Saturday, 4/16/2011
The drive from Eugene to Anacortes, Washington, was half-hellish. The first stretch, to Portland, was fine. Then it went downhill.
Portland is called the City of Bridges. Heading northbound on I-5, you cross a bridge to enter the city. If traffic is light, and you can look to your left just as you come onto the bridge, you will see the gentle curve of the Columbia River, and four bridges. Two are rust-red, low and utilitarian looking, one is much taller, as tall as the bridge you’re on, and the farthest one out is chicken’s egg green, riding high above the water, with twin arches like bicycle wheels rising on each side.
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Within ten minutes of crossing the Oregon-Washington border—the river is the border—I was in thick traffic, and a persistent drizzle, just enough to keep the road nice and slick. The rest of the way to Anacortes, I had to deal with the following four things:
- Heavy traffic
- Rain/drizzle/rain/drizzle/rain
- Drivers doing rude and stupid things
- Bad music
I take responsibility for the last one.
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Seattle is a beautiful and historic city that I don’t like as much as I like Portland. Most of the issue is association. Portland is associated with a couple of writers’ workshops I took, in the 1980s, and rose bushes, and one really nice vacation. Seattle is associated with my mother’s unsuccessful heart surgery, and dying; leaving this life the very way you never want someone you love to have to do. It’s not Seattle’s fault. It wasn’t even the hospital’s fault—but there it is. Still, I can appreciate that the city is beautiful. There’s a point on I-5 about five minutes north of the airport where the city unfolds in front of you, brown and black glass towers dwarfing the Space Needle. I-5 winds down around the base of the newish downtown like a trail through a redwood forest. I do like that. I also like that when you are driving under one of the overpasses, if you look quickly, you will catch a glimpse, between the smooth cement walls, of red brick and maybe a 1930s vintage neon sign saying “The Cambridge,” or something. It’s like looking through a tunnel into the early part of the last century.
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The ferry landing exit is about one mile past the town of Mt. Vernon. This town was the childhood home (maybe even birthplace) of one of the loudest voices of the Radical Right, Glenn Beck. I have read that in the past few years, Mr. Beck has donated money to the Mt Vernon Chamber of Commerce and various municipal programs. They must be pleased that their local boy has done so well.
I did notice that the three-story high smokestack, painted with tulips, that is my personal landmark for Mt. Vernon, looks like it could use a touch-up.
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The road to the ferry landing used to be lined with fir trees. Now it’s lined with condos. The Ship Harbor Inn is on the water side, about a mile and half from the landing. It was there before the condos, but I’ve never stayed there before. In fact, I never used to stay in Anacortes, until I came up three years ago and realized what I was missing. (Oh, and in Anacortes? Not raining. Not drizzling. Cool, and sunny.)
It looks like the units for the Inn might have been built originally in the late 1950s or early 60s. The main complex is a long two-story building overlooking the water. There are suites upstairs and single rooms downstairs. I’m staying in a singe room. Two short walls extend out past the door, creating a lanai, complete with Adironack chairs, where you can sit and sip your coffee or your wine, and watch the white-and-green ferries glide in and out of port.
I got my stuff into my room and went to get ice. My room is right next to the laundry. I walked up the three steps to the driveway, where an employee was mowing a stretch of velvety green grass. For a second, I could smell bleach, hot linens just out of a dryer and freshly-cut grass, all at once.