of our road trip, THE OUT’N’ABOUT TREESOOOOOOOORT!!!
Look, understand. I get it. It’s now Tuesday morning. And I am back from vacation already…I didn’t really blog much along the way. Maybe it’s because the internet connections in the various places we stayed were stingy at best. Maybe it’s because I now lack the vigor to be blogging until three a.m. after a full day of grinding my thighs through the sights of the Pacific Northwest…by the way, do you know what I forgot to pack for the trip?
Yeah. Totally…live and burn I guess. Live and…burn….But back to excuses, then again if I’m being honest with myself, maybe it’s that I couldn’t formulate anything worthwhile to say in a timely manner. Either way, here we are…
Home.
We spent today acclimating back to the temperature of our own familiar fishbowl. It was nice to sleep in our own bed again (Once you get used to the hardness of a Chinese manufactured mattress the hotel mattresses can feel like their own special circle of hell in Dante’s Inferno.) It was nice to reclaim our pooch Frankie from Doggie Boarding…Breakthrough! Frankie can now socialize with other canine meatheads without losing his shit and causing a riot, so the staff tells me. They even proudly showed me pictures of him frolicking around a bone-shaped kiddie pool with a horde of other dogs. I got a little choked up. Frankie’s come a long way…a hell of a long way.
So we are home. However, I’m feeling that hallmarked sensation that only is felt when a vacation was good. Sentiment: The delicate sensibility that not only a long journey was had, but that it went too damn fast as well…
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After we sadly said goodbye-for-now to Seattle, Charlie succeeded in coaxing us to make a journey to Snoqualmie Falls. Doesn’t sound familiar to you? Well, then, I guess you can’t really count yourself as a Twin Peaks superfan, can you? Charlie can. Footnote: Over the three weeks Charlie spent at summer school in Stanford she engorged herself on Season One of Twin Peaks, and for her it was love at first bite. So it’s an understatement to write that Charlie Dodge was all squeee about seeing the Falls from the opening credit sequence, and then the hotel that was in the show, and finally the famous coffee shop where Agent Cooper indulged himself with oh, so many cups of coffee and plates of cherry pie. Did I buy Charlie a slice of cherry pie? You bet your Log Lady I did.
After that we swooped further north, right up to the border…quite literally down the street from the Canadian border…where we treated ourselves to a tasty variety of oysters plucked from the ocean mere moments before our arrival. Ever had oysters grilled right in their shell, steamed in their own brine? It was oh, so delicious. Chase even had some, and she’s allergic, but she felt it was worth the itchy mouth. There was even oyster stew, which brought me back to New Year’s Eves with my Gram…the only day of the year we’d have oyster stew…but that was canned oyster stew, Gram hated to cook, and this was FRAESH!!!
I’m gonna just point out here how awesome all of our kids are when it comes to food. Charlie, Chase, Cayden, Piper, and Tyler are ALL good eaters. Maybe that comes from growing up on Chinese food…maybe it’s because Tiffany and Joyce don’t put up with kiddie culinary request B.S…but we have never been tethered to corn dogs and shit fried nuggets because they refuse to eat anything else. I mean, sure, they are humans, after all, so they have individual preferences (Some definitely more individually than others…I’m looking at you, Chase!)…but when a grilled oyster gets placed in front of them, they will try it. I just wanted to brag about what a wonderful feeling that is for a parent, and I wish that type of ease upon every parent out there worth a damn.
So we filled our bellies with shellfish and made a run for the border. In Vancouver, we stayed in an area called Metrotown. At first it was hard getting used to the Canadian language, but I’d been practicing for a couple of months and served as translator for the group, as well as have made an acquaintance or two who have escaped from behind the Maple Curtain. For example, when you are thirsty in Canada you have to say, “Excuse me, can I have a glass of water?” Pffft whaaaat? It’s so weird…it just sounds like crazy gibberish!!! And did you know that in Canada they drive on the right side of the road? Aaand they also have this crazy stuff called “The Metric System.” Thus, in Canada you don’t go to buy shoes at a “Foot Locker”…but rather a “0.3048 Locker.” All this international weirdness had us as uneasy as a Mounty riding a narcoleptic horse, but we persevered despite the vast communication and garish cultural differences in Vancouver– a city whose origins, apparently, have absolutely nothing to do with vans of any sort, be they vehicles or shoes! So what’s with the name?! I guess we’ll never know.
But we didn’t stay long! Really only a day. One, action packed day, in fact. After a night’s rest we attacked all of the touristy hot spots like the bandits we are. Suspension Bridge, Lonsdale Quay, Stanley Park. So, yeah, we crossed that Lynn Canyon Suspension Bridge. It was free. Like our spirits. Needless to say, it held, and we survived. But I swear to God if I saw Indiana Jones walk onto that bridge from the opposite direction with torn shirt and a machete and Short Round trailing behind I would have broken out into a full panic.
And apparently there is some dangerous place just a hike away where people can’t resist jumping off of for fun…so much so that the Canadian Authorities have posted warnings that I only read with George Costanza’s Mom’s voice in my head.
Then afterward, we boogied on over to have a lunch at a shop called Meat & Bread…guess what they serve? Attitude, that’s what!
Eric:Could you please cut the sandwiches in two pieces please?
Mustachio’d Hipster Sandwich Master:No. (Pulls out a shitty dinner knife, places it on the counter next to the sandwiches – remember there’s ten of us.) But you can take this and cut them yourself, over there.
Eric remarked later that after such sneering regard his first instinct was to leap across the counter and beat the snide motherfucker into a pulp with his own fucking bread…but then he saw how delicious the sandwiches looked and instantly decided to let it slide. See? That’s how they get you. By the way, the sandwiches were ridiculously good. I’m talking Porchetta heaven. They win! Our stomachs win! Our integrity loses! But at least our stomachs win.
Oh, Vancouver! You saucy wench of a town. We, of course, hit Stanley Park as well, took some pictures next to some totem poles…and then were pretty damn wore-out. That evening George, Eric, and I drank Scotch (Well, George and I did, Eric drank a Bud Light) and smoked Vancouver-bought Cubans (Well, George and I did, Eric stuck to Marlboros.) as the sun stubbornly set. It was a nice way to end the day. With liquor, spiced smoke, conversation, and the hopes and dreams of our jaunt back down to Portland, Oregon the next day.
It’s 11:58PM on Friday and I’m sitting here writing in our Airbnb in Seattle. I’m tired and exhilarated and maybe a bit emotionally raw. It’s silly, really. But maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s the most important takeaway from this entire vacation. Maybe I’ll never actually know if it’s one or the other. Either way, it’s late, and typos will inevitably populate this post like grammatical pimples that won’t go away no matter how hard you dig and squeeze…because I ain’t going back to edit this. Tomorrow we head to Canada, so you’re gonna just have to live with however this post lands — which actually is me telling myself that I’M gonna have to live with however this post lands — because right now I’m fueled entirely on watered down brain juice and Czech Style Pilsener Beer…
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Up until adulthood I didn’t travel much. The first time I traveled to another major city was when I was in high school, sitting next to Tiffany in an Alhambra School District Van, listening to the mixtape she made me on a walkman at the same time using an earphone chord splitter on a debate school trip to Cal Berkeley. The first time I went over the Golden Gate Bridge I was sitting next to her, gawking like a god damned rube. She commented to me later that she was a bit caught off guard by how beguiled I was at the moment…but what can I say? The Golden Gate Bridge is rad.
But until that point I had been more or less tethered in San Gabriel since birth. Just me and my Gram in an old tired house. I didn’t do much of anything that qualified as serious travel. I have many childhood memories that are poisoned with jealousy, of watching family or friends fly off to fantastical places…of greeting family or friends returning with stories of adventure from said fantastical places. Gram. Mom. My Aunts and Uncle. Neighbors. Friends. London, Ireland, Hawaii, Scotland, Russia, Idaho, Texas, Africa, Montana. As a little boy I remember laying in bed at night, my old, worn out, stuffed Sesame Street pal Grover gripped tight in my arms, just aching with resolve that I would grow up and actually do things on my own…because then nobody and nothing could stop me…
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Two days ago we left the semi-comfort of our “Bearfoot and Buck-Wild” cabin in Yosemite, California (I later learned of the actually Punny spelling) to head to Prospect, Oregon — with a stop-over at the California State Capitol along the way in Sacramento. The Sacramento State Capitol to me has been the finest capitol building I’ve ever visited. Truth be told, I’ve completely enjoyed every single capitol building we’ve visited, and I’d actually truly love to visit every single one in our curious Republic — but I doubt any can come close to California’s — which openly celebrates every facet of the state’s diversity, from the hard scrabble farmlands to the cutting edge tech quadrants to our magnificent cities. The building itself is a testament to its people, its grandness, and the weird — and to me that’s what makes California the best state in the country.
From there we traveled into wonderful Oregon.That night we got into the sleepy town of Prospect, and while our motel room was pretty decent, Joyce and George’s seemed to be representative of one of the rings of hell: Broken AC, yellow pillows, bugs.
We were glad to leave the next morning and hit
CRATER LAKE!
But it was cold there. Still had snow! So after that we set off to the Oregon State Capitol — which was beautiful as well. Very nice…very nice… but we had a destination in mind…and that was
PORTLAND
We pushed forth into Portland for a quick bite to eat, and I swear it wasn’t such a buzzing epicenter of downtown activity the last time we passed through when Charlie was three…
After the meal I discovered that there was a Stumptown coffee shop seven minutes away from where we were. I convinced the other nine members of my party to take a stroll with me so that I may enjoy the best decaf ever created by man. About halfway through our stroll, my stomach started to plunge. Do you know what I’m talking about? You must. It’s happened to everyone at least once or twice, or three times…maybe four times…okay five times in their lives. Be honest. It’s a very specific type of stomach sensation. When your stomach goes BEEERROIRROIIROIIRG! It’s a physical manifestation of the NASA countdown clock. T-MINUS SEVEN MINUTES…but it wasn’t a Saturn V that was going to blast off in Portland…but my god damned butthole.
I was about to poop my pants.
By the time I get to Stumptown I’m sweating, I’m looking like death. Every fiber of my being is clenched. “No problem,” I think. “I’ll just pop into the ‘Ole Stumptown facility and triage this intestinal emergency. I grab the Stumptown door. It doesn’t give. Yankyankyank. It doesn’t open. My eyes scramble across the stated hours:
They are closed for the day.
Up until this point the group wasn’t aware of my dire situation. I had kept it to myself, shy debutante that I am. They see me fight the locked door and they just go “Awww, closed.” But my eyes meet my cousin Eric’s. We instantly connect in a telepathic way. A communication that calls deep to the days of our primordial beginnings, to the baser instincts. He instantly knows. Like a war vet who’s appraising someone fresh from a horrible firefight. I tell Eric, “Yeah, I gotta find a place.” But he already knows. All he does is nod. Eric spots a hotel across the street. “There,” he commands. I lead the entire troupe across the street. I walk into the hotel. Sweet relief is but a tightened hop, skip, and a shuffle away… Eric goes inside the hotel with me as my diarrhea escort while Tiffany, Joyce, George, Cayden, Tyler, Piper, Chase, and Charlie all wait outside for me…like family members in delivery waiting room…
And wouldn’t you know it? The lobby restroom is locked. It required a hotel swipe keycard. And I’m not staying there, soooo…
By this point I’m thinking…Touché, Portland. Touché.
By now I’m pale. My lips are ashen. Eric hurriedly escorts me out. Everyone appraises my grave face. Even the kids know that something serious is happening. I hurry to another restaurant, but upon opening the door I discover it’s small, there’s a sign that says “Please wait to be seated.” I can’t get myself to present them with the obvious situation that I don’t want to eat at their establishment, I just need to shit all over their facilities…
“NOT GONNA WORK!” I grunt to everyone as I come out of the restaurant.
By now I’m pacing back and forth. Well, not actually, because that would result in a poosplosion, but I’m pacing back and forth in my head. Maybe my eyes were also sinking back into their eye sockets a little bit, too.
Tiffany calls out “What about Powells?!”
“NO DON’T BE RIDICULOUS THAT’S TWO BLOCKS AWAY!” I viciously snap back. At that point I couldn’t fathom walking even ten feet, let alone two blocks. But so many stores were closed…locked door, locked door, locked door…but there was one thing that wasn’t going to remain locked for much longer if I didn’t make a snap executive decision…
“OKAY! POWELLS! LET’S GO!” So I led the charge…I gingerly ambled along the street, thighs flush, everyone else in tow, trying to keep up, like some disturbing parade, the two blocks to Powells…by this time even Piper knew that Uncle was having a crisis…
Once we get into Powells I gave a look to the book clerk that he must unfortunately see dozens of times a day:
Pure deadpan: “Up the stairs to your right.” My cousin Eric escorted me, as if he were the Secret Service and I were a President shot in the gut — Just in case something suddenly went sideways. Never leave a man down…
But here’s the thing about the world’s biggest bookstore…there’s a lot of ground to cover.
And frankly, I don’t know how I did it. It’s all a blur.
The point is I guess…I didn’t have Stumptown.
SEATTLE!
It was a grind of a day…but we did it. By the time we got to our Airbnb I was in an absolute daze. But I love driving. And the kids were amazing. The entire eight hour drive I don’t think they ever ran out of things to talk about. It made me very happy to make such an effort for the road trip.
The next day the family did all of the touristy things you’d expect to do in Seattle…Space Needle. Pike Place. Ivars. A Duck Tour… and we had a cheesy good time.
Then in the evening we went over to the house of Tiffany’s cousin, Mimi, to visit with her, and her husband Geoff and their GERBER BABY MODEL LOOKIN’ child, Leland.
I mean, really…that child is ridiculously cute. It was nice to visit with Mimi and Geoff in the trappings of their own town because we normally only see them in LA…and it gave us a good chance to see what normal life is like in Seattle. The takeaway? Nice.
But seeing Mimi as a a grown woman with her own family really hit home for me. I was there at the airport to greet her when she first came to America as a little girl from Taiwan. She cried on the car ride away from the airport, probably exhausted, instantly missing home. And now, she is everything to a new little person….
The next day Tiffany, Charlie and I broke away to tour the University of Washington — Charlie is gearing up to apply to colleges. I came away more than impressed. It’s beautiful. I think Charlie feels very much the same.
Then we met with someone who goes WAY back for us, a former classmate from SGHS, Jong Lee. He and his son Eric met us for a wonderful lunch and we caught up. Jong was my first debate team role model. (Don’t tell him that.) One time we competed against each other, of sorts, and he utterly destroyed me. It wasn’t hard. But now we are parents and our children are the focus of our minds…it’s funny how that happens. I think it pained Jong to hear that we were sticking with the more tourist trappy places on this visit. Like, it might have genuinely physically pained him. But that’s okay. I’ll just have to help assuage that pain by coming back and following more of his recommendations at a future date and time. I’ve been jealous of Jong throughout his life a couple of times. Once when we met up with him and his family in Boston…I MEAN HE LIVED IN BOSTON HOW AWESOME IS THAT?! And now when he lives in Seattle…I MEAN HE LIVES IN SEATTLE HOW AWESOME IS THAT?! Simply put, Jong seems to know where to live.
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Ever since we got into Seattle Charlie had been agitating to visit the MOPOP museum near the Space Needle, and now was our chance. There were special exhibits on horror genre and the fantasy genre, and of course, Star Trek. But the special exhibit there was on THE MUPPETS. It was a fascinating look at Jim Henson and the origin of his most brilliant inspirations. We felt the felt, looked at Henson’s old notes, and, of course, saw some of the original Muppets.
It was Charlie’s eyes that lit up first. She turned to me as we moved to a new portion of the exhibit.
“Grover!”
I’m going to confess to you right now, as I was walking to the glass box that held the Grover Muppet, I got choked up. I thought of my own stuffed Grover of my childhood. Once brand-new sitting on top of the TV along with my Easter basket to nothing but a love-worn mound of blue cloth with faded eyes by the time I left home at sixteen. Emotional flashes in my brain. A mental montage assaulting me as I got closer. All of the times that Grover felt like my only anchor on this chaotic planet…Clutching him tightly in the divorce courtroom when I had to testify who I wanted to “live with.” Grasping for him when I got stuck between the top bunk of my bunkbed and the wall, screaming for Gram to help free me. Assuring him with seven year-old whispers that it was going to be okay as my mom raged around the house with her pill addiction. Pressing his pink nose against my face through countless high-fevers and tours of drowning asthma…my number one play pal in a big old house that was more empty than not, save one little boy and his dedicated grandmother…
It was like seeing an old friend from a lifetime ago.
I walked up to that glass box. We took a picture, and I stumbled off. And it wasn’t until later that it hit me that I had forgotten to look at Grover’s back! Where did the Muppeteer’s hand go? What did that part of Grover look like? I’ve never known!
But then I realized. It doesn’t matter. Because to me Grover was so very much more. Here I am as a sweaty mess trying not to lose my emotional mind with my wife and daughter.
It’s the summer of 2017 and what can I say? Things are fuggin’ nuts. I don’t want to get super political here. I’m not looking to alienate people but some things just need to be said out loud. Some facts are just facts no matter how hard you twist them up…so I’m just gonna say it plain and simple:
I now use a bidet at home.
I know I know…
But have you ever used a bidet? Has your anus walked a mile in my anus’ moccasins? No, it hasn’t. Therefore, you have no idea the stakes involved in me leaving the humble abode of my gentle commode.
But it’s all worth the risk, because a road trip is at hand!
You read it right. Pacific Northwest. Sure, this makes it the second time ’round for Tiffany, Charlie and I but now Chase and the rest of our fam are taggin’ along, too! We’ve got the whole gang back together and we are gonna blaze all the way up to Vancouver and bizack, yo!
We set out on the 23rd and all that I can focus on is the discovery that in Kettleman City there is a new place called Bravoland, which boasts of a shooting gallery and “comical taxidermy” AND WE DROVE RIGHT BY IT!!! It’s okay, though, Tiffany promised that we could stop by on our way back home. She promised. She…promised. She promised!!!
It’s been two years since our last big family road trip, and what keep reflecting on is how much bigger all the kids are. All of the kids are soooo much bigger, and soooo much more aware and articulate and charming, and just fun to have around. I mean it! NO, I MEAN IT!!!
And also so much more equipped for the trip. Everyone has their own iPad, headphones, iPhone, etc. A big in-car issue is managing battery life of all the various device as we rip down the highway.
And Chase spent a good portion of time fixing each kid an individual road trip packet catered to each kid’s specific taste. Chase is always thoughtful that way..
After blazing up the five we arrived to the guarded gate where our cabin was in Groveland. Tiffany told me that our cabin was called “Barefoot and Buck Wild,” so naturally I told the guard that. “Hi, we’re here for the Barefoot and Buck Wild cabin? The guard kept a straight face, and plainly asked for the address, as the tittering erupted in the back of my van. Tiffany failed to tell me that the guard would of course not know the personal nicknames the cabin owners have for their cabins. Oh, well, I guess it’s not so awful if the guard thinks I’m a wild man.
But here’s the deal. I’m tired. Very tired. And now that Charlie is working hard to write all sortsa stuff on her own — and being very successful at it…
(COUGH) editorinchiefattemplecityhighschoolandguestcontributortothepasadenastarnews… well, she can help me with some of the heavy blogging…
Charlie…the bridge is yours…
I can’t say much about the drive to Yosemite because I was asleep for like 95% of it. Once we got there though the views were great! After taking photos at Bridalveil falls, we got on the Yosemite Shuttle and headed to Degnan’s Deli, where we had lunch.
We waited as two full shuttles passed by before boarding one and heading to the Yosemite Visitor’s center….and then realized that the Visitor’s center was about 10 steps away from the deli. Like you could see the deli from the visitor’s center. Needless to say we didn’t find it prudent to wait for the shuttle after that.
Then we approached it…..the hiking trail to Lower Yosemite Falls. My attempts to convince everyone to get up early this morning for an Upper Yosemite Falls day-hike had been shot down, but there was still a chance to finagle a small hike. We started with baby steps, walking the downhill path to the “falls view” area, which was just a space where you could see the waterfall with only like 75% of it blocked by trees instead of 99%.
The little kids (and some of the adults) were all already complaining about having to walk around and much to their dismay we started down the trail to the actual waterfall area. It wasn’t that much of a walk, there were at least 2 people who were hiking faster than us on crutches. Every so often we’d pass by a sign warning against straying from the trail.
“EVERY YEAR 200 PEOPLE END THEIR VACATIONS EARLY,” they’d say, “DON’T LET THIS BE YOU.”
And usually the bold type was accompanied by photos of people being carried out on stretchers, or x-rays of broken bones.Don’t worry, we all stayed on the path. At least we did until we got to the actual waterfall. Then we all of course climbed down the rocks to walk around in waterfall water.
Thoroughly tired out, we made our way back to the van, packed in, and…I immediately fell asleep again. I must have automobile-induced narcolepsy or something. I woke up to find that apparently we’d been driving in the wrong direction for like 40 minutes. Luckily we turned around and soon we were stopping off at BUCK MEADOWS DINER & MOTEL…AND ABANDONED GAS STATION. There was a lot going on. The motel looked like something straight out of Psycho. The Diner looked like something straight out of Twin Peaks. The food was great!
And so ends our day at Yosemite. I love Yosemite. National Parks are so nice overall but Yosemite was one of the first that I ever experienced so it has a special place in my heart. Now my mission for the remainder of this vacation is to convince the family to take a day trip out to North Bend, the town where Twin Peaks was filmed.
Tiffany, Charlie, Chase and I Ubered our way across London to some tour company office, where we convened with a large group of other assholes we didn’t know to get on a bus which then transported us to WARNER BROS. LONDON!! Raw and exhausted, I tried to sleep on the 90-minute bus ride to Warner Bros. London. But that was of little use, as a great majority of the trip was the bus jerking and weaving in and around London traffic. 
…and then hi-tailed it outta there… We were goin’ back to Cali…
…where we waited in line, for not that long, and then were ushered inside to spend our shekels on “Oakland Exclusive” Green Day paraphernalia.
The watering hole was bracingly cold…as in testicle-bouncing, speech-swallowing, thought-erasing cold…as the water that feeds into the watering hole comes from the melting Oregon snowpack, but the weather outside was so hot that we found it refreshing, anyway. Later that night George cooked fresh hot dogs made locally, and we finished the evening off with S’mores! All the kids got to engulf their marshmallows in violent flames, and wildly blow at them in a panic, and nearly set everyone else around them on fire, too…what a beautiful childhood rite of passage! You’re welcome, children. You’re welcome.
I mean look at him! Look how he sits on that raft as he explains all things “rafty” to us. This guy is as calm as a dragonfly. During the drive to the river he fills you with local history of the area, as well as ecological facts about the region, and he does it in a way that makes it all sound so casual and interesting and meant just for you that you really want to take it in and listen. And that’s the other horribly wonderful thing about Rael. He’s a brilliant listener. He wants to know about everyone. Not just a name, not just small talk, but he asks for real human facts about you, and he listens as you talk as if he cares. And this is a guy who’s only going to be with us for a day. And to boot, the bastard hasn’t gained an ounce of body fat. Not that I was counting…but I was.
If you can’t just know that every biscuit dish is named “bitch.” Straight-Up Bitch. Easy Bitch. Hot Mess Bitch…you know…fun!
Truth be told, I’ve completely enjoyed every single capitol building we’ve visited, and I’d actually truly love to visit every single one in our curious Republic — but I doubt any can come close to California’s — which openly celebrates every facet of the state’s diversity, from the hard scrabble farmlands to the cutting edge tech quadrants to our magnificent cities. The building itself is a testament to its people, its grandness, and the weird — and to me that’s what makes California the best state in the country.
