The Sacrificial Lamb
Behold, the Chihuly laser!
Every special event requires some sacrifice. Little did I know I would be the one for my cousins wedding. The magic of this journey to date continued through Oregon, but my luck was about to change.
I randomly chose the town of Oakland, Oregon off a sign on the I-5. This one road town consisted of two blocks of historic storefronts and was about half way between Klamath and Portland. I stopped in what may have been the only eatery for a salad I’d rather forget, and was about to cut my losses when I spied an antique shop. I tried the door and it was locked, but the proprietress saw my eager smile and opened up. “I’m by appointment only” she told me. After an appraising look she amended, “But if it’s just you…I can’t have more than 8 people in here. You’ll see why”. I did indeed.
The shop was huge and packed to the gills with treasures. Narrow walkways wound through seas of delicate glassware, collectibles and cases full of jewelry and figurines. I started in the Hawaiiana section that blurred into western wear. I could have spent all day excavating but I had neither the time nor the space in my car for much more. While paying for my modest scores, I learned that she had a shop in Maui years ago, just down the street from my high school, and we knew people in common. Of all the tiny towns picked at random, I walk into the one with another Maui girl. It felt like a nod from the universe.
As did my brief stop in Portland, another couple of hours up the road, to meet Terra for dinner. I met my Ex at her going away party 3.5 years ago, an event that would change my life, and she happened to have the night free for me on a whim. I told her of the sad news, and of my journey to see the country and rediscover my joy. I learned that she is happy, healthy, and on her way to do great things. She looked well and it felt great to catch up with her on the sunny rooftop of a microbrewery with a delicious passionfruit sour ale. We met in a part of town which I recalled being a bit sketchy when I lived there 20 years ago. Today it is unrecognizable to me and full of cute little restaurants with fairy light patios. I realize I owe Portland another shot someday, and a bit more time to get reacquainted. Hearts and bellies full, we bid farewell, as I still had 3 hours to complete my journey to Seattle.
While the first 6 hours driving were fine, it was the last 1.5 in the dark that tested my limits. I rolled into Seattle at 11pm, bleary eyed, and with the knowledge that I’m a 7.5 hour max driver. Good to know for planning the rest of this crazy trip.
In the morning I met my friends Cory and Jeremy for brunch at the cutest little house turned bar/restaurant, The Maple. We ate chicken and waffles in the backyard and planned the day. They took me to see the quintessential Seattle: We started at the Space Needle, wandered through a Black Art festival, played in a very cool interactive fountain, walked through Pikes Market, and stopped for a cold beverage at the Four Seasons, before dropping me back off at the Space Needle. I wanted to go up and experience this marvel of 1960’s space age engineering first hand.
Cultural Icon or Bond Villain Lair?
The Space needle was built between 1959 and 1962 by the “Pentagram Corporation”, for the World’s Fair, which means there is definitely a megalomaniac with an office at the top conducting nefarious dealings. It stands 605 feet tall, cost 4.5 million dollars, and went up in 400 days! The steel workers who built it did not wear protective harnesses, and yet there were no casualties reported. The fancy rotating restaurant featured in Elvis’ “It Happened at the World’s Fair” has been replaced with a filthy, smudged, and food covered rotating glass floor where the masses like to lay down for photo opportunities, and a couple of cocktail and snack bars. But the views were unparalleled. Though the Chihuly glass museum next door gave it a run for its money.
My Ghostly Clay Master
The next evening I was lucky enough to see another long lost friend who just so happened to be in town to see Madonna. But the poor gal called in sick, so Erin got me instead. We met in a badass women’s choir, the Conspiracy of Venus, many years ago and I know her to be an excellent musician. But pottery seems to be the THING these days, and both Erin and her friend, whom we met at the restaurant, were deeply into it. As was my friend who I’d ran into in Arnold, who felt it saved her life. Pottery, it seems, has healing qualities, though I’d argue any form of creativity that speaks to you will ultimately help you feel more grounded and alive. But the slick feel of wet clay under one’s hands does have a magical sensory component. I imagine Patrick Swayze, the Ghost of the clay, guides one’s hands to create beautiful things that heal the body and mind. At least he’d be MY ghostly clay master.
The pottery profit.
The Day the Magic Died
My entire trip so far as been on the trajectory of my cousin’s wedding in Index an hour outside of Seattle. All family near and far came for this very rare and special occasion. And I was the poor slob that drew the short straw and got COVID two days before the event; The sacrificial lamb to the gods of any group gathering in the age of the plague. I blame it on the quagmire at the Space Needle: People from all over the world gathering in a windowless space with little air ventilation, but who really knows. It seems like I am the only victim I know, so luckily I narrowly escaped ruining the entire event by giving it to the bride at a small family dinner the day before. But damn. I write this from my sick bed at my cousin’s house, while they are off celebrating the big day. And I hope the Paxlovid allows me to continue on next week. For now, I release my plans and reservations to the gods. At least I have a beautiful yard, friendly chickens, and several back seasons of Outlander to keep me company.
