Rather interesting story in the WSJ, on the coffee industry’s growing attention to the decaffeinated line. Apparently they’re trying to “perk up the $2 billion decaf business.”
Seattle—maybe all of Washington state—is definitely a caffeinated kind of place. There are hundreds of coffee shops, anywhere there are people. (In another post I mention Forks, WA, population 3195, with four espresso shacks visible from the main drag, driving through at the legal speed limit, or maybe a little over.) I really love the drive-through concept, but I’m sure I’m about the only person in the average business day who wants decaf.
My employer hires an espresso vendor for the opening hour of its new employee orientation sessions. When I went through the orientation, it was going along swiftly, with the barista lining up the various cups and rhythmically grinding and brewing the espressos, the hazelnut-vanilla cappuccinos, the double-shot lattes.
Then I asked for a decaf skinny latte, and everything slowed like the check-writers in those MasterCard (or maybe it’s Visa) commercials. She had to haul out a little (really little) stash of already-ground decaf and it completely broke her rhythm.
My officemate thinks nothing of drinking seven-shot lattes on his way in to work. On Monday he announced he was cutting out caffeine, and drank green tea throughout the day.
By Wednesday he had a Starbuck’s cup on his desk. He tried to pass it off as tea, but finally admitted he’d been desperate to hunt down a coffee shop on the way in to work.
(As an aside, I have to tell you about coffee in the UK. First of all, Brits are in love with instant powdered coffee; even the ones who’ve traveled to the Continent or the US don’t seem to find anything wrong with drinking it, or paying to drink it at restaurants. And decaf is pretty much an anomaly. In grocery stores, if the five-shelf space for coffee is three feet wide, one shelf only will be allocated to anything not instant. There will be a couple of packages of real beans, a few jars of decaffeinated instant and possibly two brands of decaf real coffee—but not beans.)
I love Illy—it’s best of the canned espresso coffees available generally (superior to Melitta or Lavazza), but trying to find their decaf version around this area is like trying to find tiramisu at a Weight Watchers meeting.
Anyhow, it’ll be interesting to see how these new strains of beans do in the marketplace. I’m betting that Seattle will not be a huge revenue generator, but I’ll certainly do my part.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
So, is it April Fool's?
Okay, so here’s the consequence of emasculating the basic tenets of journalism: that story that made the rounds (I saw it in at least three places, including two mainstream broadsheet sites), about how McCain’s aides dissed Palin’s stupidity—turns out to have been a hoax. An obvious, “will-you-idiots-pay-attention-I’m-having-you-on” hoax.
What are the basic tenets, you ask? Why, how about: you don’t run with a story until it’s been confirmed by two independent sources—besides the one you got it from originally? Or: if statements are attributed to known persons (e.g., McCain aides), you pick up the phone & call to verify?
No, in this blow-dried journalist-as-celebrity, gotta-get-something-anything-up-on-the-site age, even MSNBC & New Republic published (apparently with straight faces) the codswallop about Palin not knowing that Africa is a, you know, continent.
I don’t really find it surprising. Ever since every TV report started including the shot of the reporter earnestly asking a question of a story source, I knew we were headed to hell.
The slide to Fox News was entirely predictable.
The Internet, while opening up the field to diverse viewpoints, hasn’t done a lot for improving the quality of reports. Instead of mainstream news inspiring the bloggers to better things, the blogosphere has dragged down the established media.
Well, while I’m sorry to see that the LA Times was one of the suckers, I have to say it’s not a huge surprise—after all the Tribune Co.’s budget cuts ripped the heart out of news rooms around the country, no one should find it astounding that dubious “facts” slipped through the system.
But none of those old guys manning the slot at the paper where I used to work would have let anything as egregious as that “Africa’s a continent?” crap into print.
God rest their blue-penciling souls.
What are the basic tenets, you ask? Why, how about: you don’t run with a story until it’s been confirmed by two independent sources—besides the one you got it from originally? Or: if statements are attributed to known persons (e.g., McCain aides), you pick up the phone & call to verify?
No, in this blow-dried journalist-as-celebrity, gotta-get-something-anything-up-on-the-site age, even MSNBC & New Republic published (apparently with straight faces) the codswallop about Palin not knowing that Africa is a, you know, continent.
I don’t really find it surprising. Ever since every TV report started including the shot of the reporter earnestly asking a question of a story source, I knew we were headed to hell.
The slide to Fox News was entirely predictable.
The Internet, while opening up the field to diverse viewpoints, hasn’t done a lot for improving the quality of reports. Instead of mainstream news inspiring the bloggers to better things, the blogosphere has dragged down the established media.
Well, while I’m sorry to see that the LA Times was one of the suckers, I have to say it’s not a huge surprise—after all the Tribune Co.’s budget cuts ripped the heart out of news rooms around the country, no one should find it astounding that dubious “facts” slipped through the system.
But none of those old guys manning the slot at the paper where I used to work would have let anything as egregious as that “Africa’s a continent?” crap into print.
God rest their blue-penciling souls.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Split Bonds
Well, not that I particularly give a toss, but there may be those among my loyal following who are interested in this WSJ story on the disconnect between the James Bond of the novels & the films.
I feel about this the way I feel about reading Peggy Noonan: I politely ingest it, note that it’s a load of hooey & move on.
But you may be grateful for the diversion.
I feel about this the way I feel about reading Peggy Noonan: I politely ingest it, note that it’s a load of hooey & move on.
But you may be grateful for the diversion.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Remembering Veterans Day
I think it’s entirely fitting that Veterans Day comes so close to elections. It’s good to keep in mind that the one is tied inexorably to the other.
On Tuesday a colleague and I were chatting and the subject arose of the kind of trickery that was being reported about the polling: likely Obama supporters being told that, due to long lines, Democrats were being asked to vote on Wednesday; or that you’d be arrested if you showed up to vote and had outstanding traffic tickets; etc. (There may have been counter tactics used against Republicans; but if so I haven’t heard of them. Whereas my office mate received two separate emails from ’Pub friends advising him to vote on Wednesday.)
Leaving aside what a perversion this sort of thing is of the ideals on which this country was founded (do we see Jefferson sanctioning such chicanery even in his fight with Adams? Would that pragmatist Franklin have advocated skullduggery in the pursuit of utopia?), it utterly profanes the sacrifices made by generations of Americans to safeguard government of the people, by the people and for the people.
I mean, once you start subverting the voting process by misdirection, how far away are you from Zimbabwe or Burma?
On and off the battle field, at home and in foreign fields, men and women have for more than 200 years willingly gone into harm’s way in defense of something that transcends race, religion, politics or gender. That something would be the form of government established by those upstart former colonists in 1787.
As you may know, every uniformed service member takes an oath to support and defend the Constitution of the United States—not a President, not a state, but the figurative Pentateuch of all laws that evolved from it. Tell me, Ozymandias, where else the law is valued so highly as here?
(Or it was before the soon-to-be Ancien Régime took a scythe to the Bill of Rights and made us international outlaws.)
And these hundreds of thousands of Americans—natives, immigrants, urban, rural, north-south, bi-coastal, draftees or volunteers—put their lives on the line to defend those principles of that “more perfect union”.
Veterans Day is when we nominally honor those who chose to walk this path—to be the instruments of policy. In reality, though, we don’t do a whole hell of a lot of honoring, outside of the DC-Arlington National Cemetery area. Lord knows, we certainly don’t pay much attention to them the rest of the year, either.
I contrast this to the annual ceremony in the UK known as Remembrance Sunday. This is the Sunday nearest 11 November, the day the armistice went into effect ending hostilities on the Western Front in 1918. The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. Today is the 90th anniversary of that cease fire.
There are observances around the country on the 11th and two minutes of silence at 1100; church bells are muffled for the memorial peals. And there is a very moving ceremony at the Cenotaph, in Whitehall on the Sunday. The Royals, leaders of government, Commonwealth representatives—all lay wreaths at the empty tomb dedicated to all who gave their lives in the service of Britain.
(The thought occurred to me, as I was having my bag searched and I noticed snipers posted on the roofs and in the windows nearby, that this was probably the ideal time to knock over a liquor store if one were so inclined, as every copper in Southeast England was concentrated in a three-block radius of the Cenotaph. My mind works that way.)
Then there’s a march-by of veterans, starting with those from World War I—remarkably sharp in their movements, being men who still take pride in what they accomplished—and followed by those from successive conflicts. I have to say that after WWII, the quality of the marching deteriorates, but it’s still an extremely impressive parade.
But then the Brits know very well that, whatever the current state of their society, it would be infinitely more miserable were it not for the men and women represented by those marchers. They take it very seriously indeed, as well they should.
So here’s your chance to think about this relationship—last week you exercised the fundamental right of our American society to vote for leaders from President to municipal judges (an exercise that millions in the world can only dream of). Whether your guys won or not, you were equal with everyone else at every precinct across the land in your ability to choose for yourself which crack-brained policies to support.
Just remember that in addition to the Founding Fathers' foresight and confidence in the inherent ability of engaged citizens to contribute to the common good by participating in the democratic process, we also owe our Constitutional liberties and duties to the veterans—living and dead—who defended those rights with vigor and stalwart devotion.
On Tuesday a colleague and I were chatting and the subject arose of the kind of trickery that was being reported about the polling: likely Obama supporters being told that, due to long lines, Democrats were being asked to vote on Wednesday; or that you’d be arrested if you showed up to vote and had outstanding traffic tickets; etc. (There may have been counter tactics used against Republicans; but if so I haven’t heard of them. Whereas my office mate received two separate emails from ’Pub friends advising him to vote on Wednesday.)
Leaving aside what a perversion this sort of thing is of the ideals on which this country was founded (do we see Jefferson sanctioning such chicanery even in his fight with Adams? Would that pragmatist Franklin have advocated skullduggery in the pursuit of utopia?), it utterly profanes the sacrifices made by generations of Americans to safeguard government of the people, by the people and for the people.
I mean, once you start subverting the voting process by misdirection, how far away are you from Zimbabwe or Burma?
On and off the battle field, at home and in foreign fields, men and women have for more than 200 years willingly gone into harm’s way in defense of something that transcends race, religion, politics or gender. That something would be the form of government established by those upstart former colonists in 1787.
As you may know, every uniformed service member takes an oath to support and defend the Constitution of the United States—not a President, not a state, but the figurative Pentateuch of all laws that evolved from it. Tell me, Ozymandias, where else the law is valued so highly as here?
(Or it was before the soon-to-be Ancien Régime took a scythe to the Bill of Rights and made us international outlaws.)
And these hundreds of thousands of Americans—natives, immigrants, urban, rural, north-south, bi-coastal, draftees or volunteers—put their lives on the line to defend those principles of that “more perfect union”.
Veterans Day is when we nominally honor those who chose to walk this path—to be the instruments of policy. In reality, though, we don’t do a whole hell of a lot of honoring, outside of the DC-Arlington National Cemetery area. Lord knows, we certainly don’t pay much attention to them the rest of the year, either.
I contrast this to the annual ceremony in the UK known as Remembrance Sunday. This is the Sunday nearest 11 November, the day the armistice went into effect ending hostilities on the Western Front in 1918. The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. Today is the 90th anniversary of that cease fire.
There are observances around the country on the 11th and two minutes of silence at 1100; church bells are muffled for the memorial peals. And there is a very moving ceremony at the Cenotaph, in Whitehall on the Sunday. The Royals, leaders of government, Commonwealth representatives—all lay wreaths at the empty tomb dedicated to all who gave their lives in the service of Britain.
(The thought occurred to me, as I was having my bag searched and I noticed snipers posted on the roofs and in the windows nearby, that this was probably the ideal time to knock over a liquor store if one were so inclined, as every copper in Southeast England was concentrated in a three-block radius of the Cenotaph. My mind works that way.)
Then there’s a march-by of veterans, starting with those from World War I—remarkably sharp in their movements, being men who still take pride in what they accomplished—and followed by those from successive conflicts. I have to say that after WWII, the quality of the marching deteriorates, but it’s still an extremely impressive parade.
But then the Brits know very well that, whatever the current state of their society, it would be infinitely more miserable were it not for the men and women represented by those marchers. They take it very seriously indeed, as well they should.
So here’s your chance to think about this relationship—last week you exercised the fundamental right of our American society to vote for leaders from President to municipal judges (an exercise that millions in the world can only dream of). Whether your guys won or not, you were equal with everyone else at every precinct across the land in your ability to choose for yourself which crack-brained policies to support.
Just remember that in addition to the Founding Fathers' foresight and confidence in the inherent ability of engaged citizens to contribute to the common good by participating in the democratic process, we also owe our Constitutional liberties and duties to the veterans—living and dead—who defended those rights with vigor and stalwart devotion.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Reality bites (fashion division)
I saw this frisnic in the WSJ & thought for sure it was a hoax on Sarah Palin. You’ll recall that when the press found out about her $150,000+ shopping spree at Neiman and elsewhere for a runningmate-class wardrobe, she vowed she had no say in the matter and really she only spent $35,000 on six outfits (apparently not realizing that that amounts to nearly six large per “outfit”, which is still more than many families of four spend on clothing in a year) and she certainly wouldn’t hold onto these snooty, non-Joe-the-plumber duds once the election was over; she’d sell them on eBay and return to her “favorite” consignment store (can there be more than one?) in Anchorage…
So I thought—well, here we go. That’s one of her aides getting advice on just this tactic. They’ll get the gouge and then make a big public play about her shedding those un-plebian gladrags and gettin’ back to bein’ just folks.
Well, but no—looks like this is a legit question and response to the shifting economic landscape we’re facing. (In the same edition, there was also this story about the new “self-denial” amongst the conspicuous consumption crowd. So it must be a trend.)
Besides, what was I thinking? Palin doesn’t read the Journal. Too many long words and not enough celebrity pix.
So I thought—well, here we go. That’s one of her aides getting advice on just this tactic. They’ll get the gouge and then make a big public play about her shedding those un-plebian gladrags and gettin’ back to bein’ just folks.
Well, but no—looks like this is a legit question and response to the shifting economic landscape we’re facing. (In the same edition, there was also this story about the new “self-denial” amongst the conspicuous consumption crowd. So it must be a trend.)
Besides, what was I thinking? Palin doesn’t read the Journal. Too many long words and not enough celebrity pix.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
OP PS
I forgot to mention: I've not seen a single Starbuck's in the 430 miles I've logged since crossing the Puget Sound.
That alone is worth 50 bonus points.
That alone is worth 50 bonus points.
Remembering...Kristallnacht
Today is the 70th anniversary of Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass. On 9 November 1938, in “response” to the assassination of Ernst vom Rath, a minor functionary in the German embassy in Paris by a teen-aged Polish Jew, Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels orchestrated “spontaneous” acts of outrage on Jewish homes, shops & synagogues throughout Germany.
More than 200 synagogues & thousands of homes & businesses were ransacked & torched throughout the Reich (which by then included Austria & most of Czechoslovakia), starting the night of the 9th & continuing through the next day. Efforts by municipal fire & police services to stop the conflagrations & violence were blocked by Nazi storm troopers. More than 90 Jews were murdered & 30,000 men & boys were arrested & sent to concentration camps.
Hermann Goering, Oberbefehlshaber of the Luftwaffe, Prussian minister of the interior (thus head of the largest police force in Germany) & chief Nazi clothes horse, berated Goebbels for mismanaging the affair—since despite countless millions in goods looted, not a pfennig had made its way into state coffers.
By way of placating Goering, Goebbels decreed that German Jews should pay an indemnity of 1 billion Reichsmarks “for causing the damage” that now littered communities throughout the Reich.
& he collected.
“Kristallnacht” doesn’t really convey the full horror of these events. Although the Nazis had been steadily closing in the walls on Jews according to the blueprint patently evident in Mein Kampf, & had even essayed a public boycott of Jewish businesses (unsuccessful, as it happens, so not repeated) shortly after taking power in 1933, this was the first instance where widespread violence & murder were unleashed on the community.
& this time they were successful. There were no protests either internally or from the fraternity of nations. The Nazis had removed their gloves & revealed their brass knuckles—and no one cared. There were a few lackluster objections from here or there, but no official recognition (much less outrage) that this was a state act of collective violence against a group of people. Likewise no one seemed to connect the dots that there could be other groups on the murder list to be lined up after the Jews were eliminated.
About 29 years ago, I was following the pilgrim’s route from Paris to Santiago de Compostela. I’d checked in to the Auberge de Jeunesse in Bordeaux & was riding my bicycle around the town. At one stop light a young man came up beside me—he must have recognized by the panniers that I wasn’t a local, & we struck up a conversation. He was also outfitted for distance—I think he was working the vendange (I ran into a lot of kids at hostels who were following the harvest around the country), but at this point I can’t really recall.
Anyhow, he was German & told me that he was heading over to the “main” synagogue (the Great Synagogue). Seems he’d never in his life (of probably 20 years) seen a Jewish temple, & thought he should do so. (My first thought was, “Okay, there’s a reason you’ve never seen a synagogue on the hoof—do you know what that is?” But I didn’t bring it up & neither did he.) He’d been by earlier but was told he should return in the afternoon. He invited me along.
Well, my only diary-entry for Bordeaux was going to be the Centre Jean Moulin (museum of the Résistance), so he & I cycled over to the shul. He was such a trusting soul he didn’t even lock his bike.
He rang the bell & we were buzzed in; no one came to greet us, we just went in. I have to say I felt a little on edge—didn’t know whether he was going to pull a Molotov out of his jeans & finish off one of the ones the Nazis missed 35 years earlier. But in the end we just wandered around the sanctuary, unescorted, looking at the space so different from Christian churches.
Actually, at the time this was only the second temple I’d ever been in, so I wasn’t that much further along culturally speaking that my companion.
We could hear voices in other rooms, but no one ever did come out to check on us. After a while, we let ourselves out. He went on to find a place to camp for the night (the hostel’s couple of francs was more than he wanted to spend) & I headed off to the museum. (Which, BTW, had a terrific collection of propaganda posters. Some of them are still quite vivid in my mind.)
I wonder if he’s remembering his first visit to a synagogue on this anniversary, & how he had to travel hundreds of miles out of Germany to find it?
I also wonder if we’ve progressed since 1938—no one did much about the Serbian or Rwandan versions of Kristallnacht, did they?
I even wonder if we’ve progressed since 1979—would the keepers of a synagogue anywhere today buzz in someone to have unaccompanied free rein of the sanctuary?
But it’s a start if we remember & reflect.
More than 200 synagogues & thousands of homes & businesses were ransacked & torched throughout the Reich (which by then included Austria & most of Czechoslovakia), starting the night of the 9th & continuing through the next day. Efforts by municipal fire & police services to stop the conflagrations & violence were blocked by Nazi storm troopers. More than 90 Jews were murdered & 30,000 men & boys were arrested & sent to concentration camps.
Hermann Goering, Oberbefehlshaber of the Luftwaffe, Prussian minister of the interior (thus head of the largest police force in Germany) & chief Nazi clothes horse, berated Goebbels for mismanaging the affair—since despite countless millions in goods looted, not a pfennig had made its way into state coffers.
By way of placating Goering, Goebbels decreed that German Jews should pay an indemnity of 1 billion Reichsmarks “for causing the damage” that now littered communities throughout the Reich.
& he collected.
“Kristallnacht” doesn’t really convey the full horror of these events. Although the Nazis had been steadily closing in the walls on Jews according to the blueprint patently evident in Mein Kampf, & had even essayed a public boycott of Jewish businesses (unsuccessful, as it happens, so not repeated) shortly after taking power in 1933, this was the first instance where widespread violence & murder were unleashed on the community.
& this time they were successful. There were no protests either internally or from the fraternity of nations. The Nazis had removed their gloves & revealed their brass knuckles—and no one cared. There were a few lackluster objections from here or there, but no official recognition (much less outrage) that this was a state act of collective violence against a group of people. Likewise no one seemed to connect the dots that there could be other groups on the murder list to be lined up after the Jews were eliminated.
About 29 years ago, I was following the pilgrim’s route from Paris to Santiago de Compostela. I’d checked in to the Auberge de Jeunesse in Bordeaux & was riding my bicycle around the town. At one stop light a young man came up beside me—he must have recognized by the panniers that I wasn’t a local, & we struck up a conversation. He was also outfitted for distance—I think he was working the vendange (I ran into a lot of kids at hostels who were following the harvest around the country), but at this point I can’t really recall.
Anyhow, he was German & told me that he was heading over to the “main” synagogue (the Great Synagogue). Seems he’d never in his life (of probably 20 years) seen a Jewish temple, & thought he should do so. (My first thought was, “Okay, there’s a reason you’ve never seen a synagogue on the hoof—do you know what that is?” But I didn’t bring it up & neither did he.) He’d been by earlier but was told he should return in the afternoon. He invited me along.
Well, my only diary-entry for Bordeaux was going to be the Centre Jean Moulin (museum of the Résistance), so he & I cycled over to the shul. He was such a trusting soul he didn’t even lock his bike.
He rang the bell & we were buzzed in; no one came to greet us, we just went in. I have to say I felt a little on edge—didn’t know whether he was going to pull a Molotov out of his jeans & finish off one of the ones the Nazis missed 35 years earlier. But in the end we just wandered around the sanctuary, unescorted, looking at the space so different from Christian churches.
Actually, at the time this was only the second temple I’d ever been in, so I wasn’t that much further along culturally speaking that my companion.
We could hear voices in other rooms, but no one ever did come out to check on us. After a while, we let ourselves out. He went on to find a place to camp for the night (the hostel’s couple of francs was more than he wanted to spend) & I headed off to the museum. (Which, BTW, had a terrific collection of propaganda posters. Some of them are still quite vivid in my mind.)
I wonder if he’s remembering his first visit to a synagogue on this anniversary, & how he had to travel hundreds of miles out of Germany to find it?
I also wonder if we’ve progressed since 1938—no one did much about the Serbian or Rwandan versions of Kristallnacht, did they?
I even wonder if we’ve progressed since 1979—would the keepers of a synagogue anywhere today buzz in someone to have unaccompanied free rein of the sanctuary?
But it’s a start if we remember & reflect.
Communing with nature
After all my whining and moaning about how miserable I find the Seattle area (& I definitely do), I decided I might as well give the greater region a try. So I took a couple of days off to trek through the Olympic Peninsula. Thought I might at least do some exploring, something I’m actually good at.
When I told my boss I was going to Commune with Nature, she asked if I were going to camp.
Well, no—my idea of roughing it is a hotel with no bar. (So my current accommodation qualifies. Note to Self: I really shouldn’t stay at a hotel without a bar.)
Anyhow, I braved the dreaded Over Water experience (I am not what is known as a good sailor; my stomach was doing flip-flops on a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier) and, using Port Angeles as my base, have spent three days looking around. I’m probably about a week or two too late for really gorgeous fall colors, but there definitely is some striking scenery regardless.
It’s a good thing I’d set my mind to not objecting to rain because pretty much all the Nature I’ve communed with has been squishingly soakingly wet.
As for the Peninsula: it’s not the Richmond-D.C. corridor, but it does have its charms.
I’m not talking about the utterly twee Victoriana of Port Townsend. But rather the actual, you know, Nature (squish and all).
I drove out to the westernmost point of the peninsula yesterday. Stopped at the Makah reservation and went through their museum and research center. Because the rain forest (part of Olympic National Park) had been recommended to me, I asked the fellow at the gift shop how that would be different from what I’d driven through to get there. He got a funny look on his face, hesitated, and then said, “Well, not much. Except the trees are old and there’s moss.”
In other words, no one’s clear-cut great swaths of the national reserve (yet), as they have chunks along US 101 and Washington 112. (You see these signs warning you of slide areas ahead. Pity they don’t append, “because greedy timber companies have razed huge chunks of forests, leaving the land vulnerable to washing away when it pisses down rain, which it does frequently in these parts”.)
Hoe Rainforest x2
Highway 101
I stopped at the 7 Cedars casino on Highway 101, just to see what an Indian casino was like.
It was way depressing. It’s quite the slick operation, but there are these banks of slots with dumpy, middle/old-aged zombies in front of them, pushing the play button over and over again like automata.
No levers to pull—evidently that would require too much effort. Also no coins to drop—apparently you buy a ticket and stick it into the machine somehow, and the slot cost gets deducted at each button push, as with a pre-paid phone card. (I bet someone’s done a study that says the easier you make it for people to keep the machines going, the less likely they are to tire and walk away.)
I imagine that in the unlikely event you win anything, that gets added to your ticket and you cash out at the cashiers’ area.
They even had slots embedded in the two bars.
I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
I went to the tribal deli-smoke shop-gas station a few hundred yards down the road, because the sign said “wine and spirits”. I thought that might mean they had some ability to sell liquor without being a fascist state-owned concession. And I was right—don’t know the details, but they did have liquor scattered higgledy-piggledy amongst junk food and gourmet cheeses.
Just on general principles I bought a bottle of Crater Lake vodka and Bacardi Select. I don’t know whether they were cheaper than at the state-run stores, but I just had to do it.
The tribe also ran an art gallery; but everything I looked at was made by someone not in the Jamestown S’Klallam tribe. Dunno whether that means there aren’t any artists in the tribe, but it didn’t seem exactly kosher to me.
I’ve had a couple of good meals on this trip, and discovered Pinot Gris. I’ll head back tomorrow via Bainbridge Island and another ferry. Please God, let the crossing be smooth.
So—have I changed my mind about the Seattle area? Not really; not yet. But there is some serious beauty around here. I’m going to explore further.
When I told my boss I was going to Commune with Nature, she asked if I were going to camp.
Well, no—my idea of roughing it is a hotel with no bar. (So my current accommodation qualifies. Note to Self: I really shouldn’t stay at a hotel without a bar.)
Anyhow, I braved the dreaded Over Water experience (I am not what is known as a good sailor; my stomach was doing flip-flops on a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier) and, using Port Angeles as my base, have spent three days looking around. I’m probably about a week or two too late for really gorgeous fall colors, but there definitely is some striking scenery regardless.
It’s a good thing I’d set my mind to not objecting to rain because pretty much all the Nature I’ve communed with has been squishingly soakingly wet.
As for the Peninsula: it’s not the Richmond-D.C. corridor, but it does have its charms.
I’m not talking about the utterly twee Victoriana of Port Townsend. But rather the actual, you know, Nature (squish and all).
I drove out to the westernmost point of the peninsula yesterday. Stopped at the Makah reservation and went through their museum and research center. Because the rain forest (part of Olympic National Park) had been recommended to me, I asked the fellow at the gift shop how that would be different from what I’d driven through to get there. He got a funny look on his face, hesitated, and then said, “Well, not much. Except the trees are old and there’s moss.”
In other words, no one’s clear-cut great swaths of the national reserve (yet), as they have chunks along US 101 and Washington 112. (You see these signs warning you of slide areas ahead. Pity they don’t append, “because greedy timber companies have razed huge chunks of forests, leaving the land vulnerable to washing away when it pisses down rain, which it does frequently in these parts”.)
On the road to Neah Bay, I saw a sign that kind of gave me pause:
I stopped on the way to the Hoe Rain Forest at a place called Forks, which rather grandiosely styles itself a city. My office mate had told me that Forks has a single stop light. Well, it has two now, and I managed to catch one of them red going in both directions through the town. (Population 3100 doesn’t qualify as a city in my book.)
It does have four espresso shacks (two of which are drive-thru), two Chinese restaurants and a Mexican joint. Plus the worst-ever “coffee shop”, operated by people who’d clearly voted for McCain. How bad, you ask? They served Diet Pepsi. In a can.
The rain forest was indeed impressive—I guess those trees qualify as old growth. They’re immensely tall, and definitely covered with moss. and ferns. And a lot of wetness. Actually, after a while it started to creep me out: 1300 and it felt like permanent twilight.
It does have four espresso shacks (two of which are drive-thru), two Chinese restaurants and a Mexican joint. Plus the worst-ever “coffee shop”, operated by people who’d clearly voted for McCain. How bad, you ask? They served Diet Pepsi. In a can.
The rain forest was indeed impressive—I guess those trees qualify as old growth. They’re immensely tall, and definitely covered with moss. and ferns. And a lot of wetness. Actually, after a while it started to creep me out: 1300 and it felt like permanent twilight.
Naturally it’s pretty much been chucking it down all throughout my trip. Although the sun did actually peek out at times today.
Highway 101
I stopped at the 7 Cedars casino on Highway 101, just to see what an Indian casino was like.
It was way depressing. It’s quite the slick operation, but there are these banks of slots with dumpy, middle/old-aged zombies in front of them, pushing the play button over and over again like automata.
No levers to pull—evidently that would require too much effort. Also no coins to drop—apparently you buy a ticket and stick it into the machine somehow, and the slot cost gets deducted at each button push, as with a pre-paid phone card. (I bet someone’s done a study that says the easier you make it for people to keep the machines going, the less likely they are to tire and walk away.)
I imagine that in the unlikely event you win anything, that gets added to your ticket and you cash out at the cashiers’ area.
They even had slots embedded in the two bars.
I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
I went to the tribal deli-smoke shop-gas station a few hundred yards down the road, because the sign said “wine and spirits”. I thought that might mean they had some ability to sell liquor without being a fascist state-owned concession. And I was right—don’t know the details, but they did have liquor scattered higgledy-piggledy amongst junk food and gourmet cheeses.
Just on general principles I bought a bottle of Crater Lake vodka and Bacardi Select. I don’t know whether they were cheaper than at the state-run stores, but I just had to do it.
The tribe also ran an art gallery; but everything I looked at was made by someone not in the Jamestown S’Klallam tribe. Dunno whether that means there aren’t any artists in the tribe, but it didn’t seem exactly kosher to me.
I’ve had a couple of good meals on this trip, and discovered Pinot Gris. I’ll head back tomorrow via Bainbridge Island and another ferry. Please God, let the crossing be smooth.
So—have I changed my mind about the Seattle area? Not really; not yet. But there is some serious beauty around here. I’m going to explore further.
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