September 2011: Oregon Coast & Wine Country

If there is an advantage to being behind in my blogging, it must be that, by the time I get around to writing, only the highlights of a trip stand out in my memory, saving me the time and effort of a detailed recounting and you the time and effort of reading it.

In September of this year my mom and I traveled together again, this time to Newport, Ore. for a few days and then inland to wine country. What I wanted most from the trip was for it to be easy and relaxing. I didn't care about having a detailed itinerary or trying to cram a ton of fun into a few days. For the most part these goals were met, though one incident, which I will get to, did put a rather disturbing & eerie spin on the trip.

The Sylvia Beach Hotel
I'd been hearing about the Sylvia Beach Hotel for a few years as a pleasant place to stay and a book lover's heaven. A communal library, rooms named and decorated in honor of authors, no Internet, and no cell phones allowed. Mom and I stayed in the Steinbeck room, whose most prominent characteristic was a 3D mural of an old car coming out of the wall between the beds, its headlights acting as bedside lamps. There were jars of Doc's specimens on high shelves around the room (from Cannery Row) and plastic frogs in the bathroom.

At some point we toured the other rooms, which are open to viewing during the day as long as no one is staying in them. My favorites by far were the J. K. Rowling room done up in Harry Potter paraphernalia and the Colette room, which had a fireplace, a private deck, and sumptuous decor.

The Restaurants
One of the best things about the Sylvia Beach Hotel is that it is right across the street from one of our favorite restaurants, April's at Nye Beach. The photo on the right, I believe, is worth at least a thousand of my words, so I will leave it at that.

We also ate at a restaurant on the bay, which unfortunately did not ring my bell. The most interesting part of the meal there was meeting, in the wine bar upstairs before we were seated, a handsome man in his late 30's or early 40's who seemed very interested in meeting new people. In addition to being handsome, he was open, charming, a native Spanish speaker, and had led and interesting life. But it seemed to me that there was something not quite right about him. Maybe it's due to my overactive imagination, but I got creepy vibes off him and would not have been surprised to find out that he was a serial killer. I hope for his sake that I was ungenerous and mistaken.

Although our hotel included breakfast, Mom and I opted instead most days to walk to Cafe Stephanie, a little place nearby that proved to have good coffee and excellent quiche. I highly recommend this place.

The Backpack
And here we come to the disturbing incident to which I referred earlier.

On the second or third day in Newport, Mom and I took our customary long walk down the beach. At one point she saw a hotel towel in the waves and took it upon herself to rescue it. As she trudged inland to deposit it on a sand dune, I took the opportunity to survey the landscape.

That was when I saw the backpack. It was about half-way between the surf and the treeline. No one seemed to be near it, and there was no one playing in the waves for hundreds of feet. I thought it odd that someone would have simply walked away and forgotten it.

When Mom rejoined me, the wet towel now disposed of, I pointed the backpack out to her. After some discussion she trudged back out into the dunes to check it out. At this point I was merely curious, and I was content to let her do the hard work of navigating the dunes.

I watched her approach it, saw her pause as though trying to decide something, and then saw her move toward it with an air of determination. She picked up the backpack, then bent down and picked up something else and stuffed it into the backpack. And then again.

As I watched her do this, a family of three approached me. "Is it yours?" they asked, gesturing toward my mother and the backpack. "No," I said with some surprise. "I just saw it out there and my mom went to investigate." "We saw it earlier and looked," they said. "There is a phone there, and some money. It is strange."

Eventually Mom came back down from the dunes, backpack in hand, and told us what she had found. Several empty wine bottles. A few bottles of anti-psychotic meds. Discarded clothing. A cell phone that had likely been picked apart by the seagulls. A few dollars cash. A train ticket with the owner's name on it. But what pushed it from curiosity to concern for me was the Spanish homework. It led me to guess that the backpack belonged to a high school student, who perhaps had gotten high and drunk and had either wandered off or was passed out somewhere between the rolling dunes.

Mom and I went back out together but found no one. I did find a digital voice recorder and some socks, which I added to the backpack's contents. By this time it was clear to both of us that the police should be involved.

When a police officer finally did show up at the hotel, not terribly long after we'd called, my mom left our room to meet him and I followed shortly after. I found them just outside the hotel, rummaging through the backpack. We showed him the drugs and told him about the wine bottles. We showed him the homework and the train ticket. He found pot and a pipe in the bottom of the bag. I told him about the voice recorder, at which point he tensed and asked, "Did you listen to it?" I hadn't.

After he was satisfied that he'd seen everything, he filled us in. The backpack belonged to a man who had been found dead on the rocks just an hour earlier. Not a high school student but a college graduate. There were more details, but considering the police officer's demeanor and the ensuing lack of press about the incident, I don't feel it my place to divulge them.

Needless to say, this was a shocking and depressing discovery, and the after-effects stayed with us for a long while. For the next few days, every time I looked at my mom, all I could see was her marching up the beach toward the hotel with a dead man's backpack slung over her shoulder.

McMinnville
I hardly know how to segue from that to the rest of our trip, but the fact is that we did go on, albeit with a little more gravity.

We left Newport and drove to McMinnville, where we spent some time wandering around downtown in the growing dark before deciding to do a little wine tasting there. Unfortunately most of the shops were closed, but there was one that was open: NW Food and Gifts.

When we stumbled upon the place, they were just half an hour away from closing, but the owner was in the tasting room with a young couple who were vacationing together. She might have been from California; he was definitely from England. We were invited to join the impromptu tasting party, at no charge, and proceeded to spend the next hour and a half working our way through perhaps eight different wines, joking and laughing with the owner and the young couple.

NW Food and Gifts is another recommended destination, if for no other reason than the sincerity and generosity of the owner. The shop also features food and gifts that are all locally produced, and the art on the walls are by local artists. Support your local economy! =*)

Wine Tasting
We stayed in McMinnville that night and headed out to the vineyards around Dundee the next day. We visited Winter's Hill and De Ponte Cellars. We may or may not have visited a third winery, which may or may not have been Domaine Serene.

The tasting fee at De Ponte seemed a bit steep to me, but they let us split a flight, and a couple of their wines were extraordinary. Mom bought a bottle of one we both loved and is saving it for some unspecified time in the future when she I and can have it all to ourselves.

The tasting at Winter's Hill was just okay, but I went home with a bottle of their Golden Nectar ice wine that proved to be super delicious when I opened it for a friend's birthday dinner to go with the pineapple upside-down cake. I would absolutely buy that again, and of course (if I remember correctly) you can only buy it direct from the vineyard.

After all that wine I thought it prudent to eat something, so we drove into Dundee and happened upon the Ponzi wine bar, where we ate some meat and cheese and ordered another flight of wine.

The End
The ocean seen and much wine drunk, we headed back to Portland. (So much for a short post free of unnecessary details!)

Travel Plans: I give up!

Seriously! It seems like writing about these intentions jinxes them.

I didn't go to Montreal this fall (though Mom and I did go to Newport, OR for a few nights and then into Willamette wine country), and there's no way I'm going to be able to afford New Zealand this year, no matter how much I want to go.

So I'm giving up. Not on making travel plans, but on announcing them. I'll write about it once I've gone and come back, but not before.

Which reminds me, I actually do have a story about the trip to the coast. Will have to post that soon...

Travel plans: past & future

In 2008 and 2009 I had a lot of botched travel plans.

In September 2008 I was going to Munich for a few months to study German and possibly find teaching work, but 24 hours before I was supposed to get on the plane my living arrangement fell through and I doubted my ability to find something suitable just as Munich was ramping up for Oktoberfest.

In January/February 2009 I had plane tickets to go to Madrid and Chicago, but I got a job instead and canceled that trip.

In April 2009 I had a ticket to go to Montreal for a long weekend, but all the flights everywhere were thrown off by the dense fog in San Francisco that grounded planes for a couple days. I only made it as far as Seattle before giving up and coming home.

When Munich in '08 didn't work out, I wrote:
"Plan to go to Italy in January or March [2009] for one month to take an Italian class and work on the novel.

"Plan to go to Germany next October [2009] for one month to take a German class and work on the novel.

"Plan to go to China in 2010 to teach for a semester at a Chinese university, to learn some Chinese, and to work on the novel."

Sadly, none of these plans have come to fruition due to life circumstances and lack of funds. (Though I have found other ways to fit in working on the novel. Hurrah!)

As soon as I got back from the Caribbean last month, people started asking me, "Where are you going next?" I find it interesting that I seem to have built a reputation for myself as a traveler despite so many failed attempts to travel. But I can hardly blame people for asking when I have managed to leave the country three times in the past five months.

And it just so happens that I do have two ready answers to the question of where I'm going next.
-In September 2011 Mom (and possibly my brother) and I plan to go to Montreal for a week or so
-In March 2012 my friends Joe & Linda have offered to show me around their native island of Maui

I'm also thinking about:
-Chicago this spring, to visit friends and because I've never been there before
-Paris in December 2011/January 2012, because I love that city and it seems like a good opportunity to try out the Couchsurfing network
-New Zealand, perhaps the week immediately following the week in Maui in 2012

My ever-growing list of places I'd like to go sometime in the future also currently includes Italy, China, Japan, Argentina, Ireland, Belgium, The Netherlands, and South Korea. These are, of course, in addition to revisiting Spain, Portugal, England, Wales, France, Scotland, Germany, Switzerland and the Dominican Republic.

I really hope I'm not jinxing these plans and aspirations by writing about them. =*)

Where else should I go?

January 2011: Caribbean Cruise

As a Christmas present this year (and probably birthday present, and next year's Christmas present =*), my aunt and uncle invited me to join them and my cousin in early January on a cruise in the Eastern Caribbean. Hurrah!

Getting to & onto the boat:
I flew overnight from Portland to Houston to Miami and thought I'd landed in a different country already: Miami was warm (mid-seventies), slightly humid, and chock full of people speaking Spanish. Blue sky, blue water, bright sunshine. Insane drivers.

I caught a cab to the dock (the cabbie was a native to Miami and a native Spanish-speaker...he was also wearing a long-sleeved, button-up shirt...evidently mid-seventies is a little chilly in Miami), somehow made it through the nightmare process of boarding the ship: outside with people taking my suitcase and yelling at me where to go, then inside standing in line to check in, then to another line waiting to go upstairs to the boarding area, then upstairs to a room resembling an airport gate where we were herded like cattle to a seat and told firmly to remain there until our row was called, then eventually herded to another line where I waited to have my photo taken in front of a fake sunset backdrop, then inch ahead to another line where they swiped my room card, then onto the gangplank where someone attacked my hands with a spray bottle while yelling, "Washy-washy happy-happy!" then inch forward again--slowly, slowly--onto the ship where I suddenly found myself and about 100 other people crammed into an elevator lobby, the crew first greeting me with a calm "Welcome aboard" and then bellowing over my head into the crowd, "There are more elevators through the casino! No wait through the casino!"

Whew! And once all that was over and I found the stairs and made my way up to Deck 9, where my room was, only to discover that all the doors were shut because the rooms were still being cleaned. Turns out I wasn't allowed to put my stuff in my room until after 2pm. At this point it was only noon. Good thing somebody had wrestled my luggage away from me outside on the dock; all I had to lug around with me for the next two hours were my purse and the winter coat that was necessary in Portland but completely inappropriate in Miami in January.

What to do? I wandered around for a while trying to get oriented. Finally stumbled onto Deck 13 overlooking the pool.

I set down my bag, took off my shoes, and sat on a lounge chair overlooking South Beach. The sun warmed my shoulders and legs, a slight breeze blew, reggae music floated up from the live band by the pool...and that was it: my brain shut off and did not turn back on until I went back to work 10 days later. Bliss.


Since I remember far more than I want to write about (and doubtless far more than you want to read about), from here on out I will stick to the highlights.

Samaná, Dominican Republic:
My uncle and I went on the "Waterfall Hike" excursion, which consisted of about 50 cruise passengers piling onto three safari Jeeps and taking a 30-45 minute ride up a curvaceous mountain road, past a mix of tin shacks, brightly-colored villas and half-finished concrete block houses with rebar sticking up into the air. Motor bikes and SUVs sped past us on curves while we dodged pedestrians. Dogs lay in ditches. Children in various states of dishabille paused in their games to stare or wave at us as we passed. Everyone seemed to live in their front yards. Everyone seemed to be smiling.

When we finally reached the top of the mountain, we were advised to take advantage of the free rubber boot rental because, as our guide informed us, "the path is a little muddy." Pshaw, I thought. Who's afraid of a little mud?

We then proceeded to pick, skid and slog our way through ankle-deep wet clay mixed with generous amounts of horse manure for another half hour, leaping to one side or another every so often when a pony or donkey came slipping up the trail at clip, its tourist passenger gritting their teeth and hanging on for dear life as they're bounced along in the manner of a bobble-headed figurine. Eventually we crossed a clear, small stream (no stepping stones) and arrived at our final destination: a 30 foot high waterfall tumbling into a deep, round pool.

50 tourists, three guides, and the 15 or so dominicanos of both sexes, ranging in age from seven to fifty, that had followed us up the trail hoping to make a few bucks by catching us before into the mud-manure mixture all stood alongside this little pool--listening to the rumble of the water, watching the sunlight make rainbows of the spray, breathing in the clean mountain air, drinking in the green of the trees--until somebody gave an unseen signal and about two-thirds of the group stripped down to their bathing suits and jumped into the water.

Being the type of person that prefers to observe rather than interact with nature, I stayed dry and took advantage of the opportunity to chat with one of the guides in Spanish. Ernesto was probably in his late 20s or early 30s, is married and has three children. He works three to four days a week for the tour company, and it's just enough to live on.

As we talked, in his native language, he seemed to relax out of tour-guide mode a bit. He emphasized his points by lightly touching my forearm and began to refer to me as "mi amor," his love. He asked me about my husband or boyfriend, and I was happy to be able to tell him that relationships are too much work. I have my friends, my family, my house and my dog. I am happy. And besides, I joked, men just want to be taken care of, and I have a hard enough time taking care of myself and my dog. He nodded and smiled uncertainly.

After about 20 minutes at the waterfall, during which time two Dominican boys climbed to the top and impressed us by jumping off and not dying, we turned around, crossed the little stream (at which point I made a mis-step and splashed muddy water halfway up my leg) and picked, skidded and slogged back down the trail to our starting point, where the bar owners were happy to sell us a bottle of domestic lager (Presidente) for $3 each. (Hmph.)

On the way back down the mountain, the man who was sitting next to me lost his baseball cap to the wind. When our guide discovered what had happened, he stomped three times on the bed of the truck, which was his method of getting the driver's attention. The driver slowed a little and stuck his head out the window. "What?" "This guy lost his hat. We have to go back."

We came to a full stop. Then we pulled forward into the oncoming traffic lane and started backing up so that we were going in the right direction for that lane, even if we were facing the wrong way. Exciting! But we hadn't backed up 100 ft. when a young guy and his girlfriend came tearing around the corner on their motorbike, baseball cap in hand. The motorbike pulled up to the back of the Jeep. The young guy handed the baseball cap over to the guide. There was a brief moment of stunned silence while we all caught up to what had just happened--not only had they taken the trouble to stop & pick up the cap, but they picked it up in order to give it back to us!--and we all erupted into cheers and clapping. The motorbike guy and his girlfriend smiled and sped away.

The Jeep pulled back into the right-hand lane and carried us past the tin shacks and brightly-painted houses, past the brightly-dressed people waving and flashing their bright white teeth, past the colorful bars and shops, and safely back to the dock where our ship waited to welcome us aboard again.

St. Thomas:
The relatives had a snuba excursion planned and I was to ride in the taxi with them to their departure point and spend the day on the beach. Unfortunately, the water was too rough and their excursion was canceled.

So instead we took a taxi to a beach called Secret Harbor. It was SO BEAUTIFUL. The photo below is the view from my beach towel. My uncle snorkels in the background.

It was while my aunt, uncle and cousin were off snorkeling that the excitement of my day happened: I almost got attacked by a large, male iguana. Apparently I was supposed to get written permission in advance to film him. I hadn't gotten the memo, though, so he made it his first order of business, on coming out of the sea grape tree, to slither-waddle over to our little encampment and *shake his beard at me.*


This may not sound like a big deal, but when a 30 pound iguana with a four foot long tail sidles up to within five feet of you and starts shaking his beard at you, you start to feel a little nervous. And when he looks like he might have a mind to sidle up closer, just to make a point, you retreat and turn off your camera. And when you're hiding behind a palm tree and he slither-waddles up to the head of the towel you were just lying on and *shakes his beard at you* even more vigorously and insistently than before, well then you hightail it down to the water's edge and hope he doesn't follow you.

And luckily he doesn't. Luckily he just gives you the stink eye one final time, as if to say, "And don't you forget it!" turns around, and follows his mate up another palm tree.

And so, after a few moments of waiting and watching you decide it's probably safe to return to your towel, but since he and his mate are now up a palm tree directly behind you, you're suddenly finding it difficult to relax into this beautiful day on the beach.

Tortola:
Since my relatives had a snorkeling excursion planned, I decided, rather than get off the boat, to lie in the sun on the deck all day and drink piña coladas. I do not regret this decision one bit.

I believe this is also the day I decided to splurge on a 75-minute spa treatment called 5 Steps to Heaven: dry body scrub, back and shoulder massage, hand massage, exfoliating facial, and foot massage. Whatever remaining tension I'd held in my body up to this point fled like this white girl flees from beard-shaking iguanas.

Great Stirrup Cay, The Bahamas:
This is Norwegian's private island in The Bahamas, still under construction. We had to take a tender from the cruise ship to the island, where we found row upon row upon row of blue lounge chairs set up along the beach. They fed us barbecue, had bands and DJs play music all day, and came around often to know whether we wanted umbrella drinks.

After lying in the sun (thoroughly coated in 50 SPF, of course) for a few hours I walked around the beach (took all of 10 minutes), ate some food, had one piña colada that got me thoroughly buzzed, spent an hour watching a group of highly attractive Israeli men show off their lithe, bronze bodies and shake the water from their curly black hair--I thought: holy cow, if these guys are picked at random, I have got to go to Israel!--and then I'd had enough beach and sun, so I took the tender back to the boat for a pre-dinner nap. Ahhh....

The End
Of course I'm leaving out a lot about this trip--the food on the ship, the entertainment, what we did on the at-sea days, the voyage home, etc.--but this post is long enough. And besides, I'd rather leave you meditating on a warm beach, piña coladas, and beautiful people. =*)

Click here for more photos of this trip.

October 2010: Liverpool

Liverpool in October was wet, cold (made even colder by whipping winds), and more charming than I'd anticipated.

I went to Liverpool for the 2010 International Society for the Scholarship of Teaching and Learning (ISSOTL) conference, which was held at the Echo Arena and Conference Centre on Albert Dock. I stayed at the Ibis hotel just across the street from Albert Dock. The view from my hotel room:

Left of center you can see Liverpool's version of the London Eye, and just behind that, the building that looks a bit like a spaceship, is the Echo Arena. The body of water in the background is, of course, the Mersey River.

Considering that I was traveling alone, that it pissed down rain most of the week I was there, and that I caught a very bad cold on the second day of the conference that lasted for two weeks, I had a fairly good time in Liverpool. My hotel was a 5-10 minute walk from a large pedestrian shopping area (complete with Starbucks--very important), and Albert Dock consists of several posh bars and restaurants, the Beatles Museum, and the Tate Gallery in what once were working warehouses. It reminded me a bit of Portland's Pearl district in that respect.

Between attending conference sessions, eating mediocre food in the hotel restaurant, keeping on top of work emails, and hiding out in my hotel room watching strange British television as an effort to make the nasty cold go away, I managed to:
-walk 5 or 6 miles around the city
-see a McDonald's whose decor is retro 60's à la Barbarella (see photo below)
-eat at a Spanish tapas restaurant and talk to the lovely young Polish waitress about travel, goals, etc.
-buy a British cell phone
-go to the World Museum and the Tate Gallery (both free)
-follow the pounding bass beats to Matthew Street
-find the one block of gay clubs and bars
-notice that the Empire Theatre was simultaneously featuring The Sound of Music and The Rocky Horror Picture Show (most excellent)
-spend a couple hours in Starbucks writing and watching all the high school and college students navigate their social lives
-opt NOT to pay the outrageous admission fee for the Beatles museum but merely to buy souvenirs in the adjoining Fab Four Store
-and, last but not least, figure out where to buy cold medicine and bottled water (i.e. Boots)

Liverpool is a mix of upscale bars, beautiful old buildings, not-so-beautiful old buildings, new glass-and-concrete structures, and (a new concept for me) Irish-American bars. I first heard about the Irish-American bars from a gorgeous young Irish bartender at one of the bars on Albert Dock where I'd just eaten lunch. I snorted (charmingly) and said, "Irish-American bar? What the hell is that?" He shrugged and told me was that it was best to steer clear of them at any rate, since they could get rather rough.

By accident I happened to stumble into one of the Irish-American bars, The Slaughterhouse, a day or two later. It looked like a typical Irish pub--dark wood, low beamed ceilings, tiny tables, Murphy's and Guinness on tap--except for the glossy, cartoonish, life-sized "statue" of Elvis in mid-full-arm-strum against one brick wall. Huh. Sadly, no fights broke out while I stood awkwardly alone in the middle of the room, sipping my glass of Murphy's, surrounded by boisterous, multi-generational groups of men. I escaped without even being groped or ogled. Sigh.

On Friday night, after the conference was over, I went back to the bar on Albert Dock, hoping the Irish bartender was working so I could tell him about my Irish-American bar experience. He was working and sympathetic to my full-blown cold and consequent need for a steady supply of hot toddies. Also at the bar were another bartender (very young, blonde, Liverpuddlian) and a man who seemed to be a well-known regular (middle-aged, fit, slightly drunk).

Eventually the latter and I entered into conversation, and he ended up buying my drinks (I do so love this about English men) and going with me to an Irish bar downtown called Pogue Mohone (translation from the Irish: kiss my ass), and then we walked around in the cold and wet until about 2am. Probably not the best for my cold, but hey: how often am I going to be in Liverpool on a Friday night?

Click here to see the rest of my photos from this trip.

September 2010: Madrid

Highlights of Madrid:
-seeing friends, former students, and my Spanish family
-hanging by the pool with Leslie
-going to Bar Colorado, my favorite Mexican bar in Madrid
-a night out with the bartenders of aforementioned Mexican bar
-eating at the Chinese restaurant under the Plaza de España, which I found out the locals call "the Blade Runner restaurant" because it looks like it could have been in that movie for its smallness and dinginess
-meeting Yoko No-No, Laurels new puppy (so freakin' adorable!!)

-taking a bus to Villaviciosa de Odón, where my friend Javi lives, and seeing life in a pueblo
-drinking loads of Mahou, café con leche and tinto de verano
-tasting torreznos (fried cubes of fat), pickled pulpo (octopus) and tigre de mejillón (a mussel croquette)

-finding out about (but not trying) the traditional madrileño dishes entresijos (intestines) and gallinejas (chicken uteri?)
-finding out what a fiesta del pueblo really is (think County Fair, but in the middle of a little town instead of at a fairground)
-getting to know Kate better and learning to play Rummi Cube from her while we sat in an elegant bar drinking the best tinto de verano and eating the best potato chips I've ever had
-buying €4 Dolce & Gabanna knock-off sunglasses
-seeing The Runaways (in English)
-having fun, wonderful interactions with new people
-spending more time with Spaniards in 2 weeks than I probably did my entire year living in Madrid

Realization: At home in the U.S. I have emotional walls up all the time that I didn't even realize I put there. There is a part of me that I withhold, that remains distant except with my closest friends and then sometimes even with them. These walls exist to dissuade people from asking me for things I cannot or will not give, hence to spare them from disappointment and to spare myself from the repercussions of disappointing others. This has a lot to do with the definition of "being a good person" that I've had for a long time: a good person is one who does whatever they can to meet others' needs, even at the expense of one's own emotional or physical health.

In Madrid I am a different person: confident, open, unafraid. I am more present with myself in the moment, less likely to be asking myself "what does this person want and how can I give it to them?" Instead I ask myself, "what do I want and how can I communicate that to this person?" Perhaps in Madrid I am less concerned with "being a good person," but I do know that in Madrid I enjoy myself more, have more satisfying interactions with people, and feel more anchored in myself.

I like my Madrid-self better than my U.S.-self. I am working on bringing my Madrid-self into the U.S. I am working on changing my definition of what it means to be a good person.

Click here for more photos of my trip to Madrid.

August 2010: Motorcycle Trip

Dad and I continued our annual tradition of taking his Harley out for a ride again this year. He asked where I wanted to go and I asked to head south on 101 to Otter Rock, where the Devil's Punchbowl and also one of the Mo's Chowder restaurants are.

Dad is so good at planning these trips. He not only maps out the route and checks for construction and road closure notices, but he also figures out where we'll stop every couple of hours--rest stops, view points, Dairy Queens--so our butts don't get too sore.

It was a clear, hot, sunny day inland, cooler with fog on the coast: perfect for a ride. I must be getting better at riding on the back of the bike, despite infrequent practice, because this year I didn't have as much trouble staying upright as I remember having in the past.

As in previous years, we took Hwy 22 West to Hwy 18 and stopped to stretch at the HB Van Duzer Forest State Park rest area before continuing on to Hwy 101 South. We drove through Lincoln City and Depoe Bay and stopped again at a wayside/view point/park...I think it was Boiler Bay State Wayside, before Depoe Bay. There were lots of people out, seagulls, a nice view if you like cloudy weather (as I do). Dad took lots of photos.

On 101 South again we drove around Rocky Creek State Wayside a bit and then took Otter Crest Loop down into a little vacation resort called Otter Crest. Very posh, nice swimming pool, semi-private beach you could walk down to via stairs cut into the cliff face. There was a restaurant there too--The Flying Dutchman--where we ate. The restaurant was clean and I liked our waiter--cute, tattooed, had personality--but the food was a bit overpriced for the quality in my opinion.

After lunch Dad and I walked down the road and found Otter Rock and the Devil's Punchbowl, where he took more photos and I wandered around. We saw we could get back to Otter Crest by descending to, and then crossing, the semi-private beach, so that's what we did. It was a lovely little beach, just a half-moon shaped bit of sand nestled between two rock outcroppings.

Then we got back on the bike and headed back the way we came. The trip was pleasant and (thankfully) uneventful. Hooray for father-daughter bonding time! =*)

Click here for more photos of this year's motorcycle trip.