Tuesday, September 30th, 2014

Good bye, Portland, and thanks!

On the train from Portland OR to Seattle WA

We took the train from Portland to Seattle. I would never have suggested it, because the last time I did, the train arrived hours late, departed even later, got stalled for hours on a siding every time it met a freight train, and a broken toilet gave our coach the aroma of a porta-potty on a hot day. So although I still enjoy traveling by train, B will avoid it at almost any cost.

But for whatever reason, she suggested that we make the run from Portland to Seattle by train, and a good thing she did. Our train arrived spot-on-time, departed without delay and went zipping down the tracks with no diversions to sidings for freight trains, arriving in Seattle exactly when they said we would. Either the track was a line dedicated for passenger service, or we were just lucky. I have the feeling it was a dedicated passenger line because it was smooth as silk instead of a track pounded into bone-jarring shapes by freight trains.

I have no doubt a bus would have been just as punctual, but it wouldn’t have had the comfy seats we had, and there’s just no way to put a price on the luxury of being able to get up on a four-hour trip to stretch your legs or get a cup of coffee from the bar car. The coach was new construction, clean with well-appointed chairs and tables; there were even electric outlets between the seats so we could keep our phones and tablets charged, and free wi-fi. Why can’t we have nice things like this in our neck of the woods?

As soon as we got into Seattle we went to the Moore Hotel downtown. The Moore gets mixed reviews from the on-line crowd, mostly the whiners who complain it’s old and it’s not air-conditioned, both of which are true. But it’s been recently remodeled with a retro look that I thought was appealing. And even though it doesn’t have air conditioning, we didn’t think that would be a problem in early October, and it wasn’t. Besides that, the room was clean, the location was close to most of the places we wanted to visit, and the price for a room downtown couldn’t be beat, so we were happy with it.

While B was freshening up, I flicked through the cable TV channels just to confirm that television programming still sucks the big wet one, and then we were back on the street. It was just after noon and we were plenty hungry for lunch, so our first stop was Pike Place Chowder in Post Alley, the place Jason & Jennifer recommended to us at breakfast in the Portland B&B. Hugely popular, there was already a line around the front of the shop when we got there and it just kept getting longer while we ate. Good thing we went straight to it. B ordered a sampler of four different kinds of chowder, while I went for broke with a bowl of New England clam chowder. It was more than we could finish, although we made a valiant effort.

We wandered into a few shops in Post Alley after lunch, but B wanted to book a ride on the ducks so we didn’t stay long, just had a quick look around before catching a bus to Westlake Park.

Riding the Ducks in Seattle WAThe ducks turned out to be quite a lot of fun, in spite of the fact that we didn’t really see all that much of Seattle. The driver took us up to Lake Union, put the duck in the water mostly to show us the houseboat from Sleepless in Seattle, then drove back to the city center by way of Pioneer Square, pointing at about a half-dozen buildings while pelting us with a few random tidbits of info. It wasn’t so much a tour as a short game of trivial pursuit.

What made the trip so much fun was the driver, a natural-born comic who kept up a steady stream of one-liners and took his hands off the wheel to raise his arms over his head way too often to get us to wave or clap as he sped through downtown traffic. He even came with a soundtrack of pop tunes that were the punchline to a lot of his jokes, although mostly he played them so he could crank them up way too loud and pump the brakes to the beat when we came to red lights. Which all the passengers thought was terrific fun, and so did quite a few of the pedestrians along the pavement (we caught a couple of waitresses at a sidewalk cafe gettin’ jiggy when he played the Sir Mix-A-Lot classic, Baby Got Back), although there were a few who gave us the stink-eye as we went by. I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of Seattle’s citizens consider the ducks one of the most obnoxious tourist attractions they have, but my guess is that Seattle police look the other way when they see a duck coming down the street.

When our driver returned us to Westlake Park, we jumped on the monorail to get a ride to Seattle Center, the park surrounding the Space Needle. The monorail is a leftover from the 1962 World’s Fair, just like the Space Needle. It probably seemed like the height of space-age technology when it was built, all chrome and plexiglass, riding a single concrete rail from downtown Seattle to the park and back, and it still has a distinctive space-age look, but in a retro-kitchy way, same as Googie architecture. Each monorail train is really one long, open car with bench seats from front to back on the inside. Actually, it has no front or back; it’s a two-headed monster. When it gets to the Space Needle, the driver gets up and walks the length of the train to the other end where he sit down in an identical driver’s seat for the trip back. It bumps and rattles along its track and makes you wonder to yourself, If this is space-age, how did we ever land on the moon? But what’s important is that the monorail just looks space-age. It can’t transport you to the future.

The Needle, now, that thing has the space-age look down cold. I doubt there’s a better example of space-age architecture anywhere. It was closed for a private party, but we just had to be there today. Who goes to Seattle and doesn’t want to see the Space Needle right away? There wasn’t much at Seattle Center still open at that hour, so we just walked around a bit to get the lay of the land, then rode the monorail back to the city center, wondering how rich you gotta be to be able to rent the Space Needle for your very own private party.

It was time for a beer. B picked the Elysium Bar, serving beer from the local Elysium Brewery. I was expecting a brewpub, not the very swanky bar we walked into. The hostess could barely conceal an expression that told me she was thinking, “Where am I going to seat these hayseeds so the regulars won’t see them?”

We just wandered the streets for about an hour after that to see what there was in the neighborhood of the hotel, ending up down by the Public Market again, mostly empty and quiet by that time.

For dinner we stopped at a joint called Serious Pie for some gourmet pizza. Really. Gourmet pizza? I had my doubts at first. What could you do to pizza that would make it better than it already is? And the place looked kinda frou-frou, like a gentrified dairy barn with lots of exposed beams and trestle tables that the customers were seated at community-style. When our pizza was served and I took my first bite, though, my opinion of gourmet pizza joints, or at least this particular one, improved considerably, and it got better with each bite. That was some of the best pizza I’ve ever had. B loved it so much she said we were going to have to go back before we left, and I didn’t argue.

We picked up a bottle of wine from a corner store on the way back to the hotel and sipped it from plastic cups in front of the TV before lights out. The shows still sucked, even with the wine.

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Monday, September 29th, 2014

Monday was our one and only rainy day on this trip. We were watching the forecasts for Portland and Seattle with great interest in the weeks leading up to our departure, and right up until the final days they confirmed that what anybody and everybody will say to you if you tell them you’re going to the Pacific Northwest on vacation: “I hope you like lots of rain.” In both cities, no less an authority than the National Weather Service said that we could expect rain and not much else. The icon over every single day was a dark cloud with rain falling beneath it, and sometimes a lightning bolt or two.

And then, the day before we left, the forecast changed to “partly cloudy” and all the icons were switched to blue skies full of puffy white clouds. Huh. How about that?

It wasn’t all sunshine and lollypops while we were in Portland. On Monday, we stepped into the streets from our B&B to meet with gunmetal skies and a light drizzle that became more like actual rain once or twice later in the day, but for the most part it just drizzled on and off, mostly off.

We ate breakfast in Old Town at a diner that called itself The Good Earth. Sounds a little like it ought to be one of those places filled with hippies eating granola sourced from only farms that are certified organic and guaranteed non-GMO, right?  Nothing of the sort. Just a pleasant diner serving good food. The staff taking orders and bringing out the food were really nice people, too, which counts for a lot in my experience. Serve the greatest food in town, but if your customers don’t like the staff, your place isn’t going to last long. Happily, The Good Earth is not going to have any problems in that regard. After they brought our food they came back to check on us with coffee pot in hand to refresh our cups. Bonus points.

After breakfast and before we hit the streets to go exploring, B wanted to buy a pair of good walking shoes. The slip-ons she had been wearing were giving her some trouble. A Google search told her that there was a good shoe store in a mall nearby, so off we went.   went shopping for walking shoes & ended up buying the first ones she tried on, walked about five blocks before she was sure she hated them, and she kept on hating them for the remainder of the trip.

How To Pee at Powells Books Portland ORBecause it was still raining, we went to Powell’s Books next to hang out for a couple hours, because it got us out of the rain and besides, who can get enough of Powell’s? People with meat for brains, that’s who. I kept wandering the aisles even after B retired to the coffee shop with a novel. I think I may even have visited every room on every floor. Not one-hundred percent certain of that.

Did you know there is literally a book about any subject you can think of? I don’t know if they have all of them at Powell’s, but while I was perusing the books in the section of the store reserved for books about Portland, I ran across a copy of “The Best Places To Pee: A Guide To The Funky & Fabulous Bathrooms of Portland.” Somebody had to think of writing that book, someone else had to agree to publish that book, and then Powell’s agreed to sell that book. I wish I’d been a fly on the wall at the meeting where the author’s agent pitched that book, just to see how he pulled that off and whether or not alcohol was involved.

We almost went to Voodoo Doughnuts today, but only almost. Not that we were craving doughnuts; it just seemed like one of those things we were expected to do while visiting Portland, but after waiting too long for a bus that never came (twice), we switched our plan up and instead headed north to the train station to buy tickets for our trip to Seattle tomorrow morning. Here’s a stupid thing: the buses and streetcars make a loop that passes within a hundred feet of the train station, but they don’t stop there. They stop about a block and a half away, and you have to get off and walk from there. Thanks, Portland. I’ll remember that when you come to Madison.

When we got off the bus, a guy stretched out on the pavement asked us for twenty bucks. The train station is where the high-rent hobos hang out, apparently. No spare change for these guys. I’ve got to give him credit for aiming high.

Riding the train from Portland to Seattle is stupidly cheap, thirty-six bucks for each of us. The bus may be cheaper, but if we went with that option, we would be on a bus and not on a train. A train is way cool because it’s a train and not a bus. If that seems like a circular argument to you, it’s probably because you’re not a train nerd. All the train nerds are nodding and saying to themselves, “Yes, that makes perfect sense.” My Darling B is not a train nerd but she went along with the train idea because it made me happy and because it wasn’t a bus. She’ll get on a bus for some things, but mostly she doesn’t like bus travel all that much, so maybe you don’t have to be a train nerd to understand our motives after all.

Beer Menu Henry's Tavern Portland ORI was about three o’clock by the time we got back to the Pearl District, so we were ready for some local beer and noshies. Henry’s Tavern was handy, so B & I ducked inside to put our feet up for a little while and relax with the delicious cold brews they brought us. We also shared a plate of the most unhealthy fries ever conceived by the mind of a man: waffle-cut, deep-fried and smothered in gorgonzola cheese, but sooo good, and they made our tummies very happy. B’s feet even felt better (although that could have been because she slipped into her old shoes under the table).

There was one last special place B had on her must-see list, and we wended our way there next: The Oregon Wines tasting room on Broadway. We each got to try a splash of three different wines and, of course, B snuck a little snort of each of mine while I grabbed a few of hers. That’s the way it is in this family.

Aerial Tram Portland OR

We had an early train to catch, so we started back to the B&B, but on the way we stopped for the last item on my to-do list: A ride on the aerial tram. Again, it’s a nerd thing, sort of. For me, it was a way cool ride on a mode of transportation that we don’t have back in Madison, but it’s got the added bonus of giving us a terrific view. Even B seemed to enjoy hanging over the rail at the top and having a long look.

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Sunday, September 28th, 2014

B&O at Washington Park Portland ORB & I took the train west from Portland city center to Washington Park in the morning after breakfast. Washington Park is not a city park like the one on PSU campus we visited yesterday. That was a wide, green lawn with some tall trees, an island of serenity in the middle of a fairly large city. Washington Park, on the other hand, was a rising group of wooded hills at the southernmost end of a chain of parks that runs through the western edge of Portland, stretching north to south along the Willamette River. And though Washington Park was something of a brief coda at the end of those parks, it was still impressively substantial. We could have spent all four days of our visit to Portland rambling along the trails of Washington Park and we would have seen only a teeny-tiny part of it. That’s how big it is. I mean, it’s big. Really big.

We weren’t really there, however, to take in all its bigness. All we wanted to do this morning was have a little stroll around the Japanese Garden, or maybe the Rose Garden, depending on our moods. We weren’t sure which just yet. We were going to get there first, wander around a bit, then decide. While we were deciding, we took a little ramble through the park of the park where the Vietnam veteran’s memorial sits.

The memorial is in a little natural amphitheater with high pines surrounding it on the hilltops above. In the middle there’s a fountain in a pool, and a long, winding path spirals up out of the amphitheater around the pool. At intervals along the path there are granite monuments engraved with the names of the dead, a classic war memorial. I used to go out of my way to visit these things, but I’m kind of meh on them now. There are always going to be wars, but I’m not as gung-ho about them as I used to be. Seemed to me then as if there might be a point to it, but I have a much more difficult time seeing it now.

We ambled up the trail out of the amphitheater and then into the park, heading in no particular direction, although we wanted to end up at the road where we could catch the bus to the Japanese Gardens. By whatever lucky chance, we did end up there. The bus wasn’t due to come along for quite a while, so we spent a little time wandering here and there, waiting on a bench in the shade of a low tree, walking down the road and back up again, and finally standing at the bus stop until the bus finally showed up and took us around the park to drop us off at the gate of the Japanese Gardens.

International Rose Test Gardens Portland ORTurns out the Japanese Gardens charge admission, something we overlooked every single one of the dozen or so times we Googled it. The entrance fee was more than we were willing to pay, and especially so considering that the bathrooms were out of order, so we ditched the Gardens and went to the International Rose Test Gardens instead.

I honestly don’t know why they’re considered “international” or what they’re testing there, but there is one very important thing I know, and that is that admission is free. Also, there are roses. The place is lousy with them. Not the most complimentary comparison, I know, but really, there’s no direction you can turn and not see roses. Even a guy like me, who’s not easily impressed by flowers, was kind of amazed at how many of them could be crowded into a few acres. And the smell was purty.

We hung out there for a good long time, strolling from one garden to another, but believe it or not there’s only so much you can take of purty-smellin’ roses, no matter how many there in all the colors of the rainbow. Eventually, we found ourselves a nice bench in the shade to rest our butts on again and plot our next move. It was getting late enough to start thinking about where we would eat dinner. I didn’t have an opinion about it until B said something about ramen and a restaurant called Umai PDX. It sounded like a pretty good idea all of a sudden, so off we went in search of the bus that would take us there.

I can tell you it’s the #15 bus and you’re supposed to catch it somewhere in the vicinity of Providence Park. I can also tell you that you’ll wait for-freaking-ever and you’ll never see it.  Two #15 buses went the other way while we were standing there waiting for the one that was going in our direction, and I got the funny feeling as the second one went by that maybe we should have gotten on one of them just to see if maybe it wouldn’t loop around and take us where we wanted to go, but it was too late by then; Umai was closed.

Because we had ramen on our mind, we tried to catch the #20 bus next to a place called Biwa. The stop was just a block away, easy to get to and it seemed there might even be some hope it would eventually arrive, but after waiting for 20 minutes, B started Googling around to see when exactly we could get there and which stop we should get off and that’s when she realized Biwa didn’t open until 5 pm, an hour and a half from then.

We decided we were too hungry to wait for Biwa, so it was back to Providence Park to catch the streetcar to Boxer Ramen. There was even a streetcar coming down the hill as we approached, so we parked ourselves next to the track and waited. And waited. And when the streetcar didn’t turn the corner to pick us up, I asked B to wait while I did a little recon. That’s how I found out that we were waiting on the wrong side of the block! The tracks split and we were apparently waiting on the return loop, so we both went around the block and waited another fifteen or twenty minutes for the next streetcar. And that’s how we spent almost two hours near Providence Park waiting for transportation before we finally caught a ride to Southwest Park Street, eight blocks from Providence Park. We could’ve walked there on our hands faster than that.

I’m not sure the ramen at Boxer Ramen is worth waiting two hours for, but then I can’t say that the ramen at any place I’ve ever been, except maybe Cheese Rool Noodle, would be worth waiting two hours for. If you take the frustration of waiting two hours for three different mass transit options out of the equation, I would have to say that Boxer Ramen serves a pretty delicious bowl of ramen, and leave the rest up to you.

After filling ourselves with noodles and broth, B wanted to get a beer at Portland Brewing Co., a brewpub on the northwest side of town. Once again, we waited for the #15 bus long enough that we could have caught two #15s if they had arrived at the posted times. About five minutes after the second one was supposed to be there, I suggested to B that we go to BridgePort Brewing instead, mostly because it was on a streetcar line and not the phantom #15 bus line.

My Darling B at Salt & Straw Portland ORThe streetcar took us to a rather frou-frou neighborhood just north of Old Town, where lots of warehouses had been remodeled into lofts and were mixed with new industrial chic construction. I couldn’t decide of Bridgeport was in an old warehouse, or if the building was in new construction that was built to look like an old warehouse. And once we were on the loading dock with a couple beers in our hands, relaxing in the cool evening air, I didn’t care much anymore.

When we had finally had enough relaxation and beer, My Darling B craved ice cream. Well, it was a vacation, after all. We walked around the block to catch a bus that, for once, showed up on time and took us a few blocks further on to Salt & Straw, a humongously popular ice cream shop in a residential neighborhood that was so incredibly upscale that my khaki pants and t-shirt featuring the logo of a Midwest brewery fit right in with the Banana Republic cargo pants and brewery t-shirts that the other guys were wearing. It was weird blending in to a place like this. But we were there for ice cream and nothing else, so we had to fool the locals just long enough to make it through the door and then get out of there.

There was quite a line waiting to get into Salt & Straw. The place got rave reviews on all the web sites we Googled, but we weren’t quite expecting to see the crowds we found thronging the place when we got there. The line wrapped around the corner and we waited maybe twenty minutes to snake our way in and finally get to the counter to order, but the ice cream was every bit as good as the hype made it out to be. We sat on a bench along the street, ooohing and aaahing as we slurped up the creamy goodness from our waffle cones. This is one of those must-visit places if ever your in Portland.

For only the second or third time that day, the bus showed up on time and took us back to our B&B. It even stopped at the right street this time so we didn’t have to backtrack three blocks at a trot, hoping we’d get there before we wet our pants.

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Saturday, September 27th, 2014

B on PSU campusSaturday morning, after we showered and made ourselves all pretty, we joined another couple, Jennifer and Jason, in the dining room for breakfast. There were other people staying in the B&B, but we were the only ones who asked for a hot breakfast. Jennifer and Jason, who I keep wanting to ship to “Jennison,” drove down from Washington state for the weekend to see Tears For Fears, one of their favorite pop music bands in concert at the Waterfront Park. Since they were from Washington, we asked them what there was to do in Seattle and one of the first things that came to their minds was the restaurant in Post Alley that serves clam chowder. Now, here’s a couple after our own hearts.

The Saturday market is a living scene out of almost any movie about a post-apocalyptic distopian society living in a tent city. As we wandered from tent to tent, the smell exotic foods and spices alternated with the smell of urine, then back to exotic foods and spices. Smoke filled the air, some of it from regular cigarettes, some from funny cigarettes. About half the crowd was dressed in military surplus clothing that would have been called “punk” back when I wore clothes like that (I wasn’t punk, I just liked military clothing). The punkers carried backpacks that appeared to be stuffed with all their possessions in the world, and I’m pretty sure that no less than every third one had skateboards under their arms. Occasionally a punker would stop me to ask if I would give him money. I would not.

Tourists were just as easy to spot: They were dressed in blue jeans or track clothes, wandered around with dazed half-smiles on their faces, and none of them asked me for money. There was one tourist who didn’t look like the rest: a geneticist from the Czech Republic we met while standing in line to sample a stout from Rogue Brewing. We learned he was a geneticist because he was wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with a Campbells-style soup can labeled “Mendel’s Hereditary Pea Soup” and My Darling B wanted one just like it so bad that she asked him. Unfortunately for B, he said he got it from the Gregor Mendel museum in Brno. Kind of a long way to go for a t-shirt, no matter how much you like Mendel or genetics.

The Saturday market is not a farmer’s market; there’s food and drink, but it’s mostly lots and lots of crafty & kitschy items for sale – tie-dye shirts, trolls carved out of drift wood, belts of all colors and belt buckles of all sizes & shapes, hand-thrown pottery, framed photos & paintings, and just about any other thing you can think of. The actual farmer’s market, where they were selling fruits and veggies and things made out of fruit and veggies, was taking place on the Portland State University campus, and My Darling B wanted to visit that, too, so we jumped on the streetcar and rode it across town.

farmer's market at PSU Portland OR

The PSU campus was a whole ‘nother world from the Mad Max weirdness along the waterfront. Nobody there was wearing military surplus clothing or skateboarding on your toes. Nobody asked me for money. I never once caught a whiff of urine. There was freshly-prepared, non-GMO organic food everywhere. We could have passed an entire morning stuffing ourselves silly with samples of breads, sausages, veggies and fruits. Next time.

After wandering through as much of the farmer’s market as we could, we walked down to the end of the park to catch the streetcar back to the waterfront. Here’s a funny thing about Portland: Drivers will stop for you when you go to cross the street. We noticed this yesterday when we followed a native Portlandian as he crossed the street to the bus stop and three lanes of highway traffic stopped for us. I’m pretty sure that anyone from Portland would be run over by a truck within fifteen minutes of being plopped down anywhere in Madison because he’d step off a curb thinking that all traffic would come to a halt. No chance of that.

We rode the streetcar to the vicinity of the Marquam Bridged where we thought we’d find the Full Sail brewpub. It’s almost there. They’ve got a storefront with their logo etched on the windows, and when I peered inside it looked like the place was plumbed for some heavy-duty waterworks, but there was definitely no beer being made there yet, nor would there be for quite some time.

This threw our schedule off a bit. Unsure what to do next, but having no where in particular to be, we wandered north up the waterfront and accidentally came upon Hempstalk 2014, where about a thousand honest-to-jah tie-dyed hippies in dreadlocks were doing their part to reinforce the popular stoner stereotype. Great job, guys!

Hair Of The Dog Brewpub Portland OR

Just past Hempstalk, we crossed the Hawthorne Bridge into what was once an industrial neighborhood but appears to be fast becoming a Brooklyized suburb of Portland. Five blocks north of the bridge we stopped at Hair Of The Dog Brewery, where the beers all seem to have first names – Adam, Ruth, Greg, Bob, Lila. The brewers explain most of the names on the brewery’s web site. B was happy that there were a lot to sample that weren’t hoppy; she’s a sensitive flower and gets overpowered by hoppy beers. She can smell the hops in most beers before she gets the glass to her lips, and she doesn’t like the scent of most hops. There must be a variety out there with an aroma she will like, but I’m still trying to find it. I liked the variety and tried as many different beers as my palate could handle; probably more than it could handle, come to that. My samples included everything from the hoppiest ale to the darkest stout. And we ordered a plate of sausage & cheese to nosh on while we drank, so the taste buds in both our mouths got quite a workout at this, our first stop for refreshments today.

There was some discussion about how to get to the stop for the bus that would take us to our next destination, and some dispute over who found it. I think I kept us going in the right direction, but B claims that she found the magical staircase that took us up to Morrison Bridge, where the bus would actually stop. Whatever, we got there, the bus arrived on time and we were on our way without delay.

We were probably the only people at the Cascade Brewing Barrel House who were there to drink beer that was not sour. As soon as we caught sight of the sign out front, proclaiming this as “the house of sour,” we debated whether or not we should even go in. Sour beer is the new trend in craft beers. In the same way that craft brewers have been tying themselves in knots for years trying to out-hop one another, they are now trying to make beers so sour that you will pucker your face all the way down your own throat.

Sour beer is not our thing; on this, My Darling B and I are united. However, Cascade did offer two beers that were not sours, and we did come all this way, so we ordered samplers of those two and gave them a try. Not bad, but it was apparent these were not the beers they had a passion for making. I wish them well with their passion. They may have made the sourest of sour beers that ever went sour, but we’ll never know.

sampling a Buckman braggot at Green Dragon Right across the street, and I mean literally right across the street, there’s the Green Dragon, a tavern with a wonderful beer garden and dizzying array of beers on tap. There was also what looked like an impressive brewery set up in the back, although there was nothing called Green Dragon beer on tap. It turns out several different brewers used the premises to make their beers, one of them being Buckman Brewery. We tried as many samples of their brews as we thought we could handle: Mistly Pale Ale and Buck Ginger Pale Ale, both crisp but a little too hoppy for B’s taste; a fresh hop mead, whatever that is (my notes weren’t very clear on this and I can’t find it online); and two braggots – Black Braggot and Super Braggot. I’d never had a braggot before. A blend of beer and mead, it’s like a beer with a bit more body and zip. B & I both liked it.

The Lucky Labrador

The Lucky Labrador was our last stop of the day before we headed back to the B&B, and really we were there for soup and sandwiches more than the beer, which was still good. I liked the beer hall atmosphere and kind of wish we had been in a mood to stay longer and enjoy it, but by this time we’d spent hours tramping all over Portland and really weren’t. We ate our sammies and washed them down with our beers, and then we caught the first bus out of there.

The bus driver either didn’t see our signal to stop or we pulled the cord too late. B is sure we weren’t too late pulling the cord but whatever went wrong, we had to backtrack two or three blocks to the street our B&B was on after the bus went singing up the road past our stop. And we had to do it at a trot; the thirty-minute bus ride had exceeded the ability of our bladders to comfortably hold on to the beer we were ready to off-load.

B sat up and read her novel for a little while after we got back. She said I was enthusiastically sawing logs just a few minutes after I laid my head on the pillow.

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