I Went to San Francisco. I Took My Camera.

It all started with Eve Bunting.

What? You mean you've never heard of Eve Bunting before? But she's an award winning author!

I was in the fifth grade and for some reason I felt compelled to check out her book from the Brattain Elementary School library. The very weak plot of the story is that Danny, a shrimpy teenager, tangles with a motley crew called The Outlaws (whose threatening gang monikers include Jelly Bean, Priest, Maxie, and Cowboy) and flees to Alcatraz Island, where he hides from his pursuers in a dangerous game of cat and mouse. Oh, and there's a romantic subplot, too, involving a redhead named Biddy. So anyways, the book totally sucks. And especially you should not read it as an adult because her writing is sexually suggestive if your mind tends to wander at all toward the gutter. But I was a naive ten-year-old who completely missed those references (phantom pounder!) and on that day in Springfield, Oregon in 1986 a dream was born.

I knew that someday I would make a pilgrimage to Alcatraz. Was it for Danny? For Biddy? I guess we'll never know, but for sure I was going to make it to that rock at some point in my lifetime. Then, this fall, along came Amberlee with her talk of the annual GeologicalphysicrockformationSANFRANCISCOsymposiumlavaearthmantleblahblahblah Nerd Fest, which just so happened to end on MY FIRST DAY OF WINTER BREAK! Clearly the divine forces were calling me to Alcatraz. Clearly.

It is a true friend indeed who will track down an out of print relic from your childhood and special order it to be delivered to your doorstep. This is the same kind of friend who will memorize the words to this song just so she can sing along with you.

For the record, I was not the Sarstedt fan. Additionally for the record DO NOT BUY HIS GREATEST HITS ALBUM! We thought Eve Bunting was a perv. Sheesh.

Back to the narrative here (whoa, Eve Bunting! Stick to the plot!). I was to meet Amberlee in the city and I swung by Arcata to get our friend Emily, who I will henceforth refer to as MLE because 1. I know a lot of Emilys and sometimes I write about Emily (hi Emily!) and I wouldn't want anyone getting confused. 2. because it's cool to write the name MLE out in letters like that (makes it more difficult for people to find "oracle" anagrams in your name like Mallard Beer Doe and Acid Ass Sores). And finally 3. it makes her seem kind of French, as in Mlle, the abbreviation for Mademoiselle. So yeah. I'm avoiding confusion here.

So MLE and I rocked out to some serious Peter Sarstedt as we drove down the coast and we arrived late and hungry to meet Amberlee, who had taken the company of a delightful young man by the name of Tom. Although we begged our new friend to join us in our dining excursion, his pressing social engagements interfered and we bid him adieu.

Au reviour, Tom. Bonjour pizza. And wine. And staying up really late in our hotel room (which was totally awesome and a steal of a deal, if you don't mind the sixth floor. We did not) and taking turns reading aloud from the book Someone is Hiding on Alcatraz Island. Because that is just how freaking rad we ladies really are. Poor Tom, he'll never know.

With two days to kill before The Rock, we embarked on some serious tourism. Because we are hardcore, we went running down to the wharf on that first morning before we walked about twelve miles in Chinatown. And we also climbed up to the gigantic phallus that is Coit Tower. It was a good thing we found some kick ass coffee back near our hotel. I mean really, they make their own almond milk! Who does that?

Just what exactly is Dim Sum? We may never know for sure, but I'm happy to report that we ate some from the Good Mang Kok Bakery. Yes, we ate there based on name alone. Yes, our minds were totally in the gutter at this point in the journey. I blame Bunting and Sarstedt.

We walked into the restaurant and saw this:

So we just did the whole point and smile and hope for the best routine and we ended up with a lunch feast of mostly edible items for $7.50. Yum! I guess I like Dim Sum, whatever it is.

Chinatown totally rules. I had no idea.

(in bed!)







I've been to San Francisco plenty of times before, but I don't know, this time the city spoke to me. Maybe it was the trolley cars, the holiday lights of a big city, the Irish coffees, or the parrots of Telegraph Hill. For whatever reason, I fell hard for the city. I love that place.

At last the big day came: Alcatraz or bust! Except it almost was a bust because we slightly (ahem) underestimated the walking time to get to pier 33 and ended up making a mad dash to the ferry boarding area just in the nick of time. Well, with about twenty seconds to spare.

If you don't know about the Native American occupation of Alcatraz during the early 1970's, you should read up on it. Some serious sh*t went down on that rock. In fact, if you don't know much about the history of Alcatraz, I suggest you stop reading this drivel immediately and get yourself on over to Wikipedia post haste.

I found the Christmas menu to be strangely fascinating. Consomme?

The whole Alcatraz experience was slightly creepy at first. We opted for the night tour, and the sinister effect was definitely achieved. I thought the escape stories were pretty cool (even though the audio tour guide kept saying "excape") and you find yourself rooting for the escapees ("excapees", as it were), even if they were mob bosses and serial killers. Oddly enough, most seemed to be bank robbers. I had always thought Alcatraz inmates were more of the axe murdering persuasion. Ah well, live and learn.

But once we got up into the hospital and saw the surgery rooms and the solitary cells where they kept the mentally ill inmates, I started to find the whole thing kind of depressing. That place definitely has some weird juju going on.

But mission accomplished! Dream realized! And so to celebrate, we ate at The Stinking Rose (get your mind out of the gutter, it's a garlic restaurant!) and then picked up some tiramisu from a bakery in Little Italy.

We left the city the next day and drove north to Arcata. We stayed the night at MLE's house and watched the lunar eclipse from her backyard, I geeked out about her antique Singer (treadle!!), and we were treated to a Dutch baby for breakfast.

So yes, to answer your question, I had an amazing trip. Adjectives do not do it justice. But if you've ever driven a station wagon through treacherous and icy northern California hills while rediscovering your love for Metallica with one of your best friends in the world, you maybe have an idea what I'm talking about.

Oh, and if you are wondering what happened with Danny and Biddy, I'll loan you the book. But be careful, it just might inspire an epic road trip adventure to Alcatraz.

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The Perfect Tree, the Perfect Smile, and the Perfect Pint

The perfect family we are not. I find it incredibly nauseating when people ramble on and on about how perfect their perfect little lives and perfect little families seem to perfectly be. So please continue reading as I ramble on about how messed up our totally dysfunctional family is. Ha ha. Just kidding. Kind of.

But seriously, this business of raising kids can be good, bad, and certainly ugly. We are far from perfect around here. However, that does not keep me from striving for some sort of perfection when it comes to THE HOLIDAYS! Oh yes, I have been intoxicated by the Christmas Spirit(s) (ha ha) ever since we polished off the Halloween candy.

And so, with naive perfection in mind, we set off to find The Perfect Christmas Tree. We were not going to half ass it and buy our tree from the lot. Oh no! No Fred Meyer Christmas trees for us either! We were going up into THE WOODS to CHOP DOWN the PERFECT CHRISTMAS TREE. Dammit.

First stop, the ranger station. Brent went inside to get our tree permit ($5?! what a steal!) and returned to the car with the news that Smokey the Bear was inside (!!! OMG! I was totally obsessed with Smokey the Bear when I was a kid, and here he was! Would he sign autographs? Did my hair look okay?). We unloaded the little people and quickly prepped them for meeting the Biggest Forest Service Celebrity of All Time. OMG! OMG! Smokey the freaking Bear. Remember to breathe. The kids were cool as cucumbers when we walked in the door, but when Sawyer saw Smokey, it was like Halloween at Grandpa Doug's all over again...

After a quick photo op and goodie bags (!) we promised not to play with matches and Sawyer even managed a tearful "Bye bye Smokey" as we headed out the door.

And then we drove up into the snow. I am selfishly hesitant to tell you where we went because it was so quiet and pristine, but since most of you are lazy bums who would never think of putting down your beers to go cut down your own trees, I suppose I'll spill the beans. Again, just kidding. Kind of. We went up the road behind Oakridge and followed the map that Smokey's colleagues had given us. It was so easy to get there and suddenly we were surrounded by gleaming snow banks and potential Christmas trees.

Was this weather not absolutely perfect? Oh yes, we lucked out. I had the brilliant idea that I would get the perfect picture of the boys to use as our Christmas card this year. Seemed simple enough, what with this beautiful forest for a background and flattering natural light. Oh yeah, and the cute kids, too.

I took about 500 pictures of these two goons. I wish I could tell you that I was exaggerating. Most of them looked like this:

What is the deal with Sawyer? Is he incapable of smiling for the camera. You think this one is bad?

The piece de resistance:
Wow. I don't know what is wrong with him. He's much cuter in real life.

See? Much cuter.

Now, I have to tell you something and you're probably not going to believe me, and if you do believe me you will probably be asking what the hell is wrong with us, wondering if we should be reported to the authorities, and considering confiscating our camera. But here goes:

I think this is the only picture we have of the four of us together. I know that is shocking and ridiculous, but I do believe that it is true. I'm really not sure how that could have happened, but apparently it did. Maybe I need to book us a photo shoot at Sears to make up for lost time...

Good thing this one photo is PERFECT!

And we found the perfect tree. Well, perfect enough for us anyway. The funny thing about cutting down your own tree is that it looks a lot smaller out in the forest than in your living room. A lot. For future reference.

Brent had planned out a little side trip and so on the way home we stopped in Oakridge for lunch and a pint at the new brewery, Brewers Union Local 180. If you thought I spilled the beans about the Christmas tree spot, just wait till you hear about this place! This pub is just about the sweetest, homiest, most welcoming place I've ever been. And the beer was divine.

Jack's first time sitting up at the bar. He was a fan!

The ambiance is relaxed, cozy, and totally kid friendly. They have a wall of board games, room for big groups to sit and for people to mingle, corners for reading, and a pint sized pool table for the kids. I loved this place. Almost enough to consider moving to Oakridge. Almost.

We ran into some people we knew from Eugene who were just coming off the mountain. This pub is the perfect apres ski pit stop. Perfect.

And I would love to tell you that we all arrived home from our day in the woods feeling refreshed and ready for an evening of Christmas carols, cocoa, and tree decorating. Instead, Jack threw an epic tantrum, Sawyer tried to smash all of the ornaments, and Brent and I had to put the kids to bed early to preserve the remaining shreds of our sanity and get that damn tree decorated.

But at least Brent had the foresight to bring along the growler and have it filled at the pub. And so, if nothing else, the beer was perfect that night.

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The Top of Eugene

The short version of the story is that my two cousins, Nicole and Andrew, came through Eugene the week after Thanksgiving and prolonged the holiday family love fest. And it was all thanks to a wayward jacket of supreme importance.

I was secretly glad that Andrew had to backtrack to Portland for The Jacket because it meant that he would come through good old (boring) Eugene. I guess I felt like there was some hospitality to repay or something, but I hadn't exactly convinced him that Eugene was worth his while until the jacket mishap presented itself and the only logical thing for him to do was to come right on down the old I-5 and make a pit stop in Eugene. Nicole had tagged along for the ride, wisely seizing the opportunity for an impromptu road trip. (I believe you should always seize the opportunity for an impromptu road trip. More on that later.)

So yay! Out of town guests. Now what? See, there's not much to do in Eugene on a cold and rainy day in December. Of course we were going to end up at the Ninkasi brewery, that was a given. But how to fill the day?

I decided that we would climb Spencer's Butte. Sure it was cold, sure it was rainy, sure we would be dragging the kids along with us. It didn't matter- it was an adventure! Cold, check. Rainy, check. Muddy and windy, double check. It was a true Eugene outdoor adventure. But I noticed a strange thing on the way up- we were actually having a lot of fun. And somehow Jack managed to hike THE ENTIRE WAY. This is the kid who will often throw a temper tantrum when you ask him to wash his hands. He hiked UP and BACK. I am still shocked by this. Where was the whining? The complaining? When I complimented him on his perseverance, he gave me the look of incredulity that the young often give the old and replied, "I'm really good at hiking. My dad takes me all the time." The "duh" was implied.

We reached the summit and were assaulted by a vicious wind that just about knocked Jack over. Sawyer was, once again, refusing the comfort of gloves and preferring the epic meltdown approach to generating body heat. He fell asleep on the way down.

Can you find a camouflaged Jack hidden in this picture?

We were muddy and cold by the time we reached the car, but I felt that I'd given Nicole and Andrew a taste of the Eugene experience. Then it was time to sample some of the Eugene beer experience, sans kiddos. We dropped them off at Doug and Mary's house and headed for the brewery.

Brent and I are shamelessly obsessed with Ninkasi beer. I am serious, it is so good. Since we just so happened to have a keg of Ninkasi Sleigher on tap in our garage, our guests had had plenty of "sampling" of that one already, so we ordered a couple of rounds of tasters. I will drink with wild abandon just about everything that brewery puts out, but I had to draw the line at the ConventionAle Stout. I never thought I'd say this about a Ninkasi beer, but yuck. Nicole and Brent concurred.

To each their own, however, and Andrew gulped it down, taking one for the team. But then again, his palate might be more refined than ours, having been raised on Guinness and other fine European beers while Brent and I cut our beer drinking teeth on PBR.

It's a funny thing, spending so much time with cousins and realizing how dominant some of our family traits seem to be. I've always identified myself closely with my Scottish side of the family, mostly because my 80 something year old grandmother vehemently proclaims Scotland pride and pretty much insists that we do the same. My family and I all seem to possess some particular traits that we apparently share with our relatives across the pond.

1. Beer. We like it.

2. Wanderlust. Most of us have travelled pretty extensively. We crave new experiences and savor the open road.

3. A very particular brand of humor. Some people would not think it funny or appropriate to discuss the plot of "Deep Throat" at the dinner table with your entire extensive family present.

While Andrew was here and we reminisced about the time that Nick and I stayed with his family in Belfast, I pulled out my old travel journals. It was with trepidation that I found the entries based on our visit- had I said anything bad about them? Had I waxed philosophical about my own insecurities at that point in my life? Had I complained about the food?

No, I had not. And we pored over the old journals and laughed at my observations about Irish and Scottish culture and Nick's first foray into the bar scene (Belfast is no place for a newbie, FYI). I had written so many details that were now meaningless to me, but some things triggered really great memories. Those journals are priceless, just as the time I spent in Europe is. I am so glad I took the time to write while I travelled.

And it all made me realize just how important this little old blog is to me. People ask me all the time why I would want to write a blog. Why did I start it? Who reads it? The truth is that I started this blog because I miss my mom. I miss knowing how it was for her when we were little. I miss knowing what we ate for dinner or who gave who what for which birthday. I would love to have a window into our lives so that I could see the things I can't remember. And I would kill for her Twice Baked Potatoes recipe. So I guess I started this blog because I want to document the most important journey that I've ever taken. Forgive the cliche metaphor. It's the truth.

I've gotten a few raised eyebrows lately when I mention my upcoming trip to San Francisco. Yeah, it's pretty crazy to think that I'm going to leave my kids behind and head south instead of cherishing the first days of my winter break at home with my family. Yeah, it's probably selfish and maybe even unfair. But I have to do it. It's been too long since I've seen the open road. Travel is a part of who I am and I haven't acknowledged that part of me for awhile. I need to seize this opportunity, because it might not come again.

And I really want my kids to know that part of me. I want them to grow up jumping at opportunities for adventure and trying new things. Hiking is normal to Jack because Brent does it. I want travel to be the same way.

So come Friday morning, off I go. No guilt. No regrets. Camera in hand. Ready for the adventure.

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