I woke up at 7am to the sound of Creed. I heard three Creed songs in a row on the radio, or at least it seemed like it, and that was enough to scare me out of bed. I got dressed and tried to call Saab at 8am, but their message told me they opened at 9. The website had lied to me, and I wasn’t happy about it. Impatient, I decided to wait until San Francisco to take the car in. I rushed to check out and get on the road. The route to the 405 was under construction, and there were weird detours all over the place. The traffic lights weren’t working, and I realized that much of the power was out in the area because of the fireworks the night before. I finally found the entrance ramp, which was all torn up from the road work. I turned, heard a loud bang, and felt the front tire go flat.

At that point, I paused to consider my options. Ritual suicide was topping the list. If I had been driving in the mountains right then, I would have simply driven off a ledge, ending both my and the car’s misery. But such was not the case; I was in Bellevue, Washington, and I wasn’t even in a position to be able to drive home. So I went into disaster mode, employing one of the tactics at which I excel: not thinking. Just doing.

I pulled into the parking lot of a hotel across the street, popped the trunk, and unloaded everything into the back seat. I had to jump on the tire iron to get the bolts to loosen, and it took forever to jack the car up. Then I couldn’t get the wheel off the hub. We had had this problem before, and two girls and two state troopers were unable to budge it; it finally took a mechanic. I was pissed. I yanked and tugged and pushed and swore. I sat down on the ground and yanked some more, but it wouldn’t move. I was covered in dirt and grease. I got out my cellphone to call AAA, knowing I’d be waiting at least half an hour for the tow truck, and angry at myself for not being self-sufficient. I dialed the number, then hung up right away. I sat back down, leaned back on my hands, and kicked the hell out of the tire, over and over, with my heels. It was great stress relief, and finally, I felt it budge. I kicked some more until it was wobbling, and then I pulled it off and put on the spare.

I drove around to the front of the hotel and went into the lobby, sweaty and covered in dirt. I asked to borrow their phonebook, and looked up the address of Barrier Saab. I handed the girl back the phonebook, covered in dirty fingerprints, and ran out. It took me 15 minutes to find the place. When I got there, a salesguy came out and told me that it was now a Porsche dealership, and gave me directions to Saab. By the time I got there, the service department had just opened. I pulled in and told the guy that it was possibly the worst day of my life, and then ran down the whole drama for him. He struck me as kind of car-salesman-slimy, so I was immediately nervous. He looked at my tire and brakes and said, “Well, you’ve got some money to spend here.” I was freaked. I had to wait while he helped some other people who were there first. I was getting more and more upset by the minute. I went to the bathroom and scrubbed the grime off my hands, then stood around. I stared at my car and started crying. I was convinced it was going to cost a ton of money to fix, and I was going to have to turn right around and drive home.

He looked at the car again and said he’d try to find some used tires for me, so it wouldn’t be quite as expensive. He had the car brought into the garage so they could let me know what the brakes would cost. I called Heather and sobbed while the Audi salesmen stood nearby, politely pretending not to notice. The really nice girl at the front desk got me coffee. After ten minutes or so, the guy came and got me to show me the car. First, he pointed out a set of almost-new tires they had taken off another car and were unable to resell, so they were giving them to me for free. He and the technician both seemed really happy about their find. He said that the front pads and rotors were shot, which I had assumed. The total cost would be $560. He apologized that it probably wouldn’t be ready until noon. I was so happy, I wanted to hug them both.

He pointed me in the direction of breakfast, and I headed off. I walked all over looking for a place to eat. It was all fast food, IHOP, and Denny’s. I stopped at Starbucks, got coffee, and asked about food. I finally settled on Coco’s Bakery – total Baker’s Square action, but I could sit for a while and write, and hopefully find something vegetarian. Wrong! OK, the only thing I could eat on the breakfast-only menu was the oatmeal. I ordered it without brown sugar, cinnamon apples (they had sugar on them), or milk, which left me with raisins. I added a couple packets of Equal, and it was exactly the kind of comfort food I was craving, anyway. I sat there and watched the dynamics of the staff. All the servers disliked the manager in an extreme way. In fact, I overheard one of them whispering to another, God, I hate him! He walked by my table and was angry that there were two glasses of water sitting there, when there was only one of me. I was happy that my life was not so petty.

I still had time to kill, so I went over to Starbucks, got coffee, and had a long talk with the barista about car repair and road trips. I sat outside and called Heidi to tell her I’d be getting into Portland later than I expected. We made plans to meet for dinner. Then I decided to head back to Saab. On the way there, I walked past two people with sandwich boards advertising a mattress place. The woman (Marilyn) smiled as I walked past and said, “Pretty hair!” The guy said hi and asked me how I was. I was instantly happy. Sometimes, people surprise me.

As I got back, they were just finishing up with my car. They had checked all the fluids and hoses for me, too, since I had mentioned my power steering issue. Everything checked out fine. I paid, thanked him about ten times for the tires, and I was once again on my way.

The traffic leaving Seattle sucked. It was 150 miles to Portland, which took just under 3 hours. I drove into downtown with no idea about where I was going. At a stoplight, a car pulled up next to me and the girl in the passenger seat yelled, “Did you win your car on the Price is Right?” I parked and called Heidi to find out where we were meeting. She told me to find the Starbucks at Pioneer Courthouse Square, otherwise known as ‘Portland’s living room’. I had driven by it, so I found it easily, and sat down on the steps to write and look at the map. The farther I was getting into my trip, the less I had planned. Before I left, I had researched North Dakota and Montana, but that was about it. I figured I’d have time to read the travel guides as I went. That was proving incorrect, as I barely even had time to think. By the time I was getting back to my hotels at night, it was all I could do to stay awake long enough to shower.

The weather was perfect in Portland, sunny and cool. I sat there and watched the people in the square. The presence of hackeysack players was the biggest indicator that I was in the Pacific Northwest. I considered walking down to the riverfront while I waited, but forced myself to be patient for once, and just sit.

At 3:45, I wandered over to Starbucks, got coffee, and sat out in front to wait for Heidi and her husband, Dan. We were going to meet and wander around Portland, then get dinner. They arrived shortly thereafter, and we set off towards the open-air market. Feeling slightly out-of-touch with people who knew me, I’m pretty sure I was jabbering constantly. At the market, I saw more tie-dye than I’d ever seen in my life, lots of cool crafts, state-fair-esque food, and some really awesome tattoos and piercings. After that, we walked up to Powell’s. It’s no joke, it’s the IKEA of used books. It looks so small and unassuming on the outside, but inside you can’t get around without a map. Incredible. It was funny, we hadn’t been together that long, but I felt like we had already talked a ton. Heidi and Dan are such a great couple: they have all the inside jokes and goofiness just like me and Heather, so I was instantly comfortable. We walked to their car and drove to a nice little Mexican place for dinner. I was so hungry, I ate a bunch of chips, then ordered a black bean tamale and ate it all. I drank a ton of pop and had to go pee twice. The second time I went to the bathroom, I had one of those moments of total disorientation: what day is it? where the hell am i? I could’ve walked out of the restroom and not been surprised to find myself anywhere.

We drove back into town, past the jazz festival on the waterfront. They dropped me off at my car, and I thanked them for dinner and a great time. It was so nice to hang out with people I knew, even if technically I hadn’t met them before.

I got on I-5 and headed south, having decided to go as far as I could that night, hopefully all the way to California. I called Ryan. I called Heather and gabbed for an hour. I called my parents. I was out of it and overfull from dinner, already tired from driving. I considered driving over to the coast to see the sunset, but it was 9pm by the time I got to Eugene, and it would have been another 60 miles to the coast from there. I still hadn’t seen the Pacific Ocean, but I decided to wait until I got to California. I drove around Eugene, looking for coffee and/or food to keep me awake. I found a Starbucks, but it had closed at 9pm. What the hell? Eugene was an odd little town in general. Everyone was on bikes. I couldn’t find the downtown. I drove around for a long time, then gave up and stopped at a crappy little grocery. No protein bars, no Red Bull. I got two bottles of pop, a banana, and a bag of pretzels: $4.14. Awesome.

Worn out, I got back on the interstate. There were no lights and my contacts were dry, so I was having trouble seeing. I decided I needed to stop and find a shower and bed. At midnight, I exited at Roseburg, Oregon, and pulled into the Econolodge, because their billboard said $39 a night. The two guys behind the counter were punchy and giggling.

Me: Do you have a single room? For $39?
Oregon Boy #1: Sure. Just fill out this form.
Oregon Boy #2: Dude. You’re not supposed to just give out that rate.
Oregon Boy #1: Dude! It’s midnight! She’s tired!
Me: This form is confusing me.

I put my head down on the counter, unable to figure out the difference between ‘driver’s license’ and ‘car license’. Oregon Boy #2 continued their previous conversation as Oregon Boy #1 ran my credit card. #2 made some joke about redheads.

Me: Hey!
Oregon Boy #1: Dude! She’s a redhead. But she’s OK, it’s obviously dyed.
Me: You’re not supposed to point that out.

He gave me the key and I was halfway through the lobby before I stopped, confused. I turned and asked, “Don’t you want me to pay or anything?” Oregon Boy #1 waved the credit card receipt at me and said, “You are tired. Go to bed!”

I ran up to my room, took the fastest shower ever, ripped the beds apart and made my pillow nest, stared at the road atlas long enough to decide I was taking the 101 down the California coast, and fell into bed.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

portland cop to a kid in the square: “no, i haven’t reloaded since last parade day.”

i can’t wait to get the hell out of oregon. eugene freaked my shit out.

– – – – –

I got up at 6:15 and practically ran out of the Econolodge. Oregon Boy #1 was still at the front desk when I checked out. I said, “Hey! You’re still here.” He said, “Hey! So are you.” I replied, “Not for long!” He told the whole red-hair story to the girl at the counter. They directed me to a drive-up coffee cabana, where I scored a triple-shot americano for $1.50. Shit is cheap in Oregon, my friends.

I got back on the 5 and headed south to Highway 199, which cuts across to the coast. 60 miles later, I found myself in California. Never having been before, it was a big moment for me. Some guy in a truck with Oregon plates seemed to think he was off on the trip of a lifetime, but I had him beat. I was hoping for the California border produce shakedown, but I guess they only do that on the interstate. I was a little disappointed, but pressed on.

I drove through Redwoods National Forest, which was beautiful. I was really glad to have a sunroof. Furthermore, I was extra glad I had had the brakes done in Seattle, because I would have been miserable driving through the hills to the coast. As I got nearer, I started to notice weird clouds in the sky to the west. It took me forever to realize that it was the mist from the ocean. I had never seen anything like it before.

I arrived in Crescent City around 11am, and got my very first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean. It was less spectacular than I expected; not that it was the ocean’s fault, but it was about 50 degrees and overcast, and Crescent City seemed deserted. I walked out on the pier, took photos, and talked to some kids who were netting crabs.

I got back in the car and headed south, finally on the 101. It was a little disconcerting to see mile markers in the 900s, and realizing I was probably going to be driving every one of those miles. The fog was incredible. It hung over the road, and occasionally the sun filtered through and made rainbows. I wished it was sunny, because I wanted to stop and sit on the beach, but the cool weather was a nice change. I stopped a ways down the road at a black-sand beach and got out to see the ocean. The beach was covered in driftwood, oysters, and crab shells. I climbed amongst the rocks, looking at the seaweed and above-water anemonies. The rocks were slippery, and I decided to leave before breaking my bones.

I drove past Trees of Mystery and saw the statues of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. Until recently, I wasn’t aware that Paul Bunyan was a big deal anywhere outside Minnesota. It made me a little homesick. Then I saw some elk, and many, many redwood trees. At that point, I was 280 miles north of San Francisco, and wasn’t planning on getting there until the next day. That meant I could take my time along the coast.

Based on advice from Road Trip USA, I stopped in Arcata for lunch. The book said the Utne Reader (also a Minnesota original) described it as ‘the most progressive tiny town in the US.’ It was really cute, with a town square surrounded by little shops and restaurants, and totally hippie; all the girls were wearing peasant shirts and sarongs, with their long hair up in ponytails, and the guys had dreads and wore cutoff shorts. Also, almost everyone I saw was college-age. I felt old.

I stopped at the Big Blue Cafe and ate a tofu burger. While I was sitting there drinking my cappuccino, a couple of college kids came in for lunch. They turned down the first table they were offered because it had bad feng shui. The second table was acceptable. I half-listened to their conversation as I wrote. The boy was babbling about Echelon, which I found interesting because I thought that kind of government-conspiracy paranoia was exclusive to the right wing. He went on and on until my hands started to twitch, wanting to wrap themselves around his throat. The conversation eventually drifted to living in Arcata. The girl said she liked living there now, but wouldn’t want to raise kids there, because they’d end up as drug dealers. The boy said, “Well, that would be OK, as long as it wasn’t crack or heroin or meth or something.” At that point, I knew I had to leave, or I’d soon be overturning tables in a rage.

I wandered around town for a bit, getting a really weird vibe. There were a bunch of drunk guys laying on the sidewalk outside a bar, and in the town square. I went into a cute glass shop and talked to the guy there for a long time about the weather in northern California, and the possibility of tsunamis, which I somehow found really amusing. He seemed starved for human contact. I stopped at the natural foods store and stocked up on protein bars and produce. Then I drove to Eureka, which was a super-cute, artsy little town. I got coffee at the bakery and shopped at a few galleries. Once again, the place was almost deserted. One of the women working there said that you could never predict when it would be crowded. It was kind of cold and overcast, but it was still a holiday weekend. I stopped and talked to all the people working in the stores, and everyone was really friendly. One girl I met said that it was hardly ever sunny there, but you could go 15 miles inland and it would be 100 degrees.

I went into a shop (OBJX) that I could have spent hours and all my money in. It was like a museum, with bizarre junk from everywhere. My favorites were brooches made of ear bones, bingo cards from a mental hospital, and the hundreds of glass slides from medical schools and colleges. I bought three slides of patients with facial deformities to bring to Jay. They totally creeped me out.

I got back on the 101, then exited at Ferndale. It’s the kind of town my mom would love: all victorians. The cemetery was amazing; it reminded me of New Orleans. It wasn’t a port like the towns north of there – at least, there was no huge waterfront. Lots of beef and dairy farms. A lot like Wisconsin, actually.

I was a little tired of driving, and considered whether to take the 101 (faster), or Highway 1, where it began further south. I figured if it stayed foggy and cold, I’d stick to the 101. All of a sudden, it was sunny and beautiful, and my decision was made. I must have been far enough inland, because it went from 60 to 80 degrees. I opened the sunroof and windows, even though I was going 70. It was so perfect. I exited at the famed Avenue of the Giants, a 35-mile route that parallels the 101 through the redwood forest. I stopped and saw the Immortal Tree with a bunch of Japanese and Indian tourists. It probably goes without saying, but I love that there’s this entire route devoted to giant trees. It’s kind of amusing. I mean, people like giant things. Biggie fries, SUVs, redwoods. Put them all together, and you’ve got yourself a party. Unfortunately, this time it was just me and the trees. I drove on, and finally, I stopped for the big event: the Shrine Drive-Thru Tree. I pulled up to the booth and the little old man inside asked, “Just one?” I said, “Yep, just me for the drive-thru tree today!” He laughed and asked where I was from, and commented that I was far from home. I considered telling him that I had driven all that way just to drive through his tree, but I couldn’t lie to a cute old man in a booth. He gave me a coupon for a FREE postcard at the gift shop. $1.50 for the drive-thru tree and a free postcard. How could I go wrong?

I sat and waited for the dumb woman with 15,000 kids in an SUV (and probably some biggie fries) to nudge her way into the tree in her gigantic vehicle. It was 7’x7′ clearance, and she barely made it. They had to fold in the mirrors and everything. It took forever. Finally, it was my turn. Chico fit easily, of course. I took a picture looking up out the sunroof through the hollow tree, then pulled up so I had enough room to get out and take a photo of the car inside the tree. I was pretty damn happy with myself, and thankfully no one was watching.

I went into the gift shop to claim my FREE postcard. There were two old women sitting in there. One of them said, “Girl, you got such purty hair!” I thanked her and ran away as fast as I could. This wasn’t the first evidence I had that northern California was actually part of the South.

I got back on the 101, laughing to myself. I decided that I was indeed going to take the 1, because it was beautiful outside. I exited and immediately, it became a tiny, twisting mountain road. At that point, I was positive that blowing a tire was a message from the god I don’t believe in to get the brakes done right away. I would have hated myself otherwise. There was no way I’d have made it to San Francisco, or at least I’d have had to stick to the interstate, and missed the whole coast.

Highway 1 wound up and down for 40+ miles. I had to keep putting on and taking off my sunglasses; one moment, I was blinded by the sun, the next it was dark from the overhanging trees. The temperature dropped 20 degrees in 20 minutes. I had to use 2nd gear most of the way down. With all the sharp turns, it was like slaloming, which was fun for a while, but quickly started to wear me out. With all the mountain driving, my arms and shoulders were killing me.

Half an hour later, I drove up another big hill and came around a curve that finally had no trees. The sun was glaring. I got to the top and started to round the curve, and my jaw dropped. It was the Pacific Ocean – the rocky, rugged coastline I kept hearing about but didn’t really believe existed. The water was perfectly blue. I pulled off at the overlook and started crying. I couldn’t believe how incredible it was. It was perfect.

I took about a million pictures at six overlooks. I thought about stopping at the beach, but it was getting late. The road began to straighten out at various points along the coast, so I drove as fast as I could, feeling my stomach drop as I went speeding up and down hills. I was the only one on the road for miles. I drove through Fort Bragg, then decided to stop in Mendocino for dinner around 8pm. It was a cute, tiny little town (Road Trip USA told me it was the idyllic scene for many movies and TV shows, including ‘Murder, She Wrote’). I decided against trying to get into Cafe Beaujolais dressed the way I was, so I picked a place next door: the creatively-named 955 Ukiah Street Restaurant. The servers there were kind of snooty, but nice. They put me upstairs in the very back corner. I ordered a salad and cappuccino, and got out my notebook. A short while later, they seated a couple of women at the table right next to me, even though the upstairs was almost completely empty. The next time the server came back, they quietly asked to be moved. I laughed. Was it me? I hoped so.

I still had no idea where I was spending the night. Based on my book, I was hoping to reach Gualala, because it was one of the few places along the coast with relatively inexpensive lodging. I was amazed at how remote some of the coast was. The towns were few and far between, and the fact that I could drive 40mph at the most on Highway 1 made everything seem even farther apart.

It was getting dark by the time I left Mendocino, and Gualala was seeming really far away. I had gotten used to the fact that it was light until after 10pm in the Pacific Northwest. The fog made it seem a lot darker, too, and I was feeling like I was really out in the middle of nowhere, completely alone. I drove and drove, looking for a motel. Finding nothing for miles, I decided to just camp in my car, because there were numerous state-run campsites all along the beaches. So then, my goal became to find a payphone so I could call home and reassure them that I was alive. I had been out of contact for over 24 hours, and the last anyone knew, I was in Portland. Also, I had forgotten the two-hour time difference, which made it after 11:30 in Minneapolis.

I finally arrived in Elk, California. It struck me as a nice coincidence, as I had just read an article in a travel magazine at my mom’s house about this tiny little town called Elk that no one knew about, but which was worth the trip. It was about 10 buildings in total, and even though there were cars and lights at the resort, it seemed deserted. Not even a gas station. I ran into the post office, looking for a phone. Finally, I saw the glowing green PacBell phonebooth at the side of the road, looking ominous. I rushed to call Heather. She yelled at me that mom my was in a panic, and wanted to call the highway patrol. I have to admit I loved the idea of Eric Estrada coming to my rescue, but she wasn’t so amused. I was in a hurry to find somewhere to sleep, and it was getting later and later. She agreed to call my mom, and I ran back to the car. A hitchhiker carrying more than his own weight in packs came staggering up just as I started the engine, and scared the hell out of me. My car went screeching back onto the highway.

I headed south again and finally saw a camping sign about 10 miles down the road. I couldn’t find the state beach, but there was a KOA. I pulled in ten minutes before the office closed. The woman at the counter was super nice, like a mom. She put me in a campsite near the bathroom, and told me that she’d let the security guard know I was there, so he could keep an eye out for me. Not that they ever had any problems, but I was a woman on my own, sleeping in my car. I found my site, parked, and hauled my sleeping bag and blankets out of the trunk, setting up a semblance of a bed in the backseat. I ran to the bathroom and washed up. The restrooms there were way nicer than I expected: private, and really clean. If I hadn’t been so tired, I would have showered.

Sleeping in the car wasn’t as bad as I expected. It would have been pretty comfortable if I hadn’t been so sore from mountain driving and falling down. I had the sleeping bag on the seat, my big pillow against the door, and three blankets. I woke up and flipped around a lot, but otherwise I slept well, and I knew that the next night I’d get to sleep in a real bed.

– – – – –

random notes from my travel journal:

i’m dressed like crap and i look like i’ve been beat up, but i totally fit in here anyway.

there’s no cell phone reception up here. isolated in california? go figure.

omg. he just said, ‘the way of the tao’. why do i hate them so very very much? and why do they serve so much meat here?

is it weird to have all this redwood stuff for sale in the redwood forest? i mean, aren’t we celebrating the majesty of the living trees?

holy shit, gas is expensive in california.

further evidence that norcal is part of the south: i’ve had no signal all day. i’m within 150 miles of sf! wtf?? i feel like i’m in montana. although i suspect calling people and raving about how unbelievable the ocean is might be unpopular anyway. man, i’m totally going to have to find a payphone.

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