THE PRACTICE

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?

Today’s post brought to you by: passive highs

Grateful for: my ability to buy lunch for a homeless man outside Safeway … the look on his face

Trying hard to accept: Wholefoods hasn’t banned me yet

Wholefoods might be the biggest rip-off but if you know how to work it, it’s the best thing since $8.99 sliced bread.

Last wifi chance before very long and very dark trip back to San Francisco tonight.

Lemme see if I can show you my Wholefoods office. Here you go.

Much thought went into maximising the power of the filter and angle to minimise the chubbiness of my fat-fuelled cheeks.

They have: desks, wifi, power points, nice toilets, $2 free refill coffee, and best of all a very fine collection of good-looking, wealthy (married) men to smile at. Stop press!!!! What am I talking about? Best things are the free samples. See those 6 white cups. That was my 43-second zip round the deli to get free turkey and cranberry sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies.

Eugene’s been interesting.

Good bits:

• How they care for less fortunate
• Friendliness of every single person I’ve met
• Cheap cost of living
• Wholefoods
• St Mary’s rector and baking
• Public library

Bad bits:

• You’d think that in a place where there’s more rain than joints they would clear the gutters. In a 100m walk you have to jump 6 puddles, tip toe through 4 piles of rotting leaves and negotiate your way across a road with blocked gutters on all four corners.
• Dope – only the stupid would pay $5 for a joint – just walk round the Christmas markets twice and you’re flying higher than my current weight.
• Hippies. All this dreadlocked, crystalled, tie-dyed, purple-haired thing is not really my cup of kombucha. Although, they do make all the good bits possible.

Imagine what it’s like inside

I think I might’ve mentioned in passing that it rains here. Which gave me an insight into homeliness.

So yesterday me and my home-packed lunch (ie, not near Wholefoods) sloshed our way into the city to have a gander round.

Well not much to see except vegan cafes (soy has no business messing with biscuit, gravy and sausage), tattoo shops, dope sellers galore and shops selling witchy and Dungeons and Dragons stuff.

They must get sick of tattooing ‘I hate the IRS’

In search for somewhere to make my sandwiches I Google-mapped myself off to public library.

What an eye-opener. There’s a cafe ($1 coffee – must be subsidised by city) in foyer where every table was occupied by homeless sheltering out of rain drinking cheap coffee and eating donated food.

And do you know what? For half an hour there I felt a bit like one of them. Cold, wet, nowhere else to go.

But like I said before, I am nothing like them. I have the one thing they must yearn for the most – contact with people.

Think I might have also mentioned before how much like Wellington Oregon is. Rammed home when perusing the shelves of the charity bookstore at the library (2 brand new paperbacks for $2. Brand new! 2! $2!)

A voice appeared from yonder: “Hi, you’re the woman on the bus yesterday!”

Blow me down with a crystal wind chime but there was Barbara, one of the super nice passengers who helped me find my Airbnb.

She was super interested in my trip so of course I was super interested in telling her all about it.

Then it was another very wet, puddle-dodging hike to the much-anticipated Christmas markets.

Silly me. This is Eugene, Oregon. Not Andersonville, Chicago.

My visions of Nordic felt Christmas decorations, free samples of stollen and mulled wine and beautifully scented wreaths were sorely smashed.

Instead I got: rainbows, tarot readers, crystals, everything you could possible spin out of wool and carve out of wood, more bloody vegan food, tied-died everything and barefooted kids called Arrow getting in my way.

There were more beards there than Snow White and the 777 dwarfs.

I dunno if this lot were high (except that 8 year-old?) but it was like watching mini Woodstock.

Continuing my churches of the US mission, I checked out St Mary’s Episcopalian this morning. Well they might be the Anglican’s cousins but I think there might be a few ‘twice removeds’ in there.

Nothing like any Anglican service I’ve ever been to (yes I have been to more than the odd Christmas service).

I almost felt the Pope’s presence with all the kneeling, crossing chests, and up and down and up and down …

No way I was going to receive communion (gluten-free option available), having to kneel. Couldn’t even stand and sit without the aid of the surrounding pews.

Don’t think the visitor from Indiana next to me was very impressed when I didn’t sing the very solemn hymns. I said a special prayer for her though, being from Indiana.

Funny thing was, there was this family of 7 wholesome looking kids in Wholefoods this morning (yes I have been here twice in one day).

In between watching HGTV I was watching them. Bet they’re on their way to church, I cleverly thought. Seven kids? Sure bet.

Because who should be sitting 3 rows behind me at St Mary’s.

Almost asked the rector if he was married. Talk about a good-looking, super charming man. I struck up conversation with him at the coffee hour afterwards (spicy German apple cake – yum, yum, yum) by asking why Anglicans are called Episcopalians here.

Then felt really dumb (but not enough to stop flirting with him) when he pointed out the obvious.

Also chatted to Margaret and Lilian – bless her. When I told Lilian I was from NZ she said “Oh! My neighbour is from Australia! Do you know her? Rachel Hyde. H-y-d-e.”

I smiled and said “Of course. We went to school together” and scarpered out the door before she could ask for my email.

Today’s post brought to you by: a bugle

Grateful for: everyone who’s cared for me and cared about me

Trying hard to accept: why so much food is chucked out when so many are hungry

Day is done
Gone the sun
From the lake
From the hills
From the sky
All is well
Safely rest
God is nigh

Well not quite. Still 27 hours to go but can’t imagine there’ll be free wifi anywhere within 49 flightpaths of LAX.

Which, worst case scenario, I will know every inch of after 10 veeeeerrrrryyyy loooonnnngggggg hours in transit tomorrow.

Never get me to book your flights.

Speaking of god, for someone who isn’t a believer, I’ve spent a lot of time in churches this trip.

Mainly because church is the one place you can go and immediately feel welcome and accepted.

And, besides the shower, is also the one place you can belt out a tune at the top of your lungs and nobody will ever tell you to shut up because your voice is worse than fingernails down a chalkboard.

To end the trip I’ve just been to daily mass at St Patrick’s on Mission St, with an aptly Spanish priest.

Imagine the heating bill

Any of you Catholics? Skip this bit.

The whole daily mass thing is odd. Everybody knew every word off by heart. Except me. Only bit I knew was the Lord’s Prayer.

So does that mean it’s the same service every day? Wouldn’t that lessen its impact?

Maybe because it was a huge church, and everybody sat far apart and it was the daily mass, but there was no warmth at all. I left during communion.

I learned something though. There are 2 versions of the annunciation. Matthew’s and Luke’s.

Oh, and there’s an Elizabeth in the Bible, never knew that. Must be a low-profile kinda gal.

San Francisco is a very sad city. I’ve been here 9 hours and the only times I’ve felt gleeful were:

• Getting here – 15 hours on a packed, late train with babies at each end of the car who screamed all night. Screamed. All night. After twisting my body into 19 different combinations I finally settled on lying on back lengthways along dining car banquette seat with knees bent and feet flat on floor. Like a human ironing board.
• Bus driver on Amtrak transit bus from Emeryville station to downtown San Francisco. He said the nicest things to me that I hiked off to the hostel with a big soppy grin on my face.
• Christmas tree in Union Square.
• Long, long hot shower and clean, clean clothes.
• Real bed with mattress and sheets and pillows in hostel where the only babes are the Argentinian guys I flirted with in the kitchen.

Complete with flying saucer

Not to be outdone, Nordstrom dangled a few lights from the ceiling.

The rest of the time here I’ve been saddened by seeing homeless everywhere. And I mean everywhere.

As soon as you step away from the glitz and gold of Union Square, Bloomingdales, Saks, Nordstrom etc all you see are homeless people. Everywhere.

One block off the main drag, Market St, I saw the saddest thing yet. A long queue of homeless men on crutches etc waiting to get into soup kitchen; a medical van presumably to treat drug addicts; a homeless child with his little tricycle and a swathe of tacky wares for sale on sheets on the footpath.

San Francisco has one of the largest, if not the largest, homeless populations in the US. I probably saw more than most because I strayed from the tourist haunts.

Which brings me to one of the lasting impressions of my trip. Sure we all know the US is the land of extreme wealth and extreme poverty.

But I can’t understand why food servings are so gigantic. Fridges become clogged with leftovers boxes – the contents of which will end up in the bin – yet there are so many people going hungry.

The food wastage is gob-smacking. It’s not just the serving sizes. It’s the price of food. It’s so damn cheap that you think nothing of chucking half it out.

The inequity is just so sad.

The other thing I will remember from this trip is the people.

I’ve been so incredibly lucky to have met, spent time with, stayed with, talked with, been helped by and welcomed by so many kind people.

All the people who’ve driven me places, fed me, shown me places, given me gifts, had me to stay, killed time with me, invited me to stay, shared their stories with me, kept in contact with me from home, made me laugh and asked about my trip have been so wonderfully generous.

Even those who thought NZ was in Australia, thought NZ was in Holland or asked me if I spoke English have added something. Not sure what, but something.

NZ hits San Francisco. Wonder if they pay the rip-off prices we do. Oh, that reminds me, also saw a Mojo cafe in Chicago but didn’t take a pic because (a) hate Mojo – yes, hate is a strong word (b) was rushing to train station – for train that was 2 hours late. Sigh.

Hiked all the way up here to some massive cathedral above San Francisco and what should be starting in 10 minutes but Christmas carols! Yipppeee. Fine print: ticket-holders only. Like the grand old Duke of York (ewwww, creepy Prince Andrew) I marched down again.

Spot the difference in Wholefoods, Eugene.

Food and people aside, the one thing that sums up this whole trip has been how incredibly lucky I’ve been.

Serendipity has ridden alongside me every step of the way. I’ve landed on my feet more times than I’ve over-eaten.

Every sad, lonely, frustrating moment has been just that. A moment.

I’ve come out the other side smiling every time.

So, this is one very lucky and very grateful writer saying good-bye. And thank you for reading, following and commenting on my posts.

Writing the posts, and knowing you’ve been along for the ride has made this my best trip ever.

“And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me, shine until tomorrow, let it be.”