Redwood!

California
California was long, and hot and overwhelming. Further north it got more relaxed. We stayed in a small hippy town on the coast called Arcata. It was straight out of a David Lynch film. Intensely weird, intensely creepy, shrouded in mist. Three of the tallest men I have ever seen I saw there (two were brothers, I think). We ate in a darkened, cavernous restaurant with a stage and backdrop hidden by thick heavy drapes at one end. The waitress was freakishly beautiful. She was in love with one of the tall men. They embraced in an alcove at the side of the room. She stood on her tiptoes and stared up into his eyes while he stroked her arms. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. Something about them made me very happy. I don’t know why, except that they radiated love for one another. Maybe that’s enough. On the way home that night I got pulled over by a cop for turning right from the wrong lane. I sat quietly and waited for him, knowing nothing would happen. As soon as he heard our voices his whole tone changed. He told us he used to live in Hungary; explained he had to pull over anyone driving erratically as ‘this town is rife with people who smoke weed and drive badly’. Wished us a good night and went on his way. I enjoyed the whole experience, like the tourist I am.

Biscuits
I had biscuits and gravy for breakfast one morning. Biscuits seem to be part scone, part rusk, part macaroon (without the coconut). Gravy seems to be more like macaroni cheese than actual gravy. The whole concoction is vile, but I’m glad I tried it.

There’s biscuits in there somewhere.

Breakfast
We eat a large breakfast at the start of each day’s drive and then skip lunch. Breakfast is always immense, always accompanied by endless coffee, and is always followed by a massive insulin crash (for me) which means I have to sleep in the car for an hour even though I’ve been sleeping well most of the trip. Sometimes I have French toast, sometimes waffles, sometimes pancakes, eggs, bacon, links, maple syrup, strawberries, cream. It is intense, and addictive, and I am very glad I won’t be able to do it anymore when I go home. More and more I am impressed by the many people in this country who have managed not to become obese.

Breakfast: it’s political.

Oregon
At first, Oregon is no different than California, except there are more trees. We kind of skipped through this state. It’s not so big, and the drive we chose was kind of dull. We slept through Eugene (the low point of the trip for me: tired, overly emotional, fed up of all the driving and searching for motel rooms and no privacy). The second day we made it to Portland, and things improved. We settled in one place for a couple of nights. It’s a nice city – not how I imagined it. More spread out, more focused on the river, gentler vibe. We hung out in a student district, ate some very good sushi, watched the expensive people and their expensive mutts. I went to see Food Inc at an indie cinema and promptly regretted everything I’d eaten over the previous ten days. Still stunned by the fact there are only thirteen (thirteen!) slaughterhouses in the whole of the United States of America. We celebrated my birthday on the fourth by driving to the beach. This involved four hours in the car, which has come to mean a short drive in this country. Cannon Beach is beautiful, epically beautiful. Everyone there is happy and wealthy and nice. We stayed on the beach for several hours, reading, digging holes, listening to kids playing (even on a baking hot day the Pacific is too cold to swim in). Some little Asian American kids came over and stood by me shyly. I looked up from my book. They wanted to know if they could have some of my sand (I had a pile of sand beside me). I told them it was ok. They were so happy I almost cried behind my sunglasses. We headed back to Portland for the evening fireworks. Sat by the riverside with thousands and thousands of people, watched the display. It took half an hour, building to an epic finale. People clapped and roared as the intensity of the fireworks increased. By the time they erupted in a final shower of red, white and blue I was clapping too. Went out for drinks with some friends of a good old friend I have recently gotten back in touch with. They told us how untypical of America proper California, Oregon and Washington are. ‘The recycling stops on the other side of the mountains,’ as they put it.

Portland dawg.

Washington
Washington is colder, sparser, further north. It feels like a relief to be here. It feels a thousand miles away from LA. Our first stop was Tacoma, for a mission most tourists don’t get to experience in this country. In 1913, when my then three-year-old grandfather was naturalised an American citizen his address was a residential area of Tacoma. To my surprise, when I entered it into Google maps, up popped the same address, still residential. Not sure why I was surprised, but I was. I guess everything feels a lot less than 100 years old in cities here. It didn’t take us long to find it: a rustic house with a wooden tiled exterior, a beautiful tree outside and the gutter hanging off. The whole street was filled with unique, picturesque wooden houses and had a lovely atmosphere. The blinds were drawn but two cars were parked outside. I decided to be brave and knocked on the door. One of the fattest men I have ever met opened it. His name was Art. His wife’s name was Sandra. Sandra was also very fat. They had lived in the house for 23 years and were slowly renovating it. They very kindly ushered me inside and answered my questions. During the renovations they had discovered the original insulation materials in the walls: newspapers from 1911, from which they had dated the house. As my grandfather was born in 1910 I guess maybe his father had built the house. Art explained that ‘none of the walls are straight’. Art And Sandra didn’t ask us any questions: seemed a little shy. I didn’t overstay my welcome, but I would have liked to have stayed and sat under the tree for a while (Sandra told me it was a weeping birch, and that her children wanted her to cut it down as it blocked the light but she never would.) It still seems extraordinary to me that I have traveled so far in this strange and alien land, only to have found a tiny patch of my own history – a place that, on some level, I have been to before.

Grandpa’s house!

Tomorrow
Tomorrow me and my bro are breaking ranks. He’s going to search for Jimi Hendrix’s grave in Seattle. I’m going to a place I have visited before many times in my dreams and my imagination. If you know me well, you can guess where I’m going. If you don’t, you can guess anyway. Time to go and choose an appropriate shade of lipstick.