Tasmanian Devils and fluffy Blood Oranges
· 27 August 2004 ·

I am amidst a little pre-college vacation. You know, the one last hurrah. So far, Kate Jones and I have canvassed three states resting upon moss-ridden Olympic rainforests, lofty yet desolate Oregon sand dunes, and traipsing through giant redwoods. It’s the typical Coastal Highway 101 trip.

But that’s not the interesting part. We had just had a rainy night in Ashland and decided to drive north across the none-too-squat of a state of Oregon to Portland. Wearied from the road and with saturated supplies, I eventually found Powells Books nestled among the rat nest of Portland one-way avenues. Key word: Eventually.

And that place is a bookstore of mammoth proportions. It’s like a little city where tinier less-intelligent humans disappear into firy ashen chasms only to appear with a coal-stained countenance, hacking up soot, and bearing your screenplay of one 1980’s biker mega-classic “RAD”.

Plus, it’s a little crowded. Still not knowing where I was going to sleep that night with the sun going down, I supefluously wandered into the cafe. I recognize one of three people I know in Portland – Patrick included – who has “stayed” at my house during What-the-Heckfest. And by stay I mean she pulled a sleeping bag onto our lawn. I tapped her on the shoulde. She was supposed to be on a plane to Italy but the Italian consulate was dicking around with her visa (which is weak weiner. Very weak weiner, indeed). Coincidental? Sure. I say divine intervention.

She took care of us like no other. Got hooked up with beds and meals and hooray for hospitality. That’s where I am now…rested from what has felt to be the most luxurious of nights especially after eleven consecutive days of camping.

Granted, my domestic travels are nothing compared to some Thai exploits…but I have my fun.

Written by Izak Elvrum

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