The Alvord Desert

Stepping out onto the Alvord Desert, the driest part of Oregon, all I heard was the buzzing of a yellow jacket and the intermittent howling of the wind. The surface was so very dry, with the occasional rock here and there (always bigger than a pebble, but usually not much). When the wind wasn’t blowing, I heard utter silence. Not a bird or mammal was in sight. Eventually, we came across bits of a partially eaten hare, which surprised me because I didn’t think a hare would want to go out on this flat, dry, plant-free surface. Another possibility is that a coyote or some other creature killed the hare elsewhere and took it to this dry place. Far, far in the distance were mountains on every side. To the right, I saw in the far distance, in front of the mountains, what looked like a stretch of shiny blue water and what was probably a mirage. It had to be a mirage. Behind us were the mountains we’d been seeing from the road over and over again. I kept walking, stopping to admire the strange patterns of the cracks in the surface of the earth—it was such dry, dry earth, such pale dirt (or sand?), and some of the cracks were quite big. Some of the cracks went around rocks. Eventually I saw—perhaps an optical illusion?—a section of the earth looked like it was bright yellow, in the near distance. I lost track of time and distance, swept up with the setting and dropping off into thoughts of a desert kingdom in my middle grade series The Rowanwick Chronicles. I decided I’d change the way I describe that land.

The Desert is Burning

Yesterday’s wildfire had meant following a slightly different route to reach the cabin. The forest rangers thought they had it under control, but another fire broke out this morning, after we set out.

Today we meant to climb to the summit of Steens Mountain, but after a very long drive (including about an hour on the gravel road), we came to some utility vehicles and a digital “Road Closed” sign when we weren’t far from our destination, and we had to turn around. Befuddled and perplexed, I stopped the car and simply sat there on the highway trying to figure out what to do next and where to go. I pretty much decided to drive up Diamond Lane, which was just to our left.

Diamond Lane led to the Diamond Craters, a 2500 year old site of volcanic rock. We saw a sign for it and saw some fascinating formations, but we had no idea where to park. We ended up parking on the side of the road, walking across it, and wandering around the strange rocks and crevices in the earth while taking photos.

We drove further, with the idea of visiting a place occupied by wild mustangs. We kept driving, till we reached the town of Diamond, which has a population of about five hundred. I spotted a derelict and partially destroyed brick building, so I pulled into what happened to be the parking lot of the Diamond Hotel, established 1898. We went inside—actually, only into the porch, which was semi-indoors because it was made of screen windows. The place was decorated with antiques and generally had a nineteenth-century feel. An elderly couple was on the porch and told us about the Kigar mustangs, that it involved driving for eleven miles on a gravel road, and because of the weather the horses would probably be sitting under trees. They had climbed Steens Mountain in the morning, before the barrier went up. We hadn't left the cabin until after 11 am.

Audrey pointed out that it was already four in the afternoon, and we’d better head back to the cabin. So we did so. However, as we were driving, I was distracted by the fire in the distance—the grey sky billowing with smoke and orange flames. We pulled over to the side of the road and got out to take pictures again. Audrey compared it to the apocalypse. It was a truly disturbing sight, with the constant smoke and flames and sunlight peeping out here and there, and the sun occasionally appearing and burning bright red. Something about the image made me think of Italian Renaissance paintings, or at least one Italian Renaissance painting, though I don’t remember which.

Wilderness fire in Steens; this was not caused by humans

We almost went to Steens Mountain, we saw a bit of the Diamond Craters, we almost visited the Kigar mustangs, and we almost visited the wildlife preserve. It was a day of mostly driving around and occasionally getting out to take pictures and then getting back in the car. At least we had the air conditioning on in the car; outdoors, it felt like an oven in the afternoon. Certainly, we did see a lot and get some idea of the way around.

Though it looks mostly yellow in the photos, the sun looked bright red in person.

The wildlife we’ve seen today includes probably every kind of bird that is in this area. We drove past a wetland and saw cranes, egrets, swans, ducks, and other creatures (including a reddish-brown bird with a very long and narrow beak that curved slightly downward). We also saw pronghorn and deer and plenty of hares, as we had last night. They come out at dusk. Yesterday Audrey saw three burrowing owls (as the driver, I didn’t spot them), and this evening she saw another one and I slowed down enough to see it, but from a distance.

Steens Mountain Wilderness, Oregon

We’re in the high desert of Oregon. Lots of sagebrush, a few trees here and there, mountains that come in many shapes and sizes. Some of the mountains are long and flat on top, like in New Mexico. Some are a pink or reddish tan and quite angular, in a big connected and elongated structure. Some are jagged, others blunt on top. They also come in different colors—the jagged mountains tend to be burgundy and dark brown, and blunter ones are often light green mixed with some darker green.

Cape Perpetua, Oregon Coast

At the Visitor's Center, we asked about the trail to Thor’s Well, since it strangely wasn’t on the map. A ranger explained that a photographer took a picture and called a collapsed underwater cave “Thor’s Well” and posted it on the Internet, so many people have lately been asking, “Where’s Thor’s Well?” She also said it’s on the trail with Spouting Horn, and that they’re very active today. It was only a half mile down a paved trail, and the trail conveniently started right next to the Visitor’s Center.

We set foot on the trail and delightful, fascinating plants immediately surrounded us. These included very tall trees—evergreens and bare-branched white trees, particularly covered with moss and with stark, stubby branches, jutting out. Bushes alongside the trail, some with blackberries and some with little white flowers that looked like bells, or little round red berries (I assumed poisonous), and vines with pale green curlicues.

The sun truly came out, and the sky was bright blue by the time we got down to the rocks in the ocean—but I’m getting ahead of myself.

The trail to the ocean slanted downward at first, and we walked through a tunnel under Highway 101. In the tunnel, I yodeled like a ghost because of the echo. We came out from under the tunnel, and the path veered to the right and left, with a sign pointing out what was in which direction. Straight ahead was a fence, and beyond it was a cliff overlooking an inlet of the ocean. Wet sand with driftwood and some rocks, rocky cliffs on either side of that. Blue, blue water beyond.

We kept following the path—even the bushes on either side of the path were delightful, magical, like something out of a fantasy world (and yes, I’ll create a fantasy world that incorporates Cape Perpetua).

We gradually descended the left path leading to Spouting Horn. We came to an information board with images and explanations of some of the creatures we might see, such as starfish and anemones and peculiar but beautiful slugs that have white and red “hairs” sticking out all over. We kept walking, got to the end of the trail, and stepped down onto sand and dark rocks.

I didn’t hesitate to walk out onto the bumpy, rocky seaside. Pools contained small rocks, shells (mostly broken) and tiny dark brown tadpoles. I thought the tadpoles were delightful. I kept walking and absorbing the breathtaking scenery: the cliffs, the rocks, the ocean and the powerful, rolling waves coming toward us and crashing on the rocks. It was steady and continual, like breathing in and breathing out.

We headed back up the path and crossed a little wooden bridge and took the path toward Devil’s Churn and Thor’s Well. Delightful plants still surrounded the path, including bright yellow flowers and tiny daisies and flowers that were like one inch round pompoms. We descended the sand onto the rocks. The ocean met with rows of inland rocky areas, where the ocean waves rolled in and then leaped up into the air as they hit the big rocks. The waves spouted up high before backing away and starting the process all over again.

We came to a long, dramatic crevice in the dark rocks, where the ocean waves came splashing in and drifted back.

Some of the rocks were tricky to walk on; my phobia about falling made me overly cautious.

We saw a long crevice full of bright green anemones, but no starfish. I collected a few shells that weren’t broken. When I reached down to pick up one shell in shallow water, it moved slightly and held fast to the sand. I hastily let go of it. Probably a crab.

As did other visitors, we walked up close to the Spouting Horn and Thor’s Well  and watched, mesmerized. I could have stayed there for days—though I was aware of my cat Cheetah at home alone, when Audrey mentioned that her cats were anxiously waiting.

First Morning at Cape Perpetua, Oregon Coast

Last night it started raining after the sun completely set. Our neighbors had apparently gone to bed—I saw no more smoke coming from the next camp. As the rain transitioned to a steady shower—too much for having a book open outdoors—we ultimately decided to put out the fire and go to bed.

I was surprised at how much water I had to pour on the fire before it was completely out, with not so much as a single orange glowing dot. I kept returning to the faucet and getting more—it must have been six canteens full. But I enjoyed it, oddly enough. As I poured the water, the diminishing bonfire smoked a bit, in grey billows.

The rain poured steadily, more than a drizzle (well, by Oregon standards) by this time.

It rained all night. I woke up numerous times—I lay in my tent thinking I had to go pee really badly but I didn’t want to walk to the restroom in the rain. I lay listening to the roaring brook in the background and the steady tapping of rain on the tent. I fell asleep quickly each time I woke up, which must have been about five time. On a couple of these occasions, it was raining heavily.

Despite all that, I was perfectly dry in my tent. I had told Audrey about the Society for Creative Anachronisms (SCA) because my previous experience of camping was with the SCA. Technically, I’d done it twice, but on one of these occasions I didn’t have a tent and got in my car and drove off in the middle of the night.

On the other SCA camping occasion, I had a borrowed tent. I remember it was a similar night: temps in the 50s and steady, heavy rain. My tent leaked, and I woke up in the middle of the night shivering convulsively. I wasn’t dressed appropriately—just a tunic and cotton leggings—and didn’t know anything about fleece or not wearing cotton when you’re hiking/camping. My quilt (I didn’t even have a sleeping bag) got wet thanks to the leaky tent.

But on this occasion, at Cape Perpetua, I had a much better tent and remained dry and comfortable. The thermal pad in my sleeping bag was helpful—I made a point of staying on top of it so I wasn’t in contact with the cold, wet ground (through the tent floor and footprint, of course) while I lay in my sleeping bag.

The last time I woke was at dawn. Perhaps 4:30 am. It had stopped raining, so I went out to use the restroom at last. The sky was just light enough for me to walk to the restroom without a flashlight. This is the Pacific Northwest in summer—maybe it was closer to 4 am. I went back to my tent and lay meditating (with a lot of mind wandering) till I heard Audrey stirring. We sat at the picnic table and had tea (her jet boiler, a gas-powered device for boiling water, worked great now), and I munched on cherries and the wonderful granola I had impulsively picked up at the grocery store in Portland: it includes dark chocolate and dried strawberries and dried raspberries.

Cape Perpetua Campground

I’m sitting in front of a bonfire that I’ve successfully kept going for over an hour. Keeper of the flame. Brigid, Irish goddess of fire. Amataratsu, Japanese sun goddess. Fire Master—that one was Audrey’s idea. New PMV name.

At 5:30 am (exactly, by my alarm clock), I woke from a dream about going on a hiking and camping trip. It wasn’t only Audrey and me as we’re doing in real life, but a bunch of mutual friends/aquaintances. 

Snap, crackle, pop goes the bonfire.

The part of the dream that I vividly remembered (and this is common) was the last few minutes. Or was it more than one minute? Perhaps not. We were hiking in utter pitch darkness.

Cracking fire in front of me; babbling, roaring brook behind me.

In the dream, even the moon was nonexistent. You’d think we occupied a windowless room at night with the lights out and the door closed, or perhaps a room that had no door. That’s how dark it was. But we kept walking.

I sensed a forest edge forming a wall on our left. I had a crank flashlight in my right hand, and I pushed its button numerous times. With each second that the flashlight glowed, we saw the straight row of trees forming the edge of the forest. Sand was beneath our feet. Also, in the brief spurts of light, I saw an ocean straight ahead of us, with the water gently lapping, lapping, in small waves. I think I heard them, but that was more than twelve hours ago.

I just noticed lots of truly white ash underneath the burning logs. I forgot the ash can be so white. It’s reminiscent of the white ash that naked saddhus in Varanasi, India, smear all over their bodies. It makes them look pale. I wonder where they get the ash. Cremation grounds? Chai stand fires? The fires from restaurants or homes? Perhaps Hindus bring them. Perhaps they bring the ashes from home or from their restaurants and give them, like offerings, to the saddhus. Perhaps they place the ashes in terra cotta bowls or jugs and bring them to the ghats where the saddhus congregate. Perhaps it’s like merit in Tibetan Buddhism—giving things to monks and nuns (especially to high-ranking monks such as the Dalai Lama) and improving their karma thereby.

Birds are twittering in treetops from the other side of the road. The fire still crackles and pops. The brook still babbles.

After walking to the water faucet on a wooden pole by the road, and washing dishes there, and walking back to sit before the fire, I realized that camping is like living in a slum in India. You’ve got the public water pump that you share with neighbors; you’ve got a tent’ and you’ve got an open fire for cooking and for keeping warm. Wow. Americans do this for fun, and Indians do it out of necessity.

I remember, in India, people gathered around fires at night and in the early morning. They were wrapped in big shawls or blankets, and I thought they looked like Gypsies. Later, on the same pilgrimage, I overheard one of my fellow travelers saying that Gypsies came from India. For that matter, street musicians (especially with the harmonium) looked to me like Gypsies, too.

Foxglove: very long cup-like purple flower—many cups or cornucopias hanging together in a long, tall string. They grow wild… and in profusion here at the side of the road leading to our campground. Woods occupy one side of the road, and the camp sites the other.

It’s drizzling again for the second time—or at least it was for a moment.

it’s been very pleasant sitting by the fire listening to it and to the brook. Earlier we also heard birds singing and crows cawing. I hope we hear owls tonight; I’m pretty sure I did hear one earlier, well before it got dark. It was faint and far away.

We’ll fall asleep listening to the babbling brook. It reminds me of when I had an attic room at a Swiss inn, and I listened to a little waterfall on the mountain behind the inn; I kept the skylight open all night.

Tomorrow we’ll explore Cape Perpetua—hopefully we’ll find Thor’s Well and such. Wonderful, magical place.

Return from Canada & Seattle

My dad and I had a lovely time traveling up north, to Vancouver and Victoria in British Columbia, and then to Seattle. Ani DiFranco is right: you really do have a greater sense of freedom in Canada. Victoria is a particularly easy-going and friendly town. It’s also very beautiful, with the harbor and many Victorian houses with blooming flowers (rather like my neighborhood in Portland, Oregon), and with a late Victorian mansion called Craigdorrach Castle. Vancouver is brimming with art galleries and museums, and both cities have plenty of Native–or should I say Aborigine–art.

My dad is an extremely outgoing extrovert who talks constantly. After two weeks with him, I (an introvert) am indulging in solitude, silence, fasting, and meditation. Actually, a more accurate word than “indulging” is “nurturing.” Extroverts are energized by associating with humans; introverts are energized with solitude. The silence and solitude are therefore necessary for any introvert. Meditation is necessary for me, to keep me sane. Fasting is also a good idea, because we ate out so much, and my dad strangely believes you should always eat three meals a day, no matter how large your breakfast and/or lunch.

While I greatly enjoyed the trip, it’s great to be back home with my codependent one-person cat.

From Seattle to Portland

I drove us to Portland. I had said it was supposed to be a three hour drive, and it actually took us two hours and fifty minutes to get there (yes, my dad kept track). We picked up his car, as good as new, and dropped off my car at a place a couple blocks away that fixes auto glass. The business is called Action Auto Glass, and the owner assured us that the windshield just needed a patch, not a replacement. That was a relief.
 My computer problem was more complicated. I kept up an e-mail correspondence with Maude, who when I gave her the exact words of the error message informed me that it sounds like MS Windows is corrupted. I couldn’t find the original Windows disk, so I called up Office Depot and explained the problem.

Unfortunately, the guy on the phone said that the Windows disk is specific to the computer, so you can’t just borrow it from someone else; you have to contact the manufacturer and buy a new one.

After some more correspondence with Maude, I contacted the manufacturer, and via e-mail a staff member gave me step-by-step directions for downloading a cleaning-up program that’s on the computer.  After I backed up all my files on a DVD-rom, and ran this program and saved it onto two DVD-roms as instructed, I restarted the computer. That’s what it took to solve the computer problem. It actually took me about a month to get it all cleared up. Sigh.

Pike Place Market and Downtown Seattle

We took the Monorail downtown. It was such a fast-moving train, up in the sky, and the distance was so short, that we arrived in about a minute at the mall where the train stops downtown. We got out and walked around, seeing beautiful architecture; a lot of the downtown buildings are about a hundred years old.

Our wandering at that stage was in the general direction of Pike Place Market. We started to wander around the market, in the drizzle, and we discovered that not much was open. It’s funny, since my travel book recommends showing up early in the morning to avoid the crowds; the author must have been assuming you were there during the tourist season. My dad rubbed it in, that the travel book wasn’t accurate in this respect, and he mentioned this to many of the people he talked to (and of course, he talked to a lot of people). So we walked back up to I think it was First Ave, very close to the market, and we had breakfast at  a bagel place; my bagel sandwich was a veggie dried tomato bagel, and I drank a cup of chai.

After breakfast we resumed wandering around Pike Place, though some booths and shops were not yet open. However, more had opened during our meal. One of the indoor shops was a used bookstore, but it was closed; I peered through the window and saw enticing antique books. After wandering around one section of Pike Place, we crossed the street and came to a structure that looks original (this is a market that’s been around, in the same location, since 1907), with white-painted columns along what looks like very long hallways flanked by booths, mostly arts and crafts booths. We saw lots and lots of beautiful flowers. I picked out a Chinese brush painting of a cat, and the artist painted my name in Chinese at the right side of the painting.

We wandered into a radical collective bookstore called Left Bank Books—it’s more like the anarchist book collective in San Francisco than like the Left Bank Books in St. Louis, although that’s a cool shop too. I purchased three books, Cracking India by Bapsi Sidhwa (I started reading it after we got back to the hotel, and within the first paragraph I figured out this is the novel that Deepa Mehta’s film Earth is based on), an academic nonfiction book called The Femicide Machine, by Sergio Gonzalez Rodriguez, about the great number of women killed and forgotten in Mexico, and one other academic book published by the same university press (at least, I think that was the other book—I definitely got three).

We started to explore downtown for real this time and wandered into a Nepalese restaurant, Kastoori Grill, where we had a great buffet lunch. The food was Indian, Nepalese, and Tibetan (including a Tibetan soup that I actually liked even though generally I’m unimpressed with Tibetan food). I call it a Nepalese restaurant because all the staff I saw looked Nepalese, and the décor included Nepalese things such as a beautifully beaded and sequined bridal shawl and Nepalese Buddhist images.

As we resumed walking around downtown and admiring the architecture, we came to the Fifth Avenue Theater; the façade at least had traditional Chinese style, and the theater clearly dates to the vaudeville/movie palace days. The current play was Damn Yankees, and I was really tempted to ask my dad if he was interested in seeing the play tonight, even though I knew he’d want to go to bed early in order to leave early in the morning; not to mention, it was still the afternoon and we’d have to either hang out downtown an awfully long time or leave and come back in order to see the play. So I didn’t ask. Or at least, I don’t think I did.

We descended a staircase underneath the theater and strangely ended up inside a Hilton Hotel. My dad needed to use the restroom, and we found restrooms that required a numbered code; that is, there were a bunch of buttons for typing in a combination. An employee saw us and told us the code (1947), probably under the impression that we were guests at the fancy Hilton Hotel. We did some more wandering before getting back on the monorail and heading back to our neighborhood.

We visited one more bookstore: the little independent used bookstore around the corner from the hotel. I’ve been to three bookstores in Seattle (not counting the Pike Place one that was closed at 9 am). Books, glorious books! I’d better not buy any more books for a long time. Sure.

Our First Full Day in Seattle

EMP—the rock music museum (particularly the Jimi Hendrix bit)—I learned that Hendrix grew up here in Seattle, and the science fiction museum (Avatar exhibit and a Horror exhibit in the basement—not to mention Doctor Who stuff in the museum shop).

We had lunch at the Thai restaurant just down the street from the hotel (I had green curry with tofu, and a tall glass of Thai iced tea). We had lunch at about three in the afternoon again; this reflects how quickly I get through museums when I’m with my dad. If I’m alone in a museum, I’m typically there the entire time the museum is open. Like most of the restaurants in the immediate area, this one was a cross between a restaurant and a bar. It had some lovely Buddhist murals—lotuses and Buddhas, predominantly green.

We took a bus ride to Capital Hill—the Broadway St. stop—for Twice Sold Tales, the bookstore with multiple cats. Contrary to what the Seattle City Guide claims, the cats are not aloof—they’re all very friendly and cuddly and purry. If you expect cats to run up to you, then you might think these cats were aloof; you do have to walk up to them in order for them to acknowledge you and be friendly, but that’s not exactly difficult to do. There were five cats, two of which were foster cats and the others live there. Two of the cats were curled up together on top of a cat tree; they licked each other, and one of them licked my hand.

The bookstore owner was really cool—she seemed like a very progressive woman, in addition to a cat person and a book person. We got into conversation, and I showed her the listing for Twice Sold Tales in the travel book. I think it would kind of make me feel famous if I ran a bookstore that was described in a travel book. I purchased (well, actually, my dad paid for them) a bunch of books, especially in the Buddhism section, and it just so happened that I got a discount because it was happy hour by the time I was done shopping. I asked her about the Jimi Hendrix statue down the street, and Dad asked her for directions to an appropriate bus stop, and she was helpful and accurate on both counts.

Bus ride to Seattle Center: we got off at the corner of Denny Way and Broad St. I had previously noticed Pier 70 on a map, and now I persuaded my dad to walk with me down to the pier. We walked down a very steep hill and passed a sculpture park on the way to Puget Sound. We had a fine view of the water, in addition to walking past a fountain and some sculptures that looked like giant eyes, at least some of which were benches on the back.

Seattle

I used the computer (the inn lobby has one) to get directions to the Queen Anne Inn rather than the Moore Hotel (downtown) that I had previously picked out. According to the Lonely Planet’s Seattle City Guide, parking downtown is hell. Remembering Vancouver, I picked a different neighborhood but one that is close to downtown: Queen Anne.

   The harbor and the Empress Hotel

We had to get to the ferry port at about 9 am, and it just so happened to be a very short drive from the inn. We lined up behind other vehicles, and U. S. Customs officers were there along with someone in a Canadian uniform. My dad chatted with a customs agent and made a comment about Canadian police being better organized, and the guy in uniform agreed whole-heartedly and talked about how messed up the system is in the U. S.

The ferry ride was one and a half hours to the Port Angeles, Washington. I took many photos and some videos outside on the deck, though it was chilly out there. The ferry was significantly smaller than the one we took from the mainland to Victoria.

I drove when we weren’t on ferries; and it didn’t seem like much driving time. I was shocked at some point—when my dad said it was 3 pm; this was shortly after we got off the second ferry, not far from Seattle.

After we'd only spent about ½ hour on the second ferry, a larger ferry than the second one earlier the same day. The car deck was open in front, and a collie and a Chihuahua got to be friends at the front of the open deck; I was looking down at them from outdoors. I spent most of the ride outdoors, up front, although it was cold and extremely windy. Few people stayed out for long. I saw seagulls and black ducks with white wings.

We had a late lunch (beginning at about 3 pm) at a Chinese restaurant just a little beyond the ferry. I had broccoli and garlic sauce over steamed rice. Yummy broccoli fix.

We arrived in Seattle—driving and parking in the neighborhood was slightly hellish, after all--probably more than anything because I'm simply not familiar with the neighborhood. I ended up grabbing a meter parking place next to the hotel (Seattle has the same kind of “meters” as Portland), and we went into the office and got a room (#156 on the bottom floor). We took stuff out of the car and took it to the room. At the front desk, we also got details on where to take the car and a parking pass for valet parking through a hotel around the corner. I had a horrible time driving around in the immediate neighborhood, with one-way streets and all, but eventually I pulled up in front of the hotel, the MarQueen Hotel, my dad found an employee responsible for valet parking, and I gladly relinquished the car. The Queen Anne Inn, where we were staying, also had a parking garage, but it was full.

We looked at maps in the room before walking out to the Space Needle, which is about two blocks away, in the Seattle Center. We passed some interesting buildings, after passing a water fountain with a rainbow and a bunch of kids running and playing in the water. We also passed the museum building that actually contains two museums, including the Science Fiction Museum and the Everyday Music museum. I believe I’ve convinced my dad to go there tomorrow. I’d also like to visit Twice Sold Tales, the book store with many “aloof cats,” according to the travel book. It’s open till 9 pm, so we could go there tomorrow after the museums.

The Space Needle looming over a glass sculpture by Dale Chihuli

The Space Needle is overpriced, but quite an adventure. You can see all the way around, probably the entire city. You wait in a long line for the elevator, and about twenty people can get aboard at a time. It moves ten miles an hour and shoots past—during part of the ride, you can see through a glass wall. Up above, the elevator stops at an observation deck; wobbly telescopes, 1962-era background music playing the entire time. Eventually I figured out that above the sheets of glass it’s open to the outdoors. I took lots of pictures, all the way around.

The Streets of Victoria

Parliament Building

We stayed at the Royal BC Museum from 10 am to 2:30ish. That includes not only exploring the First Nations exhibits and the Century Hall and the Old Town (in other words, the entire third floor) but also visiting the two gift shops and the café (where I had a berry smoothie, a veggie calzone, a little bit of my dad’s salad, and one half of my dad’s carrot cake). We bought nothing at either gift shop. I’ve noticed that my dad is very enthusiastic about shopping, much moreso than I. I get into it if it’s book shopping or wandering around an art gallery.

Lobby of the Royal BC Museum

We wandered downtown, which was full of pedestrians. Tour guides had several booths set up on the sidewalk in front of the Empress Hotel.

Russell's Books

We went to the arts and crafts fair on the street, or rather, spread throughout three alleys. I especially liked fairies carved from driftwood, The artist is Debra Bernier (shapingspirit.etsy.com; www.facebook.com/ShapingSpirit), and I fell in love with her work, but it was quite pricey. I bought a card with a photo of one of her fairies on it.

I also liked little porcelain kitties, a variety of handmade jewelry (by the way, Canadians spell it jewellry), and sock monsters that have mouths into which you can stuff “food.” The monsters are made from old sweatshirts and socks; the artist gets them at thrift stores. I was tempted to mention that in Portland we have “free” boxes on sidewalks, some of which have those garments. On many occasions, there are plenty of things I might have said if my dad hadn’t been talking on and on, as usual. Granted, I’m very shy and often refrain from saying things.

At the jewelry booth, a woman I recognized said, “Did you like dinner at Green Cuisine?” I laughed and gushed about the previous night’s restaurant, and my dad said he really liked it even though he’s not the vegetarian but I am, and we had kind of a long conversation with her. Some people here are very friendly—I think it’s friendlier and more laid back than Vancouver, but we stayed downtown (aside from the drive to and from downtown) while in Vancouver and were really in the business district. Maybe Vancouver has some hippie neighborhoods, some bohemian neighborhoods like Portland.

After hanging out at the street fair, we walked a few blocks to Russell’s Books, a new and used bookstore with great deals—I got four Buddhist books for $9.99 each. My dad (who’s been watching Grimm and Once Upon a Time though he’s not terribly familiar with the traditional fairy tales that inspired them) got himself a middle grade Penguin book that’s a collection of some of Grimm’s’ fairy tales, including “Aschenputel.” Initially I warned him that it’s a kids book, and it’s not the complete Grimm’s fairy tales, but it occurred to me that really, it’s sufficient for his purposes. After picking out that book and leaving it with me, he went elsewhere (the shop occupies two buildings). Meanwhile, I grabbed a stool and got comfortable in the Buddhist aisle; that’s how I ended up with a bunch of Buddhist books. Actually, the aisle was for many different religions, but Buddhism covers at least two whole bays plus part of the “Indian Religions” section. Oddly, no “Hindu” section—all Hindu-related books were categorized as “Indian religions,” as though Hinduism has never been practiced outside India. I think it would have been better organization to have a separate Hindu section, etc; on the other hand, maybe the shop sometimes has books on Jainism and other less popular religions that began in India. The subcontinent has many Muslims, but of course that religion didn’t begin in India, so Islam was separate.

We headed back toward the hotel—indirectly. Still downtown, we passed Darth Vader playing a violin on a street corner. No joke. We walked down Belleville and took a look at where we need to get on the ferry to Port Angeles in Washington state. In doing so, we passed a beautiful old Neoclassical building with the words “B. C. Coast Service Offices” over the door, and the date of 1924. I peered inside, and it has an impressive fireplace inside and looks like nowadays it’s used for public gatherings, perhaps art shows and whatnot.

At my urging, we went back downtown in the evening to look at a couple of historic buildings on the grounds of the Royal BC Museum: the Helmckien House, originally built in 1852 and the oldest building in British Columbia still standing at its original site; and a school house built in 1858 and moved to its present site. We also saw more totem poles and a native house built in 1953 and featuring a big face in basically the same style as the totem poles.

Yesterday I finally realized that what I think of as a Canadian accent is derived from Scottish accents, because so many people immigrated from Scotland to Canada.” A woman working at a tourist shop has  a very pronounced accent that sounded almost Scottish. That explains the “aboot” and such. And this is my third trip to Canada; not to mention I traveled with Canadians in India, too, and didn’t figure it out then.

Tomorrow morning our plan is to get out before 9:30 in order to not miss the 10:30 am ferry. First come, first served. Just a bit of a rush. I’d rather be sitting around in the car than be too late and not get to Seattle tomorrow…or have to spend the night somewhere in Washington state, between Victoria and Seattle.

Craigdarroch Castle and the Parliament Building

I’ve noticed that the more my dad stands around talking to people, the more I take photos.

We took the bus to Craigdarroch Castle, a breathtaking stone Romanesque mansion built for a railroad baron (Dunsmuir) and his family in the eighteen-eighties. We wandered all over—all the way up to the lookout tower with its views of the city and harbor. The mansion put me in the mood for embroidery, costuming, and a doll house based on the castle. On average, visitors get through the mansion in forty-five minutes. It took my dad and me at least three hours. Some visitors miss parts of the house, but we wandered down the back staircase and saw more and more rooms after visiting the lookout tower.

We had lunch at a little Greek/Italian place—spaghetti—downtown after getting off the bus—followed by a hurried walk to the Emily Carr House because at lunch (a late lunch)  I double checked the Emily Carr House hours and discovered that it closes at 4 pm. It was already a quarter till three when I noticed this.

The Emily Carr House is a few doors down from our inn and on the other side of the street—the two-story yellow 1864 house that Emily Carr grew up in.  Only the first floor is open for tours; the caretakers live upstairs. Flowers in the yard, complimentary coffee and tea on the porch, wonderful homey antique furnishings, a small gift shop (the kitchen), and a sign saying you might come across one or two cats (but we didn’t). Emily Carr loved cats. There was also a biographical documentary showing in one bedroom.

Inside the Emily Carr House

Surprisingly, a couple of tourists were from Portland, and I saw them walk to the inn’s restaurant, so we’re convinced they’re also staying at the James Bay Inn. My dad talked with them on the lawn of Emily Carr’s house after we left, and I wandered around the yard taking pictures of flowers.

Emily Carr House

We briefly stopped by at the room, and I discovered that when my dad meant to hang up the “Please make up room” sign facing out, he had actually hung up “Do not disturb,” so we didn’t have fresh towels and the beds weren’t made. After a bathroom break, we headed back out.

We wandered around downtown—mainly along Government Street, for hours—looking around, taking pictures, shopping, etc. We wandered to Chinatown and down the narrowest alley in Canada, which is located in the oldest Chinatown in Canada.

Dinner around 8 pm at Green Cuisine, a wonderful (though not cheap—they charge by the gram, and I bought heavy samosas) vegan restaurant.

More wandering, back toward the hotel and stopping at shops. A cop was confronting some drunk young guys on the street—the cop car was pulled over and the cop stood with the guys on the sidewalk, talking to them. Meanwhile, three noisy drunk young women in dresses and high heels and tattoos came out of the Irish pub, talking and laughing, and approached the guys and the cop. They thought the situation was hilarious, and after the cop got back into his car and started to drive off, one of the women ran up to his car and said something jokingly. Nobody got arrested. Toto, we’re not in the United States anymore. A block further down, we met a guy who said it’s a full moon tonight, in addition to a Saturday night in Victoria, so the street could get even rowdier.

Parliament Building

We walked to the lit-up Parliament Building and the glowing lit-up fountain in front of it. We passed two Clydesdales pulling open carriages for tourists; we saw a lot of that in Victoria.