Archive for the ‘there’s no place like home’ Category

 

The first day of fall in Bend. Ahh. Most of the tourist trade has vanished (I’m told), and the hipsters have slunk back to Portland and their PBRs. Locals are relaxing, the sky is blue, and the beer is flowing.

 

When I moved to Portland twenty years ago I had not yet heard of hefeweizen and immediately contracted OBD (Oregon Butt Disease), which manifests as fifteen sudden pounds in the posterior caused by too many 200-calorie pints. I’ve since switched to red wine and martinis (probably no less caloric) but now that I’m #inbend, I’m rediscovering beer. Portland is touted as Beervana, but Central Oregon seems to be nosing ahead as the leader of the craft brew movement. 

 

First stop: Oktoberfest, downtown. Lots of said beverage, an oompah band, brats, deep fried pickles, wiener dog races, “absurd games of skill for prizes”, and a lederhosen/dirndl costume contest (though more were dressed in yellow and green and relieved to learn the Oregon game would be aired in the polka tent). 

 

Later, I joined a hairier crowd sunbathing a short bike ride away at the Bend Roots Revival: “three days, eight stages and 100 local music acts” in a stealth location between a brew pub and a winery. 

 

Twenty minutes away in twee Sisters, more music and more drinking under the big tent at the Fresh Hop Festival.

 

All uncrowded, all free admission, all in one weekend. Dozens of designer beers, 105 bands, 90 degrees…wait, why am I telling you this? Strike that. Bend sucks. Nothing to see here…move along.

 

 

 

Airstream is but a tiny, shiny star in the RV universe—most are SOBs (Some Other Brand). ‘Streamers I recently polled guesstimate that Airstreams comprise only one to three percent of the market, both new and old.

 

As it was held in my backyard (Redmond, only thirty minutes from Bend), I dropped in on The Rally (sans DWR…no aluminum allowed*), the premier annual RV gathering, to see how the other (more than) half lives.

 

It looked kinda fun, if you have a White Box: an indoor trade show of RV goodies and gear, mountainous new mohos with their handlers from the dealership, seminars like “Controlling Odors in Holding Tanks”, and goofy activities like the dog and owner lookalike contest.

 

But what do I know. Meet Erin Floresca, @LittleSnowbirds on Twitter and BellaOnline’s RV editor. Homebased in Oregon, she travels with her family in a 32 foot 2008 Fourwinds Chateau. “I love the pace of RV trips,” she states in her online bio. “It gives you the opportunity to stop in and see the roadside attractions that otherwise might have been missed. There is always plenty of time to stop at places like Wall Drug to purchase some jackalope souvenirs—the campier the road trip, the better.”

 

I heart her. Erin, how was The Rally?

 

"When I first heard that the Good Sam RV Rally was being held just a few hours away from where I lived, I actually tried to talk myself out of going. Oh, I had plenty of excuses—it was taking place during deadline weekend, it wasn’t in our budget, you know the drill. But the more I thought about The Rally, the more I realized I needed to go.

 

It’s been almost a decade since I was a full-time RVer completely immersed in the wonderful world of RVing. In the past few years, my family has only taken a handful of RV trips. Since we haven’t been on the road that much, I’ve actually entertained the idea that perhaps we should sell our motorhome. We could always buy another one a few years down the road, right? But I didn’t want to get any further away from the RV lifestyle that I adored so much; what I needed was a better reason to get closer to it. And that reason came in the form of the annual Good Sam RV Rally.

 

We made the short journey to the 2011 Rally being held at the Deschutes County Fair & Expo Center in Redmond, Oregon on a sunny Thursday afternoon. While driving toward our designated dry camping area, I was in awe of the surrounding view. And not because of the snowcapped mountains to the south and west. Spread out before us were rows and rows of RVs in every direction! (Rumor around the shuttle stops said the final count was around 4,500 RVs.) It was a sight to behold and instantly invigorated me. I knew before we were even settled into our site that going to The Rally was one of the best decisions I’d made in a long time.

 

Over the course of the next few days, we wandered around and partook in many of the offerings available to rally attendees. There were hundreds of seminars and exhibitors, live entertainment, and my favorite, the over 700 RVs for sale on display. I discovered many cool products and services available for the RV crowd. I really dug the new Rand McNally TripMaker RVND 5510 GPS device that was designed specifically for RVers. I also signed up for a free new service called WiFiRVFriends that not only helps you choose your next WiFi capable RV park, but acts as a social networking site too.

 

I was floored by the Bissell Perfect Sweep Turbo vacuum cleaner as well. It’s battery-powered, lightweight, and stores easily; just perfect for an RV. Priced at just $40, it’s hard to beat. I also fell in love with several Class A motorhomes like the 2011 Aspire 42DLQ by Entegra Coach and the 2011 Allegro Bus 43QGP. (It’s like a mini Caesar’s Palace on wheels, complete with raised bowl ‘his and hers’ vanity sinks in the bathroom! Love it!)

 

I was delighted to see an abundance of eco-friendly TRA Green Certified rigs on display (The Rally itself could have used a few recycle bins). I also learned that Pilot Travel Centers is partnering with the Good Sam Club to offer some exciting benefits to RVers. And let’s not forget the nightly gathering for entertainment with music icons like Bobby Vinton (who knew I knew so many of his songs?) and country music star Vince Gill. Fun, fun!

 

Overall, the Good Sam RV Rally was exactly what this little RVer needed. I needed to be inspired again by all of the cool rigs, products and services available to the RV crowd. I needed to be around other people who understood and appreciated the RV lifestyle. I needed to experience that feeling of being a part of the RV community—and that is exactly what I got.

 

I’m refreshed in my enthusiasm for all things RV thanks to the Good Sam RV Rally. Now, if I can only figure out how to get back on the road full time!"

 

Photo of Erin by Patrick Floresca; Allegro Bus photo on ‘Streaming home page courtesy of Erin Floresca

 

 

*kidding. Sort of.

 

 

 

This month we started the bassackward process of relocating our belongings to Bend, Oregon, a three-plus hour drive from Portland.

 

Why Bend? It’s a fishin’ hikin’ skiin’ bikin’ town, all activities Ralph enjoys and I will, too when the right loaded firearm is pointed at my head. Compared to hipster Portland (“a city where young people go to retire,” as observed in Portlandia), Bend culture can best be described as “emerging”. But I love the pine smells, the clean high desert ambience and relative lack of traffic #inBend. The new house, set back from the street and far from the neighbors, is surrounded instead by wildlife and easterly views, and came with a pull through driveway and civilized gravel pad upon which to park the DWR.

What I won’t miss about Portland

1. Rain. Its wet reputation? All true. Oh, you’ll read “yes, but, [insert town in Hawaii or the deep South] has blah blah more rainfall inches per year” but that stat must have more to do with the accumulation of occasional torrential downpours, not the persistent, dank, bone chilling, continual grey drizzle that typifies Portland’s miserable weather. Here’s how much it rains: Shoppers at Safeway hand off their “dry” grocery cart at the entrance. (Others must use provided paper towels to wipe down the soaking wet carts.) Outdoor event coordinators buy “rain insurance”. Outdoor weddings are scheduled with a contingency plan. Due to depression and suicide (often linked to the weather), Portland ranks reliably high in the annual “America’s Unhappiest City” lists.

 

2. Mexican food :: lack thereof.

 

3. Smug jaywalkers and bicycle terrorists (you know who you are).

 

4. The rush hour bottleneck on I5 between Portland and The Couve, effectively trapping residents behind state lines between 2 and 7pm.

What I will miss

Virtually everything else. Portland, Oregon is the most eccentric, vital, stimulating, and flat out fun location in the country (north of San Francisco and west of New Orleans).

 

Like a New Yorker who leaves the city without ever going to the Met, I’m saddened by all I haven’t done and took for granted; real music, edgy food, and whimsical events available right outside my door, every day, every night of the week.

 

Before leaving I authored an iPhone app, Portland Insider, as a sort of love letter to the city. (Please buy a copy! It’s only $2.99 and I get a buck for each one sold. I can’t say proceeds will go to charity unless you consider my Airstream habit one.) Perfect for visitors who are looking for Rose City activities beyond the mainstream. 

 

 

Laura and Kevin, the Oregon couple I interviewed for Airstream Life ("The Technomads", Winter 2010), own a stomp-gorgeous 2010 27′ International. I dropped by to spend a splendid morning where they were glamped at Champoeg State Park only thirty miles from Portland, where the couple enjoys taking their writing work while they take in the view. (Sometimes they tow over to the coast, for a different scene from their picture window.)

 

Both hightech creatives, they’ve upgunned their rig with sleek silver and chocolate upholstery, the tastiest of household conveniences (down to the ingenious key holder by the door, magnetic vertical spice jars, and wine rack under the bed), and wired it (with as many solar panels as possible on the roof and supporting tech) for life on the road as long as they wish to be away from the city.

 

Expansive Champoeg (pronouned “shampooey”) State Park offers the requisite visitor’s center with interactive displays about regional history (“Open this door to vote ‘yes’ for a provisional government”) (wtf?), an 1860s kitchen garden, frisbee golf, and fishing in the Willamette River. It’s also the gravesite of Kitty Newell (a Nez Perce woman and trapper’s wife) and the Manson Barn; clues collected during its restoration date the structure back to the 1830s—not the 1860s as previously thought—making it (possibly) the oldest building left standing in Oregon.

 

 

 

 

It’s hidden in plain sight on busy Grand Avenue in Portland in an unmarked, windowless, locked building. To gain entry you must knock, wait, and the door will be opened (when I visited, by a woman who returned to an unseen corner after speaking her only words: “Set your umbrella down—no, not there,” (the dirty worn carpet). “There.” (The dirty worn linoleum.)

 

The silent cramped foyer smells musty and is lined with display cases packed with shadowy objects. Enter the first brightly lit showroom on the left and be overwhelmed by cases and cases and cases of…toys.

 

Kidd’s Toy Museum. Everything about it should be shiny happy but I was less creeped out at the Old Montana Prison. 

F.E. Kidd, whose family owned an auto parts business, began his collection over 35 years ago with an interest in toy cars. His enthusiasm for toys grew to include nearly every type manufactured from 1869 to 1939, with a focus on mechanical banks.

To look at every item in every case you’d be there for a month, and I could barely take it for thirty minutes. Each case holds ever more jarring juxtapositions of toys which were probably innocent when they were created, but by today’s child protection standards, are downright sinister.

Steel yourself for an un-PC look at America’s past, reflected in the toys and games of the period: offensive Black Americana; toys depicting dental torture, misogyny, and animal cruelty; and games (were they really meant for children?) used for political satire and controversial social commentary. 

Those interested in manufacturing will be fascinated by the wooden, lead and brass patterns and sandcast molds and patent models Kidd has rescued over the years. (The American toy industry experienced a boom during WWI when European toys ceased to be exported; by WWII the United States was the leading producer of toys.)

There are trains and planes and automobiles, soulless dolls and disembodied heads, army men in the throes of bloody battle, a very sketchy Santa, and, adding to the creep factor, a queer but marvelous assortment of padlocks. Shockingly, only a fraction of Kidd’s collection is on display. God knows what else he has in storage.

I got out of there as fast as I could. I’m sure the museum is far livelier when filled with tour groups of school kids but can’t see how much the very young could appreciate a sophisticated collection like this, behind glass. I look forward to visiting again but next time I’ll bring someone to hold my hand.

 

When I first moved to Portland lo these many years ago, there was nothing to eat. A damning indictment, as I was fresh from San Diego where fish tacos and mud pie were as haute as one could go.

Now, you can’t open Sunset or Gourmet without reading an article breathlessly praising a Portland chef, or a gushy review of the culinary craze that’s been sweeping the area in recent years: the city food cart.

 

Until last Friday, I worked a stone’s throw from one of the main lunchwagon pods downtown but rarely visited, preferring instead to eat a piteous salad at my desk. When I quit my lucrative job to travel and write—(remember Steve Martin’s joke about his book, “How I Turned a Million in Real Estate Into $25 In Cash”? Yeah, like that)—I vowed to make up for lost time and eat as many Portland lunch cart dishes as possible in the short weeks before our long summer Airstream trip.

 

During my quest I enjoyed Tabor’s “original” Schnitzelwich, a duck confit baguette sandwich from Addy’s, the meatball sub with chick pea fries at Garden State, and a surprising Jade Curry at Ruby Dragon. Whiffies fried pies (BBQ pulled pork, and the peanut butter creme and Mounds of Deliciousness dessert pies) were sublime. The jambalaya from Swamp Shack? Not so much.

 

The personalities of (and at) the food cart areas are what’s fun. Many have theme decor schemes. A crunchy crowd eats at the Mississippi pods, while the downtown carts cater to hungry white collar types and Japanese tourists. 

 

I shudder to think about the calorie count of these meals. Diet starts tomorrow.

 

I didn’t have directions to the 11th Annual UFO Festival but it was easy to find: I simply followed the highway signs to McMinnville, parked the car, and followed the crowd carrying lawn chairs and wearing tinfoil hats. (At the town border I was disoriented by a guy in a Jeep Wrangler flying an enormous confederate flag stenciled with the word “REDNECK”. I though that was incongruous to the nature of the event, then remembered the rich history of American abductees.)

 

The UFO Festival is held every May to commemorate the Trent UFO Photographs, taken in 1950 by a local farmer that many agree are among the most credible images of a UFO ever captured. The front page news story about the photos appears in the Telephone Register, displayed by the door of the McMenamins Hotel Oregon. “At Long Last, Authentic Photographs of Flying Saucer [?]” reads the headline. Trent was initially shy about sharing his encounter and photos (“I’m afraid I’ll get in trouble with the government” he said), but word soon leaked to local news hounds who pried the story from him. 

 

Trent and his wife were in the backyard of their farmhouse 11 miles southwest of McMinnville when they saw the odd craft in the sky. “The object was coming in toward us and seemed to be tipped up a little bit,” he states in the article. “It was very bright, almost silvery, and there was no noise or smoke.” (Alien vehicles in the 50s must have all had bad O-rings.) “‘The camera!’ Trent thought.” During the sighting, Trent raced to grab his Kodak—luckily preloaded with film—and snapped the now-famous photos before the thing got away. 

 

The UFO Festival—"Where Believers, Skeptics and Experts Come Together! When McMinnville is Transformed Into UFO Ground Zero!”—is a fun for the family weekend of music and ufology presentations. Highlights include the parade, alien pet costume contest, and oh, lots of beer (shocking).

 

No one there seemed to be too invested in actual UFO experiences or abductions, but I did overhear two guys in line for a table at the hotel discussing what the “humans did” and what “the aliens did”. It was pretty engrossing eavesdropping until they were called to lunch. I found an empty spot outside and shared a table and a beer with a woman who had attended the morning lecture by guest speaker Travis Walton, UFO witness and abductee on whom the book and film Fire in the Sky was based. (You may remember the terrifying scene where he is unpleasantly probed through the eye and elsewhere by an alien Dr. Mengele.) “He seemed uncomfortable,” she reported. “He says he still has a lot of nightmares.” (Ya think?) 

 

I asked her if she had any personal experience with UFOs. “My husband did,” she said, leaning in. “He was out in the woods.” (I’ll bet 99% of UFO sighting reports start that way). “He worked for the forestry department and he saw this orb—a glowing orb. Two of them. There were twenty-some guys out in the woods, planting trees. They all saw ‘em.”

 

Draw your own conclusions. 

 

 

I rarely use the ATM in the garage entrance to the Portland Main Office of U.S. Bank downtown, preferring instead to step inside the lobby and waste the teller’s time—depositing a check I’m sure they’d prefer I used the machine for—just for the opportunity to absorb the atmosphere in the cavernous old branch.

 

One weekday morning I took a break from work and walked next door (from the old Wells Fargo Building, built 102 years ago; Portland’s first “skyscraper” and host to the downtown Raptor Cam) to use the teller line at the old U.S. Bank. Afterwards, I approached the guard who stands attentively every day in the lobby and asked if I could take a few pictures; were there any restrictions? I was surprised when he said I was welcome to take all I wanted—except of the tellers at work—and would I like to see the old vault and the carvings on the back door?

 

James The Guard then treated me to an impromptu and extensive tour of the historic building. He revealed the bronze pocket doors that are locked at night across the front and back glass entrances, beautiful carvings that you can’t see during banking hours. The front gate depicts inspiring scenes of commerce and industry and the back gate illustrates an abbreviated history of Oregon in a series of sculpted panels, reminiscent of the Gates of Paradise. “The top one is Lewis and Clark and their Indian guide Sacagawea," explained James, gesturing over the carvings. “Here they are coming over the Oregon Trail…and then here’s the coming of the steam train. This side is by land,” he said, closing the left panel and opening the right, “and this side is by water.” 

 

Through these panels I learned, as can any fifth grader, about Captain Gray and Captain Scott, the Battleship Oregon, and when and why Portland was first called Stumptown. (“Really,” says I. “I thought it had something to do with protesting poor timber industry practices.” James assured me that the nickname was much older. “No, you see, they cut the trees down that they used to build their homes, and cleared the land where they wanted to build, and just left the stumps. See? This stump here.” Oh. Guess we’re both right.)

 

Back inside, James escorted me downstairs to visit the safety deposit vault, home to 11,000 locked boxes, half of which are made from the melted metal of 75mm ammunition cases that were supposed to go to France for WWI. (The war ended while they were sitting on the dock, awaiting shipment.) Two bank employees come down twice a day; one to swing the enormous polished manganese steel door open and closed, and the other just to watch in case the other loses their footing in front of it. “This door weighs 13 tons,” explained James. “If you get 13 tons moving, it keeps moving. If you fell and didn’t have help, you’d be crushed.” I edge nervously back as he gently demonstrates the massive door. 

 

The lock is on a timer and secured with two double combinations. No single person knows both. In the vault, James shows me where the tiara worn by the Rose Festival Queen was once stored for safekeeping; a photo of the crown remains by the now-empty glass case. James seems nostalgic about her crown and knows a lot about it. “It surprised me that there’s not a diamond in it,” he said. “It’s sapphires, rubies, and zircon. Real jewels. I understand that now because it’s so old—it was made in 1922, and getting so fragile—that the queen only gets to wear it upon her original crowning and then in photo shoots. And every time they have to take it out and she gets to wear it for awhile, they have to take it in and have it repaired.” Be careful with that, Rachel. 

 

Outside the underground vault at the bottom of a marble staircase is a haunted-looking lobby that’s perfect for a company Halloween party, and, conversely, a creepy place for a wedding reception, though it’s available to rent for any occasion.

 

I needed to return to work but James was on a roll. He pointed out every architectural detail of the 93 year old building. Back inside the branch lobby, he educated me about the ceiling tiles (“it’s what they call terra cotta; they were put together on the floor, and individually hand painted,”) the marble pillars at the loan officers’ desks (“each hand carved, and there are three marbles from three different countries here,”) and the chandeliers (“still the originals, but rewired by the original electrician who came back to help when he was 90 years old.”)

 

Because it can pass for Any Big Town USA, the Broadway Street entrance to the old branch is often used for filming, notably, three commercials—including an Apple Jacks spot about New York City—and the TNT series Leverage, which is filmed in a variety of locations downtown. Every office worker in the financial block came out to rubberneck when they exploded this car.