Back where we started from . . .

Back in Portland in the same hotel, although we all forgot what it was like.  William feels like we've only been gone a short time, but the rest of us feel like we've never been home.  Like we're like Odysseus and everyone at home will have forgotten us.   (Although Odysseus wasn't able to blog about Circe or the Cyclops or anything!)

Last night we had no wifi.  There has been something wrong with every hotel we've stayed in.  I guess the worst was the Disneyland hotel which had a litany of problems.  When we got into the room, it seemed nice and we unloaded everything and started to relax when we noticed that there was water on the floor in the bathroom.  They sent a plumber and offered to let us change rooms, but we'd already ensconced ourselves and didn't want to move.  It was close to the pool and far away from the street.  Anyway, they fixed the leak but we still had it in our heads.  The last hotel in Los Angeles was quite swanky looking with a big glossy lobby and all sorts of people running around after us and warm cookies at the desk to greet us, but Mike was very dismissive of the furniture in the room and the window at the end of the hall was broken.  I'm reading all these Harry Bosch mystery novels and it really reminded me of the Los Angeles he describes.  All made up on the outside but dark and sleazy on the inside.  The pool looked like this mysterious blue place where some seedy Hollywood producer would meet his mistress and they'd swim at midnight and drink champagne until he strangles her because she's threatening to tell his wife about their affair, or some other cheap Hollywood scenario like that.  That was the only pool we didn't use, and the one I wanted most to use.  Also the book I'm reading now, Trunk Music, mentions the street our hotel was on and says it is the site of the "Star Strip" where hopeful actors sell their favours to keep body and soul together.  At least, that's the impression I got.

This morning we had a HUGE breakfast in Yreka (which, I discovered is pronounced WHY REEK AH) at a place called Poor George's which displayed local artists' work on the walls and had a very rustic atmosphere.  Mike and Anthony had chicken fried steak, which is breaded steak, and it came with hash browns, plate-sized pancakes, and eggs, all covered in a thick gravy.  Even Mike couldn't eat all of it.  Our waitress, who reminded me of a woman I worked with at Schenker named Joni Skibbe, said, "none of you are leaving hungry, are you?"

After we left the restaurant, we took a little walking tour of the town and saw all sorts of Victorian homes, their historic main street, and where one of the lynchings I mentioned in the previous post took place.

The people who committed the lynching were never charged -- the city fathers said it was done by "people unknown".  I guess either the whole town is guilty or no one is.  It's like now when you say that the bystanders who don't stand up to the bullies are as guilty as the bullies themselves.  I don't know if I agree.  It can be hard to intervene when you think you might be the next victim.

Mike wants a steak for dinner tonight, so we've looked in my guide books for possibilities and will go after the traffic dies down a bit (maybe at 7 or 8?).  And we'll be home tomorrow!  We'll pick up Daisy on the way and she'll have a vomit fest in the car (her blanket is with her at the kennel, so we'll try to cover Anthony's lap with it at least, since that's where she likes to vomit the most!