SEATTLE

Last night I finally arrived at my brother and sister in law's house in Seattle. The drive along the western coast was beautiful but tiring. Though I could have driven along Interstate 5 the entire way, I took some scenic detours in Northern California and Oregon, climbing or descending various mountain ranges by way of near-constant switchbacks. Though the driving was difficult it was inspiring and more than once I marveled at just how enormous and varied the country is, and how gorgeous. During family vacations when I was younger, my mother had a tendency to see something particulary picturesque in the passing landscape, breathe in suddenly and quickly, and exclaim with a zeal bordering on spiritual discovery, "Oh kids, looook!" There were many "Oh kids, look" moments while driving next to green rivers in Oregon and along the rocky, misty coast of Northern California.

One thing I had heard from numerous people was that Northern California, beautiful and dynamic, was principally comprised of two indigenous natural phenomena: towering redwood trees and unrepentant, Lenin-loving, patchouli-smelling hippies. Seeing as how I had just spent close to three years in Los Angeles, possibly the world's most potent antidote to hippyism, I was excited for the opportunity to finally witness these strange creatures. If I were lucky, I surmised, I might even be able to interact with them in their natural habitat; peruse a farmer's market for saffron-scented incense or grab a slice in some organic pizza shop. Unfortunately, the denizens of Humboldt County who live in communes apparently do so further from Highway 1 than I imagined - further also (quite wisely, I must add) from the law. In fact, after stopping for a quick burrito at a Taco Bell in Eureka, I was disappointed and surprised to not only find no hippies making a run for the border, but in their stead a staggering number of hillbillies and rednecks; what one might more succintly call "hicks". Talk radio hosts often like to point out how Americans in different parts of the country are different, but I don't buy it. I've seen first hand that a great number of Americans, be they miners in Huntington, West Virginia or loggers in Crescent City, California, believe that the most appropriate way to celebrate your cousin's release from the county lockup is to wear your cleanest Yosemite Sam t-shirt and treat the whole family to a fresh box of spicy chicken soft tacos. Red State, Blue State - let's not kid ourselves anymore. The only State that really matters is Mental State and oh, my, how I do fear for our country at times.

Another interesting detour I made was to Crater Lake in Oregon. Interesting in that it's still extremely cold in the higher altitudes of the Cascade Mountain Range, and the park was effectively closed underneath towering, fifteen foot tall snowdrifts. Oops. The only way to view the lake was from the fogged window of a small, wooden shack resting somewhere on the crater's rim. Essentially, this is what I saw:



Not bad, but I'd rather have gone in the summer season and frolicked in the volcano's icy cold waters. Well, maybe not frolicked, but at least got my toes wet. You know what I mean. I would have dillied and dallied, or something to that effect.

The last significantly interesting thing I saw during my drive was upon my arrival in Seattle. I was stuck in traffic near downtown and in the lane next to me sat a large man, probably well over six feet tall, sixty years old, hunched behind the wheel of a tiny, two-door Honda Civic, smoking a cigarette and wearing a fully-pressed tuxedo and a perfectly looped black bow tie. It made me happy, because it wasn't me.

I leave for Peru on Tuesday if all things go well.