#24: Home at Last

Now that the road trip is over, I am able to get back to: http://retirementiswork.blogspot.ca/.

As my second year of retirement rolls around, however, I'm not sure I'm up for one-more-good-thing-per-day.  My life is simply not that varied and I'm sure I'll start repeating myself if I continue to commit to a new post every 24 hours.

But as new observations occur, as they know they will, I am going to want to write about them.  So, I'm not going to retire from the blog quite yet -- just the daily treadmill.


And for starters, I am busy thinking about what I learned from that trip, and from the 16 retired friends we hung out with... 

#23: Homeward

You know how it is when you are heading home?   It is a dash to the finish: drive, drive, drive, switch drivers, and drive, drive, drive some more.  We said goodby to Alexis on Sunday morning and promised to email her from Guelph in about 4 days.

The paramount rule of a speedy return is: no stopping, except to get gas, change drivers, eat lunch (a healthy Subway chicken salad), eat dinner (on a very bad day I had another chicken salad), and find a place to sleep.  I swear, that if the reincarnation of Elvis Presley had been hitching a ride to Reno on Highway 80/95, we would have zoomed right by.

Along Interstate 80 through Nevada. 

But that doesn't mean that I didn't take photographs when we did stop, or snap a picture out the window of our moving vehicle.

Just where would an escaped prisoner  go?

I suppose this limited vantage point accounts for why I should probably never write promotional material for the state of Nevada.  I'm sure parts of it are very pretty, but these places must have been where we were not.  However, the insalubrious landscape does seem to be ideal for correctional facilities. There are no less than five prisons on Interstate 80, leading us to conclude that Corrections and Casinos are two cornerstones of the Nevada economy.

Wyoming, home of tumble weeds before they fall.

Our route took us in a north-easterly direction from Nevada through Wyoming and Utah. Straight. On. Through.

A return road trip is when you drive like hell toward an interesting place like Salt Lake City, but then you make every effort to go around it.  You crane your neck for signs that say bypass and ring road.  You see the signs for Temple Square and go in the opposite direction.

The result is that I know nothing of Utah. We were too busy steering ourselves out of the state, across Nebraska towards Des Moines, Iowa, a city we did not want to circumvent because it was to be our overnight stop.  As it turned out, the rest of the world was also bound for Des Moines.  Who knew?  We pulled into the Holiday Inn, the Hampton Inn and Howard Johnson's. No Vacancy. Finally, we resorted to the GPS Accommodations function and phoned two other places, but they were also completely booked.  Huh?  Finally, it was a tossup: drive to the Walmart parking lot and sleep in the car, or go to the only motel with vacancies, a Des Moines Econolodge.

Just like our room.  I wonder if the door locks?

Our Econolodge host was a sweet and helpful South Asian teenager with an Indian accent.  We had checked in with his father, but it was the son who had to solve the problem of the doors-that-could-not-be-locked.  As we carried our luggage from one room to another in search of a functioning door, I had brief Best Exotic Marigold Hotel fantasies.  But Des Moines is not Bollywood.  No bhangra soundtrack, no elephants.  What we did get was a clean and comfortable place for the night with (finally), a door we could secure.  The young man explained that they were replacing door frames in all the units.  I guess they need to replace the doors, too, but refurbishing an older motel from top to bottom is probably a very expensive proposition for new owners hoping to grab a piece of American Pie.   I wish them luck.     


In any case, so close to the finish of our 4 1/2 day dash across the continent, one iffy night is nothing.

By Thursday noon, we were well into the homeward stretch.  We crossed the Bluewater Bridge at Sarnia, and looked for a place to have lunch.  The thought of a Subway chicken salad made us gag.

We scanned the horizon. Tim Horton's!  OMG. I happily ordered our usual: two turkey-bacon-club sandwiches, two black coffees and forget the donuts. We really were home.
 

#22: Across the Golden Gate

On this trip, we did not actually stay in San Francisco.  We were on the sunny side of the Golden Gate Bridge in Marin County where our friend Alexis has lived for many years.

Marin is an ideal location; it feels like a laid-back, suburban Garden of Eden. The weather is mild and sunny, gardens are green and lush, homes and public buildings are attractive. Even the people look good.    (There must be ugly bits somewhere, but either we didn't see them, or we didn't notice them.)
 

Dinner is a few blocks away:  Woodlands grocery and restaurant

For many years Alexis lived in Marin's capital, San Rafael, but now retired and single, she has moved to Kentfield, a nearby artsy community of about 10,000.  From her compact new digs, she can walk to local shops and restaurants, the community college, or the nearby Marin Art and Garden Centre where she is a volunteer.

The cunning, folding "study" is a big trunk!

 


 
Her move was not intended to be permanent. She never thought she could live in a tiny apartment, but she has happily down-sized and intends to stay put now that she has finessed essential furniture and art work into 500-or-so square feet. She has everything she needs, and the location is perfect.

The living room 

Foyer cum dining room

 








The only downside is that she has no room for guests, but for super-generous Alexis, that is easily remedied.  "You guys take my place, and I'll stay with a friend." she offered.

So we got to be pretend-Mariners for a couple of days.  Alexis would meet us for breakfast (perhaps at the local coffee shop with the outdoor terrace), and we would explore the town and environs together.

And my goodness, there are certainly many diversions.  Living in Marin County means that you are only a half hour from San Francisco, and you are also a short drive from the two big wine regions, the Sonoma  and Napa Valleys.  Imagine leisure-seeking locals and the conflicts they regularly endure:  tour the Embaradero,  or go on a wine tour?   Dear me. Decisions, decisions.

We visited one of Alexis' favourite Sonoma wineries.  We sampled their wares,  picnicked on the grounds and enjoyed the magnificent scenery.  The vista was uncluttered and magnificent.

Alone, alone, all all alone, alone at a winery.....

Our picnic place

I couldn't help wonder why everyone else in California doesn't move here. ( I wanted to move here!)  There appeared to be plenty of room, although what I perceived as empty space might actually have been yet another vineyard.

Then again, would-be Mariners are perhaps discouraged by the average price of a single family dwelling in one of several delightful communities.  Got almost a million to spare? Paradise does not come cheap. No wonder our friend is biding her time in a perfect one-bedroom apartment.            

#21: San Francisco

Once upon a time back in 1967, Bruce and I made our first trip to San Francisco.  The rest of Canada was heading another way-- to Montreal and Expo 67-- but for some reason we were determined to go south.  This may have been a purely contrarian decision, or perhaps we were seduced by Scott McKenzie's music and just wanted to experience some "counter-culture" first hand.

Or maybe we knew we would get a warm welcome from our friend Alexis and her husband Garth.  These former Edmontonians had recently moved to San Francisco and were happy to have visitors.  That Garth was a physician working in a hospital near Haight Ashbury and sometimes tended to hippies simply added to feeling that we were going somewhere much more exotic than Alberta.


That summer-of-love trip still looms large in family legend, but there was actually nothing counter-culture about it.  We were just a couple of Canadian geeks hoping to ride a cable car, eat at Fisherman's Wharf and have a drink at The Top of the Mark. We sped out of Edmonton in our spiffy new green Barracuda, and the music on the radio was (no kidding) Scott McKenzie's San Francisco.  It was a good omen. If we had no flowers in our hair, that was just fine.

Not our car, but just like it.  Sweet.

The memories of that first trip are still vivid.  I can tell you about riding the elevator to The Top of the Mark, and what I wore (a red flowered dress) and what I drank (a daiquiri).  Bruce recalls none of those mundane details, but we both remember the terror of driving straight up a perpendicular street and right down again.   And crossing the majestic Golden Gate Bridge for the first time.  Then there was the un-sexy sequence from the pornographic movie (Summersex*) that we saw with Alexis. Garth had to work that night so we all regaled him with details about the peculiar scene where a naked guy does handstands on the beach, and how the theatre was so crowded we sat on the stairs and surreptitiously looked for fire exits. 

On our recent trip, once again visiting Alexis (Garth is no more), we had no need to spoil the magic of those earlier experiences.  And, besides, we have been to SF a few times since. So we spent our days in the city going to the De Young Museum and the Camera Obscura above Ocean Beach, places we had never been before.  We also took in an opera.  The San Francisco Opera Company simulcasted Rigoletto to the AT&T baseball stadium. Bleachers full of fans ate packed lunches and watched Verdi on the Jumbotron.  It was a unique experience.  There appeared to be plenty of fire exits.   

Behind home plate at the opera.

 *  By all means Google Summersex if you wish.  I did, but found no reference to the original lame movie, but lots of other stuff as you might imagine.

#20: Bed and Breakfast and History

"So" inquired our Seattle friends, "do you have a place to stop on your way down to San Francisco?

Actually, no.  After about 9 or 10 hours on the road, we are not inclined to be picky.  The Holiday Inn (or comparable) suits us fine.

"Aaaaah!" Dale and Elizabeth were enthusiastic. "Can we make a suggestion?  We always stay at The Wolf Creek Inn when we drive to California. You should make a reservation.  Ask if you can have the Clark Gable Room."

The sign has not changed, although the Inn has changed names and owners. It is now officially a "historic site" owned by the State of Oregon  

The dining room, ready for breakfast.

We would never have thought to turn off the highway to a place called Wolf Creek without our friends' prodding.  But the lure of Clark Gable was too tempting, and in truth, one night was hardly enough. But it is not just the Inn, a fine historic building which began life in 1883 as a stage coach stop, that holds appeal for present day travellers. The Cascade mountains in Southern Oregon along Interstate 5/Pacific Highway are a destination unto themselves as we discovered while at dinner.  Those guests in fleece and gortex?   They were relaxing after a day exploring nearby hiking trails.

We had to be content with the scenic drive on Interstate 5, a former byway for Indian trappers working for the Hudson's Bay Company, and later, during the gold rush, the fastest way to California.

And we did get to explore the Wolf Creek Inn, even if we weren't able to reserve (or even peek into) the Clark Gable suite.  Someone else had booked it. But we did look in the Inn's closet-sized "museum" and discovered that the out-of the-way Wolf Creek establishment was a favourite of Gable who liked to escape to the wilds of Oregon for fun and fishing.  Other Hollywood folk (Carole Lombard, Mary Pickford, Orson Wells) visited too, but alas, no rooms have been named for them.

Not our room -- ours had a double bed. ( I hoped the exposure might be better across the hall, but I was wrong.)  Still, you can see the handmade quilts on the beds.  Every room was appropriately decorated.

Jack London was also a Wolf Creek regular, and he is said to have completed a novel, The Valley of the Moon, in the tiny room he always claimed when he and his wife came for a visit.       

No-one books this room.  It is very, very, very small.

#19: Bainbridge Island

Proof that we really were on a boat leaving Seattle.

Our Seattle hosts, Dale and Elizabeth, thought we would enjoy a trip out to Bainbridge Island, 35 minutes across Puget Sound.  We had never heard of this place, but it was a good suggestion!

Such beautiful greenery.

Even the lawns look pretty.

We took the car ferry and landed at the town wharf, but that was not our destination. We were headed across the island to a special park, the Bloedel Reserve.  The house and land (150 acres) that comprise this beautiful public garden were originally owned by Prentice Bloedel (of the forestry Bloedels).  He was a visionary and a naturalist, and with the help of professional landscapers he turned his property into a showplace of small unique gardens that each reflect the ecology of the Pacific Northwest.

Not quite the garden I expected.

The Bloedel estate.

(I was reminded of Victoria's Butchart Gardens, another public garden inspired by private enthusiasm. The Bloedel Gardens, however, serve to enhance the natural landscape without a single bloom.)  There are paths throughout, so we wandered from one green space to another until we arrived at the mansion in the centre of the estate.  It was a lovely way to spend the morning.

#18: Seattle Must-Sees

When people knew we were stopping in Seattle they had a lot of advice about where to go:  The library.  Art galleries. The Market.  Everyone mentioned the Market. We were advised to watch for vendors throwing fish around.

We passed on the library and went to The Seattle Art Museum which, not surprisingly, had a great collection of West Coast Art.  Elizabeth made sure we saw the most interesting exhibits including a selection of recent Australian aboriginal paintings.

This canvas, by an aboriginal artist is huge, and beautifully detailed

Then on Sunday morning, we made the necessary visit to The Pike Place Market.  It is housed in a huge, low warehouse, and was crowded with other tourists, so instead of lingering over the nicely arrayed fruits and veggies we headed for the fish sellers and whatever entertainment they might provide.

All manner of produce is for sale at PPM

The fishy end of the market

I didn't know what to expect from the fishmongers, but it seems that the flinging is purposeful and  not just some game of fishy football.  Customers order a fish and it is thrown from one employee to another for wrapping.

But when we got there, no one wanted fish, so no fish were being flung. I gave up and turned my back to admire the nearby florists' displays.  Then the fish sellers went into their act, and I missed it.  But according to Bruce they weren't very skilled;  there was throwing but no catching. The fish fell. (I'm not surprised --fish must be hard to catch when you think about it.)  Bruce didn't say if the fish were picked up, hosed off, and thrown again.

Nicely displayed flowers were near the fish vendors.

Meanwhile I was taking flower photos. Now I am left to imagine all manner of  flounder flinging, halibut hurling, cod catching, and tuna tossing.

Perhaps we will just have to visit the Pike Place Market another time and order our own fish.