Then this happened.

On the way to SF, after many hours. What we were doing: zealously learning all of the lyrics to "California Love." We were going to sing it for y'all, as a surprise, but we failed to learn it all.

Oregon Coast is Bomb Ass

Those are Tricia's terms but they are so true. We wish that we could report mileage to you but we don't know how many miles we are going each day, or total on this trip. We prefer not to know. It is better this way, no agenda.

Today, Saturday, we wake up knowing only that we do not want to leave Oregon so we can't drive too much. We leave early in the a.m., pack up our tent from our dumpster campsite, toss out the $3.14 wine bottle that the park ranger made fun of the night before when Tricia asked him to open it (no foresight=no corkscrew), and hit the road.

As soon as we start driving, we have to stop, because it looks like this:





Then we keep driving, all along the coast, totally in awe & happy, until there is a lighthouse park and obviously have to stop again. This time, we actually get to walk barefoot in the warm white Oregon sand and splash in the water, and be almost alone with so many birds. I'm sure these photos don't do this beach justice:





So. Back in the Rabbit, we listened to all of our six CDs again, and stopped for lunch in a small town. We are now obsessed with small towns and want to live in one forever. Or in two, separately. That would also be fine. We were excited about stopping at a country diner, so we stopped at something that we both agreed fit this description and ate fish sandwiches and tater tots and did not bother with their famous pies. We doubt they were really that famous anyway. We decided to leave when the smiley waitress assured us that we were welcome to sit there all day drinking coffee. We remembered we had an agenda, sort of.

Our next stop along the coast was at an anti-Semitic fruit stand. Fish sandwiches and tater tots cannot keep you happy forever. Especially if you are Tricia or Sam. First, we went to a fancy blueberry farm and realized that we could not afford anything and did not want to. It was pretty though:




But anyway, at the actual fruit stand across the street that we found after tooling around this honey store/blueberry farm, we got sesame sticks, blueberries, and peaches. We went inside and this middle-aged Asian couple was running the store. The man claimed that all of his wood carvings were made from Myrtle, a tree that only grows in Oregon and Israel. "She's a Jew," Tricia said, gesturing, obvs, to me. The man and his wife laughed, sort of confusingly. When it was time to pay, I handed over my credit card to foot the six dollar tab. "See?" The man said, "She's not as Jewish as you think." He then looked at me and added with a wink, "I've been accused of being a Jew before, too."

This story is being left open to interpretation.

We listened to our CDs again. And around four, pulled into Cape Blanco State Park, again with the permanent "Campground Full" sign. We are beginning to see how this works. This time we quickly found our own campsite, which was a great campsite!



We went and checked in and got wood. Here we are with the park ranger, getting wood:



This wood was for a campfire. Before starting this campfire, we went to the beach and grocery shopping. At the grocery store, we bought Amy's frozen burritos and beer. Tricia started a ragin' fire and we cooked the burritos. They looked like this:


At least we can make a fire. We totally ate them.

Then, alas, our fire went out. This was tragic and we balled up an entire pad of note paper trying to get it back but nothing caught. So we went to the campsite next door to ask for help, temporary home to a 60-year-old couple in an RV, and Tricia asked them for kindling. As though they were about to go into their RV and pull out a bundle of sticks and some dried leaves. They gave us lighter fluid.

After many attempts, we (mostly Tricia) got the fire going again.






Then Sam got lost going back from the bathroom. She walked down many different paths, and then circled the washroom nervously for ten minutes before finding a path that worked. Tricia, afraid Sam had gotten snatched, became a personal rescue mission, blazing dark trails with only a pen light she'd gotten for free at the Pitchfork festival.

We shouted each other's names down dark trails until, eventually, we found one another again. We sat by the fire some more. And then went to sleep. Sam slept. Tricia, unfortunately, got her last sleep in the Motel 6 because the tent is so cold...

Things Start Getting Good

We wake up smelly in the Motel 6 room and decide we need breakfast. I recall a breakfast place and invite Nas, someone my ex has dated. I am feeling inappro, but the breakfast place is the best breakfast place I've ever been to, and also I like Nas. This is Nas:
See? She looks nice. We drank red beers (beer + tomato juice) and ate delicious things including Mexican corn pancakes and quinoa, seed, avocado salad.

Then, well. Tricia and I had to work out some shit so we sat in a parking lot doing that, and Tricia informed a self-identified rent-a-cop who didn't care that we were not loitering, although we were.

So by the time we bought supplies, etc., it was getting late. We sat on traffic on the 5 forever, cut over to some country roads to try to make it to the scenic 101 route, got totally lost and spent at least 40 minutes at a gas station getting directions, buying things, and checking out the townies. Here is a photo shoot from one of our detours:









The rest of our drive was very dark and curvy. We were having fun and sort of afraid but we burned Okkervil River CDs and drove slow. (Ed. "We might be pussies, but at least we're live pussies." - Sam) Eventually and against all odds, we hit the coast.

We pulled into our destination: South Beach. There was a permanent sign that said "campground full" which didn't make any sense, so I decided it was a campground for badasses and outlaws only. The very pretty park ranger (who I had to restrain Tricia from telling how pretty she was) said there was no camping space. But there was "overflow camping" which meant that we could pop up a tent on the lawn, next to the dumpster. Perfect for S & T.

Who are these Westward Hoes?

Tricia just finished an Americorps program in Chicago and is unemployed. She likes eating foods, checking sports stats, and making jokes.

Sam is moving from Seattle to LA to begin grad school. She likes singing songs, hearing stories, and having snacks.

Tricia also likes snacks.

Tricia and Sam met in college in 2000 in Madison, Wisconsin. They separated in 2004 and have stayed in decent contact. They are driving down the West Coast in a 1983 VW Rabbit GTI. They are being haunted by rabbits.

W. Hoes Rock Portland Karaoke Scene

After eating half price sushi rolls that included shrimp tempura & burdock covered in fresh tuna, we go to a coffeeshop to write this blog and realize we cannot because Sam forgot her computer charger. Fine. So then we decide that, since we have gotten no more than 4 hours of sleep a night (drunkenness, mania, makin' out, loud clanging breakfasts, freezing, being afraid of rabbits), and we have a long drive ahead, we should get a room to stay in. A room of our own. Two beds. Yeah.

Well, getting a room is difficult when you have no money and fine tastes. The entire coffeeshop, patrons & baristas, was employed in our search. We looked at cute boutique hotels and friendly cottage-style hostels. Finally, after an hour and a half, we checked into the Motel 6. Smoking room, of course, because we both love smoking in bed and who lets you do that, ever? The Motel 6, that's who. Tricia regrets this and has been Febreezing the shit out of her possessions ever since. We planned on watching TV and sleeping. We did neither. But we did glean some fashion inspiration from That 70's Show, which, it turns out, is not funny. (Ed. "I think it's funny." - Tricia).

Then we decide to go back to this place called The Gypsy because it was been looking intriguing during the day. We drive around in circles for 45 minutes. Literal circles. Our tiny car, with no power steering, makes perfect circles in the middle of roads. This is good because Sam is generally going the wrong way. Coincidentally, it turns out to be karaoke night, just like our last night in Seattle. Only this time, Portland loves us. We love Portland. We sing "I Think We're Alone Now," the Tiffany version, and it rocks. Everyone dances.

Pisces-Virgo. Rising. A very good sign, indeed.

Then we sing Avril Lavigne's "Girlfriend," not such a hit, and then Sam sings "Leader of the Pack" for which she requested some lady backup singers. She was accused of gender discrimination and then literally every person in the bar ran up behind her to be her backup. Every person except Tricia, actually, who was the only person there that didn't know this song. (Ed. "Leader of the Pack. Brought the house down.--Tricia") Also, this was the re-debut, after 2 years, of Sam's pioneer dress and everyone liked it. Straight boys kept complimenting it. We are now confused about what straight boys like.


We go home to our smoky room, drive around in more circles, go through the BK drive-thru and go home again. We notice that the smoker floor is also the pet floor. Because smokers are like animals, in the eyes of the Motel 6.

Welcome to...Not Washington

First, a note on the timing of this blog. Most of this blog is retrospective because Tricia has a computer that doesn't charge and can't pick up internet signals, and Sam forgot her computer charger in Seattle. Of course. This is Gift of the Magi-style blogging. From now on we'll just be pretending things. Our tenses might get confused--past, present, we're not really sure...so just bear with us, loves.

So now pretend it is Wednesday. We are in Olympia. The sky is white. It is freezing. We have just driven for 3 hours in traffic with almost no visibility and lots of falling rain. And splashing rain. And we went out last night in the rain in the international district which felt like a haunted house. No matter, Sam the barista made us chai lattes for the road (skim and dirty soy) and blessed us by claiming that the VW Rabbit GTI is her favorite car ever (she likes the '84 diesel, but whatevs). This is important because Sam the barista is Sam the W.H.'s hero. She never gets wet. She smiles and it's a rainbow. And she speaks. And she breathes. We want to be Sam. Even if she was beaver damming* Tricia while T was attempting to land an ODS** at the coffee shop. Sam also suggested we stay at truck stops along the way, because "they have really good food and everyone's really nice." We are skeptical.

In Olympia, we have two cute teenage boys to eat veggie burgers and play Scrabble with. It is mostly a farm-themed Scrabble game with lots of fruits and animals--until Si made "peril" and "caned" closely followed. We are sucking on honey sticks, which Tricia has dubbed "dope honeys."

Graeme and Si are the cousins of Sam's ex (broken up only 3 weeks prior) and we are sleeping at their house. Their momma Grace made us rice with masala sauce and we watched the Olympics and Tricia noticed that the American runner Sheena had a hot muffin top of muscles--Check it out! We slept on the floor. (Ed: "I slept on the couch."--Tricia).

So, yeah. Olympia was rainy. And fucking freezing. Like January, we swear. We were not totally loving life in Washington. And Washington was not totally loving us. If you loved us in Washington, we love you. But generally in Seattle we kept getting screwed over. Boo. We also went to every Target in the state which wasn't Sam's dream come true. But today (Thursday), we crossed a magical bridge to a land called Oregon. The sky cleared immediately, and, mid-bridge, a song came on. A singer sang. He said, "I can see clearly now. The rain is gone. All of my bad feelings have disappeared."

Johnny Nash foretold it: We were destined for a great future.

Or at least warmer temperatures and no more rain.

We pulled in to Portland and parked next to a restaurant called "Virgo Pisces." Pisces Virgo Rising? Also, a very good sign. We shall see.


*Beaver Dam (n. or v.) 1. A person who steps in the way and prevents a lady from hookin' up. 2. To get in the way of a friend's hookup, such as to prevent it from happening. See the male equivalent cock block.

**ODS (n.) This is an acronym for One Day Stand. Similar to a one night stand, a one day stand involves an afternoon of casual sex, after which, both parties agree not to stay in contact. This was suggested by Tricia as a time-saving device. This hypothesis is yet to be tested. A word from Sam: When attempting an ODS, it is a good idea to make sure everyone involved knows that your intentions are purely sexual and one-time-only. Westward Hoes do not encourage playin' or hurting people when they do their hoein'!