The morning had been spent with a lovely family that I was staying with just outside of Raymond, Washington. When I waved goodbye, it was not just to those people, but to that landscape. Biking through mudflats lined with small towns with restaurants advertising the oysters that made the area famous, I felt that something foreign was near at hand. I had to think a bit, gather my thoughts, sort out what was happening. I found the perfect place to do so. In a non-distinct town, on a bench, that if you looked over your shoulder while sitting on it, you’d be met with the blinkless stare of chocolate cows munching on all things green across the river.
A dedicated bench, facing an unnamed town
Not just any bench, a dedicated bench to the beloved town historian. If I had met him, I think my first question would have been “what town?” After I got over the sting of the deserved slap I would incur, I would have shook his hand in honest respect for being so dedicated to keeping this random part of nowhere’s history alive, written down and accessible. Maybe that’s why he was so beloved and had this bench put where it was. The bench presented a view of the unique character of this place, distinct from everywhere else, something that Ol’ Gilbert respected and knew was worth preserving. I sat and smiled at the tradition, the cows, the honest to God identity of this special piece of yummy cake.
Where were we? Ah yes…on a trans-canal trip to Port Townsend, once named the “City of Dreams”. How like real dreams, did everyone wake up and realize a less vivid or prosperous reality. The masses of boats and people never came, and the city that waited to be a city was left as an immaculately built Victorian village.
The bull alone makes me want to smoke
It was night when I arrived. The city was asleep. Lucky for me, my Couch Surfing contact, had seen my ship from the shore and presumed, being that it was the last boat over, that I had to be on it. He picked me and Klalita up in his pick up and we whizzed off into the dark curvatures of the ghost dark tree highway to have dinner with his family. Bread and wine, a perfect lullaby. Waking at a good time in the morning to the sound of barking dogs at my door at Andrew’s dog and llama farm was the perfect alarm. Andrew built all that I saw on his land from the ground up. He was an actor too, a worldly, interesting, caring, family man of many different hats and he wore them all quite comfortably. I set off on my naked Klalita into town, passed the natural rock cliff that the main street buildings seamed to lazily rest on. Cute shops, cafes and even an ol’ movie theatre gave me a very Bohemian sense of the place. The coffee shop was what you’d expect when you see Tibetan flags at the window, full of coffees from foreign fair trade lands and loooooot of cookies that had ingredients that make baked goods for old people instead of the intended younger audiences. Oh…and there was no music store, only a record store with the owner’s fixie sitting at the front.
Veggie Truck, circa a long time ago
I started at the museum, where the curator gave me the town’s history. Nice gentleman who yearned for an audience, so I lent him my ear for close to half an hour. Well worth it, he knew it all and could answer all my questions. He also talked about the city’s prostitution history as if it were a major focal point, which was alright by me. The best displays were the odd things. An old funeral cart, a section on comic books and my personal favourite, a list of alternative names for a house of ill intent. After the museum, I walked in no direction in particular to look at some of the wonderful Victorian architecture the city has. I returned to Andrew’s just as the sun was dipping behind the trees. I played games with his kids on the jungle gym and pet the llamas, carefully.
One of many Victorian dreams in Port Townsend
Andrew had a wonderfully interesting life that you’ll just have to surf with him to fully appreciate it. A man of the land, the type of man I saw as a child played by John Wayne, but less racist and more emotionally connected to things and people he loved. The next day, I waved goodbye, drank some fresh squeezed orange (compliments of his son’s amazing juicing skills), squeezed past the heavy tubing welded dirt white gate and off down the road to Sequim.
The view to Sequim
Suddenly bam. I needed a bathroom. 5 or so k later I found one. I never made that mistake…..on this continent again.
Sequim, I arrived during a day shy of the Irrigation Festival, which apparently involved a produce throwing competition. Damnit, something I’ve always regretted missing. My couch surfer that night was a wonderful mother, who packed my panniers full of chocolate bars and energy bars. Her dog, Savvy, watched with curiosity as I ate food and glugged down a tall, red plastic glass of milk. TV, it’s glow I hadn’t seen in a while. Meh, it didn’t interest me and I soon was under the “In God We Trust” covers and fast asleep.
A water tower at the end of the road
The hardest ride was just ahead…and…well….I don’t want to spoil your appetites. Enjoy!:
Early in the morning. The sun didn’t wake the travellers on the eight hour night ferry from Greece to Italy. The lack of heat and comfortable places to rest is the real guilty party. But this ferry seems to be almost tradition, something you don’t question. So people try their best dog impersonations, spin around multiple times, scratch, yawn in annoyance and collapse in a huff. For me, being on vacation, I didn’t mind it all. I could only vaguely imagine what this would be like as a regular commute.
