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Road: Throwed Rolls

150 years after the Missouri Compromise, there's stil some question about where the state fits in exactly. Missouri got slaves and Kansas didn't, but during the Civil War, allegiances were as clear as the Muddy Mississippi. The governor wanted to secede, the legislature didn't, and the capital(s) and various armies danced around the state for a few years. And, oh yeah, it was northern Missouri that sided with the South, because that region is in the flood plain of the Missouri River, an agricultural area that gave rise to plantations. Southern Missouri, with its Ozark Mountains and rocky soil, could care less about a slave economy, and with mining industry, it was more aligned with the Union.

But for me today, driving down the Mississippi, the South begins in Sikeston, Missouri, near the Boot Heel. That's where you find Lambert's Cafe, "Home of the Throwed Rolls."

And, yes, the rolls are throwed.

It may be a gimmick, but it's one that works, keeping this 60-year-old institution packed at all hours from travellers on I-55. And you have to admit, with old-fashioned Southern cooking, all the rolls you can catch, and free "Pass Arounds" such as fried okra, macaroni and tomatoes, and black eyed peas, Lambert's is an experience not to be missed.

Hopefully we won't be too stuffed to get up from our seats.

Miles: 5632

Road: Guts. Crack. Show Me.

Now that I'm leaving the old homeland again, I should mention a theme that has run through our visit: fat. There are a lot of really, really big people here.

To be fair, it's a nationwide epidemic, and certainly we see our share of gross, cylindrical children with a lot of Carl's, Jr. and Playstation and not very much of veggies and exercise. But people here in the Midwest are really, really, really big. We barely make a dent in the portions they serve us here.

Some short illustrations.

We were winding our way through southeastern Kansas on our way to Springfield, when we came to a stoplight in the town of Parsons. The light was long, and across the street was a residential neighborhood. A Very Large Man was out on his lawn seeing someone off. He was in shorts of course. Very discreetly, in front of all of us at the light, he grabbed at his shorts to pull them out of his ass. But when you have that much on you, it's not an easy task, so he managed to pull his shorts half way down before finishing. Ewwwwwwww! we cried.

Later, driving into Springfield, at an intersection, I looked left to see if there was traffic. On top of a nearby parked car was a large woman talking on the phone. She was wearing...shorts! Of course. She lay on her back with bent knees and spread legs, so we could see the cellulite dripping off her thighs. Ewwwwwwwww!

Just another reason why I don't belong here. How about throwing in a salad once in a while?

Road: Louie, Louie

When I left St. Louis for the Golden Shores of California, I'd only lived there for 18 months, and I felt a bit sad to leave it. I hadn't gotten to know it as well as I would have liked (I had, on the other hand, gotten to know more than enough of Missouri, so that overrode those feelings).

And on this trip, St. Louis is the only part of Missouri that hasn't felt empty, distant, and stagnant. It still seems like a cool place to be.

We briefly got to see our friend Rob when we got into town Tuesday afternoon and since then have stayed with my stepsister Dee Anna and her family. We wouldn't earn awards for our activity levels, but we did get to see the county's sculpture park, visit my old neighborhood in the Central West End, and drive around Forest Park. Oh, and we've played air hockey and pinball. Go, team.

Tomorrow, we head south, to Memphis, then on to Miami, Sarasota, New Orleans, and finally home. All in 15 or 16 days. Woo hoo!

Miles: 5488

Road: The Gem of the Ocean

Columbia is a cultural oasis in the middle of Missouri, and it happens to be where I went to college. The schools of journalism and agriculture are usually ranked number one or so (go to hell, Northwestern), but I was in neither of those disciplines, so I went rather unchallenged for four years and did lots of drugs.

Now, everyone I knew then is pretty much gone now, except for my old friend Yoder. I won't go into the story behind how I know him, but suffice to say it's quite a melodrama, with tales of love, hate, betrayal, and the word "bitch." I've somehow managed to stay clear of the various conflicts and have kept in touch with Mr. Yoder over the years.

But he's now moving to Scottsdale, so it was one last night at the party pad and other haunts, some wine, some whiskey, some beer. Another late night like the olden days.

Vivi and I also went back to my favorite old Middle Eastern place, which I used to say had the best hummus anywhere. Well, I've had a lot of hummus since then, but it's still that damn good.

But, again, no U-Haul for me now. It's a place I shan't re-pita. Mwa-ha-ha. Mwa-ha-ha.

Miles: 5348

Road: Everything up to Date

Everything really is up to date in Kansas City. Or at least, it will be after they finish ripping up every single damn freeway there.

I'm sorry. Somehow KC has rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it's just that I don't like barbeque. Every time I've been there as an adult, I just want to leave. The road system is completely screwed (and that's without the construction) and finding things always seems impossible. We spent 45 minutes this time trying to locate a motel.

But again, tourism wasn't our motivation. My aunt has lived on the Kansas side a number of years and now my grandmother is in a nursing home there, too. We spent a lot of slow, quiet moments, but I was still glad for the time, and though my grandma is showing early Alzheimer's, there's plenty left of her to enjoy the visit, and it was a nice, albeit hot and humid, three days. I'll try to be optimistic about the next time.

We also had dinner with a former coworker of Vivian's from back in the day when (I still can't fathom why) she decided that living in the Midwest would be a fun and adventurous thing to do.

And then, we got out of Dodge.

Miles: 5075

Road: Homecoming and Going

Vivian can express better than I her deep feelings about the city that was to be the longest stay of the trip, Springfield, Missouri, the Queen City of the Ozarks, Handmaiden to the Branson Phenomenon.

I was raised in Springfield, lived there until the age of 17, and had the pleasure of visiting regularly while I still lived in Missouri, until the age of 24 (it sounds so depressing now). And this time back, more than ever, I was shocked, horrified, and most of all filled with disbelief that I really had emerged from this place.

There's not too much to say about Springfield. The weather sucks. It has the world's largest outdoor sporting goods store. The world headquarters for the Assembly of God Church is another landmark. Along with yours truly, John Ashcroft and Jerry Falwell are from here. Not the most sterling characteristics.

(I will admit one very impressive development, though: the formerly derelict downtown has come alive and is full of restaurants and bars that I actually could see myself hanging out at. But don't call the moving van just yet).

We stayed with Mom and with Jack, an ex of my Mom. Consecutively, mind you. Not at the same time. Mainly we tried to stay cool (got lucky with some nicer weather mid-way through the stay) and didn't feel like doing much.

The main excitement was helping my Mom give insulin shots to her cat, which was recently diagnosed with diabetes. If you knew my mother, you'd know that sticking a needle in a cat each morning is not her idea of fun. And her cat, Chopin, is not composing melodic etudes at the piano; he is a demon cat that, even in his infirmity, lashed out venomously at Vivian and me without warning. So it was a fun time for all.

But at least if I ever worry that life is stagnating, that I'm getting nowhere, then I know where to go for a little reminder.

You come a long way, baby.

Miles: 4670

Road: Bob Dole

The idea was this: Drive one really long day, and we'll get within easy reach of Springfield, which we were to arrive in on Saturday. So Vivian drove all day, and then, since I'm a night person and don't mind driving late, for me was left the Witching Hours.

We plunged deep into the Heart of Kansas, possibly the only state more interesting to see at night than in the day (sorry, Bob, easy dig). I wanted to make it to Salina, on the plains, at the crossroads, but it was too much. I was too tired. Must...keep...going.

Probably I should have stopped in Russell, Kansas, birthplace of, yes, Bob Dole. And that's not all. I think the sign said Arlen Specter was born there, too. Shit! What's in the water there? I bet there was a large bronze cast of Bob Dole in the motel lobby. But, damn it, we didn't stop.

Because Bob Dole doesn't quit. Bob Dole keeps on going, until the job is done. So Bob Dole kept on driving, all the way to Salina, which we lolled into at 3am.

We stopped at the Salina Inn, as advertised. No vacancy. Motel 6, no vacancy, and, by the way, the Days Inn across the street is full, too. Two other places, full. Finally we found a place that had cancellations and laid our weary heads to rest. It's a happening Friday night (yes, it's still that same Friday) in Salina.

But we made it, all the way! Guess the Viagra is working, Bob!

Miles: 4388

Road: Rocky Mountain High

After an arches sunset, we headed to Colorado, a couple hours away, and it being 11 already, we treated ourselves to a motel room and, yes, an old-fashioned fast food dinner in Grand Junction. Grand, indeed.

The next morning, we headed onward, over the Rockies, winding first through canyons and mesas, then climbing up and up into the mountains.

We blew through Denver (as quickly as possible during a Friday rush hour) to the flat and boring part of Colorado in the East, stopping to cook dinner at a rest stop on the Kansas border.

(Pieces of trivia: Where's the highest point in Kansas? On the Colorado border. Where's the highest point in Nebraska? On the Colorado border. So it just goes downhill from Colorado.)

And then...we crossed into Kansas.

Miles: 3827

Road: Arches

After a couple days in Roy, we set out south and west to Arches National Park, near Moab on the Colorado border. The drive took a bit longer than anticipated, so we didn't arrive until early evening, which was just as well. It was still hot, even then.

The Arches Park is amazing. There are walls of colorful strata, fields of precarious pinnacles, and of course majestic arches. The timeless stillness was underscored by the old photographs of the area 100 years ago: the people posing are long gone, the arches look exactly the same.

The park also had an excellent network of trails, and I should have liked to camp there and explore. In March. 30 or 40 degrees cooler. We took a mile walk to see the Delicate Arch and decided that was enough hiking for the day. Next time.

I think they'll still be there.

Miles: 3480

Road: Don't Mean to Be Coy, Roy

If Idaho is the land of "Famous Potatoes," then the state has some equally famous potato farmers in its assortment of white supremacist and militia groups. Accordingly, we figured it would be best to hurry ourselves on our way.

We did stop to pick up a sandwich in Boise, however, and found ourselves the center of some attention there. Vivian of course is fresh off the boat from Alpha Centauri, and I...well, I quickly was identified as the co-pilot of her spacecraft, clearly Not Local Stock.

For me the most striking thing was that the stares went beyond simple curiosity. There was a mix of perplexity and some consternation, as if our presence was almost threatening. Watch out, look who's moving into the neighborhood, and God forbid they put their Martian love-children in the local schools. It's easy to keep an insular world view living in a homogeneous society, until...

So we rushed south to the enlightened (smirk) Kingdom of Utah, to the little town of Roy, on the banks of the Great Salt Lake, half an hour north of Salt Lake City.

"But, why?" is probably the first question that comes to mind, which is the same question I asked our friend Julio when he moved there a couple years ago. It's a long story, but, keeping things positive, let's say that there are few distractions in Utah, leaving one lots of quality personal time, and Julio has used the chance, among other things, to develop amazing skill at crafting stained-glass windows. So he's made a good time of it.

I'm not sure I could. I found the area bland, antiseptic, and stifling, and I don't mean just the 100+ degree heat. The Salt Lake was interesting with its salt formations, and the scene was beautiful at sunset, especially on Antelope Island. And downtown Salt Lake City itself certainly has more flavor than surrounding environs, but...still...I shan't be moving in the shadow of the Wassatch Mountains any time soon.

Not my plan, Stan.

Miles: 3145

Road: Farewell Bend

We put in a good days' driving yesterday, heading east out of Seattle over the Cascades, then south across the Columbia back into Oregon, finally landing on the Idaho border, along the Snake River, at Farewell Bend.

Crossing the Cascades was stunning of course, not just the raw beauty of the mountains, but also the amazing contrasts in the passing. The lush Northwest forests of the west side are replaced, half an hour later on the east side, by parched scrub brush and rugged, desolate vistas.

In Oregon, we did the old wagon trail in reverse, thankfully not in rickety wooden wheels as we wound over the Blue Mountains and their foothills. Having been on the road long enough now to make overblown, sweeping generalizations about The True Nature of America and so forth, I'll say that The Oregon Trail is representative of a core American trait (perhaps not uniquely American, but still): We seem willing to go to any lengths to get a chance at success. Imagine crossing thousands of miles, packed in a small and creaky wagon, facing treacherous terrain, bandits, and possibly hostile Indians, all to get a patch of land or a shot at gold. Not necessarily the best odds or payoffs, but I guess they at least got a warm and fuzzy Protestant work ethic feeling.

In any event, we took some nice pictures of the drive from Washington to Utah.

Before closing, a short note on the Casualties of Travel.

First off, I would propose that no road trip is complete without a good spill. Years ago, on a stint out East, I made my own herbal bug repellant, with oils of citronella, pennyroyal, and eucalyptus. It of course spilled across the floor of our van, full of aroma. On this trip, it was the herbal shampoo, with wintergreen and tea tree oil, which slowly leaked through the backpack with our camping gear. I had to empty it out, hose it down, and finally throw it in the washer to rinse out the suds.

Now, I mention this because, when I hosed off the backpack, I had failed to unpack one item, the matches. And though they were in a ziplock bag, the bag leaked, and the matches got soaked. We need to get more matches, I thought. And then, we stayed with friends for the next several days and didn't need the matches, and we forgot about it. Until last night, after setting up the tent in the dark, about to start cooking on the stove. Oops! How about a salad?

Oh, and you remember my nice, new bicycle? It got stolen while we were gone. Our housesitters called us while we were in Vancouver. Stupid of me, I hadn't left it locked up, being overconfident in the security of our house compound and gates. Obviously someone saw me riding it, because it was the only thing stolen, and there were other bikes in the same area. So much for my 30th birthday present. Still, it was the Demon Bike, slowly destroying my knees and, I feared some day, much worse. So it's almost a blessing. Almost.

Miles: 2754

Road: Vancouver

We passed two thousand miles a bit south of the Canadian border, on our way to Vancouver. We would have visited the city regardless, but we were lucky enough to have a place to stay, at the brother of a Canuck friend of ours.

Now, ever since Dim Son's coup took power, Vancouver has been at the top of our list for escape should they start rounding up liberals like us. And it lived up to our highest expectations.

It is of course a beautiful city. But it is also culturally and ethnically diverse, full of myriad neighborhoods, each with its own character, delicious vegetarian restaurants, great hikes and views, and so on.

We saw the Pacific Tribes' totems at the Museum of Anthropology, (amazingly) hung out at the beach, made our way through forest trails, rambled around the city, finally saw The Matrix Reloaded (where better to stomach a dystopian fantasy than in cheery Canada?), and played endless foosball with our host, who kept on cajoling us into staying another day.

A funny moment: At the beach, I was putting something back in the car, when suddenly I heard, "Great car, that Corolla." My LA reaction (thankfully not verbalized): "What the hell? Think you're so damn funny?" Then, the man continued, "Oh, yeah, that was my last car. You can drive them forever." He was serious. Someone was complementing us on a Toyota Corolla. An older one, at that. Gosh, they're sure swell here.

But now, we 're back in Seattle, about to do some long driving days, first to Utah, and then to Missouri by Saturday. And I need to get some sleep. Mostly caught up. Good night.

Miles: 2050

Road: Seattle

On the 5th we headed a short drive north from Portland to Seattle, to see our friends Susan and Hamid, and of course baby Bijan. We arrived less than an hour after Susan returned from Europe--bad timing, huh?--but she graciously fought jet lag and accepted the surprise guests (she had left the day before I called Hamid to let him know when we were coming).

We did very little in Seattle. Lots of lazing around, playing with Bijan, cooking, trips to the park, watching the sunset. That is to say, it was a great time.

Here's a few pictures...

Miles: 1805

(Written 14 Jul)

Road: Portland

From Crater Lake we headed north to Portland, hitting town about 9:30 on a Friday night, and a Friday night gone mad with 4th of July fireworks.

With some effort, we navigated Portland's downtown streets (e.g. three lane road...two lanes for buses only...whoops the car lane ended! turn left now!), found a dumpy motel, and caught a fun meal at a great Greek place.

The next day, we allowed ourselves to be trapped in Powell's Books, which is the most amazing bookstore(s) I have ever seen. We escaped with only three cookbooks (one, Vegan Planet, is probably becoming my favorite cookbook), a book on Vietnamese slang, and a great one on computational linguistics. Several of them were used, so we didn't feel too bad.

We also wandered around Chinatown and the Pearl District (warehouses to lofts kind of thing), and all in all noticed that Portland is damn cool when it's not raining, and property there is sooooo cheap! Must start real estate empire now! Haha.

Miles: 1724

(Written 14 Jul)

Road: Crater Lake

First the summary. Crater Lake is amazing. Pictures don't do it justice.

We camped down in Mazama village, a thousand feet below the rim of the caldera and a few paces from a gorgeous chasm where a small creek had eroded down through layers of ash from the volcano. And we properly stowed all our food to keep it from, yes, Da Bears.

Then, this morning we drove up to the rim. The lake, a thousand feet below, was the deepest of blues, with melting drifts of snow on the surrounding cliffs. And almost perfectly still.

We tried to climb up a ridge another thousand feet up, but it was closed, maybe two-thirds of the way, due to a huge snow bank across the trail. Still, it was a great hike with incredible views of the lake and nearby mountains to the south. And, with our lungs not used to 7000+ feet elevation, it was good exercise for us.

After lunch, we drove around the rim to see the Phantom Ship island (much smaller than Wizard Island, but much, much older, preceding the main eruption by some 400,000 years), and then turned off to The Pinnacles. We had no idea what The Pinnacles were, and none of the park information would shed light on this mystery, but the phrase was strangely familar to us, and they were marked separately from Crater Lake on our map of Oregon, so we knew it was Important. Here now I will divulge to you the secret: The Pinnacles are giant, ghostly pillars formed by escaping gas as lava poured down the mountain. And they're pretty cool.

I'll stop here, because Vivian maintains that she'll actually add an entry, so I'll leave some gaps for her to fill!

Miles: 1338

Road: Up Oregon Way

From Eureka, we headed north to Crescent City, then bid adieu to the coast for a while, turning inland to cross into Oregon.

The people changed with the scenery.

Eureka and Humboldt County were a flash point of the environmental battles over northwest redwoods. This is where Julia "Butterfly" Hill sat immovable in a tree for two years. And I still remember the howls of environmentalists when police rubbed pepper mace in their eyes during a sit-in back in 1997 (and they were stupid enough to videotape it, for insurance purposes supposedly).

As I remember it, the trouble started when the family-owned Pacific Lumber Company was bought by some junk bond king (or some other fine contributor to society and humankind), and he promptly set out to level the old growth forests, to take the money ($100,000 for a large tree) and run. We drove by Pacific Lumber on the 101; the mill buildings were enormous, reminding me of Boeing's factory hangars in Seattle, and the compound stretched for a couple miles, it seemed. We saw a "Support Your Lumber Company" sign on someone's house, and you can imagine the tension between idealistic tree-huggers and the workers increasingly hit by the decline of the timber industry. We certainly saw our share of scary, alcoholic lumberjacks, or so they looked.

Up the coast in Crescent City, things seemed more mellow, with more of a fishing economy (another traditional industry heading for trouble). A lot more of a friendly air. People offering up historical tidbits when you took a picture. So it was a nice last stop in California.

And on into Oregon. At least down here in Southern Oregon, I'd use one word to describe the people: ornery. The proliferation of odd signs telling us what we could and couldn't do was the first item of notice, along with the "Get the U.S. out of the U.N." placards (we tried to figure out something the U.N. had done that could have possiby crossed these people, but couldn't). And they like beards up here, too. I notice, since I normally stand out a bit with my beard. Well, I still stand out here, but only because my beard isn't nearly long enough. And bushy.

Southern Oregon likes the word "rogue", too. Rogue River. Valley of the Rogue. Rogue this, rogue that. Which makes me wonder, if a land is founded by near and full-on criminals, then what does it do in constructing that land's legends, folk heroes, and value system? You tell me. Maybe a couple signs from the area will help.

On a city limit sign:

"Gold Hill
A Quiet City
No Unnecessary Loud Noise Tolerated"

On the side of an old, junked bus:

"She was a fat, ugly c*** ..."

Enough said.

Road: Eureka!

After hours of gruelingly beautiful and winding coastline and forested mountain roads, we made it to Eureka, last outpost of Northern California.

We followed the Pacific Coast Highway to its northern end, looking forward to the wide freeways of the 101, only to find that up here, the 101 was another two-laned, curvy mountain road! But finally it straightened out, widened to four lanes, through river valleys of enormous redwoods (the Avenue of the Giants is here, but we lacked the energy for it), and we made a last gasp into town.

Eureka dates from the mid-1800s, making it about as old as San Francisco. It's full of old Victorian gems, and the Old Town is a walking tour of restaurants and tourist boutiques as you'd expect. We decided to be wimps and hang out in town, stay in a cheap motel, etc., especially since Humboldt County is a trove of microbrews. We dropped into the Lost Coast Brewery, which had more tasty varieties than I generally care to drink in an evening: Rasberry Wheat, Belgian White, Scottish Ale, India Pale Ale (called Indica, Humboldt County is also reknowned for its reefer), and Stout, plus a few more I can't remember. It put most brew pubs to shame, that's for certain.

Today, we're going to finally leave California, and not to get all teary-eyed patriotic (is state pride patriotic?) on the 3rd of July, but we live in an amazing state. While we haven't been taking a direct route, we've driven some 800 miles north from Venice, and we're still in the same damn state! And though we've pretty much hugged the coast, how many completely different coasts have we seen? Venice, Santa Barbara, Santa Cruz, San Francisco, Mancester to Mendocino, and now Eureka. All different worlds.

Yeah, California rocks. Let's hoist the flag high and invade other states to prove how much better we are!

Miles: 1078

Road: Other Worlds

It was just over 100 miles from the Sonoma freeway in my last entry to our campground on the ocean at Manchester Beach. But it was three hours of driving: Off the 101 to a smaller state highway (the 128), winding over forested hills, finally into a large valley; then on an unmarked county road up and down steep 16% grades, serpentine switchbacks, often without two full lanes, through redwood forests, beautiful canopies, an old bridge across a valley river; and finally, the mountains subsided, the forest broke, and we were in soft, rolling, green-brown hills, stretching to the ocean.

Suddenly we came to a highway lined by gnarled trees, and it was our old friend the 1, though like we'd never seen it before. We felt more in some Old World landscape, maybe England or France, certainly not Northern California. We caught a look at the lighthouse at Point Arena as the sun was setting, and scrambled to our campground to try to set up our new tent. Amazingly, it was already nine o'clock! We were definitely getting further north, with its long summer days.

Today, we will follow the coast up to Eureka and the Oregon border, then turn inland to Crater Lake, outside of Medford.

Miles: 903

Road: Animal Farm/Off Again

After a couple days in Santa Cruz, we're off again, driving through Santa Rosa in Sonoma county right now.

We spent the past days in a pretty low key way, while my sister ran around get settled after her move. We cooked, ate, went to the beach, and spent lots of time with Abe, Prancer, Bo, Silver, and Ginger, the two dogs and three cats also residing there. One highlight was taking Abe and Prancer to the dog beach, though we forgot the camera...

Carnival des Animaux
Prancer, Tom's New Love	Bo Baths Bodaciously	Pssst, Vivian, Are You Awake Yet?

Now we're off to our first night of camping, at Manchester Beach, south of Mendocino. It appears that every campground in California within an hour of the ocean is booked for the next week or so, but we found a place at KOA (a kampground! how kute!) right on the beach. Nice.

Also interesting to see the fields of cash (wine grapes) up here. I'm sorry, Sonoma wine thinks a little too highly of itself. Especially when I can get good French, Italian, etc. wine from thousands of miles away for a fraction of the price. I'm on a student budget now, you know.

Miles: 800