We've reached the summit of our trip! The location of the key to One-Eyed Willie. Out of everywhere we've been, everything we've done, it was the best. If it hadn't started raining violently, I could have spent the entire day looking out over those rocks, listening to the waves crash. It was unreal.
I swivel the computer around to Emma for the captions.
Of course, before we made it to Cannon Beach, there was the ill-advised night in Seaside. Our guidebook describes Cannon Beach as the West Coast's answer to Provincetown, and Seaside as its Coney Island. Of course, we didn't read the part until the next day. The book was right, down to the pimply-faced teenagers it promised. Mike was thrilled.
But really, when was the last time you stayed at a hotel with ellipses?
Some people were more excited about Seaside than we were.
Jane and Michael Stern sent us to Norma's for dinner.
We had the chowder. If you looking closely, you will see crabs in the plastic gingham.
Imagine a doubloon in my hand.
Mike was rather beside himself.
I thought that this scarf went nicely with the pirate theme.
Mike wishes you had been there with us. Here, he invites you.
From Cannon Beach, we went to Astoria. Our first stop was at the Welcome Center, where a young man valiantly abstained from laughing at us while drawing a map to the Goonie House. Mike bought a pint glass that says 'Goonies Never Say Die.' The young man didn't laugh at us then, either. I hope Oregon is paying him well.
All the Goonie-hunting made Mike very hungry. Earlier in the day, while he was in the bookstore looking for books on Vancouver, I went to the vintage store and bought him that shirt for $7.50. I also made friends with an eight-year-old named Maddy whose mother owned the store. She was dressed in gold lamé and gave me a sticker of a horse. After eating some hamburgers, we went to see Ratatouille, a suitably food-obsessed movie.
The next morning, we followed our guidebook's advice and went to the slightly seedy-looking Columbian Café. Boy, do we have a smart guidebook.
Our rockabilly waiter started things off right, with a stack of freshly baked bread and these homemade jams-- working clockwise from the top, you are looking at the spicy homemade salsa, cayenne jam, jalapeno jam, and sweet garlic jam. They were all amazing.
But not as amazing as what we were listening to-- while waiting for our breakfast, we eavesdropped on the owner/cook, who pontificated on matters great and small. A little list: his newly acquired 1967 Chevy station wagon, with its stock AM radio and ding-less exterior; how to make duck confit; the beef he had aging next-door, presumably somewhere in the second-run movie theater he also owns. We finally got in on the conversation when the sixty-year-old couple sitting at the bar mentioned that they were on a cross-country motorcycle trip. They had ridden from Florida, and had to make it back to Massachusetts in time to meet their new twin grandchildren.
We thought that we couldn't love the place any more. Then the food arrived. I got a breakfast burrito, and promptly swooned. It was heavenly.
Likewise, Mike's eggs were otherworldly. Please note the blue cheese on the potatoes.
Bellies full, we hopped on the bridge to Washington.
It was a very long bridge, and seemed to lead straight into the mountains, or the clouds, or both. This is what Oregon is like.
Next stop, Canada. We brought our passports for a reason.
E + M