Category: Uncategorized

Today’s post brought to you by: Danny, Sandy, Rizzo, Frenchie, Kenickie (I always thought he was the best looking) and everyone else from ‘Grease’

Grateful for: Super 8 hotel and everyone I’ve met in Havre so far

Trying hard to accept: people on train telling me Havre is a shit-hole. Clearly they’ve never stayed at the Super 8.

With 12 days till they kick me out of the country I’ve found the perfect husband.

And he’s from Duluth, Ben. As I say, perfect.

So I’m sitting in the dining area of the Super 8 hotel in Havre, Montana.

Eating the FREE and DELICIOUS and FREE minestrone soup and BISCUITS and homemade cupcakes and cookies, watching ‘Grease’ and this voice appears from behind, “Ooohhh I love Grease!”

Then I meet Bill and his boss Chris from Duluth who work on oil pipeline valves which means they travel all over the upper US most of the year.

Criteria #1 – check. Husband has to be away from home most of the time.

Bill’s same age as me (check), divorced (check) with grown kids (demerit – mind you he gets bonus points for calling his daughter Billy Jo), is half Finnish (of course he is, he’s from Minnesota) and lives on 137 acres (all wild animals – no farm wife duties required – plus we could have one of those super stylish country weddings in fall with all the golden leaves and drinks served in old jars and dinner in a restored barn).

And best thing is he loves food (check) and Elvis (his dad was spitting image) and always does ‘Summer Nights’ at karaoke (check – remember that time in Wanganui, Laura?)

He was the nicest guy.

Did you know the native Finns were dark haired and skinned like Inuits and the blond hair/blue eyes came from the nasty invading Russians?

Only hitch is I don’t fancy him. But that’s a minor point in the scheme of things.

Before my fiancé walked in I was having a long chat with Joanne and Steve who had popped over the border from their cattle and wheat farm somewhere round Medicine Hat, Alberta, because Havre is actually their closest town.

They come here all the time to go to movies, stay the night, stock up at Walmart and go home.

After I asked a million and one questions about wheat farming in Canada, Joanne showed me photos of their family Thanksgiving at an RV site in Alberta where she cooked up a turkey lurkey and ham in the RV oven. They all sat outside round a campfire and scoffed. Looked so cool (literally).

They invited me to the movies with them tonight – would’ve gone but I wouldn’t make it past the shorts in Jumanji 2 before I fell asleep, watched TV on my phone or spent the next 2 hours in the loo.

Once again I’ve landed on my feet choosing Super 8. Location-wise it’s not great – as in 2km from the thriving metropolis of Havre (population 9,000; 9 in winter).

But I have 2 feet (if it’s not too cold), there are taxis and Uber. Plus everyone here’s damn friendly I’m sure I could cadge a ride.

Super 8 must’ve had a sixth sense when I booked because they put me in the room next to the dining area where from 5am – 10am tomorrow there is FREE cooked and continental breakfast – and guess what, my fiancé told me they serve biscuits and gravy. Yes!!!

And by the looks of things, make your own waffles, and drown them in maple syrup.

Have set my alarm for 4.58am.

My room has all the necessities: nice bed, lazy boy chair, coffee maker, bath, 100-channel TV, view over the snow and central heating controls.

It might not be 5-star but it is to me. I am so happy.

Not sure what I’ll do tomorrow – well aside from the obvious.

I did want to go to Lutheran church at 9.30 so might splash out on Uber (seeing as won’t have to spend a cent on food thanks to Super 8) and then check out ‘downtown’.

Actually there’s a ‘holiday village mall’ across from the hotel so will visit there too. Judging by website should take 16 minutes.

Havre is as far from the swanky ski resorts (like Whitefish where I went last trip) of Montana as you can get.

To call it pretty is to call me self-controlled around food.

It’s mainly light industrial supplies, bars, more gas stations than supermarkets, and modest housing.

But there’s a Walmart. Mind you, there’s probably a Walmart in every town with population bigger than 26, ie, the minimum number required to staff the place.

The train trip from St Paul was v—e—r—y long and of course Amtrak was v—e—r—y late but I managed to sleep some of it away (MIRACLE) and spent the rest chatting to the Amish family and looking at Big Sky Country rolling past.

Because I’m always considering you, here’s the beginner’s guide to making a bed in Amtrak coach class:

• Grab seats at end of row in front of big rubbish box, which you can cleverly use to hide your backpack so (a) nobody nicks it (b) conductor doesn’t tell you to shift it

• Grab two seats. Minimum. Unless there’s a mass evacuation out of North America you should never have to share a train seat. Ever. Unless you have an ulterior motive. Or are plain stupid.

• Grab seats in same car as the Amish family. Take back all the unkind things you said about them in your last post. They are quiet, sleep all night, will never nick your stuff and make you feel all homely and cosy.

• Put on pink fluffy bed socks that Lovely Ben gave you. Realise 2.5 hours later that the white stuff covering your bed, floor and bags is sock fluff, not snow from a leaking skylight.

• Turn trusty jacket into pillow.

• Read a couple of chapters of the very very funny book you nicked from Starbucks, Winter Park, Florida. Congratulate yourself on your good taste in stolen books.

• Sleep for 1 hour, 17 minutes. Dream you landed in parachute in water with your father watching from the lakeside. Wake up freezing and semi-traumatised. Resist urge to analyse dream.

• Suffer through nerve pain to do a gymnastic feat of getting hoodie out of backpack hidden behind impossible-to-move rubbish box.

• Whack head on luggage rack on way up. Yelp in pain. Wake entire Amish community up. Don’t care.

• Put on hat, zip coat up to chin, use hoodie as pillow, sleep for another 58 minutes until hunger forces you awake.

Then smile with glee as you pull out a couple of slices of bread to make banana sandwich for breakfast and realise that bread spent the night cuddling up to the heater so it’s all warm like you’ve just pulled it out of the oven.

Then wonder why heat doesn’t seem to make it past bread and up to your stiff body.

Then look outside at bright red sun rising over flat white landscape of North Dakota. Which despite being nothing but farms the size of small cities, and grey grey grey, is actually very beautiful.

Train stopped in Minot, North Dakota, whose public library is now my new best friend.

After walking up and down the platform like a prison inmate till I could no longer feel my face, I shuffled into the station and what should I see staring at me but this lot, donated by the library.

It was like Christmas.

That little Amish girl there, Lori, finally sidled over to sit with me and by the end of the trip was following me round like a little lamb.

She was so cute, with beautiful English rose skin.

Her mom told me they were all returning from family wedding in Wisconsin.

What they would’ve lacked in grog I bet they made up with wedding food coloured white, golden yellow or brown.

Sheesh, they sure don’t equate godliness with diet because they scull more coffee and eat more crap than I do. I’m surprised there was any coffee left on that train by the time they left.

Right I’ve gotta go.

Got a wedding to plan!!! Soooooo much to do!!! Where to start????

Actually wonder if Bill’d be on for an Amish wedding. Lori could be my flower girl. Her mom would whip me up a beautifully hand-stitched frock.

And the food. Imagine the food.

Today’s post brought to you by: Doe, a deer, a female deer; ray, a drop of golden sun; me, a name I call myself; far, a long long way to run.

Grateful for: staying upright

Trying hard to accept: despite sucking up to receptionist and getting a late check-out tomorrow, my heavy bags and I have to kill 4 hours (in theory; 7 hours in Amtrak time) tomorrow. Won’t have to look far for a gun.

I’m pretty damn proud of myself.

Now this may not seem like a big deal to you but this morning I walked in the snow, down a big hill, on footpaths hidden under shagpiles of white, alongside a four-lane highway for over an hour to get downtown.

And then back again in the falling snow and setting sun.

Only skated on thin ice once.

My biggest fear, aside from jeans refusing to stretch any further, is going for a skate, ending up flat on my back and starting another email with the words: “Hi, I need to claim on my travel insurance.”

The only open places in town were bars, casinos (lots), pawn shops (lots), supermarket, fast food joints (lots) and movie theatre.

Not that I’m missing much judging by my 8-minute trudge through the snow to look round the fine selection of retail outfits.

What you can buy in Leon’s: power tools (think ‘Fargo’), 6,286 computer games, 8,243 DVDs, the complete range of Native American beaded everything, moccasins, blankets, $350 diamond ring (must tell Bill), saddles, chaps and more guns in one shop than in the whole of NZ. Every size, type, price, age gun you can imagine. Which begs the question: if those are just the ones in a pawn shop, how many exactly are out there in people’s bedrooms, vehicles, socks and toilets?

Guess who didn’t consider that Sunday in winter would be the worst possible time to visit.

Got the fright of my life in this place. Clearly the lack of daylight doesn’t affect sight because the second I snapped this shot a booming voice rang out. What he said: “Can I help you find anything?” What he meant: “Take any more shots, lady, and you’ll know the true meaning of the word.” I left without buying any overpriced tacky fringed clothing. Some of dem boots were pretty damn cool though.

But I struck gold at Gary and Leo’s Fresh Foods IGA supermarket. Pretty damned impressed.

It was cheaper than anywhere else I’ve shopped (keeping in mind this is the Wild West and it takes 4 days to get anything here), had clean bathrooms and a cosy cafe where I quaffed $1 coffee, sneakily ate my lunch and listened to Christmas carols next to a faux open fire and surprisingly tasteful and cute selection of Christmas decorations.

All along the way into town were these tracks going from the highway to the residential areas. Too big for squirrel or wolf. Too small for moose, bison or runaway prisoner. Am thinking coyote. Or rabbit in snow shoes.

On the way home I zipped (figuratively; chance’d be a fine thing on these icy roads) into the strangely named ‘Holiday Village Mall’ across the road from the hotel.

I tell you, it was all happening there on a Sunday afternoon.

The only place (a) still in business and (b) worth going into was Dollar Tree where everything was $1. Everything. Finally got my French’s French Fried Onions.

If you want to see a cross-section of Havre, go to the Dollar Tree.

Trolleys overloaded with Christmas tat and jumbo bags of TGI Friday’s cheese and bacon potato skins.

I could smell the cigarettes (probably $1) on everyone as they squeezed past me.

It was actually pretty depressing. One father was doing a rare feat for a man and multi-tasking.

“No! You’re not getting that. Put it back. I don’t have money for anything this month” while arguing on phone to ex-wife about what time he was bringing the kids back.

Liesl’s singing “I am 16 going on 17” to Rolf as I write this. First time I’ve ever watched ‘Sound of Music’ from beginning to end. Gee, anyone would think I was in Montana on a Sunday night in winter without a car.

Super 8 better have soundproof walls because I’m about to belt out “Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings, these are a few of my favourite things. Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes, snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes …”

Ok, ready for it? No, not my angelic voice.

Thanks to my photographic food memory, here’s the complete list of choices at Super 8’s (FREE) breakfast.

As much as you can scoff of:

• 3 types of caffeinated coffee
• 1 type of decaffeinated coffee
• 1 type of tea
• 2 types of hot chocolate
• Every type of creamer ever invented
• Frosty Flakes
• Raisin Bran
• Fallen asleep yet?
• Maple and brown sugar oatmeal
• Raisin and cinnamon oatmeal
• Granny Smith apples
• Hard boiled eggs
• 2 types of yoghurt
• Biscuits
• Sausage gravy
• Biscuits
• Sausage gravy
• Ok, move on Gail
• English muffins
• Boring bread
• Bagels
• Blueberry muffins
• Why does every yummy crap food start with B?
• Danish pastries
• Apple and cinnamon iced pastries
• Cream cheese, my best mate peanut butter and 4 types of sugar-laden spreads
• And the one thing I said last night I would not go near but was first in line because when am I ever going to get another chance – the waffle maker.

This was so cool. Actually it was scalding hot. You dispense a cup of ‘Today’s flavour’ or ‘Original’ batter into a cup, step two paces to the right, pour it in a rotating iron waffle pan, wile away the 2-minute waiting time by talking to all the blokes coming in for a big feed before heading outside to work, remove piping hot perfectly cooked waffle and slather it in cherry jam, maple syrup and stewed apples. And peanut butter. Because peanut butter is good on anything. (Sorry Jim).

I chucked pepper on the biscuits and gravy to try and make them look like real food.

In a rare moment of self-control (read as: I’m fat, I have zits, my clothes hate me) I sampled most of it, but only a couple of bites. Even I have my limits.

Yeah yeah I know completely wasteful. But, in my feeble defence, it’s a one-off. Well two-off if you count tomorrow morning.

Americans seem to have this fascination with Montana — well judging by my source of all information on American life — HGTV’s ‘Big Sky Country’.

I can see why. It’s like nowhere else. And it feels a million miles away from anywhere else. There’s something special about it.

There’s something special about the people too. Don’t think many Nobel Prize winners come outta these parts.

There’s a real distinctive Montana accent. Kinda like Minnesota on speed.

Everyone looks like they’ve just stepped off a western film set. If you don’t have a beard, wear a baseball cap and drive a truck you got no business in this town.

And that includes the women.

Today’s post brought to you by: Mother Abbess sagely pushing Maria into the arms of that hunk Captain Von Trapp

Grateful for: ability to obey Mother Abscess (convent humour) literally and figuratively

Trying hard to accept: my mind going blank when the Amtrak guy at Portland Union (gawd) station asked where I’d boarded the train. Too many cities in too few days.

I’m in Portland. I think.

It’s a strange place. Charming and uber outdoorsy but strange.

I’d sum it up as shabbily earnest. Where function beats form. The people seem more interested in doing good than looking good.

It’s the only city where I’ve seen passers-by stop and help the homeless.

Its downtown must’ve eloped with Baltimore’s because it ain’t anywhere to be found.

Once again I’m struck by how incredibly different the regions of this vast country are.

Sitting here in the Pacific Northwest I’d never guess I was in the same country as Lafayette or Minneapolis. The architecture, weather, people and cityscapes have zilch in common.

Portland peeps are so laid back they’re almost splattered on the footpath.

Everyone looks like they’re about to (a) climb a mountain (b) brew a batch of craft beer (c) marry their same-sex partner (d) do all 3, simultaneously.

Sums it up

‘Twas a very long 19 hours from Havre to here. I spent my last few hours in Havre yesterday at my favourite joint: Guy and Leo’s IGA supermarket cafe.

Well, second favourite next to Super 8 hotel.

Thoroughly enjoyed every minute there. And I emailed to tell them so. Super comfortable room. Super bath. Super friendly. Super delicious, super free food. Oh yeah, on the second night we got absolutely divine beef stew: big chunks of coyote roadkill and variously coloured veg in a rich and tasty gravy all plonked on a hot biscuit. All free.

Hopefully my nice email to them will get me an upgrade to a Super 9 next time.

This was breakfast day 2. Dragged my screaming sciatic nerve out of bed at 7am, and still in pyjamas, went next door and munched on sausage and egg hash, and tortillas (that’s Mexican sauce, not the result of a fight down the pub last night) while having a yarn with Ray the truck driver from West Virginia. Not surprisingly he hates his job.

I camped out at Guy and Leo’s because there was nothing else to do in Havre. And I mean nothing. Not even on a Workday Monday.

Particularly with a 40lb backpack and a 12lbs overweight body to lug around the slippery dippery footpaths. I fell over 1.75 times.

Spent a couple of happy hours in Guy and Leo’s with my $1 (free refill) coffee and low-calorie homemade lunch. One eye on HGTV show on the iPad and the other on the assortment of passers-by.

When I left they gave me a bill for rent. I forwarded it to my travel insurance co.

To sum up Havre in one word: depressed. Before setting up camp at Guy and Leo’s I hauled all my stuff to the Grateful Bread bakery because Google reviews told me my life wouldn’t be worth living if I didn’t go there.

You’re such a liar, Google.

It was in this dark, dingy, decrepit (like a bra size, DDD) underground mall. Like going back to the 60s. In a bad way. Faux wood panelling everywhere you spun, wrought iron stair rails and green linoleum interspersed with brown carpet squares.

93% (don’t argue) of the retail spaces were empty. The shops that were in business had 50% off and closing-down sales. One retailer was so desperate she came out as I walked by to lure me inside. With my backpack? Probably wanted me to break everything so she could do a dodgy insurance claim.

Grateful Bread was a huge letdown. About as far from its Facebook photos as I am from home.

I fled and walked very slowly and carefully to Guy and Leo’s. Was joined by a part Native American woman who came out of the soup kitchen and started walking and talking with me.

Her stuck-ness and lack of hope reminded of the people I saw in south Chicago. Even those with a bit of cash in Havre have that ‘Well where else am I gonna go?’ look about them.

Amazingly there’s a university there but I’m sure it’s about as far from the top of the league as it is from Princeton itself.

Havre might be a struggling backwater but the trip outta town in the setting sun would have to be one of the most beautiful Amtrak can offer.

We headed west into the big red glowing sun.

Out one window were vast, flat, snow-covered farms as far as the eye could see. 20 metres for those of us who refuse to wear glasses.

Out the other window were vast, flat, snow-covered farms as far as the eye could see. 21 metres if I squinted.

I can’t even imagine what it’d be like living out there. There was nothing for miles. Must take Old McDonald 2 days return trip to buy a pint of milk, a six pack and a lottery ticket.

I guess it’d be pretty much like living on an Australian sheep station but with carpets of slushy white stuff rather than dusty red stuff.

I’m so glad the train was (only) 24 minutes late leaving Havre as I got to meet Ken.

Thankfully someone at Havre station had the foresight to nick a few trolleys from the airport. Notice how I cleverly placed the Empire Builder retro poster in the background.

Ken’s a driver for the Rocky Mountain Treatment Centre in Great Falls (2 hours away) and was at the station to pick up a new client.

If you’re going to detox or dry out, rural Montana is probably as good as it gets. Endless sky to shout at when you’ve run out of people to shout at.

Wish I’d had longer to talk with Ken. He’s a retired school teacher. A few years back he turned down a teaching job in northern Alaska (couldn’t convince wife to move there – sensible woman). Teaching Native Americans in a two-shower village only accessible by air. Needless to say the money was good.

I was telling him about this new TV show I saw advertised. Some reality thing following cops around Alaska – whose crime rate is so high it makes Baltimore look like bible camp.

Gee, let me think why you’d turn to crime in Alaska. No job. No prospect of getting one. No money. No prospect of getting any. No sunlight. No prospect of getting any for 8 months.

I was asking him where the never-ending oil transporter trains at the station would be going to and from.

North Dakota apparently – which unbeknown to me has a big oil industry. And a big drug problem. As in the guys working in those risky oil jobs are high half the time. And not on the oil fumes either.

Was telling Ken how Martin was a fly fishing guide for rich helicopter-in-helicopter-out Americans. Turns out Ken’s son does same on Missouri River.

Son and daughter-in-law went tramping in NZ a few years back. I’m gonna try same trick as she did. Broke her leg just before due to fly home and guess what … business class here me and my crutches come.

I sat in train lounge car next to Simon, a PhD student from university in Great Falls, on his way home to spend Christmas with dad near Seattle and then mom somewhere not near Seattle. 30 hour trip each way. Sure hope they stuff his stockings full.

He gave me a new idea. He tutors at university. Which means … dah dah dah … he gets 5 years free tuition.

If Simon can do a dissertation on Gothic English literature at University of Montana I can do one on 569 Places to Get $1 Coffee Plus Free Refills North of the Mason-Dixon Line at Yale.

Once I get that under my ever-expanding belt, a Green Card will be a mere formality.

14 hours and three neck-wringing short sleeps later, we rolled into Bingen, Oregon. But might as well have been in central Otago, NZ.

Out one panoramic window was water, water and not a drop to drink. Massive logging and milling industries seem to keep the place ticking.

Out the other panoramic window were steep grey rocky hills. And in between in one huge train full of sleeping passengers going though tunnel after tunnel.

‘Twas a world of grey outside. The sky merely turned a lighter shade of black.

All the timber money must’ve floated down the river to Vancouver, Washington. Jeepers creepers you should’ve seen the sizes of the homes along the river. You can have any colour house you want. As long as it’s brown.

The bald eagle-eyed of you will have thought, Vancouver? Isn’t that over the border? Jawohl, it is but clearly the city planners lacked the imagination gene because there’s a third one, Vancouver Island.

Vancouver’s not even a nice name. Not like Gail.

Or else? What?

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.

Today’s post brought to you by: sands through the hourglass

Grateful for: silver linings

Trying hard to accept: I’m about to get very wet. Again.

Dear Eugene

As in City of, not bloke from ‘Days of our Lives’.

• Stop raining.

• You don’t have to recycle EVERYTHING.

Like street names.

Do you have W 27th AVENUE next to W 27th PLACE?

I’m quite capable of misreading Google maps without any help, thanks.

Do you realise I got lost walking 3 streets from Airbnb to supermarket yesterday?

When I eventually found the supermarket, look what I found! Took 58 minutes to wander every aisle (looking for free samples).

• Stop raining. Please.

• But thank you for employing super helpful bus drivers. Enjoy ‘em while they last though because I’ve rung 1-800-DISCOUNT-HUMAN-TRAFFICKING and they’re all coming back to Wellington with me.

Never has a soap opera character been more aptly named than Eugene the Drip, after a city where you half expect to see Noah knocking up an ark in his back yard.

On the subject of rain, early this morning I splashed my way to Full City Coffee Roasters (Google reviews lied again).

Of course the only people on the wet streets at 6.30am on a Saturday were early-bird-worm-grabbers and homeless men.

Being so far from home, in cities where I know nobody, I’ve realised how lonely the homeless must be.

Couple of days ago, wandering the wet, grey, wet, grey streets of Salem at dusk, watching people head home to their Christmas-lit warm, cosy homes, and their families, I felt so lonely.

But unlike the homeless, my little cloud had a silver lining.

In the form of the Salem Public Library, and the little charity shop inside. They take the biscuit. (My name is Gail and I haven’t had a biscuit in 8 days).

1960s low, concrete and stucco building with flat roof that extends out a long way (yes, that is an architectural term … Peter you’ll know what I mean).

After an hour there chatting to the charity shop volunteers, lounging in the mid-century wool-upholstered chair and overdosing on house, design and food magazines, I was once again one very happy camper.

For $3.25 in the charity shop I got 2 Christmas cards (that one’s from the Williamsburg Historic Foundation), 2 recipe collection cookbooks (my favourite kind) and … lo and behold … a ‘Sound of Music’ magnet. I treated the volunteers to a couple of lines from ‘A Few of My Favourite Things’. The smoke alarm went off shortly afterwards.

After reading that lot I found the best magazine ever published: ‘American Bungalow’. What I would give (kidney, right arm, brother) to own a house like this.

Pretty quick and cheap fix for me. But for the homeless it’s not just a few minutes of feeling alone.

The worst thing for them must be the lack of contact with people. Nobody talks to them. Nobody even looks at them. Let alone gives them a hug.

They obviously have no contact with family. Or probably even friends. They just wander the streets day after day after day. Every endlessly long day must be the same.

There are 2 things that’ll sum up this trip. You can guess the first. Starts with f. Contains 89% fat.

But the best thing by far has been the kindness of strangers. In train stations, stores, Airbnbs, churches, on the street, in tour groups, everywhere. Even in hospitals.

Never more so than my last few hours in Salem.

Like a good Girl Scout I bounced with excitement into Amtrak ready for another 2 hours on my favourite Cascades train.

11 minutes, 47 swear words and one quick charge of the cellphone later I headed back to cafe I’d left 4 hours earlier.

Why? Because. The. Train. Broke. Down.

It never left Portland. And special Christmas treat. It’s a bus to Eugene. And even better! It’s gonna be 2 hours late!

Give. Me. That. Tell-Amtrak-Your-Thoughts. Form. Now.

But once again, the lining was silver and was coming my way. Lovely Amtrak man stored my bags for free and happily answered all my time-wasting questions about why every station is a union station.

I burned off one-nineteenth of the calories eaten for breakfast by power walking back to the cafe.

Where I watched HGTV on the iPad and ate free Christmas bread samples from the bakery next door.

And best of all, when I told the server it was my second visit of the day, she remembered me and only charged me cost of coffee refill. 75c.

How to kill time in Amtrak station. Whip out plastic folder (stolen from Ministry of Education job) to use as a chopping board. Grab 6 slices oat and walnut bread ($1.99 bargain of the year from Safeway). Grab plastic knife (stolen from Amtrak). Slice tomatoes, avocados, cucumber and peppers. Grab another knife after first one snaps. Cram sandwiches in Ikea container (stolen from Erik’s apartment in Chicago). Happily munch away bus ride. Take photo, carefully hiding wrinkles above lip. (But then recall Karen from Minneapolis’ words: Wrinkles don’t hurt so keep smiling). Smile to self.

Pulling into Eugene the first thing you see from the bus window is a massive marijuana leaf painted on a building.

Off one bus and onto another. Quick, drug-free ride later I’m sitting chatting to my lovely Airbnb host and eating the 50th birthday cake she so thoughtfully (and superbly-well remembered) bought me.

Then it was off to the supermarket. Fruitless mission to score free samples but I did spy a Super Cuts across the parking lot.

$16 + tip later I looked like a man again. Mavis, you’ll be interested to know my hairdresser Skye is so- named after the isle she grew up on.

In a last-ditched attempt to find a husband to love and cherish till United States Citizen and Immigration Services us do part, I swapped emails with Sharon (Shazza) the other hairdresser.

She’s as desperate to marry her way into NZ residency as I am to the US. If only I could cut hair we could life-swap.

On the subject of marriage, well divorce actually, within 3 minutes of opening up the iPad at the cafe this morning I found out that Pam, the head-to-toe-lycra-clad, 50-something high school sports coach sitting next to me is:

• Separated
• Dating
• Renting out her spare room to a 27 year-old asbestos tester who doesn’t know how to wipe down a countertop
• Buying her daughter snow tyres for Christmas.

You’ve gotta love Americans’ openness.

Except in the form of opening heavens. Which I’m about to go walk under for next 7 hours.

Doris, have you been sticking banners up round Williamette University?