our exodus from beautiful burbank the morning after passover was as rushed as it was forced. after the “attempted vacation” debacle, I’d sworn off both vacations AND any adventures that might accompany them or exist alongside or apart them. as usual, fate would have its way over ours. we ended up finding a way down to san diego where the adventure international traveler’s hostel had a room for the night. we spent a most pleasant holiday evening and night at the adventure easter sunday night, but that night alone was open (protip: always book ahead and always book through the hostel themselves).
the next day when it came time to vacate we made our way through the nearby hostels to chart our next hop. a duffel bag, a backpack, a briefcase and a bit of luggage as worse for the wear as we were after the recent tirade of hops across the coast. beginning from burbank, heading up through california to the beautiful, tiny mountain town of McKinleyville (so much like my beloved McMinnville) to the yellow house in Arcata to Portland (to see the bad boy of blue delft, that controversial ceramicist Charles Krafft and crash the 51st anniversary NCECA ceramics conference, “Portland Flux.” ) BACK to Burbank to San Diego to Nashville and finally BACK to McMinnville, TN where I had begun around half a year before.
It is perhaps notable that Mr. Krafft noted that our meal together at the Eastern Cathay near the Days Inn in the Burnside district of Portland was “the worst he had had” in his 70 years. I’m assuming it was at least in PART due to the food itself, but I wasn’t quite on my A-game for the trip after losing one thing after another.
so the sign for the restaurant outside of lucky d’s (we picked them because they would answer the phone but also because they shared our freaky phone suffix of 0000) said “great food.” sure, great food, and I’m a tourist and you always have to test the sign in a decent town when they say “the best yaddadadda.” Something in the typeface put me off. Heh, great food. (mind, i hadn’t peeked at a window one yet) yeah, i’ve heard that one before. But NO! Bootlegger (unlike so much of So-Cal, and perhaps owing to the fact that, like me, they HAIL from the Southeast originally) is the real deal! Even the house made condiments (I’m looking at you spicy bbq sauce and spicy mustard on the side) were tasty enough to stand as apperitifs alone. If I were ever in some major position of power, I would make sure that they BOTTLED those for me wherever I travelled and I’d be certain to file some legislation making any waste of their delicious, apps or sides would be a capital offense…
an almost sore spot (not near as sore as our poor feet, or the calloused strips of leather that pass for them, not to mention our back and other assorted muscle systems, still tender in more ways than one from that chapter which is not yet far enough behind us at present as well, but that’s beside the matter at this point) but that can wait for now…
sea rose tart cherry ballast vs. the green flash and trusting our first intuitions (to be fair, both were fine once sampled)
blamed for things we couldn’t have done if they COULD have been done (hoping “our copious notes and full record” have been preserved in storage, still stranded on the coast)
shakir, the moroccan elvis claiming (maybe because he saw how obvoiusly terrible my demeanor was from the recent ordeal of mock trial and accompanying sham tribulation) I looked “like a Moorish acrobat” in the Jimi Hendrix style shirt (rips notwithstanding) that the Wasco gave me in Portland.
“When a Wasco gives you a gift, you can’t give it away ever,” he told me.
the people under the synch, everything AND the synch, the kitchen too…
plasticscreen 