SF to Portland

NORTHERN WEST COAST

Pictures can often be worth a thousand words or more, so I will keep the words to a minimum and let the majesty of our coastal drive from San Francisco to Eureka to Bandon, Oregon, to Newport, Oregon to Portland, to Victoria, BC speak mostly for themselves.

Suffice it to say that while I thought the drive from San Luis Obispo to the Bay Area was as beautiful as it gets, I think what’s north of that is even better. 

We made it over the Bay Area and Golden Gate Bridges before 6:30am  

and began our winding route round about Muir Beach, CA.  The first 20 miles wind along some high cliffs, which afforded us incredible views back to the fog of San Francisco.  After a gorgeous farmland inland section, we found a great place called the Sea Ranch Resort.  I was amazed at how, not far north from San Francisco in such beautiful coastline, there was such a dearth of inhabitants.  The Sea Ranch came out of the blue and was quite a welcome and majestic sight, as all of us had grumbly stomachs after about three hours of coastal driving.  We passed towns like Elk (where I enjoyed my first anniversary), and Mendocino, which was having a huge festival, with streets crowded with tourists who certainly didn’t come from the south, because we felt as though we were one of the few cars on the road all morning.  

Fort Bragg was certainly nothing to brag about, but north about 50 miles or so, we headed a little eastward off the coast and through the beginning of the redwood forests on a 22-mile stretch of extremely winding roadway featuring turn after turn of 15 and 10 mph curves.  After about 45 minutes of this kind of driving, I was exhausted (we’d been driving for 9 hours at this point) and had an extremely strong yearning for just ONE STRAIGHTAWAY.  On top of that we had not too much gas left in the tank.  When we finally finished this stretch, we found our first gas station in 60 miles or so (this is route 101, remember!!??), which was an old style filling station with full service for the lovely price of $2.42 a gallon.  The Touareg took a few sips, but not gulps, and then we headed up 101 through the Avenue of the Giants, which of course featured some of the largest trees on the planet.  It’s a gorgeous meandering drive in and out of sunlight and full shade with plenty of opportunities to pull over and feel real small.

After a night in Eureka, we took a short drive up the Oregon Coast up to Bandon, Oregon.  Our reservation was at The Windermere, which turned out to be one of the great finds of the trip.  Certainly not luxury, but perfect for us:  A bedroom upstairs with two beds for the kids, and one bed down next to the kitchen… which had a slider opening up to the most beautiful beach view anywere.  Gigantic rocks were plunked right down on the beach and off the shore just a bit.  It was a bit reminiscent of the final scene from Planet of the Apes.  That 18 hour period we spent in Bandon was one of the most relaxing and mind-opening times I’ve ever spent.  I walked the beach all during the late afternoon, again with Parker at sunset… the air was so crisp and delicious anyone in their right mind would start to think about how to spend more time out this way*… As I went to bed late, the full moon was directly overhead, so I set my alarm for a ridiculous hour just to catch that huge white ball setting over the Pacific.  It worked, although I had to play around with my new camera to get the shots right.  They didn’t turn out perfect, but they’ll allow that memory to linger with me forever.  The boys and I then took an early morning walk, and then started back up the coast toward Newport, only to discover more gorgeous coastline.  This time the vista Gods laid it on even a little heavier with lighthouses and park after park of Pacific views that would make any artist squirm.

After this trip, my friend Cindy Tower painted this wonderful image she gleaned from two of my shots in Bandon.  One of them is above.  

Newport was more of a tourist trap than Bandon, it appeared.  According to the locals, Bandon's popularity skyrocketed after a PGA major event was played there a few years ago, and real estate had gone wacky.  Newport, however, didn't have that same cachet, but was still a fun place to bop around.   We had a low-key afternoon, and let the sun set on us and then enjoyed the wide open slider that invited the Pacific to lull us to sleep.  Much more refreshing than any Newport cigarette.  I guessed someone must have looked at a map of Oregon when naming menthol cigarettes.  We tried to come up with some other names that worked as well as Newport and Salem every time we passed a town.  Portland would be a good brand.  Hood... maybe--for the right market.  

I’d recommend our accommodations in Portland to anyone.  We stayed at a boutique style hotel in the trendy Nob Hill section.  It was called the Inn at Northrup Station, where there was a stop for the very clean and cool Portland streetcar system.  The room was done up on all sorts of limes, violets, oranges and blacks, featured very modern furnishings, a granite kitchen, and lots of space for us to spread out a bit.  I preferred this to downtown, as I could park my car easily, and walk right out the door and find coffee shops and great eating spots without the tourists all over the place.  Among all the tempting choices was a place called Muu-Muu’s World Diner, which was so Portland and had such a fun menu.  I sampled Karate Rolls, which were simply smoked salmon wrapped around alfalfa sprouts, with a dollop of some kind of sauce on them, to be dipped in wasabe oil.  As odd as that might sound, they were light and delicious, and we returned the next day for lunch.  The kids had one of their favorite meals of the trip, which was a smashed burger… basically it already had the fries stuck in with the burger on a long sub roll, and I had some incredible halibut in a red chile sauce which rivaled that which I had at Fresh in La Jolla.

Since we had a pretty nice layover in Portland, I had done a little Emailing in advance to procure some adult company… my kids are charming, but punctuating night after night of having family dinners with a date would be a nice break, I thought. Kathleen was a redheaded bellydancer!  Of course, that was a first.  While I had no clue what to expect (usually I do more groundwork before meeting someone I meet on the internet), she was a very attractive, fun gal with whom I enjoyed many laughs and good conversation at a great little bistro not too far from the hotel. 

I took my car in for its 5000 service at Ray Reece’s Friday Volkswagen in Portland.  Everyone was quite friendly there, even though the mechanic didn’t seem overly excited when I suggested that he’d done the first ever 5000 mile service on a Touareg.  I guess an oil change is an oil change to these guys.   Nonetheless, he explained to me how to get more distance from my remote door locking system, but putting the keyfob up to my chin.  I’m still not crazy about the fact that to lock it I have to be within five feet of the Touareg.  I want MORE distance.  We’re so spoiled.

That night, Parker and I got in the Touareg and drove into the hills of Portland to check out the houses and the views, which were amazing.  Most houses for sale had little flyer boxes attached, so Parker would scurry off and bring back the flyers on some of the hot properties to assuage the curiousity of a guy who all of a sudden couldn’t resist the idea of someday moving to the Northwest.  I think this is a great place, and perhaps after the boys go off to college, I might like to call this my new home… perhaps before.  One never knows where life will take us.  The nice houses with views ranged somewhere in the 500,000 to million+ range.  These were in the city.  My dreamhouse would be overlooking a running river in the forest with good access to Portland.  Again, just a dream.

We buzzed around the city late at night, passing the downtown music festival, which also happened to be sponsored by Volkswagen.  When we finally got back to our room, we conked once again.  Somehow, though, once again I awoke way too early.  This seems to be becoming a pattern on this trip.

* Well, so, reading this blog again 13 years later, I guess I found a way to spend more time out this way.  By now, I am very pleased to be able to be a RESOURCE for people wanting to visit all 363 miles of Oregon coast.

Rocks and Water - Oakland

Rocks and Water - Oakland

 Leaving The Highlands Inn is not an endeavor to which one looks forward.  I had set my alarm to go off at 5:30.  My usual philosophy in places like this is simple and makes perfect sense to me… better to exploit the little time available to us with waking hours than sleeping.  Thus, the number of hours of sleep is not an issue.  Although the need for Vivarin is, and I think to this point I’ve only dropped about four of those yellow little buddies in just over 4000 miles of driving.  That’s not too bad, especially for someone who has been known to nod his head like a bobblehead doll on the 12 mile buzz from Guilford to New Haven.

I suppose the comfort of the bed and the fresh Pacific air conspired to keep me in slumberland, because the early chirp of my Palm Pilot’s alarm function didn’t seem to faze me.  It wasn’t until 7 that I awoke.  I had visions of  riding one of the complimentary Specialized bikes at The Highlands, but as it so often does, my keyboard won out over conquering the hills of Carmel.  I was already three days’ behind in writing, and I’ve found some of the nuances get lost if I wait too long, and the days seem to pile up like Lucy Ricardo’s chocolates if I don’t keep up with them.  So I grabbed my laptop and sat down on the balcony overlooking a foggy Monterey peninsula.  Fortunately, my head was much clearer than the coastline was.  Thoughts and words flowed, and it wasn’t until about an hour and a half later that I heard “Good morning, Daddy” softly welcoming me from the suite’s living room.  It was easy to stop what I was doing, even though fully entrenched in the task, to jump in and spend a few moments hugging Parker and massaging his sweet fuzzy head.

  

Austin declared that he wasn’t interested in breakfast;  that he was still full from last night’s dinner.  So, Parker and I took the short walk to the California Kitchen, and enjoyed a marvelous breakfast overlooking the foggy coastline.  Our table on the rail was close enough to one of the outdoor heaters overhead, which took the bite off the 52 degree chill.

After finishing up more writing, I filled up the Jacuzzi for Parker, showered, and loaded up the Touareg in time for our late check-out at 12:30.  We were headed only as far as Oakland this day.  We had a game that night to see the A’s play the O’s.  Other than a little stop in Carmel-by-the Sea, it was to be a light day.

Austin opted to stay in the car and Gameboy, rather than walk around Carmel.  Parker and I enjoyed many of the galleries.  Carmel features some of the most incredible artwork, gallery after gallery, I’ve ever seen.  I saw one artist’s work that really caught my eye, Clifford Bailey, who did a series of abstract oils of people in sort of a jazzy setting, some blowing trombones, and some sipping martinis.  Once taking a look at the prices, it was easy to enjoy them for what they were and keep walking.  Parker found some xylophone-type instruments carved from wood that he enjoyed playing, while I wandered around another gallery.  I did come upon a pair of lamps that ended my four year passive quest to replace two lamps in my living room that I’ve always felt were overbearing in size for the 50’s era tables they sat upon.  It took a $200 discount offering and a nod from Parker to make my big purchase of the trip, which would be delivered shortly after we got back home.  Each lamp was handmade from wrought iron and crystal, with the shade being an opaque autumnal affair, signed by the artist.  Three rather large crystals that soak up light from the bulb drip down like giant water droplets, making them for art unto themselves.  I had no qualms or buyer’s remorse.  They were perfect (I think).

We left Carmel and the cool overcast temperatures and found ourselves in Castroville, the artichoke capital of the world.  A gigantic green artichoke and a sign “fried artichokes” were enough to cause the traveling Angeli to make a quick stop for these incredibly delicious morsels at The Artichoke.  When one sees miles and miles of a field of crops like these, and begins to fathom that that a vegetable like artichokes aren’t consumed that often by that many families, or on the menu at that many restaurants, one begins to get the feeling of how large this country really is.  While I am sure some were destined to be imported, still, this was still a lot of artichokes.

Given that it was a Friday afternoon, traffic treated us kindly on the Nimitz Freeway leading us to Oakland.  We were staying at a Holiday Inn this evening, which I’d chosen for its proximity to Network Associates Coliseum, where the A’s and Raiders play in front of some of the most passionate—and crazy—sports fans in the country.

Checking in, I was amused at the buzz in the lobby created by what turned out to be a 50^th anniversary celebration.  All the men were dressed in white formals and white shoes, with the women mostly in gold.  Even the kids were featuring while suits.  Later, while scurrying to the front desk to see if I’d left my cellphone there (which was later found under Parker’s San Diego Padre hat), one of the daughters of the honorees was walking next to me, and flattered me by asking “Excuse me, you’re a man (glad she noticed), so can you tell me how this dress looks on me?  I’ve worked so hard and it’s my parents’ 50^th anniversary tonight”.  So here I was in the middle of Oakland, California, having not been with a woman in too long a time (it’s always too long for me in certain regards), being asked by a rather buxom black woman who had obviously fussed for days on this, what I thought.  “You look FABULOUS… I mean it really”, I said.  “That dress is perfect for you”… She came over to me, her vulnerability seemed to wash away by a huge smile, and thanked me by proceeding to swipe the dandruff off my shoulders.  “Here, sweetie, doesn’t your woman take care of this for you?”

The woman at the front desk had told me that the ballpark was steps away, nodding as I asked her if five minutes was all it took to walk there.  The boys and I were ten minutes into the walk when we realized we should have been directed to take a left onto Coliseum Way, and had to backtrack in this rather odd looking neighborhood, passing broken bottles on the sidewalk, and one broken Jesus figurine (someone had really been let down, I suppose), and no one else at all walking to the game, which I thought was really odd.  We made sat our butts down in the seats as Tim Hudson threw his last warm-up pitch and took in the aura of a completely different stadium than any we’d visited before.  Network Associates Coliseum is a lot of things, but definitely two of them—wide and low--save for the gigantic structure in the outfield housing dozens of suites that most obviously was built with Raider revenue in mind.  I explained to Austin that this was definitely a pitcher’s park because of the unusually vast foul territories, which allowed pitchers to gain more outs and give hitters fewer second chances at the plates.  Because the stands are so low and wide, the announced crowd of only 16,000 on this perfect California night surprised me.  I would have thought close to double that number were with us.  I guess it felt like it at first, because the $30 seats I’d bought were in the middle of an aisle, which I usually don’t like at all.  This was no exception.  While close to the field, I felt claustrophobic.  I was made to feel even more so when a family that could have just left the set of Jerry Springer sat down behind us.  It was easy to notice them, because the nucleus of them was a gigantic and boisterous woman who banged my back and head from behind about four times before she landed with a thud in her seat.  She proceeded to massage my shoulders as she bellowed, “Sorry sweetie, didn’t mean to do that”.  Listening to her continue with her family with conversation as tantalizing as “I ain’t been here since before them seats was put up in that there corner” at about eight on the volume meter—non-stop—was enough to start my mind buzzing about to where we would be moving to escape this.  The odd thing was, as I turned to take in the family, we had one obviously retarded man sitting with this woman to her right, but to her left was her son, who was accompanied by his wife, and his end of the conversation was held up fine with articulate comments, nary a stray double-negative to be heard.  I didn’t get it, but it didn’t matter, because as soon as we were done with our mediocre dogs (a slight notch above the others on this trip, but still not approaching anything memorable) and our garlic fries—the staple at bay area games—we moved back about ten rows and found a small haven of serenity—three seats on the aisle with no one in front of us—at least for a while—and a little higher up for better perspective.

Once again, we were watching our third rather boring game in a row.  No runs and about five hits total going into the seventh inning—which was upon us like lightning—it only took an hour and a half to get to the seventh inning stretch!  That’s fast, and very unusual—especially odd for us since the Padre game was completed in just 2 hours and 15 minutes.  There was nothing rewarding to be gained by scoreboard watching, as once again, our Mets were wallowing in the loss column, this time to the Phillies.  I believe it was the fourth in a row, but am very glad that I am not having much to do with the Mets right now… I’ll just watch the trade talks in the blurbs I get on my automatic Emails, and take a welcome sabbatical from being a true Mets fan again this summer.  Maybe if I stop taking these trips they’ll fare better, I thought.  I wondered if Art Howe would rather be me, in Network Associates Coliseum right now, but as the usher pointed out in our discussion, he really had no choice. 

I found most of the entertainment in the crowd, which featured many true fanatics, often wearing all green and yellow.  A’s fans were true fans, even if most of them were lined up by the thousands waiting for beer out in the breezeway.  My eyes found about four female fans, all nudgy and smoochy with their boyfriends, who were simply standouts among the relatively disheveled and blue-collar crowd.  Very laid-back California, but with an attitude.

I had asked the usher about getting a cab back to the hotel, and he directed me to security.  When I asked the cops at security about whether it was safe to walk back to the hotel, they told me I should definitely not attempt that walk in the dark, and that would could catch a cab at the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) station beyond center field.

In the eight inning, the A’s finally got something going.  With a man on second, Terrence Long nailed a shot to the right field corner and scored on a throwing error by the cut off man trying to gun down Ramon Hernandez at the plate.  When the Geronimo Gil was tackled by Hernandez, the ball continued beyond him for what seemed like miles just to the right of the Orioles’ dugout, allowing Long to score all the way from second.  The people in front of us thought it was an inside the park home run, but alas, this is not little league, and it was scored a double and a two base error on Melvin Mora, the shortstop.  I might point out that Melvin Mora is now leading the American League in hitting, and was basically given to the Orioles two years ago by the Mets in exchange for borrowing Mike Bordick to fill in for Rey Ordonez for a couple of months.  Bordick made no impact whatsoever on the Mets.  Steve Phillips should never work in baseball again.  Maybe we should sick an A’s/Raiders fan on him.

The cops had made it sound as though there were going to be lines of cabs waiting at the BART station.  We only saw one, and he was across a busy street.  Parker pointed out an off-duty cab, and I waved him down.  He asked us if our destination was close, which I answered in the affirmative.  As we sped away, I wondered whythe the meter went up in odd increments (we were at $2.24 after a block, and as we made a right turn onto an even bleaker street, Austin quickly pointed out that it was 24 cents for each 36 seconds, and 24 cents for each quarter mile.  As we discussed whether that was a “whichever comes first” scenario (far be it from the cab driver to explain the terms), we realized we were come up on a railroad overpass, with flashing gate down, only to be staring at a STOPPED freight train.  After two cars in front of us [TICK] pulled U-turns and sped away, I suggested to the driver [TICK] that he do the same.  He refused, saying that [TICK] the only way back was [TICK] by the stadium and into the [TICK] traffic there—that this was a better idea—to wait here, and apparently decide between what was more rewarding, wondering when a stopped freight train was going to move, or play the “how far will the meter go?” game in which I was to be the only loser in this fixed contest.

After about four dollars, the train began a very slow lumber to the left, slowly gaining speed.  We should have counted the cars, but all I could think of was this was the longest freight train we’d seen on this trip.  We’d passed quite a few, and while it would have been fun to see some of the two mile long ones we saw last year in the middle of Nebraska, this wasn’t the moment to spot it.  After another few bucks, the driver now decided to display his loyalty to his customers by passing the Toyota on the left over the tracks, scoffing at at the Toyota driver’s pace as we began a Bullitt-type ride back to the Holiday Inn. 

We paid the fare, which ended up being more than parking in the easy lot at the park would have been.

Walking through the lobby of the hotel, I spotted golden-dressed gal from before, and noted a very puzzled Parker as he watched me ask her how the dress worked out.  She grabbed me, obviously very loose after three hours of anniversary partying, and began to dance with me right there on the Holiday Inn carpet.  Her cronies, probably just as loose as she was, didn’t notice this relatively bizarre scene.

A few steps, and a well-wishing nod, and I gracefully bowed out.  Parker and I were on our way back to our room.  He thinks his Dad is nuts.

Pismo Beach to Monterey

Pismo Beach to Monterey

We’re now two weeks into the trip and settling in.  We slept in until about 8:30 and got ourselves moving in time to catch the free contintental breakfast at the Cottage Inn that ended at 9:30.  On the way by the front desk the night before, I had inquired about local telephone charges, since we always hook up onto AOL through a local connection, and in this hotel there was no particular card explaining all the calling charges and surcharges.  The night before, we’d left the computer signed online when we went to dinner, and when I thought to inquire just in case, I was slightly dismayed to find out they charge more than ANY hotel we’ve been to in two years—50 cents per minute for a local call.  When the clerk checked our bill thus far, we’d rung up the sum of $68.00 in local phone charges.  Fortunately, the guy sympathized with me, and when I explained that if they’re going to charge that, there should be some indication of that outrageous charge in the room.  He showed me the card that was “supposed” be visible in the room, and when I told him no such card existed in our room, he lopped off all but $3.00 of the phone charges and sent me on my contented way.

This morning the fog had burned off completely, so we took about a 45 minute walk on the beach to the pier and back, and examined a few of the deep caves at the bottom of the cliff just under the Cottage Inn. 

Our drive this day was to take us up the coast from Pismo Beach to the Highlands Inn and Carmel along some of the most beautiful coastline I know of in the world.  The fog was visible, but now miles off the coastline, so it formed a pretty layer of depth right over the Pacific.  We had blue and emerald ocean, dark rocky cliffs with whitewater banging up against them, some beach, that layer of fog, and mountainous terrain to our right alternating from brown to green, with cypress-like trees. 

The drive was even more gorgeous than last year’s trek up the PCH, since there was no fog on the coast and not a cloud in the sky.  Turn after turn created a new vista from which I felt the pull to snap digital photographs.  At one point, we met up with a ’39 Lincoln towing an old trailer, driven by Jeff from Pennsylvania.  I asked him for his Email address so I could send him the cool shots I had just taken of his car against the Pacific.  He was three weeks into his journey, and beamed when he heard we came from further away than he did.

Along the way, I couldn’t help but point out to the boys the particular spots I remember using as pull-off and pull-outs when last year’s urination frenzy hit me as a result of the short term Vivarin binge I needed to get us up the coast.  Funny, but somehow I recognized where I left my marks.

Our 118 mile drive took the better part of 4 and half hours.  It was 4 o’clock when we arrived at a place I’d been looking forward to since the cold winter months of trip-planning, The Highlands Inn.  My brother and parents had noted to me that I’d love the place.  I was somehow able to procure a palatable rate, which seemed even better when I checked in and was told we’d have a high ocean-view two-story suite with full breakfast included.  Sam assisted us with check-in, and as we walked out to the front entrance and he asked me which of the cars I was driving, I pointed to the Touareg.  He responded “Oh, cool. The fun one”.  Sam directed us to the room and told us he’d meet us there, and proceeded to sprint up the hill in front of us.  I’d expected him to get into a golf cart.  Room 504 at the Highlands was breathtaking, both inside and out.  The first thing I checked was the view, which matched any view we’d seen on the way up the coast that day.  The upstairs featured a nice living room with working fireplace, kitchen and a bathroom, and downstairs was a bedroom with a cozy looking King size bed and a spacious bathroom cordoned off by three panels of sliding doors, which one could use for privacy or open up to the large Jacuzzi positioned as the focal point to the attractive mission style bathroom.  Absolutely perfect, this place.  And one could see it in Parker’s raised eyebrows, for sure.  Thoughts of a late check-out immediately came over me, so as to enjoy these wonderful accommodations as long as possible.

I fished out the long pants and the nicest shirts I could find from the kids’ duffel bags, in preparation for dinner in the Pacific’s Edge at the hotel.  We only brought one pair of long pants (which were required in the dining room) for each kid, and you can imagine the disappointment I felt when I saw that the water from the Jacuzzi I was taking managed to create a jet right up my back and onto the ledge where I had laid Austin’s pants.  They were sopped, and dinner was but an hour away.  After airing them out on the balcony rail in some of the best sun and air God* could muster (which I am sure the hotel management would have loved to see), and steaming out the last of the dampness with an iron, we were golden.

*If there was a God, this was surely a testament the best he can give us.

The maitre d’ attempted to seat us away from the window, which I rejected.  He grudgingly gave up one of the best booths in the house to this family of a man and his two children, and handed us the menus as we inched into our booth.  The menus read a little differently than most, and the boys indicated some confusion.  I looked and saw there some different levels of prix fixed dinners, starting at $48 per person and working up to $86.  Somehow my eyes found the one thing on the menu that indicated that these prices weren’t enough, for to order this particular entrée, there was a $10 surcharge.   With question marks emitting from my kids’ kaleidoscopic eyes, it didn’t take me long to think that we’d be better off in the California Market, just downstairs.  I somewhat sheepishly apologized to the maitre d’ for taking up his good table, but without embarrassment simply told him that the menu wouldn’t be appreciated by the kids as much as my wallet would like it to be. 

The maitre d’ escorted to the other restaurant on the premises himself, which impressed me.  We were treated to a superior view in the California Market restaurant, enjoying excellent fare for less than half of what our original plan was destined to set us back.  Somehow, after a long wait for entrees, they brought Austin the wrong one.  Now, Austin is not the fastest eater on the planet, so when they gave the usual “it’ll just be three minutes” to be back with the correct seafood pasta dish, I was more than skeptical.  Fifteen minutes later, the waitress appeared with his dish, exclaiming that dessert was on her.  We all had agreed among ourselves that of all times, this delay was just fine, since we were in no hurry whatsoever to leave the dining room and the spectacular view^th day of July, 2003.

it was providing us as the sun said goodbye for good to the contiguous 48 on this 10

When we left the dining room, we were hit with chilly coastal air, just perfect for firing up the logs in our fireplace, which lulled us all to a satisfied sleep, legs up and books fallen to our chests, only to wake up briefly, long enough to arrange the sleeping situations at about midnight, pulling the comfy covers over a picturesque day that will surely be with us in our dreams and memories for the rest of our lives.