Tag: traveling alone

Solo Getaway in Oregon and Washington–Don’t Forget the Chargers!

The view from Mt. Angel Seminary in Oregon. Evergreen and deciduous trees in the foreground, red barn and other buildings in the center, open fields and farms to the cloudy horizon.

Sometimes a girl just has to get in her car and drive away. Let the winds carry her where they will. Follow her whims. Be free. Stuff a backpack, grab the keys and go.

Who am I kidding? I make myself crazy planning for months before I go anywhere. I clean the house lest the dog sitter think I’m a slob. I make reservations and fill folders with confirmation email printouts, schedules, and directions. I pack work I’m going to do, work I might do, books to read with backup books in case I hate the first ones, orange juice, granola bars, fruit, tea bags and extra tea bags, extra socks, extra underwear, two bathing suits, three pairs of shoes, copies of my books and my business cards, cold cream, face cream, hand cream, sunscreen, my guitar, sheet music and more sheet music in case I find a piano . . . If I’d had a passenger, he/she would have had to ride on the roof of my Honda.

My five-day journey concluded in Centralia, Washington, where I taught at the Southwest Washington Writers Conference. Centralia is a small town about 80 miles north of the Oregon border. Nice place. Nice college. Nice people. I taught workshops on creative nonfiction and book revision, met some great writers, won a raffle prize, and sold my books. It was a fun time that reminded me how much I love to teach. Or maybe it’s just that finally someone has to listen to me.

Photo shows cases of sausages, some straight, some round, some dark, some light, so many sausages, at a store in Mt. Angel, Oregon.

Before Centralia, I took a mini-vacation in Silverton, home of the Oregon Garden and Silver Falls and neighbor to Mt. Angel, a Bavarian-themed town down the hill from the Mt. Angel Abbey and seminary. I wrote poetry, played my guitar, swam, walked, shopped, explored, and ATE so much great food I couldn’t zip the jeans I had planned to wear for my drive home. But pulled pork tacos, chicken salad croissants, key lime pie, eggs Benedict, German pastries from Mt. Angel . . . It would be a sin not to enjoy the food.

I stayed at the Oregon Garden Resort, up the hill past the gardens. Guests stay stay in separate cottages with about six rooms, each with fireplaces and private patios. All are within walking distance of the restaurant, pool, spa, lounge and garden. Such views. Such flowers. Have you ever seen a smoke bush like the one in the picture? I never had. A friendly stranger who knows her plants told me all about it. Overall, the resort was fancy but affordable and it had a real “camp” feeling.

Photo shows odd-looking bush with orangish fluff surrounding green leaves. It's called a smoke bush.

The other two nights, I slept at the Holiday Inn in Chehalis, another smallish town north of Centralia. It was . . .  a Holiday Inn. Elevators, long hallways, soaps and shampoos in canisters attached to the wall. Kudos for their perfect indoor pool, though, and for the nearby Jeremy’s Farm to Table gluten-free restaurant and store. Fascinating décor, friendly staff, and amazing food with a healthy spin. I ate there two nights in a row and would do it every night if I lived nearby. Sure, I’d weigh 500 pounds. But life is short. Eat the pie.

 I spend most of my life shuttling between Waldport and Newport, Oregon, so it was nice to get out of Lincoln County for a while and see new things. Some folks avoid traveling alone, but I kind of like it. You’re free to do whatever you want, including changing your mind at the last second. You’re also free to get lost, to get sleepy behind the wheel, and to wish you had a designated driver, but that just adds to the adventure. In many situations, I was the only person who wasn’t part of a couple or a group, but I’m learning if I just enjoy myself and talk to whoever is around, I’m not really alone.

Some things I noticed along the way:

  • No one seems to mind men wearing baseball caps in restaurants.
  • Why is there always background music playing when nobody seems to need it or want it—except that one waitress in Woodland, Washington who was singing along as she worked? One of the joys of wearing hearing aids is that when I turn them off, the loud music disappears.
  • Why are hotel doors so heavy and the springs so tight? The one at the Holiday Inn gave me some new bruises as I tried to get in with my guitar and my ice chest. Is there some logical reason it’s three times as heavy as any door on my house?
  • I forgot the plug ends for my charger cords. Most places I stay have USB charger plug-ins anyway, but not this Holiday Inn. How would I keep my phone and hearing aids charged? Would I have to move to a different hotel? I threw an embarrassing hissy fit at the front desk and was handed a converter I could use. Lessons: Calm down and ask if they have a solution. Pack a couple of converters in your suitcase or remember to bring the plugs. At least I remembered the chargers.
  • Gas is way more expensive in Washington, and you get to pump it yourself. At my first gas stop back in Oregon, I got out of my car and a friendly woman in a red shirt came running to pump my gas before I had a chance to mess with her machine. Oregon has some self-serve pumps now, but not there.
  • Almost everyone I saw in my trip up the I-5 corridor in Oregon and Washington was white. With baseball caps. Where are all the people of color?
  • There is so much to see everywhere in this country. Take a ride. Check it out. 

Annie is hanging close to me today. She’s afraid I’ll grab my keys and go away again. Not today.

Tell us in the comments about your adventures.

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Oh No! It’s That Face Again: When My Phone is Full of Selfies

Ding! My phone is offering another “special moment,” my photos compiled and set to bouncy guitar music. They are all pictures of me, taken by me. Selfies. Instead of smiling at pictures of loved ones, I critique. Bangs too long, bangs too short, no bangs, what was I thinking wearing that yellow top, gosh I have a lot of wrinkles, oh, that one’s not too bad.

Google, I don’t want to look at that much me. Save? Why?

Some days Google gives me photos of Annie, my dog. Look, says Google, we found similar photos and made a collage for you. Same boring music. These pix make me sad because she is so old now I keep checking to make sure she’s still breathing.

Once in a great while, my phone will show me beach pictures, photos from somewhere I traveled, or yet another sky shot from my yard, but mostly it’s me and Annie, each of us alone.

The last time I had formal pictures taken was at church for the parish directory. The photographer was sure I’d like to order some 8 x 10s, 5 x 7s, and wallet-size pictures to give to my loved ones. “Surely your kids will want some,” he said. “I don’t have any kids,” I said. The young photographer looked at me like I’d just said I was from Mars. Doesn’t every old lady have kids and grandkids? No. Some of us just have dogs.

If my phone was filled with pictures of family gatherings, multiple poses of little ones, or romantic getaways with my lover, it would be a whole different experience. But I travel alone. I take my own pictures, hoping to get a little scenery behind my big head. I smile because my unsmiling selfies scare me.

Why bother? I need photos for my website, blogs, back covers of my books, publicity, bla bla bla. So I take selfies. Sometimes when I make a public appearance, someone in the audience will photograph me and I’ll beg for copies, but mostly I’m taking pictures of myself on days when I feel attractive. Sometimes I do a video. Same face but moving. I might have just gotten a haircut, the lighting is perfect, or I’m all dressed up and think, why not. I usually don’t look as good as I thought I did.

I have studied the art of the selfie: Hold the camera up high not down low, have the light in front of you not behind you, watch out for poles, halos and other things that might appear to be growing out of your head. Practice with different poses and facial expressions.

I’m so sick of my own face.

I got two dings this morning. One was scenic pictures for which I might want to order canvas prints. The other was . . . me.

What about you? What pictures come up on your phone? Do you take selfies? What do you do with them? Will you take a picture of me if I take a picture of you? Can we do one together?

Here’s some great advice on how to take pictures of yourself: https://www.wikihow.com/Take-Flattering-Photos-of-Yourself

And some more: https://thirdeyetraveller.com/take-photos-of-yourself-when-travelling-solo/

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Walking through Yreka history–illegally

IMG_20170507_193817487_HDR[1]I didn’t see the no-trespassing sign until I had walked across the decaying platform, feeling the wood give under my feet as I snapped pictures of the old Yreka Western Railroad station and the abandoned train cars covered with graffiti. The sun was about to set, and there was no one around. I had had a long hard day and should have been relaxing in front of the TV at the Best Western instead of wandering around alone.  I considered ever so briefly that I might break my neck, but the writer in me couldn’t resist.

Yreka, near the California-Oregon border, is the halfway point on I-5 between San Jose and Newport. After seven hours of driving, I needed a walk. Usually I walk in town, looking in the windows of the shops, all closed by the time I get there, and the restaurants I might go into if I weren’t traveling solo. I say hello to the brass sculptures, nod at the firemen in the fire station, and study the sign at the Catholic church, thinking I might go to Mass in the morning, but I never do. I’m too anxious to get back on the road.

IMG_20170507_193905186[1]This time, I headed the other way, across the freeway, away from “town.” Up a hill lies an old cemetery where I walked among the graves, reading names and dates, imagining their stories. Taking a different path down the hill, I wound up close to the train station. The 1910 station building looks as if it just closed for the night, but it has been out of business for several years. After its citizens learned in the 1880s the Southern Pacific Railroad/aka California & Oregon Railroad planned to bypass their town, they built their own railroad line to connect up with the main line seven miles away in Montague. They moved the station in 1910 to avoid seasonal flooding at the original site. Trains used that line for passengers and freight for nearly 100 years. Starting in 1986, the city of Yreka operated a summer excursion train called the Blue Goose. But times change, and the Blue Goose went out of business. The station has sat idle for the last few years.

IMG_20170507_194120720[1]Imagine the stories that crumbling old platform could tell. I’m so glad I didn’t see the sign until I had walked all over the station, my only company a couple of crows cawing from the roof.

For more info:

http://yrekahistory.blogspot.com/2008/05/yreka-rail-station-1888-1910.html

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yreka_Western_Railroad

http://www.waymarking.com/waymarks/WMJFNK_Western_Railroad_Station_Yreka_CA

By the way, the origin of Yreka’s name is not what you might think, not what I thought. Here it is, courtesy of California City News:

Yreka comes from the Shasta Indian word “wáik’a’,” which roughly translates to “white mountain,” in reference to nearby Mount Shasta. An article from 1876 in the Yreka Journal said that the city was intended to be named Ieka, but through some kind of mistake, it was called “Wyreka.” The name stuck and the error continued (other than the dropping of the “w,” which officials considered superfluous.)

***

This was my third trip to California since March 25, when my 95-year-old father broke his leg. He will be riding the wheelchair and I’ll be doing the I-5 commute a while longer. Bones that old take a long time to heal. I have made the journey back to San Jose at least 50 times since we moved to Oregon 20 years ago, but I always see something new.

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