ROAD TRIP! Setting up House in Eugene

Image: A.N. Smith-Lee

It being Saturday, the first thing we wanted to do was 1. Eat breakfast 2. Go to the Eugene Saturday Market/farmer’s market downtown. The Saturday market was filled with craft items such as tie-dyed T-shirts (a big fashion item here, judging from the number of people wearing them on the street), earrings, paintings, essential oils and several booths with glass pipes – pretty, but I wonder how hot they would get once lit. We cruised the produce side which was full of gorgeous stuff, from Thomcord grapes to 10 different varieties of peppers. No doubt, this is a fruitful growing region!

After wandering around scouting for a breakfast place, we came upon an extremely popular waffle place (waffles are as ubiquitous as tie-dye here, and infinitely more digestible – or so I thought). The name was Off the Waffle (there’s some kind of pun here, but I’m not getting it. You’re off your waffle if you eat there?). Our waffles were undercooked – raw in the middle – but I wasn’t sure if this was some hip Eugene style and I was too uncool to appreciate it or....I asked our seatmates, and found out, no, not supposed to be raw. The waffles were topped with an undercooked egg (in fairness, they did ask me if I wanted it hard-cooked). Within the hour, I had all the symptoms of mild food poisoning. I’m sure this isn’t the norm for the place, as it really was packed (and they offered me a $30 coupon when I told them about it – no, thank you very much).

We returned to the hotel (and the wonderful hotel bathroom…sorry, TMI), and attempted a late lunch at Sweetwaters on the River after things had calmed down a little. Great salads, though they were short-staffed that day and we spent way too much time looking at the (admittedly pleasant) view.

A novel fence in the Whit    image:A.N. Smith-Lee

We cruised the latest up-and-coming (and somewhat funky), neighborhood, the Whiteaker, known as "the Whit" by locals, notable  for it's artists and murals.

Next, a trip to Springfield, home of the Simpsons! No, not really – just a fair-sized town east of Eugene. We decided to take Rte. 58 along the Willamette River out to Lowell to see what a covered bridge looked like out here in the west (saw plenty of them in Pennsylvania – another fixation, like lighthouses). Unlike the covered bridges I saw back east, this one didn’t seem to have the same function; though useful for keeping snow off the road, the ones in Pennsylvania usually were privately built and came with a toll. Whether that was the case here, I couldn’t find out.

The Dexter Reservoir outside of the town of Lowell captured the light beautifully, but as we drove east along the river into the cascades we were missing something: a river. It was shallow or dried up the farther we got into the mountains. This was shocking, especially since I imagined Oregon to be considerably wetter than central California. The concierge at the hotel said they had experienced “a California summer” – meaning no rain since May. Apparently, those who poo-poo global warming don’t travel north much.

Somewhat discouraged, we decided we needed beer – dinner at McMenamin’s North Bank was everything we had hoped, and after a beer flight and burgers, we were downright cheerful.

It was our last night in Eugene, in our lovely room at the Valley River Inn. The Inn was the largest Hotel and convention center outside Portland when built in the early 70s, and played host to Elvis Presley, the Bolshoi Ballet, Bill Clinton and other celebs. It’s still the town’s big ticket, and the location is great.

Livin' the Lush Life at the Claremont

Few properties in the San Francisco Bay Area rival the Claremont Hotel for fascinating history.

Even the light fixtures are gorgeous

The "castle" sits high atop the Berkeley hills and is one of two landmarks that any local resident can identify from miles away--the other being the Mormon Temple in Oakland. In fact, the original "English castle" was built to please the wife of a Kansas farmer who struck it rich during the gold rush and purchased 13,000 acres on the site. Something must have rubbed off, as his daughter married into British Royalty in true Masterpiece style. The property changed hands, but was burnt to ruin in 1901. A pair of equally lucky miners won what was left in a checkers game, and proceeded to build the Claremont we identify today in 1905. Their dreams were shaken and stirred by the 'quake of 1906 and subsequent financial panic. The building was completed and opened it's doors to guests in 1915, just in time for San Francisco's Pan Pacific Exhibition.

Art in the lobby

Prohibition came and went, but repeal did little to lift the Claremont's spirits (literally). The nearby University of California forbade the sale of liquor within one mile of it's borders; an enterprising student won drinks for life by carefully measuring the distance from the school's border to the door of the hotel. With a few feet to spare, the Terrace Bar was born.

This can be yours for five grand

In 1937, a night clerk that had worked at the hotel since 1926 purchased the property and brought in big bands such as Count Basie and Tommy Dorsey for dancing and dining. The Claremont became a destination for dignitaries and prom dates. The hotel changed hands a few more times until it came under the auspices of Fairmont Hotels, who put up $40 million for a total restoration and an all-white make-over. Now known as the Claremont Club and Spa, visitors can come for a complete package.

Fairmont's renovation and modernization of the property might have made the interior stiff and cold; yet, they've managed to update restaurant, lobby, and rooms that continue to be warm and inviting. I was able to peek into the luxe President's Suite (with president's prices, $5K a night--but if you're the president of anything, you'd want to stay here).

Chef Joe explains it all to you

Which brings me to why I'm lounging around the Limewood Bar & Restaurant nibbling appetizers. The Limewood is the newest star in the Claremont's firmament; Chef Joseph Humphrey has a resume that includes stints at some of the most famous eateries in the U.S., and General Manager/Sommelier Benjamin Chanler Laurin (he of the fabulous French accent) have put together an impressive menu and wine list. Favorites are oysters with hot pepper vinegar and grilled and glazed Gulf shrimp.
The old girl on the hill continues to be a destination, and a great one. Frank Lloyd Wright's words still ring true; he dubbed the Claremont: "...one of the few hotels in the world with warmth, character and charm."

Toddling in Tuolumne: A Sweet Visit with Mr. Twain, Followed by Psychedelic Bowling

Buffet option at the Black Oak Casino (Photo: Bonnie Kamin Morrissey)

While in the historic town of Columbia, I chanced upon Mark Twain (who preferred to be addressed as Mr. Clemens, his birth name). Mr. Clemens entertained with amusing stories of his time in the foothills and answered questions so authentically that I forgot our Samuel was really actor MacAvoy Layne, visiting from the Mark Twain Cultural Center in Incline Village, Nevada, where he appears regularly. If you love Twain and his humor, Layne's performance is worth a trip to Tahoe. I left him as he wandered off to find his "carriage" in the parking lot.

Inside Kate's Tearoom

Nelson's yumbos! Chocolate porn!  (Photo: Bonnie Kamin Morrissey)

Columbia has a few unique places to visit: Columbia Kate’s Teahouse on the outskirts of town is the perfect spot for ladies who lunch; they also sell a plethora of tea blends. The nearby bakery offers killer scones and other baked goods. 

As a true sugar connoisseur, I feared Nelson’s Columbia Candy Kitchen was going to be another of those places that sold bulk wrapped candies in barrels, but was delighted to find they made most of their confections—for five generations, since the 1930s. In fact, they were named among the top ten sweet shops in America by USA Today. The chocolates, fudge, jellies and many other types of candies are all made in-house: a rare find these days. I remember with great fondness the milk chocolate/caramel/pecan turtle I devoured there. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, the Candy Kitchen holds a “make your own candy cane” event that’s so popular participants are chosen by lottery—go to their website (below) for information.

While in Tuolumne County, I stayed at the Black Oak Casino Resort Hotel. The hotel is new, the rooms are clean and spacious, and it’s a non-smoking facility located a sufficient distance from the casino that makes it both quiet and convenient. The casino is…a casino. Smoky, busy, loud and full of action: this is the place to go if you’re craving excitement. The two restaurants within the casino have filtered air, the better to enjoy decent quality meals. There’s a special occasion restaurant on another floor for big spenders. In the lounge, a rocking cover band (the Spazmatics) played hits from the 80s, put on an energy-filled show, and whipped the crowd into a dancing frenzy. The bowling alley in the basement is a party in itself.

It had to happen: folks who live in the old mining towns of the Sierra foothills want to enjoy a lot of the same distractions that urban dwellers do, from local theater productions to boogeying down in front of ear-shattering speakers, but it’s nice to know that the foothills have retained a lot of their rural and historic charm—the real gold these days--that makes the area so nice to visit.

Mark Twain Cultural Center, 760 Mays Blvd., Ste. 10, Incline Village, NV 89451 (775) 831-2820. This is a small bookstore and theater. Call to make sure a performance is scheduled.

Columbia State Historic Park, 11255 Jackson Street, Columbia CA 95310 www.visitcolumbiacalifornia.com/

Columbia Kate's Teahouse, 22727 Columbia St., Columbia CA 95310 www.columbiakates.com/:

Nelson's Columbia Candy Kitchen, Main Street, P.O. Box 191, Columbia, California 95310 www.columbiacandykitchen.com/

Black Oak Casino Resort, owned and operated by the Tuolumne Band of Me-Wuk Indians www.blackoakcasino.com

All photos by Joanne Orion Miller unless otherwise noted.

Saturday May 11 - Amsterdam to Naples to Sorrento

Vesuvio on the way to Sorrento

I packed my back-pack with as many of the lighter-weight clothes I could stuff in and left my suitcase at luggage storage at the Amsterdam airport. An easy two-hour flight into what looked like a small airport followed (Naples airport is deceptive—it’s quite large); a tiny, stiff espresso at the counter powered me up for the half-hour wait for the Currieri Viaggi bus to Sorrento. During the wait, I sat on my back-pack, soaking in the sun, enjoying a 10 degree hike in temperature. The bus, modern and air-conditioned only cost 10 euros--the bargain of the century. The ride clung to the coast roads, and was absolutely spectacular. Tufa cliffs soar steeply from the sea, often 1000 feet or more. Homes, hotels and motley other structures are embedded into the cliffsides, cantilevered and precariously perched as if to dive in. This is earthquake country, and so much like home in some ways it’s reassuring.

Sorrento from above

Sorrento is Sausalito on steroids; the same sort of dwellings spill down into steep ravines, but many more of them. A lovely, lovely old town with narrow twisitng lava-stone cobble streets and archways, and likely a restaurant and shop per person. It’s crowded and commercial, yet never fails to be charming. Perhaps it’s the jewel-like setting.

My foresight in bringing only a backpack paid off when I got to the train station in Sorrento, where the bus dropped me off. The Hotel Ulisse was more than half-way across town, a good half-mile or more from the station. I got used to the walk, as I ended up doing it at least twice a day—thank goodness only twice with the heavily loaded backpack.

That night, I strolled on the narrow road from the Hotel Ulisse down to a little fishing village which is part of Sorrento and apart from it: Marina Grande. Dinner was  delicious; a perfectly cooked spaghetti pomodoro with fresh cherry tomatoes at the Five DiLeva Sisters restaurant (a tiny place with clear vinyl sheets for walls). 

The Five DiLeva Sisters

It was windy, but fun to watch the beautiful sunset and the people who live in this tiny village greet each other, the boats bob in the water, the stray cats search among the ropes and nets for morsels. 

A quiet evening in Marina Grande

When I returned to the hotel, I had planned to stay put; then I discovered that Sorrento had REALLY come alive. The town takes off after sunset, when it’s still warm and all the streets are lit, filled with tourists and regulars. I attended the main street passigiata, strolling the Corso Italo with everyone else, stopping by the peaceful convent of San Franchesco. I couldn't wait to explore more.

Courtyard of the convent of San Franchesco

See more images of Sorrento, Pompeii and Herculaneum on my website gallery page

Day Seven: Miles of Mustard

A very blissed-out Hanuman in our room at Karauli Palace

Bumping along the highway and its assorted dirt-road turnoffs, I couldn’t help but notice the trees, which were bereft of leaves and most branches. At first I thought, “Well, it’s winter.” Then I realized the tree branches had been cut as high up as a man (or woman, most likely) could reach—for fuel. We passed numerous bright green and yellow mustard fields, huts made of rushes, and cleverly stacked piles of “poop chapattis”:  bullock dung patted into neat pancakes of burnable fuel. The air smelled like wood smoke rather than what one would assume.

We arrived at the village, and our stay for the night, Karauli Palace, the estate of the former landowners (who still live on the property). It was, hands-down, absolutely fantastic. The grounds were immaculate, and included stables, cowsheds, orchards and a lovely and productive garden. Our room was decorated in red and white with beautiful red-mirrored spreads plus a long satin pillow in bright red, and a heavy carved-wood door that locked with a funny old padlock. Outside the heavy door: a wide lounging bed with a futon-like mattress and more satin pillows to nap on. The room was lovely except for the odd position of the toilet and the bucket shower not five feet from each other; when you took a bucket bath (shower would have been worse) the marble floor became as slick as a Bollywood hero. Since broken legs would have cramped all our styles, wet towels on the floor were the perfect antidotes. After lunch in the sunny courtyard, we repaired to our rooms or to the outside lounging beds for a rest; I went to the little shop on site and had my hand hennaed. Interesting process, and very relaxing…

Later that day, the group walked into the village of Karauli to the Hindu temple to witness the fire ceremony—the ritual worship of Lord Krishna. Night was falling, and we were the main attraction all the way through the village. I literally shook hands with dozens of little kids who would shyly come up and say, “Hello”. Everyone stared, but in India, this was commonplace.

There was a puppy in the street when a tractor came along. It ran over his tail (not harming him apparently) and the rest of us stood in horror as the double wheels of the tractor were about to crush him; a quick-thinking boy bravely reached under the oncoming machine and threw him aside. The puppy squealed in protest, and the boy walked away as though nothing had happened.

We reached the temple just before the fire ceremony.

Me and "the hand"-- I'm looking pretty blissed-out myself.
photo by Joe Trinidad

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.

Delhi, Day One: Preparation is Futile

Masala Mutts--they're everywhere

Everyone I know who has traveled to India told me some version of “It’s overwhelming/dirty/desperately poor”. Or they kept quiet and rolled their eyes. Nothing prepares one for the sensory overload. In some travel guide or other, I learned I should ignore the plentiful cab drivers that hovered just outside the new airport doors (no admittance without a boarding pass, which made getting back in a little tough). I overheard a family say they were headed to the police booth and I tagged along behind them; at the stand, I paid my 320Rp ($6.10). Immediately a taxi driver who claimed to be “my” driver grabbed my receipt and ticket. I showed him the printed address of the hotel: he looked puzzled and recruited a buddy to help figure it out. I didn’t think until later that perhaps English lettering may not have been all that easy to decipher for these fellows—especially when I learned a lot of kids are pulled out of school early.

Feeling paranoid, I grabbed my suitcase, hopped out of his cab and went back to the prepaid police line, where they pointed out the number written on the top of the receipt (duh). I went to the appropriate stall number, and caught a cab. Late at night, the pollution was alarming. The driver kept coughing and the air was so thick it looked like heavy fog.

All the cabbies were blameless: I was to find that the address Intrepid tours had given me for the hotel was a general area—the many-blocks-long and wide Channa Market in the section of New Delhi know as Karol Bagh W.E.A (West Extension Area); the street the hotel was on—like almost all the streets outside the fancy areas of Delhi—was a partially paved dirt road with no name. We drove around for a bit, asking various passersby where “Suncourt Corporate” was, and finally found it. Then I performed my first faux paux of the trip (at least the first one I knew about)—I tipped the driver 10Rp, and he looked at it incredulously. I got used to that look, when I found it didn’t matter how much or how little—but still, it was too little by a good 40Rp, as I was informed by the man who showed me to my room when I asked about tipping etiquette (Lesson one: EVERONE gets a tip, and 30Rp is considered cheap, 50Rp just OK). I had my first ice-cold bucket bath that night (“Just let the water run for five minutes”—famous words repeated at several hotels)—there was squatting seat, a big bucket, a small bucket and a shower; it was less painful to soap up and just rinse the slippery bits than stand under the icy flow. I was also introduced to what we Intrepid travelers (I had booked a tour with Intrepid Travel out of Australia) came to call “the garden hose”. A short hose with a press-type handle, the garden hose is attached to the wall in all classy bathrooms, and it’s de rigueur to give yourself a shot after using the toilet. Don’t judge me—I came to love it. This, being a tourist hotel, provided hand-rolled, carefully wrapped and taped toilet paper. I didn’t know it, but I was already being spoiled.

To see specific reviews of guides/travel companies, places to eat, stay and shop in India, see my custom guide to the golden triangle on GoGoBot.

Last Day/Puerto Ayora

We awoke to beautiful dawn light illuminating the little town of Puerto Ayora, on the south end of Is. Santa Cruz. We said our farewells to the crew, and after a short panga ride to the dock, made our way through town to the Darwin Research Center. The center is concerned with keeping the varied species of land tortoises and iguanas from extinction; that's already happened on five of the archipelago's islands. You may have read about "Lonesome George", the last of his kind on one of the northern islands. Though he was brought to the Center and presented with a number of attractive female tortoises, he simply wasn't interested (the locals joke that he was gay. Or maybe it wasn't a joke). He died in 2012. One of the problems of attempting to interbreed animals from different islands is sterility in the offspring; even if the breeding "takes" with live young, the animals often die when they reach mating age, or they are unable to successfully reproduce. Though the islands don't seem that far apart physically, apparently the specialization that Charles Darwin noted has lasting effects.

A two-year old

The Darwin Center is a pleasant park that provides walkways threading through the grounds; we passed tortoises that were only a few inches in length to massive oldsters (they can live to be around 100 years). El Diablo, in spite of his unimpressive appearance, is the Center's champion. He mates with every female presented to him, usually successfully. What a guy!

El Diablo is very tired

We waited in town for a bus that took us through the lush, green highlands to the north part of the island; from there, a short ferry ride brought us back to Baltra and the airport. I met up once again with my Israeli friend, who stayed in Puerto Ayora the week--she had an adventure too, a mini-romance. It's a charming little town, and I could see coming directly here from Quito in the future. I suppose we both found what we were looking for.

Santa Cruz uplands

The flight back was uneventful, except for the risky choice of eating the salad served on the flight--by the time we touched down, I knew I had made a mistake. Fortunately, my armada of drugs including lomotil, tetracycline, pepto bismol tabs, and pro-biotics made for a short stint of bathroom sprints. What's traveling in South America without a little turista?

Once at the airport, I was unable to check into my next-day flights, so I took one of the airport cabs (these are marked on the side with a picture of an airplane) to my destination, the Galapagos Natural Life Hostel, which graciously gave me a free night for booking with Galapagos Last Minute. I expected it to be...a hostel. And it was. I didn't stay in the house proper, but in back, in one of the concrete block buildings that are single dwellings. Cold shower and TP-free toilet aside, it was a good overnight. I got to watch "Jennifer's Body", an old humor/horror/teenage angst DVD in English--what's not to like?

Painted on a Puerto Ayora wall...

At 4AM, my iPhone blasted out "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" as it had every morning (though usually it was at 6AM). I wandered out only to find no taxi waiting. Whoops. Again, I got lucky--the man who had booked my trip was staying at the hostel that night, visiting his mother; he woke up, turned the lights on, and called a taxi for me. Muchas Gracias again, Rodrigo! The cab driver had a religious program on the radio, and I listened to the silky voiced announcer expounding on "La luz marveloso" all the way to the airport. The "Migration" line was huge, and I was glad I gave it two hours. After one more luggage check, I took a seat in the waiting room; I was sweating it: only one flight a day from Quito to Houston, but I made it! In Houston, the thing I feared all along happened: I got bumped, and had to wait five hours for a plane to SFO. As is usual with anxiety, when the thing you fear most happens, you are relieved. I was pretty exhausted when we got into San Francisco (I had been either in an airport or some sort of moving vehicle for nearly 17 hours at that point), but the first of my adventures was a great success, and I felt elated. I even over-tipped the cab driver (I must have been tired).

Next: INDIA!