In Between a Attled Sea and a Port.

All good things must eventually come to an end. I don't know who invented that phrase, but it has long since passed into the cliché bargain bin. If it were a movie, it would be Beastmaster 3. And I still can't resist picking it up and using it myself. Also like Beastmaster 3.

Our last meal in Seattle was I think one of the beast breaking of fast that I've ever had. I went with a roast beef hash that was the special for the morning. It was either that, or the Chorizo biscuits and gravy. For me, this was my Sophie's Choice moment, and that is without a bit of hyperbole. Not a jot. Big decision.

As a rule of life, if it sounds good, always go with the special.

We checked out of our hotel and I was reacquainted with how hill-infested the region actually is. And as I lugged my 50 pound bag the two miles between us and our destination at King Street Station,I kicked myself along the way for not bringing along a backpack. Nope. I had to opt for the duffel bag. Stupid. Fortunately my arms are big and muscular. Unfortunately the previous statement is a lie.

The train was late. Go Amtrak! Nothing else to add to that. We just got/had to hang around the train station for a couple hours longer than we had planned. Alls well, the décor was worth an extra gander and I got some good pics before they called us to board the train.

I had been looking forward to the train ride since booking the trip. A train seemed like an easy way to get out and enjoy the scenery, as it passed your window at 60 miles per hour. I was facing backwards, and the weather was overcast and foggy. Foggy and overcast. I don't need to make that tire ass Seattle joke do I? Because I will. No joke is too tired for me.

The very first thing I noticed as we made our final approach into Portland were the garbage streams. Not literal rivers of garbage, but streams of refuse that seemed to be flowing down hill. As if a landfill got all biblically gone done pulled a flood and then just projectile vomited its inner secrets unto the world. That was what the road to Portland looked like. Trashslides and rubbivulets.

Behold the beauty of the Pacific North West in all of its splendor!

The station we arrived at lacked the grandeur of the one we had left behind, it was much more utilitarian and pedestrian. Which in retrospect seems fitting and an apt metaphor for a comparison between the two cities. Odd, as Portland has somewhat of a reputation for being a wild and weird frontier city. You would expect their public buildings to reflect that more.

To be honest, Oregon as a whole struck me with a similar vibe. Like they had been a meeting point between hippie and cowboy and created some sort of self-hating mutant hybrid. Or maybe a pair of siblings that both thought that they alone should inherit the estate. Oregon is a weird place. I liked it.

The weather was sunny and beautiful. Which is exactly how I remembered Portland. The one time I visited. Three years ago. For about 1 day, before I shuffled off to Eugene to hang out with the one person I really wanted to fly across the country to see. Didn't see her again this time. I made missteps and things seemed awkward. I don't seem to have the social wherewithal necessary to unawkward the whole mess.

I am pretty good at regret though. And revisiting embarrassing memories. I'm tops at that. Shit, I should get a medal.

So yeah. Portland.

We didn't spend much time wandering around down town.  Only stopping briefly to pose for a photo near a giant eye sculpture.  A giant eye sculpture with a steering wheel and captain's chair.  Eye Eye Captain.

 Because fuck that. Remember the whole “I'm carrying a bag thing from earlier”? Yeah, touristing can wait. Once again, we hopped the train and rode the rails. All the way up to the hotel that I stayed at during my last visit. I recalled it was clean, near the airport, and a half block away from the Red Line.

The rest of the evening was going to be spent unwinding. Unwinding, on a vacation. It sounds stupid when I read aloud my words to myself. But that was what we did. We hung out in the room and watched Rifftrax on my phone, until we ventured out to eat.

The discussion followed the form of: “What about?” “No”. For a distressing amount of time. Until we chanced upon El Sombrero. What is El Sombrero you ask? Well that is a stupid question. But I'm really good at answering stupid questions, and usually with only a limited amount of condescension and sarcasm.

El Sombrero is a Mexican joint that serves “Basic no frills Mexican fare.” What I consider standard Mexican food. Combo plates that automatically come with sides of Beans and Rice.

Dude, I live in a city with a sizable Latin population. There are numerous taquerias. So I suppose that I can be argued that visiting a foodie Mecca like Portland to eat at a basic Mexican joint probably as blaspheme against some minor hipster foodie deity. And fuck that tight pants bearded asshole. Lets get us some Mexican! And not even fancy Mexican Fusion made from exotic blends of unexpected ingredients that elevates the meal from simple sustenance to an art form. An experience.

Nope. Just tacos and beans and rice.

And goddamnit was it phenomenal. If El Sombrero was here, it would be on my “Visit this place more often” list, as we bookended the day with amazing eats.

Foreshadowing and spoilers, but this was the best meal I had in Portland.

Puttin the Attle in Seattle, Part 1

You know things are going swimmingly when TSA pulls you aside to do a search of your bag. It's a good thing that I don't really take much stock in portents and auspices, because that would have cast a rather dim pall on the trip to come. And I had been looking forward to seeing Seattle for so many years. Now I was going with a couple of friends.

Yes Seattle. For some reason that frontier town holds a special place in my imagination. I dreamed of moving there for a long time. It could one day happen. Only everything about reality stands in my way. But at the very least I wanted to go back West.

TSA pulled me aside and started digging through my bag. I had been asked if I had food, and replied in the affirmative. I had picked up a bag of Granola, under the assumption that I might run into some hippies and need a peace offering. I suppose that it was the Granola that tripped their alarms. Maybe they thought to find some of the sweet ganja as well, and “confiscate it for evidence.”

No dice.

The rest of the flight out was uneventful. We left early evening Eastern time and arrived on the West Coast late at night, only too relieved to crash in our ghetto hotel room with a stain that heavily resembled blood on the carpet. That was the plan, the late arrival, not the ghetto hotel room. Get there late, after a full day of work, and then enjoy the first day of vacation without a jot of travel to grind us down.

I know this is going to blow your mind, but Seattle was rainy as we arose the next morning. A cold misty drizzle that I suspect is common for the region. We broke fast at a nearby place called the Pancake Chef. I think I had the Stuffed French Toast. I know it was delicious. I would go back.

A note. Food will probably come up frequently in this rambling odyssey that would make Homer(Simpson) jealous. Food was as ever part of the reason to visit these two(Seattle and Portland) west coast cities. But since I'm lazy and am also writing 18 months after the trip, the details will be fuzzy or missing as I try to recreate the facts. You have been warned.

We jumped onto Seattle's public transit, because fuck cars. I don't want to sit in traffic, I want to see the scenery. And the train is a lot cheaper way to get from point a to b, no gas or insurance or getting lost. Though it does mean having to hoof it between stops. And Seattle is not only rainy, but also tends to be on the Hilly side. Walking up hills is for chumps. I spent a lot of time walking up hills.

The remainder of our stay in Seattle was at a hotel a half a mile from the famed Space Needle. Perfect location for a bunch of tourists, 2/3rds of whom had never been to the city before. Though it meant only getting anything like an in depth feel for that one small slice of town. Then again, we were only in Seattle for like 3 days. Barely enough time to scratch the surface of even one neighborhood.

Our first steps took us out to the Fremont neighborhood. I don't know much about it, hell, I've had to repeatedly look up the name between the first visit and my writing this. So, go visit the wikipedia page.

Fremont is speckled with sculptures, some of them fairly famous. And through our wanderings we came across some of these examples. Who doesn't like a neighborhood that randomly hosts a 16 foot tall Vladimir Lenin statue? Probably quite a few people actually, as they yell obscenities about dirty pinko commies. I found the statue amusing, and was surprised that it was there. This one doesn't do his research. But I did discover that the statue was purchased in Czechoslovakia after the fall of the communist state by a Seattle native, and then shipped back to Seattle, where he installed it. After several moves, it resides about 3 blocks away from another local landmark, the Fremont Troll(saw that too).

Iffin you have $250,000.00 the statue could be yours. If I had that much money to throw away, Lenin would be staying where he currently stands. To continue the tradition of make-overs and new paint-jobs that he regularly receives.

It was in Fremont that I developed a delightful game, one that you should all play when you travel. I call it Hey Adam, Go Stand Next to That! The rules of the game are complex but I shall do my best to explain. Say you find an object/person/bit of scenery/abstract concept that you wish to take a photo of, but you also want to see how many times you can get your friend to pose next to revolving cast of things, until they tell you to go fuck yourself.

I got a good pic of Adam and Lenin. All the better to blackmail him should he run for public office. Hey Adam, Go Stand Next to That!

We found ourselves at what my frumpy ass would describe as a Hippish Mexican restaurant in Fremont, I think it was called El Camino. It had a pleasant ambiance with an attractive hardwood interior. We were lead out onto the porch to enjoy what had cleared out to be some rather nice weather. I ordered a spicy sandwich, because I like spicy food. Sadly being used to the concept of Midwest Spicy, I was broadsided by a mac truck full of capsaicin. It was absolutely wonderful.

Back out on the streets, we caught a bus and continued our wanderings. The bus took us to the Capital Hill neighborhood, so that I might engage in the single solid goal I had for the trip. You see, most of my plans for the visit were rather nebulous see where the wind blows me type of adventure. With a single exception.

This goal was to find and visit the final resting place of one Bruce Lee. Yes, that Bruce Lee. He was born and raised in Hong Kong, came to America and somehow ended up buried in Seattle. I'm sure there is a rational explanation and good story, but fuck that noise, I'm just gonna say it's because of Aliens.

This may be a case of TMI, but spicy food tends to cause an adverse reaction throughout my innards. Think napalm enema.

The discontent started while we were on the bus, which is NEVER a good omen. And it lead me to the following meditation: Why the hell don't our cities have public toilets? Waste evacuation is an activity that every living creature on the planet engages in.

As well as a certain kind of hurried shuffle that must have given me away as a maniac who was on a mission. That mission was to locate some relief before I ruined my own vacation with the magic words “I'll have that spicy sandwich”. Which is going on my tombstone. Self-inflicted pain is the best kind.

My companions used their own brand of magic to locate relief. I believe that they called their twin spells 'cell phone' and 'internet'. Whatever. They pointed and I marched. They made jokes and I responded “Look me compadres, I am going to soil myself in a most memorable fashion if we don't get to some shelter soon.” They shut up and walked faster. It was an uphill walk, meandering somewhere between one and thirty-seven miles. The passage of time and space grows unreliable when you're battling the clock. But alas, we finally arrived at my salvation.

To the Seattle Asian Art Museum, I offer my deepest thanks. If I were a praying man, you would ever be remembered in scrolls of my internal monologue to my deity. But I'm not. And I did evil in your restroom. So I bought a ticket instead. And again I must thank you, for the beauty held within. Were you a woman, I would ask for your hand in marriage. But alas, you are not, you are a museum, so It can never be.

The Seattle Asian Art Museum sits atop a hill, and I was greeted with a rather beautiful view as I returned to the sunlight. More to the point, we were right next to the cemetery in which his most notable self resides.

Another round Hey Adam, Go Stand Next to That! Netted me a picture of a rather peeved looking Adam standing next to a large cottonwood tree. All as we found the outer edges of our destination.

Here's where desire to achieve a goal runs face first into a more powerful force. One that I call “Ah Shit, I'm Sick of Walking.” I'm pretty sure that it is a fundamental force of the universe, only slightly behind Entrophy in overall effect, but with more regret. So I didn't actually get to see the final resting place of Master Lee, but I did see the graveyard in which he was interred.

That's something right?

The walk back to the hotel in the fading afternoon sunshine was long and winding. Stop and go as we crossed streets and descended down out of the hills. We passed by grand houses and cool neighborhoods. The two high points that I recall from the trek were that of a graffitied road sign, most impressive because it was hanging 20 feet over the highway. That took an extra dose of frontier gumption that did.

The second sight was somewhat simpler, a pretty girl wearing a Bungie Software shirt.  Historically two of my favorite things. I didn't talk to her. I tried not to stare, but I admired her as we passed.  Should I have passed her by while I was in college, nothing would have been different. As is my habit.