The Oregon Trail

Our story begins on August 23rd, 2010.

Or… it’s supposed to.

Due to an unexpected flurry of delays, disasters, fuck-ups and frustrations, our story actually begins on August 24th... when RC and I loaded her precious little Toyota Echo (affectionately named Beastie) for bear, and set off on our cross-state adventure.

We left the Valley around 1:00pm, after making one last stop at our favorite local ice-cream shop. We were excited. Especially after the previous days hardships, we were eager to get on the road and find out what the future held in store for us.


Now, for anyone who lives in Southern California, but maybe hasn’t traveled North of the Valley along Route 5, allow me to be the first to tell you what to expect...

Desert.

That’s it. There is nothing else.

Just desert.

Some more desert.

Some orange groves.

A Bond villain’s hideout.

His evil scheme to steal California’s water supply.

This thing.

And more desert.

We spent the day listening to music, laughing, bantering, bickering, and going through all the different phases of Road-Trip-itis:

The Happy

The Pissy

The Bored

The Tired

The Restless

The Sofuckingtenseyouliterallyvibrateatahigherfrequency

And back to the Happy again.

As time wore on, we realized the ride was taking longer than we'd expected, and we began to worry we wouldn't make our planned halfway point. So, we had to cancel our visit to RC's cousin's place in San Francisco, and we drove on.

Eventually we passed through Sacramento,

which had these buildings

and this place.

And still we drove.

Past the slumbering Walgreens giant.

Into the sunset.


Beastie reached 100,000 miles.

And still we drove.

We stopped at a motel in Redding, CA around midnight. It was our designated halfway point, but the amount of time it had taken us to get there made us worried we had miscalculated our entire trip. How much longer would the next day's drive take us? Would we even reach Portland as planned?

We emptied the car, giving Beastie's shocks a much-needed rest, and settled into our little motel room. Within an hour we were passed out.

One day down. One to go… or so we hoped.

Our next day of travel was marked by brighter spirits…

...greener pastures…

...and the promise of…

...Portland.

Only 362 miles away. We were already two thirds of the way there.

The change of scenery from when we left the Valley was amazing.

Suddenly, there were trees! And...

Yeah.

Eventually, the road hit an incline. We began to climb, and before we knew it…

...we were in Oregon.

To our left, we saw this…

And to our right, we saw this.

Heh.

Well, no matter. We were in Oregon now and we felt safer already…

…what do they mean Runaway Truck?

Like, it was angry at its parents so it decided to leave home, or…?

No Parking? Who parks there? Why would somebody park there? Do people park there??

Okay, so there’s a danger of runaway trucks on this road! No problem. Noooo problem at all. They’re considerate enough to put up all those signs and build a ramp for it, so that’s encouraging, right? I wonder what one of these runaway truck ramps looks like anyw--

Holy shit, that’s a pile of rocks. They’re going to stop a runaway truck with a pile of rocks. Honey, let’s get off this mountain now please.

GAHH!!!!

Get back on the mountain! Get back on the mountain!!!!

And on we drove.

Eventually, we got some sage advice from one of our fellow road warriors.

We reached the Portland area by late afternoon, were settled into our hotel room in Beaverton by early evening, and immediately began our search for an apartment.

We got a discounted rate by booking the hotel room for a full week, but we would need to find a place to live by September 1st. We found one that would be ready for us by August 31st. Sometimes things just work out.

A week later, we were settled into our new two-bedroom apartment (which cost 2/3rds what our tiny one-bedroom in Chatsworth had).

We emptied the car, transforming it from a beast of burden…

...into a happy Beastie.

And we looked at what our efforts had wrought.

And it was good.

To be continued… (or so we hope)

Rainy Days

I love rainy days.

I always have. Even when I'm stuck out in them, unprepared, getting drenched down to the skin, I love it. I can't really explain the appeal, except to say that there's just something about the quality of the daylight, the chill in the air, and the rushing sound of the droplets falling, like the world suddenly speeding up... that appeals to me.

Maybe it's because, when I was a kid, I got to stay home from school if it rained hard enough. Maybe on some deep psychological level, rain represents freedom to me -- the thought of all that pent-up moisture suddenly being released from its cage. The tension in the sky subsiding as it pours itself out over the world.

Maybe it's because after it rains, the sky looks like this...

Maybe I just like getting wet.

Soon, the wife-monster and I will be moving away from California, the reasons for which I won't go into here, except to say that I feel I've squeezed all the juice out of this fruit that there is to squeeze, and all that's left are the bitter parts.

We've set our sights on Portland, Oregon, and among the many changes we'll have to get used to out there is that, in Portland, it rains. A lot. Or so they say. We visited early last year, just as the last bits of snow and ice were fading from winter, and we were pleasantly surprised to find that only two out of the five days we spent out there saw any rainfall.

It's a nice area, with nice people, and an artistic vibe that gives me the warm comfies. It's also bicycle friendly, and has good public transportation, which means that I'll be freer to get from place to place without need of a car (a rare blessing coming from the Pod-like Lifestyle of L.A. County).

When we visited, I was actually shocked to see just how many people get from place to place on bicycles. They've even given them their own lanes on the city streets. When you get to a red-light, the cyclists have a place to roll up and stop ahead of the cars, and they get to go first when it turns green. They're forcing drivers to be considerate and attentive, and their methods are so efficient, it baffles me. In a happy way.

And on top of all this... it rains there. A lot. So they say.

But here's my dilemma... I ride my bike to and from work everyday. It's only about a five-minute trek; ten, tops, if I'm lazy. And during the three or four weeks a year when it actually rains, those five-to-ten minutes are all I need to get soaked to the bone.

So, I have to wonder... in a city like Portland, where a third of the vehicles on the road are bicycles, and the rain falls freely and frequently... how do these people manage? Do they just resign themselves to getting wet every time they go outside? Do they sell special rain-proof coats for bicyclists to wear over their regular clothes and bags? A "Portland Poncho"? They must have a way of coping... and that's something I'll need to learn once I'm out there. Getting soaked to the bone is plenty fun when I have nowhere to be; less so when I'm commuting to the office.

Either way, the move will be a new adventure, and I look forward to meeting it head-on.

I also look forward to the rain.