The drive is uneventful, and that evening I am supposed to meet Scott at the first stop on Highway 14 West, but it turns out that there is no Highway 14 West, only East. It doesn't matter, because Scott spots me on the highway and flags me down. We proceed on to Sheila's house. Sheila calls Leslie, the friend who showed me around Portland when I was here on my way north and we take Scott's car to pick her up. Scott drives a Honda Accord that has been broken into about 4 times recently. After about the 3rd time, he left all the doors unlocked and windows open (since it often costs more to replace the broken window than the actual items stolen), but then someone pried his trunk open by forcing the inside trunk release. He just can't win for losing. At Leslie's house, Scott shows me how he now uses a cable and Kryptonite lock threaded through an open slot in the windows to lock the doors shut. I tell him about the chain lock thingy on the truck.
We let the women decide where to eat, since they know Portland best.
The first restaurant we try is closed for vacation (several weeks), and
Sheila suggests another. I am a little wary of Sheila's sense of directimn
after our restaurant chase a couple of weeks ago, and ask if Leslie also
knows the way. There turns out to a long wait for a dinner table, but we
find space and order from the bar. There is plenty of time to talk while
waiting for dinner, and Scott tells me an excellent fishing story about
a place that he found on his way up to Washington. Scott is a big fisherman,
and an even bigger skier, spending every possible free moment this past
season on the slopes, even if it meant driving ridiculous hours to get
to Tahoe and back for the weekend. He now is starting to windsurf, and the
Columbia River Gorge near Portland is one of the best places in the world
for wind surfing, because the wind and the water flow in opposite directions.
I also wind surf, and am jealous that Scott chose to move to this particular
location. No doubt I'll be visiting him again. While we are still waiting
for dinner, he tells a story about his backpack which was stolen out of
his car, involving a homeless man named Cliff, a car chase, and police raid.
I've heard the story before, but prompt him to tell it to Sheila and Leslie
because I know it's a great one.
The food comes, we eat, and go home. Leslie is dropped off at her house,
and Scott returns to Vancouver. Lucky for me, Sheila has bought a new bed
for her guest bedroom because her mother will be visiting soon. It is very
comfortable, and Sheila has decorated it tastefully. But I can't sleep -
it's too early. I've been driving till early morning all week. So I keep
Sheila up talking for a while.
I don't think I described Sheila very well in our first encounter. She is
a small woman with a blue belt in Tae Kwan Do. Her blond hair and blue eyes
easily give away her Scandinavian ancestry. A successful artist, she owns
her own business, and her taste is reflected in a house filled with all
sorts of interesting decorations. I have had two meals while at her house,
and both were simple, but so arranged that you might see it in a fancy cookbook
-- the kind with color pictures.
Finally, Sheila is a traveler, and has lots of good stories to tell. The
voices she uses to tell them are my favorite part. She tells a recent story
of being stuck in the Mexican desert on a broken down Green Tortoise bus
with about 20 people, mostly Australians. After the first day or two, everyone's
normal provisions depleted, and they had only taco shells, Maramite, and
Velveeta cheese to eat. The beer ran out, and the Australians became rather
grumpy. Next there was no Velveeta, and for several days they survived on
taco shells and Maramite alone. I can't do justice to the story, you'll
have to ask her for the full spiel.
Sleep finally comes.