Ground control to Major Tom

Today’s post brought to you by: that wise man (not least for marrying Eleanor) Franklin D Roosevelt

Grateful for: whoever thought up Airbnb

Trying hard to accept: I found Levin, and the rest of NZ, in Salem.

Tom-knickers-Jones? Is that you?

I’m sitting here in smashed avocado on rye toast Salem cafe with all the early morning government employees trying to think of a word that sums up Salem.

Green.

And.

Wood.

And.

Feels like home.

Yes, those are 5 words not 1. Your point is?

6-for-the-price-of-5.

Wet.

“The old home town looks the same, as I step down from the train (more on that soon), and there to meet me is my Airbnb host (more on that soon too) … it’s good to touch the green, green grass of home (more on that now).

Salem is … hang on … before I go any further … I am not in Salem witch trial Massachusetts (arrrggghh, horrible flashbacks of ‘The Crucible’ forced down throat).

I am in Salem, Oregon. The only double, double, toil and trouble here is the spell of wholesomeness that pervades.

(Ironically, in the case of Massachusetts, ‘Salem’ is from the Hebrew word for peace. Bet ya didn’t know that. Bet I didn’t either.)

Salem is so like NZ it’s not funny. And I mean, it’s not funny. Because the last place I want to be reminded of is home.

It’s like an older, colder version of a mid-size NZ city.

Even the Department of Transportation is worthy of a picture. Can’t imagine ever being the slightest bit tempted to take a photo of the Ministry of Transport in Wellington.

It’s tiny by US standards. 170,001 (me!) and so small I walked two neighbourhoods and all the government buildings in 34 minutes.

Willamette University campus. I can just imagine sitting on that bench under that tree reading some literary tome (aka ‘Daily Mail’ app on my phone).

Salem is the only place I’ve been on this long trip where I don’t feel like Major Tom being tripped up by endless little differences between me and everyone else.

It’s also, by far, the safest place I’ve been. No scary streets, dodgy neighbourhoods or murderous train stops here.

Unfortunately I only got to lounge for an hour in Amtrak’s nod to the 1960s – the Cascade train that delivered me here from Portland.

Talk about the glory days of travel. Super stylishly retro – beige beige and more beige, bronze reading lamps and etched glass dividers.

Half expected to see Darren from ‘Bewitched’ as he commuted to his ad agency job. Assuming he didn’t borrow Samantha’s broomstick. (Can you guess which theme is emerging from this post? Answer’s in the question.)

They even served clam chowder in the cafe. And had a whole new range of condiments for me to nick.

Before I knew it I was being picked up at Salem station by my lovely Airbnb host Christy and served a gourmet 3-course dinner in their super cute 1925 Craftsman home by her husband Arnaud.

Even Samantha couldn’t conjure up a welcome like that.

Typical house in Christy, Arnaud and Otter’s neighbourhood. Like something out of a story book.

Another typical house in the neighbourhood. Like something out of Woodstock.

It got even better the next day. Otter the pooch, Christy and I piled into her car and a mere 38 minutes later were among the conifered splendour of Silver Falls State Park.

You see, that’s the beauty of Airbnb. How else would you get to meet wonderful local people who go out of their way to show you things you’d never otherwise get to see?

You’d have loved it, Yogi Bear Dad. Until you pulled your neck muscles looking up at the very very (ie, I don’t know how high) tall conifers (ie, I don’t know what sort)

One of 10 waterfalls in the park. In the 1920s local rednecks used to push cars over it. Better than each other, I suppose.

Right, history lesson. Sit up straight, stop whinging and be thankful I’m not forcing you to read ‘The Crucible’.

Concerned that young men clearly had too much time on their hands, and Henry Ford was about to sue him, President Roosevelt set up the Civilian Conservation Corps to “give work to unemployed young men (Depression era – I added that key bit of info just for you) and to improve America’s deteriorating natural landscapes.”

So all across the US are park facilities built in the 1930s. Ever wondered why they all look the same? I’m sure you have.

Best thing about it – aside from giving young men something to do and new skills – before they got shipped off to fight those nasty Japanese and Germans – was that the ‘park-itect’ of the era designed the most beautiful, apt, stylish buildings.

Like this lodge at Silver Falls. Now I’m not normally a fan of interiors with more than 12% wood but this was the exception to the (wooden slide) rule.

Forget the Amish barn wedding, Montana-Duluth Bill and I are having a winter shindig here.

What my crappy photo doesn’t show you is the massive oak arm chairs around the roaring fire. It was pure magical winter wonderland.

Only downside was “Oh wow! She’s from Nooo Zeeeeland!!!!” spreading like wildfire among the park rangers.

Talk about being put on the flora and fauna spot. A pop-up quiz of my knowledge of NZ trees, native bush, birds and other wildlife ensued.

Clearly they couldn’t see the words emitting from my brain: ‘I’ ‘hate’ ‘hiking’ ‘and’ ‘couldn’t’ ‘tell’ ‘one’ ‘NZ’ ‘native’ ‘tree’ ‘or’ ‘bird’ ‘from’ ‘the’ ‘next’.

On the way home, where should we find ourselves but at the Williamette (not pronounced how you’d think) Valley Pie Company.

And blow me down with a barrel of corn syrup but what did I see in my trawl around the gift store but RJ’s liquorice.

All the way from Levin, NZ!!! Here in rural Oregon. I almost went into hyperglycaemic shock.

Back in Salem I noticed St John’s Evangelical Lutheran Church was having a Christmas advent service at 7pm.

Oh goody, I thought, I can go light a candle and belt out a few carols.

Ha, ha, ha. Well I shouldn’t be laughing. Because they weren’t. Should’ve listened to everyone who warned me them Lutherans are a serious bunch.

And a wood-chopping bunch judging by the plaid shirted, bearded, guitar-strumming pastor.

Who unfortunately spied me trying to leave as soon as I arrived and bellowed out “VELCOME!!”

Up to the altar I loped, to join 11 other worshippers, 16 candles (sing along) and 1 piano-playing wife of Pastor Lumberjack.

It was a Taize service from the so-called village in Burgundy (something else to blame the bloody French for) which basically involves a few words of scripture, the lighting of candles (best bit – I lit one for my family and friends, particularly those who’ve passed on) and the droning of a little verse 8 times.

Yes, you sing the same words 8 times. All I could think about by the 6th round was how hungry I was and whether I could sneakily grab my phone to see what time Adam’s BBQ closed.

Mercifully it was over in 30 minutes. As I tried to make my great escape, Pastor Lumberjack picked up on my accent and I was stuck, like a wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time bear pinned under a chainsawed tree, for the next 8 minutes while he seized my hand so tightly I thought he was going to crush it and pumped my arm up and down 377 times while we smiled at each other like world leaders in front of the cameras.

Don’t fret, I was charm itself doing the meet ‘n greet and my bit for international relations.

In my haste to escape and go eat I rushed out the wrong door and ended up in the dark, spooky basement.

Made it to Adam’s BBQ with 7 minutes to spare. Never mind Eve’s bloke, this Adam was my hero. Hot smoked salmon on Asian salad with teriyaki sauce.

Exhibit A: your typical Oregonian.

Exhibit B: Pastor Lumberjack’s brother, brother-in-law and some other guy who just plonked himself at the table to get in the shot. Luckily he didn’t charge me modelling fees.

The Bridges of Marion County. No Clint Eastwood getting up to no good with Meryl Streep in these parts. Rather, Otter being a very good model. Luckily he’s never heard of modelling fees.