Road trip

(Photo is of Trinidad beach)

It sounded romantic in a kind of cliched, middle-aged-woman-makes-a-voyage of self-discovery kind of way. But the romance wore off after about the first 30 minutes. My step-sister had decided to move to Portland, Oregon, and had asked if I could drive her car, a Ford SUV, up there while she and her sister, my other step-sister, drove the rental truck up.

I’d never been to San Francisco. I’d always been curious about Eureka and the Northern California coast, so I said yes and made reservations at bread and breakfasts along the way.

Did I discover myself? Yeah, sure, in the way we all discover ourselves when we see family after a really long time and we come face to face with the lives we’ve made and who we’ve all become. Did I need to drive 1,087 miles to do it? Probably not.

Day one

The trip started in the rain. It hasn’t rained in Southern California all year, but today – the day I’m leaving – it’s raining. Not just some silly drizzle. No, this is all deluges and windshield wipers furiously slapping the front window. I’m not all that fond of driving as a rule. I’m convinced every other vehicle is a potential agent of death and this type of high-strung paranoia gets exhausting to maintain after awhile.

The drive north on Hwy 101 starts off with a coastal drive for me as I head out of Ventura. The road winds through hills with dormant vineyards. Vineyards are really big in this area and there are tons of wine tasting places that I pass. But I don’t drink, so that voyage of discovery is docked.

I’ve decided that I’m going to try to discover little, local places as I travel. I’m booked at two bed and breakfasts, so two breakfasts are taken care of. I’m on my own for lunch and dinner. The rain is intermittent and breaks, making some incredible rainbows. I decide to get off the highway, finally, to take a picture and the rainbow disappears. Of course. The scenery is bucolic and hilly. I’m starting to realize that I’ve committed myself to a lot of driving. A whole lot of driving.

What am I? Nuts?

I’m also very, very hungry. I get off the highway at Atascadero. I start driving down a local street parallel to the highway. I’m prowling for local, homemade kinds of food. The Coffee House & Deli offers homemade sandwiches, looks promising and I stop there. It’s a create-your-own sandwich shop. I get my favorite: liverwurst with onions, mustard and mayonnaise on rye. Great sandwiches, like great breakfasts, are simple in concept and difficult in execution. This was a great sandwich, made just how I like it, with big slabs of liverwurst. I ate it with chips because I always have to have chips with my sandwiches, except for peanut butter and jelly. It was kind of hard to eat while driving and I dropped it, but that’s life on the road. I also got some quiche that looked like a big, crumb cake. I thought it would make a good snack for later. Unfortunately I never got around to eating it because I forgot to take it with me to my hotel room in San Francisco where it would have made a great dinner. Oh well.

Happy at such resounding success right out of the gate, I continued on to San Francisco. Here are some things I hate. Driving in the rain. Driving in the dark in an unfamiliar place. So driving in the dark in the rain really was no fun at all. I considered taking refuge in a motel, but my reservations in San Francisco were nonrefundable, so I pressed on. I stumbled into San Francisco, promptly getting lost. I drove around with the dome light on, map in lap, doors locked and finally got myself going in the right direction. I had passed really close to Haight and Ashbury – within a block. I also saw people all dressed up in sexual outlaw outfits – all leather and vinyl – just like those HBO specials. Note to self: Never, ever sit on a public toilet in this town.

I end up at the hotel, which doesn’t look too seedy. I have a nice, Victorian-y room with a big queen poster bed. You can see the people living in apartments right across the alley, Cool. I drop the shade and peek out but the people are boring. Just sitting around. Getting stuff out of the refrigerator. They close their blinds. There’s lots of city noise, traffic, sirens and it reminds me of New York City. I take of in search of the Zuni Café, which I’ve always wanted to visit. I go up and down Market Street – after I find Market Street – but I find nothing, at least it’s not well-marked. Driving is annoying. My step-sister’s car is a stick shift, which is as much of a pain in San Francisco as they’ve always said. The streets don’t allow for turning around. I’m tired. So I head back to the hotel, where I spend a restful night, or as restful as I can considering I never am able to relax in strange places.

Day two

I’m awakened at 6 a.m. to a ringing I never can figure out and at 8 I head down for breakfast, which consists of bagels, muffins and coffee. This is far short of bed and breakfast fare, considering that every po-dunk motel offers some kind of “continental” breakfast and they’re not billed as bed and breakfasts. I get a bagel and cream cheese and take it to my room, ignoring the “please don’t take your breakfast to your room sign.” After all I don’t really consider this a breakfast.

Yes, they really do have trolleys with Rice A Roni on them.

I head out to check out Union Square and look around. I have a strained ligament or something in my ankle, so I didn’t want to go too far, but I did want to take pictures. I saw real street cars. I would have ridden one, but I don’t know how and I’m a big chicken about doing things where I could look stupid and tourist-y and everyone looks at you with those annoyed how-stupid-are-you looks. I pass by a couple of breakfast places and although I’d like breakfast, I haven’t budgeted for it, considering that I was supposed to get breakfast at the hotel.


What's the deal with hanging laundry everywhere in Chinatown?

I took a small nap and headed out through Chinatown. I kept wanting to get out and explore, but parking looks impossible and I was too intimidated to even try. I passed by Fisherman’s Wharf. I did this so when we see it on TV or in movies, I can always tell my husband that I’ve been there and he hasn’t. I was really excited to pass over the Golden Gate Bridge and stopped and took pictures. I called my husband to tell him that I’d just crossed and he hadn’t and that I was a LOT cooler than he is. I headed north. I wanted to get to Eureka before dark so I could have a chance to look around.


Live, in person, the celebrated Golden Gate bridge!

The bagel breakfast, however, didn’t show any staying power and I really wanted something for lunch. In Cloverdale I found a restaurant in a mini-mall, Star Restaurant. I read menus like other people read novels. I scour them for the hidden meaning. What is the house speciality? What language promises something out of the ordinary. The hamburgers looks good. They were supposedly angus meat, freshly ground. I was asked how I wanted my burger cooked – a good sign because only restaurants sure of their meat sources can offer this any more. I was on the phone with my grandson when the burger arrived. My grandson is 10 months old and his favorite noise is Ba, said really explosively. He’ll say it back. So there I was going “Ba” in the phone right in the middle of the restaurant. I finally ended the conversation and turned to my burger.

I take my burgers very seriously. Ever since it became apparent that the ground meat supply is always potentially contaminated, hamburgers have become hockey pucks – nasty gray slabs of cardboard-like meat. To me, a great burger is cooked medium, with a little pink in the middle and plenty of juices running out. Paradise Café in Santa Barbara makes such a burger, which they grill over oak. It’s amazing and worth the trip every time. The Star Restaurant in Cloverdale makes another amazing ground meat masterpiece. The meat was as juicy and flavorful as any I’ve ever had. There was just the right hint of fat to really give the burger its buttery flavor.

I was delighted

I kept thinking of Warren Zevon’s last appearance on David Letterman’s show. Warren had been diagnosed with lung cancer and was dying. He apologized to the audience because the last time he’d been on the show, he’d said he had five months to live and here it was about 10 months (or something) later and he still wasn’t dead. But he assured his audience, he was going to die soon. Dave then asked Warren what, if anything, he was learning from dying. And Warren said that he was sitting one day having a sandwich. And it was a great sandwich -- really tasty. He realized that was what life was about – a great sandwich: It’s all about a great sandwich. This burger was that. It made the whole trip.

After Cloverdale the landscape becomes more rural. One thing I always do when I travel is fill the tank when it’s half empty. That way, it’s almost impossible to be stranded without gas. So full tank and belly, I headed out. I drove through redwoods. Somehow I expected more. Perhaps it’s because what I could see from the side of the road was regrowth. The road starts to get windy in Northern California, not my very favorite thing, because you can’t enjoy the scenery, what with trying to keep the car on the pavement. As I neared Eureka, I passed by a few logging towns. I was dismayed to see that even on a Sunday, the paper mills were spewing out smoke that settles in the valleys, making the air brown and hard to breathe.

Eureka is announced from the south 101 by Big Box stores and restaurant chains. I was concerned that this was the town, but as I followed directions to the B&B, the town became more residential. The downtown is quaint, but it is sandwiched between two stretches of highway retail detritus, which is too bad.

My bed and breakfast was the first experience with B&Bs. I’d read about them, but always felt weird about paying money to stay in someone’s home. I was intrigued because the couple at the Halcyon Inn had two rescued whippets, which visitors are assured, won’t disturb visitors. I was hoping they would disturb me because I love dogs. The house was 1920s era and furnished in a charming eclectic blend of kind-of period furniture. I was given the rose room, which had an attached bath. It was pretty and fun. The recommendation for dinner – I wanted seafood – was unavailable because the restaurant isn’t open on Sundays. So I went out driving and found the Waterfront Café and Oyster Bar.

It was in a nicely quaint building – I’d guess turn of the century – with tin-stamped ceilings – or at least they looked like tin-stamped. I ordered two specials from the list that was displayed on a portable chalkboard for customers.
The clam chowder was delicious – with a healthy hint of sherry – and the crab cakes were amazing. They were only crab meat with no discernable breading and the crab tasted fresh. The accompanying aeoli was rather drab considering how good the crab cakes were. The main course was scallops – supposedly scampi. As usual, I’d ordered too much and could barely eat a bite. It was a good thing because the scallops were way overcooked and rubbery, which was too bad.

I wandered around Eureka, checking out a coffee shop that appeared to cater to locals. It seemed Bill Cosby was appearing that night at nearby Humboldt State – so THAT’S were he is these days. I headed back to my room with lots of time to spare. There’s something to be said for wintertime driving. There are a whole lot of hours left in the day if you drive during daylight hours. But this was a great room for curling up with a book. Some were provided with the room, but I had my own and I found nestling down to be a great break in my travels.


This was a really comfortable place to nestle in for the night.

The breakfast was a beautiful presentation

Day three
The next morning I had the first official breakfast of my B&B experience – the San Francisco breakfast didn’t count. Mary – of Ike and Mary, proprieters, had poached a pear and was serving it with a fruit compote. It was an amazing presentation. But the pear itself wasn’t ripe – or even close, which made it less than appealing. The French toast was a bit dry for my taste. I don’t like over-soaking the bread in the egg-milk mixture, but you do need to take up some of it. I couldn’t help but miss the vanilla I put in mine. It wasn’t bad, but French toast is one of my signature dishes so I tend to be more picky. There was a lovely couple from Orange County who were also at the inn. They made some recommendations for me to visit.

After my morning nap, I was off again. I stopped by Trinidad beach, where the OC couple had had some fun. It was OK, but I wasn’t at the same spot they had been and I was getting worried about time, because I don’t like to be on dark roads in the Oregon backwoods after nightfall. I had even packed three big packages of trail mix and extra water in case I got lost or stranded. I wasn’t going to become the latest person lost on the back roads in Oregon. I read the news.

I passed the redwoods and went to a really cool rest area, where they were big. They’re also really dark, so I didn’t take a picture, although I regret that now. The 101 gets really windy and hard to travel north of Eureka. From there up north, the road is a treacherous two-lane nightmare of switchbacks and climbs and descents. Driving is not fun on these roads. There is no contemplating the scenery as you struggle to stay on the road. Breathtakingly beautiful? Yeah. Fun? No.


I really wanted some seafood and this place looked great.

I hit Crescent City with a serious hankering for fried seafood. I love fried seafood when I’m by the ocean. It’s leftover from the fried Ipswich clams of my youth, which I would kill for today. I was really excited when the first restaurant in the city was a seafood restaurant. I ordered the fried seafood combo, which was kind of disappointing. The cod was really good, but the shrimp and clams were generic and didn’t taste fresh. The clam chowder fell apart when it cooled, a sign of using cornstarch as a thickener, rather than the more traditional flour. But I was happy, nonetheless because I’d had my fried seafood. I only wished they’d had fried oysters, which are really good along the West Coast – at least they were in Newport, Oregon, the last time I visited. But maybe they weren't in season. Something about months with an R? Who knows.

After Crescent City, my path turned inland so I could get to Eugene and visit my brother, who I hadn’t seen in over 10 years. The road is two-lane for the most part and meanders by a river through the woods. While the online map people had alloted time that would have averaged 60 mph for the trip, the reality of the narrow winding road made progress much slower. In other words, YOU drive 60 mph back there, but I’m not going to.

I crossed the border to Oregon on the 199 highway. It’s not much of an impression, being out in the middle of nowhere with just some tiny little towns dotting the road. One thing I found especially hysterical – bear in mind that I’d been driving by myself for three days at this point – was that when you approach the little hamlets in Oregon there is always a sign that reads “congestion.” Pretty much if there are three or more houses together, there is a sign that reads “congestion.” This, in itself is kind of funny. But then I kept thinking I needed to get the state of Oregon some Claratin and there would be no congestion. Get it? Claratin? Congestion? I supposed this was what passes as the soul searching of yet another confused menopausal woman, or at least it’s the best I can do.

I was completely tired of driving on rural, scenic routes by the time I hit the I-5 in Grants Pass. But the I-5 still has its share of hills and curves, although nothing as bad as the 199. The Eugene exit came up by surprise and I was once again balancing maps on my lap with the dome light on. I didn’t see much of Eugene, but there is one thing I’d like to ask the city officials. Would it be too much to ask to have signs that are visible in the dark? Seriously. The type is tiny, the letters are dark against a dark background. It they are doing this to subvert a terrorist attack, I am here to assure you that Eugene OR will flummox the most ardent evildoer. Still, I made it to my brother’s house. I pride myself on my navigational skills, and they proved to be reliable as always.


Rodger and Amy's house in Eugene

My trip from here on out was all about family. I spent a great evening with my brother and his wife – and their two kids who are still at home. We had a great meal and caught up. It was a lot of fun.

Day four
I headed to Portland the next day, stopping at a horrible little place – Almost Home Restaurant & Steakhouse. The overflowing parking lot lied this time and when I went in I saw why. This was a basic restaurant that harkened back to the old days with bad bland food that older people just love. I was way less than impressed with my roast beef french dip sandwich, which pretty much put the Less in taste.


The sign said scenic spot, so I took a picture

I made it to Portland, with the snow-capped volcanos in the distance. I don’t know, after Mount St. Helens, they make me nervous. I was even able to find my step-mom’s house. Actually she hasn’t been my step-mom for over 30 years. But she’s pretty cool about keeping us in her lives considering that she’s under no obligation to do so.

Made it!! My step-mom's house and the car I delivered.

Of all the places I’ve found with my exceptional navigational skills, my step-mom’s house was the hardest. This is because it’s not on the street that the address indicates. You can’t even get to her house from the street it’s supposed to be on without going over and around few blocks. My mission was accomplished. I had delivered my step-sister’s SUV, which I’d grown to hate. It has no power, is a stick shift and it is ergonomically challenged. But it does handle well, and that’s worth a lot.

I spent the evening with my half-sister, her husband and kids – she has three now. My two step-sisters were there and they’re back to bickering. It’s bizarre. They’re almost in their 50s and they sound the same. The evening was kids, noise, catching up and good food. It really was – looking back on it – a rather fun evening in a chick-flick, feel-good-movie kind of way.

Everyone gathered to make dinner, just like The Family Stone or something


The lovely Miss Emma and her dad

The evening ended with my niece Emma coming to stay with her grandmom. She wanted to “get to know her aunt.” She’s a very sweet kid and I loved meeting her. She’s all gangly attention-grabbing goofiness, sweet and sincere and I relate to her as the oldest sister with two younger brothers. She will never be able to take men seriously. She will most likely always be a bit condescending because she knows just how truly dorky the male gender really is.

Joyce put me downstairs in her really nice basement and I perused the family scrapbooks she’s kept, including the ones chronicling her and my dad’s marriage. It’s kind of chilling how much time has passed, or maybe just humbling. It's an odd perspective to look back and it was a really great ending to my trip. I had a great time getting back in touch and I'm really glad it wasn't at some tragic family event as these reunions so often are.

Did I learn any great truths that I took back home with me? Not really. Everyone was still everyone, which is good because they’re all pretty decent people. No one is a big asshole, which is actually something to be proud of in a family. They all still have the same old quirks, but in my family they’re just quirks, not serious character flaws. We’re all just people trying to raise happy kids and lead relatively happy, productive, comfortable lives. That’s something.