Settling in...

I went for a run today along a great trail that followed the coast, and ran for probably 3 miles until I reached the end. This adds to the network of wonderful trails around Corner Brook, making for some great day-to-day walking/running. As for the surrounding area, it seems pretty limitless. I stared at a map today hanging at the college, completely blown away by the scope of the wilderness here. It's like Alaska, I think. Actually, I guess it's like most of Canada.

My apartment is coming together. While clean and spacious, I was initially horrified by the overall beigeness, which I have (almost) successfully banished to the background. I'm actually offended by the color. I mean, if you like beige, more power to you. Strut around in those khaki Dockers all you like. But every shade of beige, no matter how J. Crew describes it, is awful to me.

Here's the living room, with my lovely little love seat, now covered in Indonesian tapestry.



Thanks to Jess for the stationery that inspired the kitchen cabinets:



I'll post more pictures of both the house and the college soon. My office (my own office!) is actually quite nice, with a curve of windows and a couple of pretty sweet pictures.

We have branches across the west coast.

Of Newfoundland, of course. I forgot who I was talkin' to.
-Newfie bank teller

When people here refer to the west coast, they are talking about the west coast of Newfoundland, as opposed to the population center of St. John's, over on the east coast. On the radio: "a band from the west coast," at an art gathering, "I'm from the west coast." The west coast of Newfoundland.

I've been here nearly a week, and I'm getting a feel for the place. The streets wind around steep hills, but the town is centered on the bay (north, down), which conforms to my Dallesian sense of direction (river, north, down) and if I get lost, I look for the smokestacks of the pulp and paper mill.

I went for a hike this morning with Marvin, across marshy bogs (need to learn the distinction between a marsh and a bog, I suppose), my foot occasionally sinking in muck up to the calf. We walked down a majestic valley, with the Blow Me Down mountains on either side. We found a great swimming hole, probably ten feet deep in one spot, and as I was taking my shoes off, I heard desperate, flailing swimming from below. Marvin had jumped in off the rocks and couldn't get out. No worries, I grabbed his collar and he was much more careful after that.

The Blow Me Down Mountains:


We hiked back several kilometers (ahem, metriphiles) and as we were gazing over a pond, I saw a large black shape duck behind a shrub. I watched it emerge the other side, a huge black bear. Then I saw the two cubs, running behind her. They lumbered away from me, so I watched them for a bit, holding Marvin close. They were far enough away that I wasn't too worried, but then the mother turned around and looked right at me, and reared up on her hind legs, just watching me. I was scared enough and backed away slowly, then picked up a large rock to carry. Why a rock? Would it help me in a bear attack? No, but it made me feel tough.

In the afternoon today, I went to an art show and gathering at a neighboring town called MacIvers. The gathering was at a farm/art collective, with a giant meadow where they'd displayed in huge white letters the name of the collective: Full Tilt. I didn't get a picture, as I'd forgotten my camera, but the scenery was strikingly similar to the Gorge, with steep hills around a large body of water. And here's a link to a photo collection from one of the artsy young guys there. The meadow had a few art installations and I chatted with some local creative types, and once again ran into several people I'd met from Grenfell.

A few quick notes:
Good coffee at a place called Brewed Awakening. And a pretty good crowd. It's not Interzone, but no place is.
Terrible beer everywhere, with fake IPA available and nothing better than an insipid lager. The wine isn't too bad, and I've been sampling the Nova Scotia and Newfoundland varieties. Seriously, not too bad.
The hiking is amazing and regal, but so remote and boggy. Everyone is already talking about winter, which makes me nervous. E, a history prof at Grenfell, said that many of the houses are completely snow-covered in winter because of the plows. He said you could just walk between the roofs of some neighborhoods.
People seem pretty laid-back, but not sickly sweet. It's a nice attitude. A lot of "m'love" and "m'dear" in everyday speech.
Nobody knows anything about Oregon. Nor have most people been particularly interested. It's insular.

I found the Newfoundland flower today while hiking. It's a pitcher plant, and it's a strangely lovely little rust-colored thing. I still haven't seen a moose.

Oh, ye'll be gittin' yerself a newflender, then, ye will

Mom and I had a rather harrowing journey from Nova Scotia, and arrived after 1 am. We then drove the half hour to a town called Doyles, where I had reservations at a B&B. We'd heard horror stories about the moose (Newfoundland has the highest concentration of moose in the world) and what they do to your car and/or person, so we were crawling along, getting passed by semis off the ferry on a dark, rainy, 2-lane road. Almost at our wits end, we turned the corner to find our inn, where our extremely friendly inn-keeper, Gerald, greeted us with two rooms, "'cuz I dooble booked tha room fer ya by accedent an' I'm sawry 'bout thet, hope thit this works, here, fer ya." But he said it really really fast. The next day, at breakfast, he greeted us with eggs and great coffee and after some discussion about why I'm in Newfoundland and all that, he said, "Have ye got a man?" To which I said, "a what?" "A man, have ye brote a man?" "Oh, no, I haven't." He then said, "Oh, ye'll be gittin' yerself a newflender, then, ye will." Which is when I realized that he was not, in fact, an Irish man. He was from Newfoundland. And that is how they speak.

In Corner Brook, many people have just a bit of a lilt, but as you meet more rural people, or poorer people, or just about anybody working in a store, you have to just nod and smile and hope that picking out every fourth word is sufficient for comprehension. One night, over Chinese food, mom and I found ourselves in fits of laughter, doubled over, tears in our eyes, as the group of seven men behind us carried on a conversation. "Yaa, tha dook mait bea threw eet" and so on; we had no idea what they were talking about. At one point, mom suggested that they might be speaking French, to which we both laughed silently, hiccuping now and then. The men looked over, so I tried to make my face look normal, to no avail. We just laughed and laughed, until mom took off her glasses and wiped her eyes and said, "well, let's just stop that now [hahahahahaaaaaaaa]. Okay, now stop laughing. Seriously."

Everyone seems to have an Irish name here; everyone seems friendly but not sweet (more like a hospitality, but not a lot of bullshit); and most people seem a lot like small-town Oregonians in their appearance (overwhelmingly white, lots of obesity) and vehicular preferences. I had an interesting conversation with a woman named Jacey in the cell phone shop today. She kept asking me questions "about Americans" and so we alternated between discussing land lines and high-speed internet and talking about the U.S. Of course, her speech was all with a heavy lilt, and lots of Newfie slang, but I'll just type it as I remember it, content-wise:

J: "So, isn't America pretty violent, then?"
E: "Some places, but I don't think Oregon is more violent than here."
J: "But aren't people just carrying guns around?"
E: "That depends on the state. But you can carry a gun in Oregon; if you have a permit, you can carry it on yourself in your coat or your car or whatever."
J: "Oh, that seems a bit much."

And so on. Definitely a small-town girl, but there might be some different views on guns around here.

Mom left yesterday and I've spent the day trying to get a cell phone and bank account and running into one bureaucratic hurdle after another. Cell phones are really tough here! So I'm out and about, walking Marvin around and now sitting in a coffee shop next to a bike shop... could be Corvallis.

Sigh.

As for Nova Scotia: it was designed to embody the term "bucolic." In fact, if you look up bucolic, you'll see this:



It was adorable. So was our B&B, run by a woman whose great- great- great- [something] aunt was a giant. This land is populated by eccentric characters from a novel. Mom kept saying I should blog about all the "characters" and I'll try and get around to it. Right now, I'm going to return to my apartment to continue unpacking. Luckily, I have a bed, which I've covered with the most beautiful blanket of all time.



It also has a great view of the Corner Brook Pulp and Paper Mill, and the amazing mountains beyond.



Mom and I went kayaking yesterday in Gros Morne National Park, about an hour and a half from my house. It was a great end to a really great road trip. Now I'm back to "real" life, whatever that means for me here. I'm glad mom got to be here, and we had another adventure together. It was tough sometimes, as my definition of "driving fast" and hers don't exactly mesh. But she was a great sport, and how many people have a mom that they can laugh with until they cry?

St. John: A lil' piece of Europe

Mom and I had lunner in St. John, New Brunswick. We drove in without expectations. I mean, who has ever heard of St. John?

It was more than adorable. It was adorriftastic. Some of the greatest brownstones I've seen on the whole trip, and adorable shops:



We've been firmly committed to eating seafood with every meal since arriving in the Atlantic region; last night in Bangor, it was lobster and scallops. Lunch in St. John was scallops, mussels, and fish. I'm feeling very proteined.

Also seen in New Brunswick, in honor of my dad, Johnny Law:



Tonight we're in a hotel in Amherst, Nova Scotia. We walked around looking for a beer [me] and dessert [mom] and it started pouring on us. I didn't get beer, but we got cheesecake to go and now we're sitting in our hotel, eating and watching a TV show about bridal dresses. Our B&B for the night fell through, so we're in a hotel which is certainly... roofed. Rolling with the punches here.

So, here we are in Canada. Speed limits posted in Kilometers per hour ("Oh, you can drive 110! Doesn't that seem fast?"), all the signs in both English and French. We both try and say every sign in French. Good thing they're not too defensive about linguistic purity.

It's fun to see Canadian license plates everywhere, though we have yet to see a Newfoundland license plate. Eek.

And so I'll name my first baby "Aggie"

Aggie [Canadian border patrol agent lady]: "So you're going to work in Canada?"
Me: "Yup." Starting to get a little nervous. The documents didn't come before I left Oregon.
Aggie: Looks at my passport. "Do you have a signed contract?"
Me: "Uhhh, no. I have this letter." I Produce a slightly dog-eared, coffee-stained letter from the university. It says they're offering me a job.
Aggie: "This is it?" She reads it, turns it over. "Do you have any more documentation? Like your qualifications?"
Me: "Maybe in the car..." My voice trails off. "I guess I could..."
Aggie: Smiles. "Just tell me if you don't."
Me: "Yeah, I don't think so."
Aggie: "I don't want to be rude, but you're really unprepared."
Me: "Yeah, I'm sorry."
Aggie: "I'll see what I can do."
[Time passes, Aggie fills out some paperwork]
Aggie: "Can you call someone and have them fax us things?"
[I call the university and just get an answering service]
Aggie: "Do you have an address in Newfoundland?"
Me: "Yeah, but... uhhh... I don't know it."
Aggie: "You are a challenge."
Me: Nervous laughter.
Aggie: "You know, other people probably wouldn't have let you do this. But I'll give you a work permit. I'm going to trust you to fax me your documents."
Me: "Oh God, thank you so much."

The ghosts in this machine

So we're staying outside of the sprawling and vaguely ridiculous town of Rumford, Maine. It's a small town, but it never ends; first the little villages, miles apart: Rumford Point, Rumford Center. Then the long, sad, strange town of Rumford, all boarded up and sagging. We kept driving through it, as the town meandered from little downtown to little downtown, to its real centerpiece: the huge pulp mill in adjacent Mexico, Maine. The three-story apartment buildings around it were caving under time and mold, with asbestos siding and hastily built porches atop yards of plastic toys and dirt. With a nod to C. Bailey, where there are pulp mills, there is poverty. The town was heavy with it: a teenage girl pushing her baby in a faded stroller, young men smoking and walking aimlessly across the street, old men hunched and weaving. The streets were full of life, but the ghosts hovered just above.



I walked up to a giant statue of Paul Bunyon and took a picture, and a man nearby said: "don't tell me you're a tourist." He was about 60, wearing a Harley vest and sitting next to his friend, their motorcycles nearby. I said yes, and we got to discussing Oregon, and my road trip. "How's the mill doing?" I asked. "Oh, it's doing pretty well," said the first man, "I'm a wood buyer there." After a bit more discussion, I found out it was owned by a subsidiary of Cerberus, a private investment firm. And more: "Nobody wants their kids to work in the mill. There's no pride in that anymore." He was critical of the owners, and critical of their short-sightedness and the decline of the town. Of course. The story of small-town America. Our ghosts in the machine: decay pokes through the thin veneer of civilization, and we recoil at its primeval stench.

We ate at the Chicken Coop, where the sweet waitress spoke to us without the use of the letter "R" at the end of words. "Yo'ah from out of town? The Lobstah he-ah is excellent!" It was an old logger bar, I think; lots of food, some of it not very good but some of it great, all for a very low price. And we drank "Shipyahd" beer. I mean Beah.



Mom and I are staying in an actual haunted house. It says 1885 on the front, and it's got a giant red barn and the most beautiful wood floors I've ever seen, some of the planks a foot and a half wide. Music is playing somewhere and I sit in this room, faux candles blazing on the wall next to a gilded mirror. It's so quiet outside that we could hear the drip of a faucet under the screened porch as we played Scrabble. Marvin is sleeping, tired from our hike up Mt. Eisenhower in New Hampshire today.

He met his first pigs today, and stared at them like he does with cats, backing up on his haunches, his tail wagging in excitement and uncertainty.

New England is just so goddamn cute

And I'm including the Adirondacks in that statement. Mom and I struggled a bit through two long days of driving, and finally made it to Keene Valley, NY. It was so damn cute. We kept pointing out the "colonial" houses; anything that we liked earned the moniker "colonial." I think we have officially changed the meaning of the word "colonial" to include anything with brick and a porch. We also kept pointing to the churches, and saying something profound like, "look at that church!" and then driving on. Or perhaps, "look at that barn!" followed by a short squeal. We were instantly ten years old, looking at doll houses.

We had our first northeastern hike, which for mom was kind of short-lived, as these hardy people enjoy placing a trail directly up a rocky mountain. I made it to the peak of Slide Mountain, after scrambling up giant rocks with Marvin, often pushing him up as his claws slipped around the granite, attempting to find a hold. We looked over the mountains, all the biggest peaks in New York, and spoke with several New Yorkers: the young man who'd gone to boarding school in the area, where he'd worked on a farm and said he hated the term "character building," and who told me about the 46-ers, people who attempt all of New York's 46 peaks over 4000 feet; the father and daughter from Rochester, who pointed out the names of the peaks nearby and talked about how "nice" Oregon seemed. It was all so damn pleasant. Mom said she thought that all of New York would be crowds and noise, and here we were in the heart of quiet mountains, gasping over the cuteness.

Mom and I played Scrabble that night, drinking Bloody Marys made with pickled asparagus we bought at the local store and cursing our draws: "I've got nothing but I's," "You just can't make a word with these letters." We had a perfect dinner, outside, our second night of sea scallops and wine from the Northwest. Mom said that New York was the prettiest state she'd seen, and I thought it was close. I'd put it behind Oregon, Montana, and New Mexico.

Now we're in Waterbury, Vermont, surrounded by steep mountains and old buildings. We went to Stowe today, to the Ben and Jerry's factory and then to some rocky, steep cliffs at Smuggler's Notch. The B&J factory was cute enough, with its giant silos marked Milk, Cream, and Sugar, and its flavor graveyard. But the children were a bit much for us; I overheard a woman demanding to her 8 year-old: "you better smile for this photo or you're not getting any ice cream!" We drove to the cliffs of Smuggler's Notch and walked around birch trees clinging to the sides of rocks, their smooth bark pulling back to reveal layers of reds and pinks. Mom loved the rocks themselves, which had a strangely metallic look and chipped into knife-blade edges.

Now it's time for more Bloody Marys and Scrabble, and the eternal quest for the perfect draw. Tomorrow we go through New Hampshire to Maine, in pursuit of the cutest goddamn place we can find. God forbid these states should have something less than charming.

Across the heartland...

Mom and I went across Chicago, then across Indiana, across Ohio, and across northern Pennsylvania. There's no other way to describe it. You get to a state and just... cross it. Get across it. Not that the places were unpleasant, necessarily, just kind of tedious. Cleveland looked kind of nice, except it was pouring down rain the whole time. The farmlands were pleasant enough, and the hardwood forests here and there were quite pretty.

Finally we got to North East, Pennsylvania, a cute-as-a-button town with a large central square and a kind of cheesy Italian restaurant with good lasagna but horrific salads. We tried some local wine, which tasted like slightly sour grape juice. The town reminds me of the Old West, and we talked to the owner of the Italian joint, who said it started in the late 19th century with commodity concord grapes which became (or always were?) dominated by Welch's. So it was the Old West, in a way. It was settled around the same time, and it was a little farming town.

Here we are, grapejuice/wine bottle in hand:



Tomorrow, we'll go for a run in the grand, but sort of decaying, neighborhoods, and hopefully end up somewhere near Lake Erie. Then we're off to New York and the Adirondacks. And a very long drive tomorrow, assuming we take the scenic route (which I'm wont to do).

Nature's Metropolis

Looking at a topographical map is so deceiving with Chicago because it is, indeed, very flat; but its main direction is up. I thought I'd be bothered by such a flat city, but the topography is in the buildings which rise up like mountains around you. The buildings are sometimes sleek, all mirrors and modernity, but I love the neoclassical and neogothic architecture. It is stunning. I once read Fountainhead, an experience that has scarred me. But I remember the argument, made with all the subtlety that the author seems to employ in all her writing, that architecture should be pure somehow, and unadorned, and manly in its simplicity. She was no more an architectural critic than she was a great writer. I love the columns and the flying buttresses and the curlicues; the marble-encased windows and the art nouveau brass doors. All transformed for the purpose of the modern megalopolis and made impossibly vertical, beyond the wildest imaginings of their initial designers.

And then there's the L, winding its way around brick buildings like some real-life train set. Chicago reminds me of a children's book; Look! There's a train, and there's a race track, and there's a plane flying overhead!

Sarah and I continued our monster tour of the American West. We visited hipster neighborhoods, where women with ironic mullets cut our hair; we escaped the heat by watching a children's movie; and we took the metra, apparently a feminized version of the metro. The metra was staffed by a man in a crisp uniform, a brass "trainman" on his hat and a black belt with a snappy coin dispenser. Sarah said she might like his job, and I thought that was probably as good a job as anything she's mentioned so far. Unfortunately, we had to part. We said good bye on a bench in a park, with trash blowing around us and a group of Mexicans nearby playing cards.

Ah, Chicago.

Fried chicken with Chinese food in La Crosse, WI

We had Chinese food in La Crosse, WI, today. Sarah said "Wisconsin might surprise you" and I was pleasantly surprised by La Crosse, which has a quiet, historic downtown with brightly-painted old brick buildings.

We'd had such a nice surprise on the way: southeastern Minnesota. We went down highway 16, through what felt like a North American Vietnam, it was so humid and tropical. We camped on the river, on a giant lawn, and upon waking, with the mist rising from the river, I said that it seemed we should be able to go into town and get guavas. We went for a hike and ended up covered in sweat, overlooking a patchwork farm-and-hardwood-forest that stretched into the distance.

Back to La Crosse: we went to Chinese food, and they had a lunch special that was pretty typical; you know, hot and sour soup, rice, some kind of stir-fry. And two pieces of fried chicken. Fried chicken even came with the veggie dishes. We think this was a nod to Midwestern culture.

As for the rest of it: lots of strip malls, lots of water parks, and lots of bad driving here in WI and IL. We've tried coming up with a motto for Rockford, IL, where we're currently listening to soft rock at a wireless cafe. Possibilities include:

Rockford: Not as Bad as It Could Be
Rockford: Let's Go to Sonic and Get a 1/4 Lb Chili Dog
Rockford: It Stinks Here
Rockford: Don't Hold Your Breath
Rockford: At Least You Don't Have to Get Dressed Up
Rockford: I Wish I Were Blind
Rockford: Let's Get this Over With
Rockford: A Great Place to Sniff Glue
Rockford: I Am Disappointed in You
Rockford: You Have Something on Your Face
Rockford: Not Much of a Looker
Rockford: Because Happiness Isn't for Everyone
Rockford: I Think They Have a Cream for That
Rockford: I'll Just Wait in the Car

Almost to Chicago, to hang with the brother and be all cosmopolitan. Are we up to the task? Certainly.

My sweet angel Mac

So we're headed toward Sioux Falls, SD and we implore the Garmin to find us an oil changery. And she points us toward the downtown, where we take the tired Subaru. I found out there that my rear tires had "zero tread" on them. I asked the sweet Midwesterner if that was dangerous and he said "oh yeah, it is." I went and looked at the tires and they were flat, with no tread at all.

I would count this as a victory for my guardian angel Mac, who clearly guided me to get my oil changed, and furthermore made my oil changer Firestone, where they gave me four new tires. It wasn't cheap, but we're not dead.

Also, Sioux Falls has a giant bronze recreation of David. Nicely done, too.



Oddly, though, it's really hard to find, it's isolated, and it's on this kind of ugly, concrete-bound river that is completely surrounded by ugly hotels. Not the fronts of the hotels, the backs of them. The "falls," presumably, are somewhere on that river. But the town was poorly planned, at least for humans.

But the people in Sioux Falls are the best, and all across the Midwest we encountered the same friendliness. We let it wash over us, until we were covered in a fine dusting of sugary sweetness.

"Motorcycles are everywhere"

We saw a sign in Idaho that said "Motorcycles are everywhere" and it became a catchphrase of ours for a few days. When we got to South Dakota, it was the truth. There were motorcycles everywhere, usually driven by stout men with leathery brown skin. We were going to Sturgis.



Sturgis was a sea of people, common to large festivals. It had the ambience of the world's noisiest t-shirt shop. Marvin walked at my feet; I wore a tomato-red dress and a straw sun hat through the crowds of leather-clad cyclists and sweet older women in t-shirts that said "I feel a sin coming on." A sincere man gave me a glass bead and said, intently, that it was the blood of Christ and that he died for me. I thanked him and took a brochure.

Giant billboards advertised Ozzy Osbourn, the Scorpions, Motley Crue, and Bob Dylan. Like most of the motorcyclists, these artists are past their prime, now sporadically going through the motions of their youth. That sounds cruel, but I don't mean it to be; it is good to relive something that you once were, or once hoped to be.

After walking up and down the streets with the crowds of people, I went for a hike up the nearest hill, and Sarah went for a drink in a biker bar. The hike gave me a chance to observe the black hills up close; all ponderosa pine, tall grass, and rocky outcroppings. Sarah got to meet a local, someone from 10 miles away. "He was an Army guy, telling tales of glory in Alaska. He was talking about his upcoming epic bike trip to Grand Canyon, San Francisco, Portland, and back" says Sarah.

We left Sturgis amid a swarm of bikers that gradually fell away until there were just a few, like persistent bees. We went to Wall Drug, where we found a fake Mt. Rushmore to get our picture taken, then went to a strange salad bar joint where bikers ate iceberg lettuce with ranch dressing. Cute young Ukrainians staffed the place; our Ukrainian said it was an exchange program, and that "it was satisfying" work. I hope they're having a wonderful time.

acronomyzing (a-CRON-a-mizing)

Sarah and I are developing acronyms to replace everyday speech. In order for the acronyms to spread (via small towns across Montana, SD, and the Midwest), we use them as casually as possible:

"JIC you were wondering," for example, means "Just in case you were wondering."

Many of our acronyms are useful; many are not, but will become useful once in common parlance. CJNSQ = certain je ne sais quoi. WHITS = what happens in the Subaru [stays in the Subaru]. FBOS = [something very dirty].

The opposite process is phrasing, that of assigning words to each letter of a word. We haven't developed this practice just yet, but I'd like to make my claim on its future popularity.

No bear, no bear ...

That's what I said, every few steps, as I hiked up to Sawtooth Lake alone today. I'd heard there were some black bear incidents in the area, so I said it, in between talking to myself and yelling at Marvin for disturbing the wildlife. The Lake was lovely, and there was a mysterious crashed plane there:



There was fireweed all over the first mile, where there's been a burn, and Marvin practically disappeared into the purple of it all. There was no bear, anywhere. We returned to the trailhead just as Sarah and Amie pulled up from their hotsprings sojourn, then we all went to Bannack, a well-preserved ghost town that was the first capital of the Montana Territory.



I like the Masons; I like power and secrecy and organizations that may or may not rule the world covertly. So I decided that I'd take the Masonic Lodge, and Amie decided she'd take the church:



Now we're waiting for a storm that's been brewing, all gray and silver and white clouds ominous above our heads. And we'll drink home brew and eat tacos with homemade shells.

Trench coats: not just for flashers anymore

Here we are, Thursday already. Holy Moses, this has been one heck of a visit. Sarah is keeping an anti-bucket list (things she's done that she didn't even know she wanted to do) and it's growing full. Today was hiking and then a swim in a very cold alpine lake. Tubing and drinking beer on the river yesterday.

Last night, we had a BBQ and had people write down professions for Sarah to pursue. Among the nominees: space shuttle janitor; beekeeper; and puffy paint t-shirt designer. Sarah is still torn. Quite possibly, she will simply wander off from the car somewhere in South Dakota. At the BBQ, we wore hats:



Also, yesterday, we visited a thrift store called Di's, staffed by a charming woman with no teeth. Sarah bought five trench coats, four beanies, and a Mt. Rushmore plaque for $7. I got a purple jumpsuit because I don't have enough clothes. Also, two belts.

Our hike today was beautiful. Amie was really excited about granite and kept pointing it out. Everywhere across Montana are these beautifully preserved ghost towns and other detritus of our civilization. What will survive, when 1000 years have passed? Maybe not a lot, but perhaps these conical coal kilns. And the archaeologists of the future will say, what funny houses!



I must admit that the Mexican food here in Dillon is divine. I was dismissive, and I have come to regret my hasty judgment. Fine, Amie! It's fucking good. And Amie and I rode a tandem bike yesterday, just to make the day complete.



Sorry if this is just a list of things I've done. I'm off to eat homemade saag paneer.

Virginia City, MT

We went to Virginia City, Montana, yesterday evening. On the way, Dave regaled us with stories of VC's history, and the highwaymen who terrorized its citizens. After disembarking from the Pious, we roamed the street of the city, which is at 5800 feet in elevation. It's pretty adorable, all wooden boardwalks and friendly people. The permanent population, according to a few residents I cornered, is now ~150. In the summer. Here's Amie, myself, and Sarah, in front of our respective dream houses:



I think I might actually like Amie's the best, but I'd take the middle house. Amie then has to entertain us all on her beautiful porch.

We watched the Brewery Follies in an old brewery that served a prohibition-era lager originally made at the brewery. They were charming and cute, and afterward we went out to a bar where the cast (all four of them) apparently hang out. The crew of us danced like this:



Yes we did.

Did I just make that up?

EK: "Should we keep a ledger? Like, of expenses? We will call it the Heath Ledger."
SL: "Like a Heath Bar. Wait, did I just make that up? Is there such a thing as a Heath Bar?"
EK: "Yeah, there's such a thing. It's a candy bar."
SL: "Oh, ha ha ha ha. I've never had one. Let's get a Heath Bar!"

We've arrived in Dillon, Montana, to stay with A and D, our friends in fun and adventure. During our first day of driving, we: threaded our way through two adorable fawns that were crossing the goddamn interstate; survived God's armpit (aka the "tri-cities," aka the "tenth-best western U.S. cities that are more than twins"); experienced a traffic jam in rural northern Idaho; and lost our keys (ahem, me, I did, goddamn myself). Truly an adventure!

Now: I'm going for a hike with D, up a hill with a letter on it. I think the letter is W. Every hill in Montana and Idaho has a letter on it.

Thanks, Mac!

This post will be brief, as I am currently sitting in Interzone, waiting to breaksup with Jess. The name of the breaksupping dish is "Janet Relleno." I wanted to make a few notes, to remind myself of things I want to write about, which are: the Commonwealth (of Nations, and of the Realm), and... nothing else, maybe. Just a mental note.

My car is packed, my house is clean, and Marvin is freaking out because he thinks, as he does every time I leave him, that I will never come back for him and he will be hungry forever. Fear not, young Marvin! I will return.

Plans seem to be working out with SL, who will be accompanying me from Portland to Chicago. Her timing is pretty spot on - she got back from Alaska, spent a little time at the beach, and we'll converge in Portland for an epic road journey. I was slightly concerned, but things are just kind of falling in line. I mean, it could be because I've been planning, packing, and panicking for about a month, but it could also be because I have an angel, literally, looking over my shoulder. My angel is a chain-smoking New Yorker named Mac who kicks the shit out of my obstacles. Thanks, Mac!