We’ve just come back from a foray into Oregon to see my family in Eugene. This is the second time we’ve made this trip except that this time we weren’t pulling an RV. In fact, neither was anyone else. Where last time, the RVs formed a long continuous line, this time the roads were empty except for local traffic and the usual trucks. Since gas on the coast hovered just beneath $4.50 a gallon, we figured that everyone was staying home to be able to afford the things the trucks were carrying. The welcome center as we entered Oregon confirmed our observation: last year nearly 500 people dropped in for information on July 4; this year there were barely over 200 on the busiest travel day of the year. No wonder people were glad to see us.
Welcome though we were, however, we have learned to be wary in Oregon because that’s where some of our better learning experiences have taken place. Last time, for example, we blew a tire on the RV on July 4 while somewhere outside Pendleton, Oregon. That’s when we learned that the AAA guarantee of 24/7 help has some maybes and only ifs. No one was (or wanted to be anyway) available to come help us. We might have spent a lonely (and dangerous) night parked beside the road if a Samaritan had not come by and helped Sid change the tire. Now we carry a four-ton hydraulic jack in the truck, which probably means that we won’t get stuck with a scissors jack again while parked on a slanted shoulder.
This year the learning continued. Just outside Pendleton, Oregon (again) Sid’s car showed a low tire warning light. It turned out that a rather large screw had worked itself into one of the rear tires. Fortunately, Sid was able to get the car safely to a service center that also sold gasoline. The proprietor was a cheerful man named Carlos whose English was clearly a later acquisition. Since Oregon does not permit self-service gasoline sales, he had to jump up each time someone drove up to a pump. He was already working on replacing a tire on one of the very few RVs we saw so we stood by to watch. The owner turned out to be a police officer from Carson City, Nevada. I was fascinated by the tattoos on the back of his leg. He showed them to me. One was a large St Michael, the patron saint of cops, along with the memorial flag for fallen officers and his own police shield and badge number. They were very artistic and very detailed. “Didn’t that hurt?” I asked him. He nodded and told me that it had taken 6 hours and had needed two sessions. “Were you drunk?” I asked. “No,” he replied, “but a valium helped.” I felt rather old and certainly out of step with the world.
My feeling of dislocation continued after Carlos got us back on the road and we drove into Pendleton. There we visited the Woollen Mills. These are justly famous for fine wool blankets and clothing—an American tradition since 1900, the billboard says—except that most of the garments were made in Thailand, China, and Mexico. The blankets at least said they were made in the US so that’s what I chose.
By then I was starting to think Pendleton to be something of a jinx. It’s just a quiet town with some railroad history, but you can’t tell that by me. The local café was recommended to us for lunch so we drove into Pendleton’s downtown and parked next to the donut shop in the parking area. The café had a certain charm, particularly all the message signs: “”Blessings” carved in a wood as we walked in, with “ASAP: Always Say a Prayer” and “Why Wish When You Can Pray” right next to the cash register. I must admit they went well with the local Travelodge sign which was not flashing vacancy messages but instead “President Bush for Strong Leadership.” That prepared me well for the sign we later saw in Montpelier, Oregon,” which said “Get Us Out of the UN.” I think it must be isolation and the rain.
The best one, though, was our hotel in Bend, Oregon. It’s a beautiful city renowned for outdoor activities and a lot like Boulder, Colorado. It also apparently attracts people born idiots who have worked on their talent. At 3:30 a.m., the fire alarm rang in every room and common area of the hotel. Despite clear warnings about smoking in the rooms, someone lit up. Consequently, we all got up. The offender was quickly identified by the Fire Department and was fined $250.
As we left Oregon this morning, Sid decided to try the radio. All we could find were stations promoting God, country music, and programming in Spanish. Somehow, after listening to a couple in the booth next to us at the cafe discussing the need to cut (castrate) pygmy goats to prevent them from being mean, and after hearing a radio commentator discussing white blood cells as being God’s little antibiotics, I thought that just about summed it up.
Welcome though we were, however, we have learned to be wary in Oregon because that’s where some of our better learning experiences have taken place. Last time, for example, we blew a tire on the RV on July 4 while somewhere outside Pendleton, Oregon. That’s when we learned that the AAA guarantee of 24/7 help has some maybes and only ifs. No one was (or wanted to be anyway) available to come help us. We might have spent a lonely (and dangerous) night parked beside the road if a Samaritan had not come by and helped Sid change the tire. Now we carry a four-ton hydraulic jack in the truck, which probably means that we won’t get stuck with a scissors jack again while parked on a slanted shoulder.
This year the learning continued. Just outside Pendleton, Oregon (again) Sid’s car showed a low tire warning light. It turned out that a rather large screw had worked itself into one of the rear tires. Fortunately, Sid was able to get the car safely to a service center that also sold gasoline. The proprietor was a cheerful man named Carlos whose English was clearly a later acquisition. Since Oregon does not permit self-service gasoline sales, he had to jump up each time someone drove up to a pump. He was already working on replacing a tire on one of the very few RVs we saw so we stood by to watch. The owner turned out to be a police officer from Carson City, Nevada. I was fascinated by the tattoos on the back of his leg. He showed them to me. One was a large St Michael, the patron saint of cops, along with the memorial flag for fallen officers and his own police shield and badge number. They were very artistic and very detailed. “Didn’t that hurt?” I asked him. He nodded and told me that it had taken 6 hours and had needed two sessions. “Were you drunk?” I asked. “No,” he replied, “but a valium helped.” I felt rather old and certainly out of step with the world.
My feeling of dislocation continued after Carlos got us back on the road and we drove into Pendleton. There we visited the Woollen Mills. These are justly famous for fine wool blankets and clothing—an American tradition since 1900, the billboard says—except that most of the garments were made in Thailand, China, and Mexico. The blankets at least said they were made in the US so that’s what I chose.
By then I was starting to think Pendleton to be something of a jinx. It’s just a quiet town with some railroad history, but you can’t tell that by me. The local café was recommended to us for lunch so we drove into Pendleton’s downtown and parked next to the donut shop in the parking area. The café had a certain charm, particularly all the message signs: “”Blessings” carved in a wood as we walked in, with “ASAP: Always Say a Prayer” and “Why Wish When You Can Pray” right next to the cash register. I must admit they went well with the local Travelodge sign which was not flashing vacancy messages but instead “President Bush for Strong Leadership.” That prepared me well for the sign we later saw in Montpelier, Oregon,” which said “Get Us Out of the UN.” I think it must be isolation and the rain.
The best one, though, was our hotel in Bend, Oregon. It’s a beautiful city renowned for outdoor activities and a lot like Boulder, Colorado. It also apparently attracts people born idiots who have worked on their talent. At 3:30 a.m., the fire alarm rang in every room and common area of the hotel. Despite clear warnings about smoking in the rooms, someone lit up. Consequently, we all got up. The offender was quickly identified by the Fire Department and was fined $250.
As we left Oregon this morning, Sid decided to try the radio. All we could find were stations promoting God, country music, and programming in Spanish. Somehow, after listening to a couple in the booth next to us at the cafe discussing the need to cut (castrate) pygmy goats to prevent them from being mean, and after hearing a radio commentator discussing white blood cells as being God’s little antibiotics, I thought that just about summed it up.
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