Travels With George

I-5: Two Days

2008-08-28T16:31:00.001-07:00

We said goodbye to our friends Bill and Zoe on Wednesday morning...

... stopped for a fill of gas and, true to form, got lost on our search for a Starbucks to buy a New York Times to keep us occupied on the Interstate. A kind stranger set us right, and then caught up with us before we had the chance to pass through the Starbucks portal with the gift of an NYT she had picked up at the bookstore. It was only Ellie’s insistence that persuaded her to accept the money to pay for it! A great send-off from Ashland!

We did actually find our way without further misdirection to the I-5, and started on the long drive south, with great views of Mt. Shasta to the east.

A thoroughly uneventful journey, otherwise, with a lunch stop in Sacramento, our state capital. The good folks at the café counter where we bought our wrap assured us that we were in walking distance from the capitol, in the vicinity of which we knew that our friend Lia Albuquerque, the artist, had done a major installation work. Finishing lunch outside (thanks to George) in one hundred degree heat, we set out on foot, traversing a long mall and continuing on for several blocks before another friendly informant suggested that the capitol was simply too far fir the walk to be a pleasant one.

We decided to retrace our steps to where we had parked the car, and drove instead up to the capitol...

... and most of the way around it, without finding Lita’s art work. A shame. But time was short, we were travel weary, and the thought of getting lost another time was not attractive, so we headed back to the I-5 and continued on south to Stockton, some forty minutes distant, where we had booked our last night on the road at a La Quinta hotel—more for the convenience than anything. Arriving at our destination, we stretched out our legs, each on our own queen-sized bed, and tuned in to the Democratic convention.

Glad we did. Bill Clinton, we thought, did an excellent job, a righteous balance of Bush-bashing and Obama-supporting. And Joe Biden’s speech made it clear that he was an excellent choice for the vice-presidential spot. He’s able to play the attack dog with intelligence and humor, and his history is a rich blend of the kind of dedication and determination that grows out of the experience of personal challenges and pain. Both he and John Kerry—whose excellent speech we caught a little later on the internet—were gracious in their acknowledgment of long friendship with McCain, along with their frank recognition that he is not, as a candidate, quite the maverick he liked to play as a senator. We thought that the evening went a long way in laying a solid groundwork for the Democratic agenda at a critical moment in our history.

Venturing forth somewhat later than usual in search of dinner, with George in tow, we found that the only place that offered outdoor service was the In N Out Burger across the street. I ordered burgers for the two of us, and fries to share, and watched in amazement as a frenzied production line of neatly garbed young people turned out an endless supply of burgers to the waiting customers. I confess I am unused to fast food outlets, but I could not but be impressed by the sheer efficiency of the operation, and by the vast numbers of people whom it served. For our two burgers and fries, along with a large cup of pink lemonade, I paid just over $6.00—a price that has something to say, I’m sure, about the current state of the American economy, the rising cost of food at the supermarket, as well as the oft-lamented spread of the American waistline.

We slept okay. I woke at six-thirty, ready to go. But Ellie, who had slept less well—thanks to her aching ribs—needed a little longer to get moving. We stopped at the hotel lobby for a bite of breakfast, and at Starbucks for a latte and a New York Times, and hit the I-5 again around eight-thirty.

And drove. And drove. A quick stop for gas at the Los Banos turnoff, and on down for another couple of hundred miles before another pit stop at the base of the Grapevine.

From there is was a grinding climb and descent through the heat. Heavy traffic...

... and when we looked down over the urban sprawl of Los Angeles and its suburbs, a thick layer of foul air. I hate to end with these last pictures, but in the interests of truth, here we are...

... back home! (The view is usually a little clearer than this. And it's good to be home anyway!)

A Day in Bardland...

2008-08-27T17:54:00.000-07:00

A very patchy night for me. I woke many times, and each time found it hard to get back to sleep. A head full of roiling ideas, resulting in part from conversations with Bill about community. It’s something of a hole in our lives, both in Los Angeles and in Laguna Beach—and from the fact that we live in neither place full-time. I woke finally at dawn, and took George out for his morning pee as the sun rose over the hills to the east. A lovely spectacle.

We spent some time making a change of plans for the return trip to Los Angeles—a two-day journey, which we had planned to split with a convenience overnight in Davis. On consulting the map and the driving times, however, we decided to look for something closer to half the distance, and settled on Stockton, where we booked a room for the night, and canceled the reservation we had made in Davis. Then a bowl of fruit and cereal to start the day, before heading out to check out the farmer’s market—a great community event, with stalls not only of produce but a variety of crafts reaching in all directions under bright sunlight.

We spent a while perusing the aisles, and came away with some goat’s cheese and some unusual variegated eggplants... and a bouquet for Bill and Zoe...

After the market, we spent a while exploring the area around the old railroad station, where urban development has brought in a number of galleries and cafes. We had particularly wanted to find the Davis and Cline Gallery where our friend Richard Bruland shows his paintings, and were greeted warmly there by Chandra Holsten, the gallery director, and John Davis, the owner. We enjoyed the current exhibit of glass sculpture and subtly erotic drawings by the artist Ann Wolf, and were pleased to have news of another very old friend, Josine Ianco-Starrels, who now lives in the area and acts as adviser to the gallery. Sorry to have missed the chance to see her again.

As usual, we got thoroughly lost again as we searched for somewhere for a bite to eat at lunchtime. Several of the cafes in the area were mysteriously closed—perhaps because we were late for the lunch hour, and we ended up returning to the same spot where we ate yesterday, Pangea, and enjoyed another excellent wrap in downtown Ashland...

Our friend Bill had recommended a walk in the Lithia Park in the center of the city, but we discovered that dogs were not welcome there, even on a leash, and had to be content with a drive past the park...

... and up the hill behind it to explore some of the residential area overlooking the city from the wealthy heights. Then headed back towards the area where Bill and Zoe live, and found some very charming streets where, surprisingly to us, the deer roam happily in the driveways.

We had hoped to take both Bill and Zoe out for dinner, to thank them for their warm hospitality, but unfortunately Zoe was committed to an evening meeting, so we had to be content with Bill alone. He suggested a restaurant on the busy square, where we paused for a taste of the mineral water at the public drinking fountains and climbed the steps to Alex’s to find a table on the balcony in back, overlooking the creek that tumbles down through Zithia Park.

A good, plentiful meal with a pleasant bottle of wine, capped by the awesome spectacle of a meteor streaking through the night sky and disappearing down behind the pine-covered hills. I have seen meteors before, but never one so large, so bright, so seemingly close to the earth’s surface. A truly magical moment to bring our last evening in Ashland to a close.

After dinner, Bill walked us up through the park and across to the Shakespeare Festival theater, where an attendant spotted us peering through the closed gate during a performance of Othello and invited us in to the lobby area while the performance was in progress. He also regaled us with a lot of fascinating information about the history of the theater and about the several other theatrical venues in Ashland. Back at Bill’s house later in the evening, we linked up with the convention and watched the entirety of Hillary Clinton’s speech at the Democratic convention—greatly impressed by her passion and the unambiguous clarity of her message: support Obama, and work like mad for his election.

From Ashland, Oregon

2008-08-26T13:20:00.000-07:00

An uncomfortable night for Ellie, before resuming our journey south. The results of her episode on Clear Lake turned out, late at night, to be more severe than either of us had imagined. A sharp pain in her ribs suggested that she had bruised them nastily in the process of clambering back up to the dock, and we spent some time online before concluding that a stop at the local hospital would not yield significant further information.

Breakfast at McKenzie River Inn and a long talk with Bert, an immigrant from Holland who, with his wife, owns the inn and also offers guided raft and fishing tours on the river. We were sorry to have missed the opportunity to have joined one of his trips. Next time, perhaps. He gave us a fuller tour of the various cabins and rooms at the inn, including one that would be ideal for us on a future visit.

(A bridge across the McKenzie River...)

Having ruled out that visit to the hospital, then, we headed straight for the 5 South and down the interstate

under grey skies, but through lovely mountainous and forested country, with barely a pause until we reached our next destination, Ashland, where we enjoyed a great lunch at Pangea on Main Street, sharing a superb yam and curry soup and a wrap out in the sunshine. From there, a call to my very old friend, Bill Kauth, who had invited us to stay for a couple of nights, to get directions to his house.

Arriving there, we found Bill in the kitchen, engrossed in the task of bottling a batch of luscious, fresh-picked local peaches in Mason jars with different blends of liqueurs and his new bride, Zoe, off in her studio, painting in preparation for a show this coming weekend. A marvelous location, overlooking a wide expanse of golden hills surmounted by a crown of dark green trees, just three minutes from the center of town. It’s year since I last spent any time with Bill, and it was a joy to stand around and chat with him, catching up on the new—and old—directions of his life as he sliced the fruit and filled his jars.

Later afternoon, Zoe arrived home with a roasted chicken and we all worked together in the kitchen to prepare a wonderful salad...

... gently fried, sliced beets and green beans to accompany the chicken. Ellie and I contributed a bottle of Castle Rock Merlot from Mendocino, and we celebrated the reunion with joined hands around the table and a few words of gratitude from Bill. A lovely moment.

After dinner, Bill invited me to join a meeting of one of his men’s groups—there are, I gather, some 500 men in the immediate area who have been through the intense weekend training program that Bill pioneered with two others back in the 1980s, and which was of particular importance to me more than fifteen years ago as I struggled with difficult life changes, inspiring the book that has brought me more satisfaction, as a writer, than anything else I have done. For whatever reason, it turned out to me a small group—four men, only—but none the less rich for that. We sat out, first, on the patio behind a newly-built home set in those glorious hills; and later in the spacious living room, and talked for a good three hours about issues of importance in our lives. I do much enjoy the company of men—not to the exclusion of mixed company, of course, but there is a special energy when men get together, and it is one that I always find stimulating and refreshing.

We took a scenic route home, to get me oriented in the city of Ashland. It seems like a genuinely human—and humane—community, and one that is eminently livable. I returned home to hear an enthusiastic report on the events in Denver--viewed online, since Bill and Zoe eschew the vagaries of television in general and its wayward news broadcasts in particular--and a fine review of the appearances of Michelle Obama and Ted Kennedy. Sorry to have missed them… but happy to have made the choice I did.

... and Ellie Fell In

2008-08-24T15:22:00.001-07:00

I seem to have missed a day... so excited by the VP announcement that I forgot to blog. Seriously, I think it's a good one. The choice, I mean.

Anyway, Saturday. We awoke in our comfortably utilitarian digs in Kelso, at the southern end of Washington State, and tackled a utilitarian breakfast in the hotel lobby--a bowl of fruit and Raisin Bran and a toasted English muffin--next door to a charming family woth five (count'em!) kids, all seemingly under the age of ten. All with dreadful colds, but mostly cheery for all that. After breakfast, we packed up the car and, on Ellie's insistence (I wanted to get on the road as soon as possible) retraced our steps to the dike ...

... for a brisk walk before the anticipated day in the car, driving south on 5. In the park, we stumbled on a gathering of the Jack Russel clan, hundreds of them, all yapping wildly, and a number of them vying to be the fastest on the obstacle course.

It was quite a sight. Initially excited, George eventually became quite blase, surrounded by these rowdy canine cousins. Here he is...

... good George!

Once on the road, we made good time through Portland and on to Salem, where we tooled around the town a bit before parking outside an antiques mall--much to Ellie's delight--where we spent the next half hour perusing all the available junk in the known universe. Ellie found a small white ceramic dog, to add to her collection of small white ceramic things. We crossed the road to Starbucks, where we were thrilled to find a current copy of the New York Times to add to my collection of highly disposable newspapers. Bought a sandwich at the sandwich shop a few doors down from Starbucks, and sat on a bench outside to wolf it down.

Back in the car, we made it to the interstate with remarkable ease and headed on south for another hour to Eugene, where we took a side strip through the town and out the the very lovely campus of the University of Oregon...

... and managed, as is more our custom, to get hopelessly lost this time as we cast about for the 126 East to take us out along the MacKenzie River to our B & B. We did get ourselves straightened out eventually, and discovered the start of the lovely valley that awaited us.

Our B & B turned out to be located right beside the river; from our little room, we look out over its fast-moving waters, and hear the constant sound of its flow.

After a walk for us--and a run for George--around the property, we took off down the road for dinner at the Linn Rock Grill, where George suffered the indignity of having to wait in the car whilst we sat out on the deck behind the restaurant...

... and indulged in hamburgers with French fries and, for Ellie...

... a glass of beer.

W survived the night on a double bed--we are accustomed to the luxury of at least a queen, and felt a bit cramped in this small space--and spent a while on the laptop, catching up with the news (no television here, okay by me, but I do need my news fix in some manner or form!) Breakfast at nine in the small communal dining room. We chatted with a nice young couple from Portland, out for a weekend in the country, and ate blueberry pancakes with sausage and maple syrup. Oh, and peach crumble. An odd mix. Following the recommendation of our breakfast companions, we drove quite a ways further east on 126 and stopped, first, for a short hike to the Sahalie Falls, a magnificent water spectacular set deep in the forest. A thunderous sound, as tons of water tumble over the rocky shelf every second and drop down maybe sixty feet into the devil's punchbowl pool below.

We gazed from above, then walked some more and gazed from below. And of course took too many pictures. The digital camera is one of the greatest inventions of the digital age, in my opinion: remember the days when you had to worry about how much film you had used up? And take the film to the local Savon for development, then wait for a couple of days before you got your pictures back--and most of them were terrible? What a blessing, to be able to keep snapping away forever, and discard the flubs.

Onward and upward, then--quite literally (did anyone else notice how many times Joe Biden used the word "literally" in his speech yesterday? It worried me a bit...)--further up the mountain to one of the what must be three million Clear Lakes in the country. This one earned its name. Amazing clarity, amazing colors. You'll see more of them below. This was a first glimpse...

We first took a long walk through the woods that border the lake on all sides, along a beautiful hiking trail...

... that may have led all the way around the lake. We did n't get that far. We had already decided to spend some of our lake time actually on the lake, in one of the rentable row boats, and returned after an hour or so to the small shop and dining room to put down our money and pick up our life jackets. Then out across the smooth surface of the lake, myself plying the oars...

... whilst Ellie and George...

sat in the back and laughed at me. I was soon to get my turn, believe me. In the meantime, we broke out our lunch satchel in the middle of the lake, and drifted gently as we munched on left-over sandwiches. An idyllic spot. Here's the color of the water ...

... I promised to show you.

Anyway, there were Ellie and George enjoying the luxury of a free ride, whilst I labored.

But pride, we know, goeth before a fall. And sure enough, in a moment of delicious klutzery as we returned to land, Ellie got caught in the split between the boat and the dock, and slipped right in to the freezing water. I should have had the presence of mind, of course, to have brought out the camera to record her agonized efforts to haul herself back on the dock, but alas, ever the proper Englishman, I was too preoccupied with saving her life to get the pictures. I had to satisfy myself with the "after" picture, as she lay there panting, dripping lake water from every pore...

... and again, when we got back to the parking lot, toweling off beside the Prius. She'll be mad at me for posting these pictures of her Sunday afternoon adventure, but I thought you'd enjoy them as much as I did.

Have a great week. Back to The Buddha Diaries before you know it! We have another four days to get back to Los Angeles, and thence to Laguna Beach to check on progress at the cottage.

Leaving Orcas

2008-08-23T07:54:00.001-07:00

An early start. The two fawns stopped by without their mother, and I worried that she might have had an encounter with one of those speeding cars, out on the street. I hope not. They twins had disappeared by the time I took George out, at dawn with George, for his morning pee, and the sky was by now a gorgeous blend of pink and blue.

The omnipresent clouds from the past few days have dissipated into wisps. Back in the bungalow, I put in a good few minutes meditation before making tea and waking Ellie to get ready for our departure for the ferry. We had been told to arrive in line at least an hour before the 9:20 departure, and planned to leave an hour and a half.

We were well ahead with the packing chores, and managed to get out of the house and on the road before seven-thirty, driving through the village of East Sound and back through the lovely landscape of the island for the last time with a lot of sadness to be leaving after what seems like so short a visit. I was writing yesterday about the magical quality of islands; this morning, before starting this entry, the thought came to me in my brief meditation session that the experience of being in meditation has something of that quality. It’s the pleasurable sensation of being totally alone, and sufficient unto oneself; an invitation to serenity and insulation from the cares of the world.

I wrote those words yesterday on the blog as we sat on the terrace outside the dockside hotel with George. We had parked the car, well to the front in the first lane of the ferry line, and had stopped by for a generous breakfast at a table overlooking the sound with its archipelago of islands.

By nine, the ferry had arrived...

... and we returned to the car to join the long parade of vehicles driving down the ramp. The capacity of these ferries is astounding...

... as is the traffic that moves between the mainland and the islands every day.

An uneventful crossing. As before, we had to stay down on the vehicle deck because of George: we could have left him alone in the car, of course, but chose not to, and used the time to catch up with our reading. Once off the boat, we joined another long line of traffic to get to Anacortes, where we made a Starbucks stop to pick up an old friend we have missed for the past week: the New York Times. Then twenty miles inland to get to Interstate 5, and a turn south for the long, long drive through Seattle (a slow drive) to our next convenience stop in Kelso, Washington, for the night.

Having heard from my cousin, Sam, that his daughter now lives in Olympia...

... we had debated the possibility of stopping for a visit. We have not seen Clara for many years, and it would have been a pleasure to visit with her. But the distance traveled, along with some uncertainty about the distance still to go, persuaded me that we should keep going. We decided at least to call the number Sam had emailed me and took a detour from the freeway in order to make the call. I kicked myself later for my reluctance. We had a lovely conversation with Clara, in the process of which we got completely lost in the streets of the state capital. In the time it took to find our way back to the 5, we could just have well made the visit. The lesson: never pass up on the chance to connect with family. I drove on south regretting the lost opportunity, and feeling very stupid for my petty concern with making up time which we lost anyway.

Arriving in Kelso only an hour or so later, we found our hotel with ease and were soon installed in a comfortable room. Unpacking the minimum, we set out for a walk recommended by the front desk clerk, starting in the nearby Tom O’Shanter Park and following a long, curving watercourse—a river? A canal?—along the raised dike beside it. Below us to the left, picnic sites with dogs and children playing in the warmth of the late afternoon, a huge RV site; and to the right, the slow-moving water with a myriad reflections of the gently sloping lawns and trees of the homes on the far side. Ahead of us, the forested hill-sides and above, a clear blue sky. A lovely walk. (We forgot the camera, sorry, no pictures of this delightful site!)

We made a last stop at the Safeway next to the hotel, where Ellie bought our utilitarian dinner: a couple of microwavable soups and pre-packaged salads—along with the inevitable bottle of white wine, a New Zealand sauvignon blanc from the Marlborough vineyards, which turned out to be a realy good wine at a more than reasonable price. We consumed all this in our hotel room, and I took George out for his final pee walk before turning in.

Orcas Island: The Last Day

2008-08-22T17:40:00.000-07:00

Our last day on the island… We hung around the bungalow for a good part of the morning, much as we did yesterday. Gave George a much-needed bath.

I wrote the next episode of Travels with George and got it posted, with pictures; then spent a while with Barack Obama. More on his book at a later date. In the meanwhile, Ellie busier herself once again with her chalk pastels, fully absorbed for a good two hours in the creation of another masterpiece. No, joking aside, she has a really good eye for composition and a great sense of color—the result of many years looking at art made by others. A neophyte, herself, in the making of it, she brings all that experience with her, so that even her earliest efforts are remarkably good.

Time, now, to get ourselves ready to leave. We had some laundry to do, so we headed for the laundromat at the nearby gas station complex, and ventured into the new territory of card-operated machines—with plenty of help from our more experienced neighbors. Whilst we were waiting outside with our books, clean George attracted the attention of a man who had arrived to deliver cases of wine to the wine shop next door to the laundromat—an encounter that result in the gift of a nice bottle of wine. Thanks, George! I slipped into the store while the clothes were drying, and added a couple of other bottles to our collection.

Back at the bungalow, we began the process of reorganizing and packing all our gear—no small task, but one which we got finished with time to spare for a last drive in to East Sound for a few essentials, a taco for lunch, and a stroll around the town. Stopped to admired one of the many vegetable gardens...

and an apple tree....

Otherwise, not a great deal of excitement to report…

We had booked an early table at the Ship Bay Inn—supposedly the best restaurant on the island. And what a view!

We enjoyed an excellent, leisurely dinner, sharing a gravlox salad appetizer, a pork chop with a somewhat scant portion of vegetables, and a truly delicious nectarine tart with vanilla bean ice cream. The food, though, was trumped by the sight of a brood of young bald eagles practicing their flight skills right outside the restaurant window. (Sorry, no pictures of the eaglets: our table was poorly placed for playing the photographer during dinner. But here's their playground...)

The women at the adjacent table, closer to the window, pointed out the parent, perched atop a nearby pine tree and patiently supervising the efforts of her young. The performance continued for the entire dinner hour, almost as though staged for the exclusive entertainment of the restaurant patrons—all of whom seemed as fascinated by the experience as we were. It’s always gratifying, to me, to see how humans respond to creatures of the wild. We are so urbanized, these days, that such sights come to seem extraordinary, magical.

There is something magical, I have always believed, about islands. At one time, during my academic career, that I thought about a book-length study of islands in the history of literature, and their metaphorical associations. It never got written, of course. Those were days of “publish or perish,” and I perished anyway—despite the books of poetry I had published. I still think it’s a wonderful idea—for someone else, someone with fresher literary credentials than my own. My peculiar attachment is rooted, surely, in my own island origins: being surrounded by water brings with it a certain feeling of safety and protection—during my own lifetime, despite his worst efforts and his air assaults, Hitler never managed to breach England’s island defenses during World War II—as well as a certain insularity. And many of my childhood literary delights—Enid Blyton’s “Island of Adventure,” Robert Louis Stevenson’s “Treasure Island”—must have contributed to my sense of the special quality of a small piece of land with water on all sides.

Orcas Island, anyway, has a good measure of this magic, and I shall be sad to have to return to the “real world” of the mainland. In some sense, it will seem to me like waking from a dream, and resuming the mantle of the responsible adult who has to drive on the freeway, pay the mortgage and, yes, soon, vote…

After-dinner contentment...

... and home to bed.

A Day in the Woods

2008-08-21T09:46:00.000-07:00

A fresh fruit and granola breakfast, with freshly picked berries...

... and a visit with a doe and her two fawns...

... followed by a morning spent mostly in and around the bungalow; myself up in the garden, closer to the farm house, in order to get wireless Internet access, and Ellie working with pastels indoors, making what turned out to be a very nice abstract landscape painting.

Late morning, we decided on a hike, and took the drive down to Olga again. This time we chose to drive on, past Olga’s...

... to Obstruction Pass—a place we had not visited before on either of our trips. We were delighted to have made that choice: leaving the car at the parking lot, we opted for the .9-mile walk to the beach over the .6-mile, and found ourselves climbing fairly steeply along a trail that had that wonderful soft, spongy underfoot feel created by centuries of forest entropy.

A high canopy of greenery above, and the brilliant, mottled green of moss surrounding us, covering every boulder, every fallen tree-trunk.

The previous night’s rain, as Ellie noted, had left a dampness in the air and on the ground, so that the whole environment seemed to breathe with life. This had to count as one of the loveliest hikes we have ever taken—and we have taken many in our time. And George was thrilled with this new territory to explore. A city slicker in the wilderness…

From the high point of the trail, it wound steeply down again towards the sound...

... leading us eventually down a precipitous rocky path to a pebbly beach.

We found a couple of young families there, from the camp sites at the water’s edge, but otherwise this beautiful cove was ours to enjoy its tranquil beauty. We cast about a bit to find the trailhead for the shorter way back, but failing to find it, retraced our steps on the longer one—and found, of course, that it was much longer on the return.

Driving back to Olga, we bought coffee at the smaller of the two restaurants, where we found an outdoor table to enjoy the sandwiches we had made, along with an outsize chocolate chip cookie from the deli counter.

After this late lunch, we headed back to the bungalow, passing another doe and her young fawn at the side of the road...

... and changed into fresh clothes for a different experience: a chamber concert at the local auditorium. We knew the seats had been sold out, but had been told at the box office that we’d be more than likely to get tickets if we showed up an hour and a half before the concert’s five o’clock start, because people buy blocks that they choose not to use. We showed up, then, with books to read, at three-thirty and sat in the lobby hoping for the best. Alas, this was the premiere of the two-week concert program, and everyone showed up. At the last minute, we were offered a single ticket, with the possibility of a second after the first piece if the seats had not been claimed by then. We declined.

We could have made the trip into East Sound for dinner, but there is too much left in the refrigerator to waste, so we decided instead on a kind of Cobb salad concocted of left-overs, with a glass of wine. I’m writing these notes Thursday, the morning of our last day on the island. Tonight, a blow-out at what we have heard is the best restaurant on Orcas Island, and tomorrow an early departure for the ferry back to mainland America. This travel log may be neglected for a couple of days while we get back on the road. We’ll see what opportunities arise…

Buck Mountain, Deer Harbor, and Beyond...

2008-08-20T08:57:00.000-07:00

It was not pouring with rain when we woke, as I had feared from the weather forecast. But it is certainly overcast and very much cooler than our first few days. No matter, we were up and about in decent time, catching up with Larry, our contractor, about the possible changes to that irksome pass-through window. We’re hoping, now, to wait for our architect to return from vacation (?) and get his first-hand input at the end of this week.

Late morning, we headed out for an adventure in the Prius. Those who follow the comments on “Travels with George” will remember one from a reader, Ron, who owns property here on the island, and who invited us to visit it. Following his directions, we found ourselves ascending a steep and narrow road on the slopes of Buck Mountain, through a landscape of dense forest and occasional lakes and tarns, to what must be one of the highest points on the island. Here's the cairn that marks the approach...

From the street, we walked up to Ron’s property—as yet undeveloped—and climbed the rocky promontory...

... to enjoy the spectacular view of the sound and the many islands of which he had justly boasted. Ron, here’s the view you treasure...

Thanks for inviting us! (I'm afraid you lost a tree...)

From Buck Mountain, we doubled back through East Sound and drove on through farmlands and meadows...

(...with a stop to pick blackberries for tomorrow's breakfast...)

to Deer Harbor...

... where we spent a few days several years ago. Still a gorgeous spot. We ate fish and chips at the end of the pier, surrounded by grizzled old geezers with grey beards and weathered faces. Surprised by the sparseness of tourists, we found out that this is indeed a slow summer: it seems that there are far fewer tourist boats coming in this year to moor—a change attributed, by at least one man we spoke to, to the cost of gas. After lunch, we took George for a walk along the moorings...

... before heading back to East Sound for the second of my healing sessions with Stacy at Ama Tara. In a generous mood at the end, and wishing to share the relaxation, I treated Ellie to a session after mine before we retraced our steps to the bungalow.

I promised myself a holiday from politics this month, but I have to admit that I have been watching developments out of the corner of an eye. I have also been reading the Obama book, “The Audacity of Hope,” and wish that every voter would do the same. The Republican attempt to paint their Democratic rival as a lightweight, inexperienced neophyte with an abundance of rhetorical skills but no substance would become transparently absurd to anyone who had read just a few pages of this extraordinary book. It is rich with historical knowledge and a breadth of vision that is frankly astounding in a man so young. It also helps one understand the strength of flexibility—too often interpreted as weakness—along with the value of respecting the views of others and the meaning of compromise. It is precisely those qualities that are mindlessly attacked by his opponents that are the source of his vision and his strength.

Too bad that we Americans have such skewed ideas about what it means to be strong. Witness the posturing of John McCain. I hear he’s floating Joe Lieberman’s name as a vice-presidential choice. I hope he chooses him. I believe it will increase his chances of losing in November. The two inflexibles. If the current occupant of the White House has not taught us anything about the illusion of strength, I fear that we will never learn.

So much for politics from the Pacific Northwest. We went to sleep again to the sound of rain, and woke again to a cool morning with low clouds and sodden ground. No matter the weather, it’s a joy to be here.

Clouds...

2008-08-19T16:04:00.000-07:00

Awoke in our little bungalow...

... to find our friends grazing outside the kitchen window. They love the green apples...

Our first concern for the day was to resolve a problem with the construction project down in Laguna. We had received pictures from our friends Brian and Mary, and had noted what seemed to us a rather smaller than expected pass-through window, where there once was a doorway leading from the kitchen to the sitting room. We checked with Mary via email, and her return note confirmed her agreement that the window seemed narrow. A worried call to our contractor, Larry, to check with him; he offered his own opinion that it was wide enough, at two feet, and that a narrow shelf extension into the sitting room from the kitchen counter might help resolve the visual anomaly. This what I myself had suggested as a possibility, so we asked Larry to make a mock-up of some kind to send us as a jpg.

This business had to be conducted in town, of course, because our phone reception out here at the farm is intermittent. So we enjoyed a cup of coffee while we were there, and made a few necessary purchases—dog food for George from the pet shop, a fresh loaf of bread from the marvelous bakery, Rose’s, for ourselves—and then were headed back to the car when we were startled by the most extraordinary sight: a cloud formation such as I have never seen in my life before. It was a rolling, curving bank of cloud reaching for miles across the sky like a thick braid, so “unnatural” as to be quite spooky.

It's worth clicking on these, to get the larger view. But the pictures, taken in sequence because of the sheer size of the phenomenon, don’t manage to do justice to this amazing spectacle that stopped everyone in their tracks and had the whole street filled with people gazing up into the sky. It looked like a UFO trail from “Close Encounters”—you almost expected an alien spaceship to be emerging from the front end of the trail and landing at the local airstrip.

With the clouds dispersing slowly, we made our way back to the bungalow to change into something warmer: the storm had brought a cold front with it, and we were shivering in summer clothes. Then on down the sound to its southernmost point at Olga’s, where we strolled out to the end of the dock...

... and returned for lunch at the famous Olga’s Café—though not with some dispute as to whether this was the famous one, or the smaller one where I remembered eating an excellent lunch last time we were here. (We were both right: the café where we ate before was indeed more “gourmet” than this one—and had purloined the name; but it had arrived and disappeared in the space of a couple of years, while this artist-run operation has survived for a long time.)

A lovely drive, next, up Mount Constitution, through the clouds, to a height of some two thousand feet.

Once at the summit parking lot, we climbed the last few feet to enjoy the stunning view out over the islands, many of them now obscured by the slow-moving banks of cloud below us.

It was cold and blustery up there, but we climbed the stone tower that crowns the summit, George charging up the steps ahead of us in his eagerness to see what was ahead. It’s one of his most endearing qualities: he is insatiably curious. Another Curious George.

(Did I ever tell you, by the way, where George got his name? Not Curious George. Not George Washington—though that might have been appropriate for this trip. And most certainly not the current occupant of the White House, who will remain unnamed. No, George got his name from George Harrison, the Beatle, who happened to be leaving this life just as our George was arriving. He returned, we like to think, “Across the Universe.”)

We were grateful to get back to the warmth of our bungalow for a nap (for me) and reading time for Ellie. I joined her with my own book—I’ve finished the excellent Alan Furst now, and am working on Barack Obama, with growing admiration—and we spent a good part of the rest of the day engrossed in our own worlds. Late afternoon, we took the computer up to the one spot on the property where I can get wi-fi connection, and spent a while working on our plans for the return trip to Los Angeles, beginning this weekend. And were joined by our host, Mark, armed with a bottle of beer for each of us, for the “cocktail hour.” A pleasant opportunity to get to know more about him, his work as a carpenter/contractor, his wonderful family, and the island he has lived on for a number of years.

Supper at home. Left-overs. A piece of chicken, a piece of salmon, a sauté of tomatoes, onions and potatoes, and nice green salad. A glass of Oregon wine. And, later, a stupid old western movie with Lee Marvin, Burt Lancaster and Jack Palance—on which I got ridiculously hooked, and got to bed too late, and couldn’t sleep for the pounding rain outside.

The Weekend...

2008-08-18T09:50:00.001-07:00

… began with our usual cup of tea, then a drive into East Sound with George to the farmer’s market—a venue from he is usually excluded by California law. We had little to buy—just a few vegetables and some fruit—but Ellie found plenty to occupy herself with the various crafts stalls. There were many of these, a testament to the creative spirit of those who live here: jewelry, metalwork, textiles, ceramics… When interspersed with the produce, the baked goods, the sausage stands—we bought a couple to bring home for Sunday dinner—it was a gladly motley gathering, where everyone seemed mellow and grateful for a warm Saturday morning for the event. Unfortunately, though I’d had the foresight to hitch my camera bag to my belt, I was foolish enough to forget that it was there, and neglected to take a single photograph. Too bad.

I can claim that I was distracted, though, because at the market we ran into our friends Arthur and Judy from Laguna Beach, who are also up here on the island—they for two weeks, an enviable improvement on our one. We had been trying to reach other by cell phone since our arrival here, but the vagaries of connectability had prevented our meeting until this chance moment. We were delighted to see them, and more than delighted to be invited over to their place later in the day for late afternoon appetizers and dinner.

With our marketing done, we stopped by at the small theater to see if we could get tickets for the chamber concert series scheduled for next week, but discovered that they are already sold out. Cancelations are a possibility, we understand, if we wait by the ticket office to pounce before the concert. We’ll see. Back at our bungalow, we made a sandwich and spent a lazy afternoon beneath the apple trees with books until four o’clock, when we abandoned George to his own devices and drove down the road, three miles or so, to where Arthur and Judy have rented a delightful home for their stay. (We were impressed to find a fine drawing by David Ligare on the wall there—an artist Ellie showed at her gallery many years ago, and for whom I once wrote a catalogue text.)

Here’s the view from their balcony…

Arthur had grilled some excellent corn and salmon steaks, and Judy had prepared a fine, fresh salad, which we much enjoyed, along with a glass of white wine—despite the determined efforts of a squadron of yellow-jackets to spoil things for us. Good conversation, too. As a professor at UCLA, Arthur is more than well-informed about the environmental crisis that we have created for ourselves on the planet, and we learned a great deal in the course of the evening—much of it not entirely cheerful news. Mindful of George in his solitary state, we left in good time and drove home in the twilight, grateful for good friends and a lovely evening.

Sunday morning, after a light first breakfast (we have traditionally a late-morning bacon and scrambled egg breakfast on Sundays) we stopped by the gas station, where we had been told we could get a Sunday NY Times, but the papers had not yet arrived. We put our name down to hold a copy and drove on down the east side of the sound to Cascade Lake for a long hike around the perimeter.

It’s a beautiful spot, and quiet!

We met only a couple of other people on the three-mile path, until we reached the south end, where we came across a camp site and were surprised to find a delightful family with a Cavalier King Charles spaniel.

We admired their immaculate site, which looked to us a lot more comfortable than many of the motel rooms we have stayed in. George, I have to say, was his usual aloof self, but deigned to pose for a picture with Polo the dog and Chloe, a sweet little six-year old, and of course her parents. It is wonderful to have these chance encounters with genuinely friendly folk… and I always regret a little that they are so fleeting: there’s a sadness in moving on with the knowledge that we will never really get to know them.

The hike began to seem like a very long one towards the end. It felt like a lot more than the advertised mileage. And yet so refreshing to the spirit to be out in the natural world, with barely a hint of the human presence.

We paused to take pictures of late-blooming foxgloves...

... now in the their moment of entropy; and fungus growing from the roots of a felled tree.

The persistence and diversity—and the temporality—of life in all its forms.

Heading back to East Sound, we searched for a shady place to sit outside with George and at the same time hook up to the Internet in order to make changes to the plans for our return trip south. We have decided to avoid a second stop in Portland, and instead to shorten at least a couple of the driving days by adding an overnight stay in southern Washington. The Internet can prove to be a wonderfully useful tool on such occasions, and we appreciate the flexibility it affords us.

Back at the bungalow, we fried our bacon and scrambled our eggs, and sat down for a tasty breakfast followed by a quiet afternoon (under the apples trees, again!) with the NY Times and, for me, the luxury of a cigar: La Gloria Cubana. As a reformed cigarette smoker—I quit nearly twenty years ago, after too many years’ addiction to the noxious weed—I have learned to enjoy the occasional cigar on a Sunday afternoon. Cautiously, however, because I know how easily I could become addicted once again. By afternoon, the weather had begun to change: the warm sunlight and blue skies gave way to low clouds and a chill in the air. As we read the newspaper, great rolls of thunder shook the house behind us as a storm passed by, barely missing us. Fortunately, though, we had no more than a few drops of rain and I was able to complete my indulgence without getting wet.

A further indulgence: a glass of wine over the news headlines. I had read in the paper about a new British series, “Skins”—a real look, supposedly, into the lives of teenagers, which turned out to be funny for a while, but ultimately rather saddening. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll, with a little anorexia thrown in for good measure. I was distressed, long before the end, to find myself chuckling at the cynical attitudes and antics of these adolescents, and switched off.

For dinner, we warmed up some good sausage, purchased at the farmers’ market yesterday, with onions, steamed squash and boiled red-skin potatoes for an excellent home-cooked meal.

Another Day...

2008-08-16T09:21:00.000-07:00

... in paradise!

We woke this morning to a truly beautiful day on Orcas Island. Bright sun, blue skies, clear, crisp air, green everywhere around. Early on, a doe was munching happily on the grass outside out bungalow, not ten feet from where I stood, watching her.

Yesterday was our first full day on the island. Strange how it seems like we have been here for weeks already. Time slows down amongst the giant pine trees, where humans and their small, hectic activities and endeavors shrink to insignificance in the shadow of centuries of inexorable growth. We were up early for breakfast and our walk down to the pebbly beach, and spent a leisurely morning catching up with email and the blog. There, see! Even here amongst the giant pines, those man-made airwaves connect us to the Internet and the rest of the world.

We made ourselves a ham and cheese lunch, with apple, and decided it was time for George to spend a little time on his own: he has been with us constantly since we left Los Angeles, and we have been nervous about leaving him in strange environments. Here, at least, we thought, he would feel at home in our little bungalow for a couple of hours, so we left with the confidence that he would not tear the place apart, and the hope the he would not disturb others with his bark. (Inquiring later from our host and hostess, we discovered that he had behaved himself impeccably: not a sound while we were gone.)

On the way out, we dropped off some laundry to be washed for us at small expense (we’re on vacation, after all!) and we drove on into the small town of East Sound, where I showed up for the healing session I had booked with Stacy Lutz at the Ama Tara Center, and found her to be attentive to my ailments (hips, travel stress, excess weight, and so on); and at once sensitive and strong, with hands that unerringly found the parts that needed most attention and relieved much of the bodily tension that has been building up inside me. I left with that wonderful feeling of release and ease—and of course with a follow-up appointment for next week. The human touch, along with a loving understanding of the human spirit are capable of more healing than all the drugs they manufacture in their laboratories.

Following Stacy’s recommendation, I went to the organic food store next door and bought a vegetable juice—beet and carrot—which I much enjoyed, while Ellie splurged for a Chai latte, and we returned to our lodgings to find George happy to see us, but certainly no worse for his period of solitary confinement. A ball out on the meadow was a cure for all his problems, whatever they might be.

The afternoon was spent in the rope hammock under the apple tree, both of us reading—me, on toward the end of my excellent new Alan Furst novel. For dinner, following our successful experiment of the afternoon, we left George again and drove into town to a small restaurant where we enjoyed a pleasant, light dinner and a glass of wine at excessive expense. After dinner, a stroll around town and down to the shoreline...

(Ellie's clouds)

(My Monet!)

Driving back at sunset, we paused for the inevitable picture...

... and arrived back home for an instructive evening with Bill Moyers and his impressively intelligent guest before heading off for another early-ish night.

Orcas Island!

2008-08-15T10:48:00.000-07:00

An evening walk out along the dock in Anacortes, before leaving for the island...

... and yes, we finally reached our northernmost destination yesterday. Orcas Island. We gave completed 1,660 miles in the Prius, at an overall gas consumption of 48.5 miles per gallon.

Great car! No hitches, no glitches, aside from that squeak or rattle that aggravates Ellie so much, but which remains inaudible to me. We did solve one squeak that I could hear: the dog crate door. A paper towel jammed in the gap took care of that one.

Before leaving for the ferry, we ate a hasty breakfast at our not-much of a motel, paid more than we had bargained for, and stopped at one of the three Starbucks in Anacortes for a New York Times Following advice to arrive there in good time, we were glad to have our copy of the paper to keep us occupied during the one and a half hour wait in line...

Once aboard the ferry, we had to stay on the vehicle level thanks to George whose canine presence was apparently unwelcome on the passenger deck.

We did take him out for a short walk, but it was cold and dark in the long tunnel that accommodates the vehicles—amazing, how many, and the size of some of them!—so we soon returned to the car.

It was a relatively short crossing, anyway—just a little more than an hour—and we were among the first to be marshaled off the boat and up the ramp onto the island. We were soon reminded how very beautiful is here, in this corner of the North West: rolling hills and farmlands, rocky inlets and coves, innumerable meadows and ponds.

We drove through the village of East Sound and, following directions, on a couple of miles to the bungalow at Buckhorn Farm, where we are booked for a week’s stay in this rural paradise.

It was good to finally unpack the car, unpack the bags, and settle in to a place where we can look forward to several days of complete relaxation.

We took a walk in the direction of the shoreline, but found it further than we had imagined and returned to our digs without having reached our goal. Then back to the village for a shared sandwich, a stroll through the streets to explore for restaurant possibilities—there are many---and a stop at the organic market for some purchases for our own kitchen. A fruit stand provided several pannets of luscious blackberries, blueberries and peaches, and I found a meditation and healing center where I booked a therapy session for today, to help recover from those 1,660 miles on the road.

We worry a bit about George. He’s is a delight whenever he’d alone with us—except for that habit of getting hysterical when one or the other of us disappears from his direct line of vision. But he is NOT good with other dogs and, particularly, with small children. I think his intention is good--to protect his clan. But he chooses a bad way to do it. If w don't watch for him, he lunges at unsuspecting passers by. He lunges at flapping edges of passing garments—a skirt or the end of a shawl—and has been known to grab on to them, much to our embarrassment. We realize that it must be in part a reflection of ourselves, our tight unit as a couple in which he has now become a third. But it saddens us that he is not more receptive to the spontaneous admiration and affection of strangers, which he constantly attracts, wherever we go. Not sure what to do about this. He’s already nearly seven years old, and change becomes increasingly difficult with age.

Back at the bungalow, we met our hostess, Stella (we had met her husband, Mark, in the handsome, light green 1954 Chevrolet pickup truck he has owned for 31 years...

... and her daughter, Sophie, separately) and learned some of the essentials—including the fact there are certain places on the acreage where telephone reception is possible, and a spot or two where I can expect to get online, thanks to their wireless connection. Late afternoon, we took a long-ish walk toward the shoreline—but once again, failed to find access to the beach, and returned to our bungalow to prepare for dinner.

City-slickers that we are, we were amazed to glance outside the window of out sitting room and see a couple of deer grazing happily just a few yards from us, by the Toyota.

Later, a stag stopped by to try his luck picking fruit from the apple tree just outside the kitchen door...

... and we saw a pair of raccoons scuttling away from the trash heap. Wild life! So exciting. We have already spotted woodpeckers—we don’t see many of those in Los Angeles!—and I have been scanning the treetops for bald eagles. So far, no sightings.

Ellie cooked up a tasty, fresh-caught salmon steak for us to share, which we enjoyed with a salad, a baked potato, and a glass of Oregon pinot gris. Then, Keith Olberman and a few minutes of Olympics: BORING! We switched off almost immediately. Can’t they show anything except gymnastics, beach volleyball, and swimming? I also find it hard to listen to the unending hyperbole. So, a book… and early to bed.

For breakfast...

... followed by a leisurely walk down to the nearest beach. Lacking a ball, George had to learn that sticks are objects that can also be chased. He was not happy about it, though. He did managed to get his paws extremely yellow, chasing through the algae.

From Anacortes, Washington

2008-08-13T18:05:00.000-07:00

Did I mention luxury? Here are two of our rooms at the Rose Cottage in Portland...

All packed and ready for a long drive north, I took George out for the ritual of his morning eliminations before another sumptuous breakfast prepared for us by our hostess, Sally. This time it was fresh Washington peaches, unadulterated, sweet in their own juices; home-made scones with a hint of cheddar cheese and apple-garlic jam; and tiny riccotta cheese and sour cream pancakes with a ligonberry sauce.

Delicious. Nothing but the best ingredients--good, wholesome, natural, and as pure as Sally can find them. She is truly an artist in the kitchen, and an impeccable hostess in every other aspect of the B&B tradition!

We left with great reluctance: we would have been glad to spend another few days. Or weeks...

We found our way to the 5 freeway north, driving out of Portland and, soon, into Washington state, with fine views of Mt. St Helens off to the east.

Sorry, not a great picture, but the best we could do from a speeding car on the freeway. We recalled that the last time we were in this city, visiting friends, was a week or so after the eruption of the volcano, and that the streets were still inches deep, in places, in volcanic ash. We even filled a small bottle of the stuff to take back with us to Los Angeles, to prove where we had been.

Many hours, then, on the freeway, most of it at an even sixty-five to seventy, with the Prius maintaining a steady forty-eight to forty-nine miles per gallon. We found a rest stop where George enjoyed the respite of a ball-chase on his long-line, but otherwise, it was all drive and not much fun.

The stretch past Seattle, on to Anacortes where we were booked for the night prior to our ferry crossing to Orcas Island, was particularly long. Somehow I had it in mind that it was only a short hop. No. And the shorter I had imagined it to be, the longer it became. Ellie's readings from the Steinbeck book were helpful, but I must say I was heartily relieved when we finally reached the turn-off from the 5 and made the short-ish drive from there to Anacortes.

We were not so fortunate, alas, with our lodgings as we have been the past two nights. The woman at the reception desk was reluctant to admit that we had booked a room with George. Her computer showed otherwise. Our reservation confirmation proved us right. She complained about the booking service. We pointed out that the issue was between the hotel and the booking service, that we wanted a room, with dog, at the price we had been quoted. The sheer stupidity of the argument wore us down, however, and we settled for a little more than we had bargained for, for the sake of peace and a room for the night.

We took a brief trip into Anacortes--the hotel is further from the center than we had imagined--where Ellie explored a couple of antique shops that denied access to George, and I bought a copy of "The Audacity of Hope"--a book I have long been intending to read. A few pages into it, outside the antique shoos, I was already hooked by the sheer quality and intelligence of the writing. Obama is truly an impressive man. I only hope he's not too smart for the average voter!

Shacked up, now in a room pervaded by that motel smell, I await the start of the national news. We plan to return to town for a bite to eat later in the evening. It won't match Sally's fare!

A Day in Portland, OR

2008-08-12T19:05:00.000-07:00

I know I'm repeating myself here, but we have been more than fortunate in the places we have chosen to stay--none more so than here in Portland. For breakfast our hostess at the Rose Cottage, Sally, prepared a three-course meal: fresh Oregon fruit--blackberries, blueberries and strawberries--with a good natural yogurt; a beautifully made fluffy omelette with goat's cheese and sun dried tomatoes; and home-made muffins with butter and tart cherry jam, all served with an excellent pot of coffee and good conversation about England, where Sally travels once every couple of years to visit relatives in the Cotswolds. She is a garrulous and well-informed lady, and as a former flight attendant, well-traveled and acquainted with the world beyond the borders of this country. Hardly surprising, then, that her political views were tempered by that perspective. We learned a lot from her about this wonderful state, which has so much impressed us with its beauty and vitality.

We also learned the way into Portland, notably to the Pearl district...

... where it was our intention to visit the numerous new art galleries and discover the Oregon art scene. We got mildly lost, despite her excellent directions, but did arrive unscathed at our destination, where the biggest problem turned out to be finding a place to park for the several hours we planned to spend there. Once settled in, we found ourselves a Starbucks...

... where George waited outside impatiently for Ellie's return with a New York Times--the latter to keep me busy whilst Ellie explored other places where George was not likely to be welcomed, for example in the Museum of Contemporary Crafts.

It took us a while to get oriented in the area, but we did eventually manage to find a number of galleries...

... showing a variety of art, some of it local, some international in scope. My favorite was a show at the Augen Gallery: "Bande a Part: New York Underground 60s, 70s 80s," an exhibition of photographic portraits, mainly of cultural icons from the period, including the likes of Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat, as well as rockers like the Ramones, the Talking Heads and Iggy Pop. A fascinating glimpse into a vital period in New York cultural history.

Lunch found us at an outdoor cafe, in the company of a young woman from Ohio with a very young baby--whose husband was a waiter at the same location. We were delighted to hear her impressions of Portland after living in the city for some three years. We hear much the same thing everywhere: it's a great place to live, but grey and rainy for eight to nine months of the year. We are lucky to be enjoying brilliant sunshine and warm days. Interested, too, to hear about the Ohio elections of 2004, when Bush was "re-elected" narrowly thanks to what our friend called "the state of shame." What a farce that was! What a scam!

We must have spent about five hours in the Pearl District altogether, including a last stop at the Pendleton's shop, where I found---and bought!--a fine addition to my hat collection in grey felt. We recovered our car from the labyrinthine parking structure where we had left it earlier in the day, and got lost, of course, again, on the way home. Tonight we're planning to pack, have a light dinner in our room, and make it an early night ready for our departure, tomorrow, for Anacortes and thence on to Orcas Island.

Waking in Portland, Oregon: Tuesday

2008-08-12T07:39:00.000-07:00

I was having dinner with Ronald Reagan. Me and a half dozen of my mates, none of whom I ever actually knew. We were joshing him about his conservative political beliefs, and he was taking it all in good spirits. Turned out he was having difficulty communicating with his twenty-one year-old son, and was very receptive to my sage advice, that he should “find the common ground” and talk about what his son was interested in. I asked if his son had opposite political views, but Ronald Reagan said no, he was equally conservative. It ended up with one of my mates getting into something of a brawl with Reagan under a blanket, before the Secret Service intervened.

An odd dream, no? Then I had another about being with this crabby old-time movie actress, some kind of Gloria Swanson or Bette Davis, but that’s all I can remember. Woke up in this luxurious B&B in Beaverton, actually, a neighbor of Portland, where Ellie had booked us on the Internet. From the name, “Rose Cottage,” I had imagined something very different—a little old Victorian with rickety stairs and tiny rooms. Not a bit of it. This Rose Cottage is newly built, entirely modern, with a king-sized bed in the bedroom; a living room with a large, flat-screen television, a refrigerator and sink, and comfortable chairs; a separate bathroom and a Jacuzzi tub for two in an alcove off the bedroom; as well as a “potty porch”---as the lady said—for George, with “poopy bags” provided.

Such luxury! But now, the day…

We started out in Yachats, where we found a perfectly good breakfast joint with—at first—a single harried waitress and a high-school age bus boy struggling to cater to a large number of customers. They were joined soon, however, by a couple of others and wait proved a lot less long than we had feared. Scrambled eggs and bacon, with an English muffin on the side. Good coffee… and on the road, following our last night’s waiter’s tip to take the 34 East from Waldport instead of the 20 from Newport.

I’m running out of superlatives. The 34 was a simply delightful drive, following the path of a winding river through forested hillsides and green meadowlands...

... with nothing of the high drama of more awesome landscapes but simple, breathtaking beauty all the way. It reminded me greatly of the Teifi Valley in Wales, much beloved by my mother—a salmon river that led us on our yearly trek to my grandmother’s house for our summer holidays.

All this, and a flood of sunlight glittering off the surface of the water through the mottled green of the trees.

We could not stop taking photographs, too many of them snapped through the car window, because we could not stop for every glorious vista.

(The gallant Prius, now at 49.3 mpg overall.)

(The handsome George, on navigation duty.)

Leaving the valley, we drove through the town of Corvallis and on into the Northern Willamette wine area...

... stopping at a couple of lovely wineries for tastes before taking the advice of a fellow-taster and heading up to a small town called Carlton where a number of the best area wineries are clustered, offering the opportunity to get a good overview of the production. Stopping to buy a sandwich lunch at a local deli, we found a pleasant enough vineyard for a picnic and afterwards visited the neighboring “Wine Studio” which features the work of a number of outstanding vintner’s. We enjoyed our visit there, including an enlightening conversation with Andrew Rich, who was busy with a huge array of bottles, glasses, vials and test tubes in the guest area experimenting with different blends. We learned a lot about how wines are essentially constructed out of a number of different building materials to produce the desired effect.

Back on the road to Portland, we made one final side trip to an antiques mall in Sherwood. Since the early 1970s, until recently, when the stuff has become simply too expensive, we have been collecting American art pottery from the early years of the 20th century—and not simply too expensive, but increasingly hard to find. What we used to pick up at garage sales and swap meets for a few dollars now sells for hundreds, if not thousands, and most of it has been snapped up by collectors like ourselves. The “treasure hunt” aspect that we so enjoyed has pretty much disappeared, at a time when everyone knows what everything is “worth”—or puts an “in-case” price on it, just to be sure. We were surprised to find quite a stash of the pottery at this antiques mall—we rarely see it any more—but at prices we would not seriously entertain.

On to Portland. Great directions from our B&B host, Sally, who greeted us at the door and offered an elaborate tour of our domain. She also recommended a restaurant with outdoor tables where George could accompany us for another alfresco dinner. Overlooking the greens of a stately golf course...

... it proved to be a more than pleasant place to dine, and the evening was capped for us, in the darkening evening, with the passage of a flight of geese overhead—dozens of them, honking happily, against the background of a sky illuminated by a brilliant half moon. No picture, I’m afraid. Not fast enough. You’ll have to make do with words inadequate to the beauty of the experience... and this picture of George and Ellie in the moonlight, sans geese.

Monday Morning: Yachats, Oregon

2008-08-11T17:42:00.000-07:00

This has to be one of the most beautiful spots on the entire West Coast. The drive up from the southern border of Oregon was spectacular, often breathtaking…

We left our wonderful digs in Crescent City at around ten, after a leisurely breakfast and a grooming session for George in Rande’s studio. A lovely road north...

leading, after a few miles, into Oregon. We drove through tree-lined hills to begin with, but then stayed close to the coastline, passing through a number of small towns until we reached Coos Bay—and realizing when we got there that we had shot past our intended turn of the highway for a visit to the Cavalier breeders where Rande had found both Mia and Maddy. U-turn, then, in Coos Bay, and a confusing trek through freeway interchanges to the side road we had missed.

We were glad we didn’t miss the opportunity to visit with Lorna (here she is...)

... her husband James, and their huge family of Cavaliers. You'll find them at their website, Cavalier Lovers

Greeted as we drove up by a half dozen of them bouncing up and down at the window, we were astonished by the sight of dozens of these wonderful creatures as James invited us in to their compound—it can be described as nothing less—and Lorna came out from the house with another armful of their close relatives, the “ETs”, or English Toys. (These are more snub-nosed than their Cavalier cousins, like George.) Anyone who has owned this breed, as we have done for twenty years now, knows that there is no more charming, loving and endlessly effervescent creature in all of dogdom than the Cavalier, with its feathered tail in constant motion and its mouth a permanent smile. And cute!

(Click on this one. And forgive my hyperbole, I’m more than a little biased on this topic.)

After admiring the adults and the growing puppies, we visited the nursery, where a three-week-old litter of six was busy feeding with a mother who proved patient enough to allow us to pick her babies up and fawn over them with embarrassing enthusiasm.

Ellie, ever the perfectionist, had already picked out the perfect future companion for George...

... but the time is not right for us with the remodel in progress. However we do know where to come when we’re ready. These dogs are obviously loved, and live in the kind of happiness that radiates infectiously to anyone around them.

George, of course, as is his wont, remained somewhat aloof from all the excitement, but did enjoy his own romp with a ball on the spacious lawn at the center of the compound. He was unimpressed by the puppies, of course—or, if he was, took care not to show it—but was generally well-behaved and courteous. We wondered how he would adapt to the arrival of a puppy in a world that he has happily ruled unchallenged for most of his nearly seven years.

We said our goodbyes to Lorna and James and paused for a quick sandwich in picturesque Coos Bay before driving further north along 101...

and made another stop in Florence, a lovely community whose old downtown area lies along what I took to be an inlet from the ocean, and where we walked down a colorful main street and, briefly, out along the dock. Our customary search for a New York Times—wouldn’t want to miss the Sunday edition!—brought us to a small bookshop, where the friendly owner suggested we try instead at the Safeway up on the highway and, on learning that we were headed north, offered her opinion that the stretch of 101 between Florence and Yachats was one of the most beautiful anywhere in the world.

She was right on both counts. We picked up a Sunday NYT at the Safeway, and headed north to Yachats along a highway that dove through long tunnels of brilliant trees and out on to vistas of vast, sandy stretches of beach and solitary outcrops of rocky peaks. The surf, with its long lines of successively breaking waves, was quite simply spectacular. And all this in bright sunlight under a clear blue sky!

The Yachats Inn, where we had booked a room by telephone from Crescent City, proved a handy stopover—not luxurious, by any means, but with wi-fi access (!) for yesterday’s entry in "Travels with George," a gorgeous view out over the Pacific Ocean and a great, expansive lawn to accommodate our dog’s ball obsession. Once settled in, the three of us strolled along the coastal path to the small town, where we were excluded—because of George—from the restaurant at the River House, but allowed to sit at a picnic table outside, and were served a really very good supper: creamy tomato soup, a green salad, fish and chips—all of which, as has become our custom, we shared throughout. We find that the portions are perfectly adequate, when shared, and we leave without that bloated feeling. At the end of our meal, George found a comfortable spot to demonstrate his exhaustion after a day’s exertion...

and the waiter offered us a tip that proved more valuable, surely, than the one we left for him. We had been intending to drive up the coast to Newport and take route 20 over to Corvalis, but changed our minds at his suggestion and were rewarded with the magnificent drive that I'' decribe tomorrow.

In the meantime, though, a walk back to our hotel at sunset...

... and an hour or so with the Olympics on TV. I watch those young girls in the gymnastics contest and I am astounded by their agility, by the capacity of the human body. And then, throughout the night, my old joints ached…! (For the record, we completed the one thousandth mile of our road trip today. That might help explain a certain soreness in the joints.)

From Crescent City, California

2008-08-09T09:57:00.000-07:00

Friends, I’m having big troubles getting online. I would not have anticipated it, here in wi-fi’ed California, but it is so. I have not been able to respond to emails from the past two or days, nor to receive them since yesterday morning. So I’m continuing with “Travels” offline, in the hope that I’ll be able to upload text and pictures later in the day.

(An aside: how about that John Edwards, eh? I’m European enough to believe that an affair is entirely forgivable, that’s not the problem. But for him to have pursued a campaign for president and attracted so much support—including my own, after Kucinich failed to buck the media—that’s what I find inexplicable. The knowledge of an affair would not have affected my personal support, but with the history of the Clinton scandals, to be so willfully naïve about the likelihood of disclosure and its results is… well, that’s unforgivable.)

So I’m glad to be on vacation. We enjoyed a gloomy breakfast—the weather, not us—on the hotel porch, looking out over the lovely view of the Mendocino cliffs. Then went off in a vain search for a local veterinarian and, instead, placed a call to our Laguna Beach vet, who advised a worm medication and an application of Frontline. Poor George! The indignity!

He seems in perfectly good spirits, though, and set out in the car with us for the two-day early trip north to Crescent City.

It’s a beautiful drive. California offers an amazing diversity of landscapes, each as spectacular as the last. Driving first through a mountainous stretch of road between Mendocino and the point where the road rejoins the coast, our Prius took the winding roads in stride.

I’m proud of its performance: overall, no matter the terrain—including these mountains—it has averaged between forty-eight and fifty miles to the gallon. Yesterday, for the first time since we left Los Angeles, it dropped for a few miles to forty-six, but soon recovered, and ended the day back up at forty-eight plus a couple of tenths. Amazing! It has developed a slight rattle, audible to Ellie—and extremely aggravating to her, but strangely inaudible to me: it must be the frequency. But otherwise the car has proved perfectly comfortable, over this long distance, and a pleasure to drive.

The highlight of the trip north was unquestionably the side road leading through the Avenue of the Giants—a thirty-mile stretch of sometimes very narrow roads through the magnificent redwood forest.

These trees are a truly awesome sight, ancient, serene and venerable survivors of ten centuries and more, while humans have been fussing and squabbling with their petty concerns. It is too easy to forget how much we owe these living things, which provide so much for us. The vision of these giants was a reminder of how much they and their smaller fellows of all varieties need to be respected.

And then… Arcata!

Alas, sans Robin, sans Roger. An email—the one that reached us too late to connect in Carmel—had given us their cell phone number, so we called in hopes of getting a referral for a good lunch place, but once again we failed to connect.

We did, however, find the lovely main square of this small city, and enjoyed an excellent sandwich and chocolate chip cookie at the Café Brio. Ellie also picked up a referral for a vet from a fellow Kind Charles owner, and we stopped on the way north to buy some of the above-mentioned worm medication and some Frontline.

Driving on through elk country, we stopped for long enough to snap a rather unsuccessful picture of these wonderful beasts....

... and arrived late afternoon at our Crescent City stopover. What luxury! We have a whole small house at our disposal, lots of room, and the opportunity to make our own dinner. Not to mention the special treat for George: two other members of his own breed, one Blenheim, one tri, delightful creatures who welcomed George with great enthusiasm and spent a good part of the early evening with us. George is slow to warm to other dogs, but they settled down into an easy mutual acceptance.

And finally, the opening of the Olympics on a magnificent big-screen TV. What a spectacle! We were amazed by the production, the choreography of thousands, the innovative blend of high-tech media and low-tech people-art, the fireworks. We are delighted to have ended the day in such comfort, after so long a drive. But still sad about John Edwards…

From Mendocino, California

2008-08-08T07:07:00.000-07:00

I woke unusually early after a restless night with an extremely painful hip—hardly conducive to a good night’s sleep. So I did not bother to try to catch any further sleep and chose, instead, to spend the hour before Ellie woke on a curative and calming meditation. The returned to my book for a while with the aid of a flashlight, not wanting to wake her before her natural time.
Once Ellie woke, though, we were up and readying ourselves for the road. Breakfast for George. Pack bags and lug out to trunk of Toyota Prius. Quick stop in town for a cup of coffee, and off on the highway. (We discovered only later in the day, on our arrival in Mendecino, that we had missed an email from Robin over at The Darma Bums to say that she and Roger were visiting only a few miles away with Tara of TaraDharma, and would we like to get together for breakfast? We would have done, would have loved the chance to meet, to put faces to the blogs… but alas, we must have passed each other on the road, like proverbial ships in the night. Too bad!)

We made it through the complicated freeway system in the Bay Area, thanks to excellent Yahoo maps and directions and some fine navigation by Ellie, and made a quick stop for gas just north of San Rafael before driving on through the lovely golden hillsides

and, increasingly, the brilliant vineyards of Sonoma County.

We made a breakfast stop in Healdsburg, taking time to wander through the aisles of giant antique malls

—without, thankfully, finding anything that we “couldn’t live without”...

...including this gem (the one top left, not the one down center.)
North of Healdsburg, we preferred the county roads over Highway 1, and got lost in Cloverdale on our search for a New York Times (another addiction, I’m afraid!) We were told there was a Starbucks there—a usually reliable source for the article in question—but had a hard time actually locating it. From there, an unnecessarily roundabout route to find highway 128 west, which led us through a glorious landscape of hills and forests

back to Highway 1, the coastal road, where we turned north for the final few miles to Mendocino.

Complications with George. The hotel, chosen online, proved not entirely suitable to our needs: the room was tiny, and it would have been impossible to leave George without incurring his vocal protests, so before anything else we scurried about online to see what could be done to change our plans. As a result, we’ll be staying here one night only, instead of the three we had planned.

A very lovely walk, though, out along the cliffs.

and into the village.

The coastal weather is proving very misty and quite cold, making outdoor dining (with George, who is generally not allowed indoors) a sometimes challenging experience. You have to find a restaurant with outdoor tables but also, in this part of the world, with overhead heaters, to fend off the chill. We did remarkably well last night, at the Moose Café, where we ate well, in a sheltered corner and beneath a gas heater that, despite some initial difficulties, eventually performed well. An excellent meal, in fact, with a hearty, belly-warming broccoli soup, a very tasty baby green salad with an unusual dressing, and flank steak. Shared, as is now our habit, from beginning to end…

And an early bed, ready for another morning departure.

More Adventures: Carmel... and Beyond

2008-08-08T06:56:00.000-07:00

It’s time to play catch-up. I have missed writing the past couple of days, and my entry now comes from Mendecino, California, where we arrived last night, Thursday, after a long day’s drive north from Carmel. More of our arrival here later. In the meantime, Wednesday, Carmel…

I woke at my customary early hour and used the time before Ellie and George woke for a good, quiet meditation. Then down to the shore, the three of us, for a walk at dawn to the extreme north end of the beach. George, as usual, in heaven, free to run as far as either of us could manage to throw the ball for him before charging back, ball firmly clamped between his jaws, impatient for the next challenge. There were a number of other dog-walkers at this time of day, a few challenges for ball possession from larger pooches, but George is not to be beaten at his own game. He’s fast.

We stopped at a local coffee shop on the way back to our room. Ellie disappointed to discover they had run out of their supply of black English breakfast tea—a habit she has acquired over years of living with a Brit who is unreconstructed in at least two matters: the morning tea and marmalade for breakfast. No other country, including this America, has managed to understand the difference between marmalade and orange jam. In this instance, Ellie was reduced to settling for an Italian latte.

Back at the hotel, we were treated to a breakfast “basket”—muffins, some butter and jam, and a hard-boiled egg—much of which was left uneaten. A little while later, we hit the sidewalks of Carmel in search of a New York Times and a special restaurant for our last dinner before leaving this dog-friendly tourist haven. We found both—the former only after many false leads, the last copy in the rack at a liquor store. The NYT sales department would be proud of our persistence.

One thing you can say about George: he is a smile maker. It’s a wonderful quality. Walk down any street with George, and you’ll manage to create a dozen smiles. In the course of any given day, he can be relied on to create hundreds of them. Plus, of course, the inquiries into what kind of a dog he is (a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, as I’m sure I have mentioned recently.) Occasionally, as today, we will run into another of his breed—in this case a “tri”, a tricolor, black, white and brown.

(We ran into her at a coffee shop,

where we were surprised to find that dogs were permitted inside the café, joining their people gathered around the tables there.) George, by the way, brown and white only, is a “Blenheim”—pronounced, please, in the English manner, “blenim.” He takes the widespread admiration in stride, allowing his admirers a brief pat or two, but without pandering for more.
Speaking of dogs, Carmel boasts what has to be the most elaborate dog paraphernalia shop on the face of the earth. It’s called, I think, Doggidy-dog—or some such thing—and we stopped by to admire the wares...

... from home-baked doggies birthday cakes to capes and sweaters and thrones of all shapes and sizes. We abstained. I for one am not a fan of doggie-designer items. George plays with a tennis ball, rescued from the disposal bin at the local tennis courts, not some fancy rubber bone or stuffed animal. Sniff.

We shared a ham-and-cheese Panini for a light lunch, and repaired shortly to our hotel room for a nap and an hour or so with our books before starting the packing process for an early departure, Thursday. The restaurant we had located earlier in the day, on our rounds, proved a winner. Grasing’s. We sat outside, in a courtyard behind the main restaurant, and shared throughout: excellent onion tart for a starter, a first-rate Caesar salad (with real anchovies, a treat for P), and rack of lamb accompanied by a very pleasant glass of Pinot Noir. Leaving room, at the end, for chocolate mousse cake a la mode.

All of which Ellie managed to enjoy with George planted sleepily on her lap.

You may say this dog is pampered…

Carmel, Day 2

2008-08-06T09:27:00.001-07:00

I notice that at the end of yesterday’s entry, I slipped unconsciously into the use of that old-fashioned word, “owner.” Like many animal lovers these days, I have always been uncomfortable with that word, and it seems to me quite inappropriate when it comes to George. I don’t feel that I “own” him. He’s a free spirit, who allows us the privilege of taking care of him, even as he brings extraordinary gifts into our lives. Even though he remains dependent on us for the smallest things, like preparing his food and picking up his poop when need arises, he does not appear to regard these efforts as any great favor, but simply what we humans are there to do for dogs.

Anyway, back to Carmel, where we spent a reasonably comfortable night despite our fears, and enjoyed a modest breakfast with George in the hotel lobby. It’s amazing to be sharing space with numerous dogs, all of whom seem to get along remarkably well. George, it must be admitted, suffers from a slight Napoleon complex: he’s a little chap, in stature if not in heart, and he sometimes—well, often—needs to prove his doghood with others of his species with a little aggressive lunge and a few good yaps. Once he gets to know them, though, he’s friendly enough. It’s just a matter of establishing his street cred.

Carmel, I have to say, is about the dog-friendliest place you could imagine. Dogs everywhere. George especially appreciates the fact that he’s allowed on the long beach off-leash, free to prance about with all the other dogs, as nature intended. Where his ball is in play, however, he is intent: not even an earthquake, let alone a few other four-legged creatures, could deter him from the task at hand. Which brings me to this morning…

After breakfast, Ellie and I decided to split up—amicably, I hasten to add: she wanted to spend time in the shops, in particular to find something to protect her from the unexpected chill that is permanently in the air here in Carmel. I, on the other hand, chose the beach with George.

We parted company, and George and I enjoyed a great walk down by the water’s edge whilst Ellie did her shopping, returning to the hotel in time to do what I had promised myself not to do: make a blog entry. I guess I’m addicted. Actually, I had started a simple journal earlier in the day, and it occurred to me, with a half hour to spare before Ellie returned, that it was almost silly to write the journal and not include a few pictures and post it as a blog. Here's Ellie, by the way, reading the first installment.

So I did it. I can’t swear that it will continue, but at least I got a start.

A wander around the streets of Carmel brought us finally to a grocery store around lunchtime, where we bought a couple of so-so sandwiches and ate them in the pleasant surroundings of one of the city’s many picturesque court-yards. Then back to our hotel to check out and move in to the new one. A tiny, tiny room, which George had no trouble in appropriating...

... and definitely a lot quieter and more pleasant--a great place for a welcome nap...

and a couple of hours with a book. I’m reading the new Alan Furst novel, “The Spies of Warsaw.” (If you haven’t yet encountered Alan Furst, I’d certainly recommend him as an excellent read. While the genre is a blend of historical novel, spy novel and thriller, his books are set at the periphery of the great historical events in Europe that led up to World War II—a period that he captures in all its complexity with an amazing eye and ear for detail.)

A late afternoon stroll, then,

and an early dinner (again, with George) at Nico’s, a restaurant with a fine Mediterranean menu and a quiet back court festooned with bougainvillea.

Our waiter was a young man who had arrived in the United States from Bosnia during the troubles there, and who spoke utterly unaccented English—though he could, when called upon, also revert to the perfect Bosnian accent. Very charming. We shared a roasted garlic appetizer with crisp Tuscan bread, an arugula salad, and a tagliatella dish with Bolognese sauce. George had to make to with a few crumbs he found scattered under the table.

And finally, a walk back down to admire the beach at sunset...

... where George was deeply disappointed in us to learn that we had neglected, this time, to bring a ball.

From Carmel, California

2008-08-05T10:46:00.001-07:00

It was probably the strangest restaurant experience I’ve ever had. We were in a small, glass-enclosed dining area at the back of the Porta Bella restaurant in Carmel, California, “outside” enough to be considered of legal standing for diners wishing to bring their canine companions.

And bring them they did. Two tables to our right was a young couple with a Jack Russell terrier. Immediately to our right was an elderly couple from Phoenix, Arizona, who had brought their five-pound Yorkie. And at the table to our left was a six-foot nine inch African American basketball player and his pregnant (white) wife with their two Labs, one black, one white.

And then there was Ellie and me—and George, the dog. George is one of the lucky ones. He normally spends his time between a very nice house at the east end of the Hollywood Hills with a wonderful view down Hollywood Boulevard, with the Griffith Park Observatory overlooking it from the north; and a particularly lovely 1930s cottage in Laguna Beach. He is royally pampered—a treatment he considers it his right to expect, being of aristocratic lineage and handsome mien.

It is the Laguna Beach cottage, strangely, that has led us to this dinner. After much debate, we decided that it was time to do some work to update it—particularly the long-neglected kitchen and a garage, down below, that seemed to have been built with a Model-T Ford in mind, so narrow as to preclude any possible use by a modern vehicle, even our modestly-scaled Prius.

To escape the noise and the dust and the general chaos of the remodel, we decided to take a road trip with George the dog. Long in the planning, it required a great deal of research into dog-friendly accommodations along the way, and we arrived here in Carmel yesterday, Monday, on the first day of our journey from Southern California to the San Juan Islands in the Puget Sound, in the far northern state of Washington. The Porta Bella provided us with our first dining experience of the trip.

So, to start at the beginning: we left our Los Angeles home a half hour later than my six o-clock plan, with a pause at Starbucks for a cup of coffee and a muffin to stave off the pangs until later in the morning. George was, I suppose—I have no way of knowing the inner workings of his mind, but plan to make reliable guesses as I go—surprised to be bundled into the car so early in the day. He was also less than delighted to be relegated to the back seat, rather than the lap in front that he usually prefers. Well, truth to tell, he considers it his right.

He spent a good deal of the nearly six-hour drive with a reproachful nose planted firmly between the two front seats and inching forward, he hoped imperceptibly, with the transparent goal of transplanting himself unnoticed from back to front.

Didn’t happen. We coasted up easily along the 101, through Santa Barbara to San Luis Obispo, with a brief stop at Los Alamos for gas for the Prius and a hurry-up for George. (Since puppyhood, George has learned that “hurry-up” means pee, so that he now performs when reminded respectfully that is it time to do so. I suspect that he also understands the word “poop,” since he tends to perform that function, also, when reminded.) From San Luis, we turned off on the coastal road, Highway 1, and stopped again for a mid-morning breakfast in Cambria—a ham-and-egg sandwich which sounded a good deal better on the menu than it turned out to be.

Just north of Cambria, we pulled off the highway into one of the many vista points to allow George a little time for exercise. A path along the cliff brought us to a steep, sandy slope that led down to a deserted beach where he could enjoy the luxury of freedom from the leash to chase his ball.

Ball-chasing is George’s next-to-favorite occupation. His all-time favorite occupation is chasing his ball on the beach. So he was for a few minutes in his own dog heaven.

Up the highway, northward, we followed the climbs and descents of the road along the cliffs that line the Pacific Ocean in this spectacular part of the world; and were shocked by the ravages of the recent Big Sur fire, which has reduced so many acres of the mountainside wilderness to the east of the highway to grey ash.

A sad reminder of the sufferings of our planet in today’s ecologically challenged environment.

Arriving in Carmel, we easily located the hotel that Ellie had booked on the Internet, and were somewhat dismayed by the size and location of our room—particularly the location, on the ground floor, by a back alley from which passers-by could watch our goings-on. It was also noisy, and every sound produced a reaction from a bewildered George, who has never traveled outside Southern California in his life before, and who has certainly never stayed in a hotel.

In the interest, I’m sure, of protecting his small tribe from the threats of a dangerous external world, he does have a tendency to yap at strange sounds—and many of the sounds, in this dog-friendly hotel (started, we understand, by the dog-friendly Doris Day,) were canine in origin. To George, a challenge that could not go unanswered.

An afternoon walk down to the beach (we had left the ball behind, but discovered another, abandoned one on the sand) brought us to another hotel that welcomed pets—one of many in this extraordinarily dog-tolerant city--and we were directed to a third which seemed to offer an easier solution to the accommodation problem. We checked ourselves, as from tomorrow, out of Doris Day and into the new place, before setting out in search of a restaurant that would welcome George as well as his owners. We found the Bella Porta…