We stayed at one of the many McMenamin’s inns in the Portland/Greater Oregon area; these crazy brothers have made a mint buying historic buildings all over the Northwest (like the Kennedy Elementary School where we stayed, or Masonic lodges or movie theatres or castles) and repurposing them into event/traveler complexes with microbrew pubs, movie theatres, live music, cafes, hotel rooms, and all sorts of artistically arrayed nooks and crannies. The vibe is casual and social; the rooms are artful and fun–our “classroom” entry hall was lined with chalkboards upon which the staff had scrawled hotel messages and doodles. Not luxuriously appointed (shower was a plastic cubicle, no TV so you go and socialize at one of the minimicropubs) but quirky and comfy. There were six micropubs at the Kennedy school, a couple of which only seated five or six people each, my favorite being the converted principal’s office where one could go for “Detention”:
Detention Micropub at McMenamin's: Where the Bad Kids Go
McMenamin's Kennedy School, South Hallway
Entry to our room @ McMenamin's Kennedy School Inn
We had resolved to take it a little easy and not run around too much. After some consternation we figured out Portland’s intricate but comprehensive bus/train/trolley system and made a pilgrimage to Powell’s Books, then to the huge Washington Park, home of the International Rose Test Garden where they were testing almost exclusively closed rosebuds at the moment….that is to say, we were a little early for the annual blossom explosion, but we knew we might be.
International Rose Test Garden, Portland OR
It’s a huge and beautiful city park and we could have easily spent the day there despite the non-performing roses, but we had a coffee date with an old friend who had moved up to Portland six years ago. It was a great convo–he loves it up there, as do I…I am always filled with regret when I have to leave the Northwest. We have many friends who feel the same way, who would move up to Oregon or Washington in a heartbeat if they could find a way to make a living there. Portland is a wonderful, livable city, but it’s a comparatively small city (why it remains livable, you see) and not the economic engine most of us require to pay the bills. Ah well. It’s nice to know it’s there, waiting for us, when we finally retire to wear flannel and write novels while drinking thick black coffee while the dousing rain batters the rhododendrons outside. Sigh.
The next morning, after one last breakfast and deep draught of McMenamin’s French press coffee–dark and gritty as mud and full of motivating caffeine–we boarded the train for home, the renowned Coast Starlight (where your coffee and wine are served in real glasses and mugs!) From Portland it would be an overnighter to L.A. through the Cascades and into California’s Central Valley to home.
And it was splendid, real ceramic mugs notwithstanding. The Cascades were rugged and as we ventured higher in altitude the world went all Christmas, white-out snow along the tracks, caught in the arms of the sharply-etched trees.
Our train chugging through a Cinco de Mayo snowstorm high in the Cascades
Klamath Lake, from the window of the Coast Starlight
I had been hoping to have some wireless connectivity during this last leg of our journey since I had articles to post, but thankfully there was none through these majestic mountains. Samuel and I huddled together and enjoyed the view (when we weren’t trying to frantically photo the otherworldly snow tableaux that emerged at every turn of the tracks.)
There was a snowy sunset, and we slept.
Coming home through California the next day was a bit of a downer, the journey drawing to an end and the realization that a frantic Re-Entry Mambo would start as soon as we got home from the station. There was haze in the air, starting pretty much in Northern California, and the sprawl began spreading into the horizon as we drew further south. I had pretty good connectivity though (except through Vandenberg Air Force Base, where they nix that) and got some work done–my way of being in denial that Playtime Was Over.
When we got to Union Station, we detrained and were met (surprise!) by Samuel’s parents, whom we didn’t know were planning to pick us up. We had already made arrangements with another friend for transport, so we all hung out in the loading zone and tried to acclimate to the L.A. high-blood-pressure pace once again.
Oddly, some production company was shooting a TV thang in Union Station when we arrived and they had changed the signs to say, “Le Havre, France.” Would that it were so and the journey were starting anew! except there was like, a mime in a beret.
(…..guess….I’ll….be…..heading…..home…..then…… Run away, run away!!)
So we got to the house about 10 p.m. and it was bit of a shock–all was well, no house fire this time–and the sweet peas and poppies and roses and grape vines were so overgrown we could hardly see the front of the house (which was a little wonderful.) Walking into the house and seeing the scene we left behind three weeks ago, strewn with signs of frantic repacking and last-minute trip prep, seemed incongruous and surreal once the ride was over. We put our packs down, started hooking tech devices back up, culling email, piling laundry, etc. We were home and needed to massage some life back into our L.A. existence before we went to bed, with much more to be done the next day/weekend/week, and so on.
The trek is over but the journey continues–stories and scenes still being pondered, digested, and contextualized. We thank you for letting us share our rail adventure with you, and for being part of our greater adventure in life.
The ultimate journey is return, they say. We have returned for now.
Home, Overgrown