Friday, September 4th, 2020. It’s the third day of our northwest Oregon getaway/assignment, and the weather is just what we had hoped for (after steam-roasting for four months in Charlotte): cool to mild to simply sublime. The steely sky is perfectly overcast when we hop aboard (with red-on-white LFC facemasks donned) the Route 20 Sunset Empire bus at Cannon Beach’s Midtown bus stop (which has a quaint wooden mini-shelter) at 10:34 AM. There are just three passengers on the bloated-van-like transport. The fare is only one dollar; I deposit two crisp bills into the square plexiglass box. Ah, so pleasantly low-tech. Me likes it. [sic] / Only a buck? What a bargain!
“Well, Monique, [Agent 32’s code name] this is going to be razor-close; we’re really rolling the dice on this one: the layover at the Seaside Cinema stop is only one minute.”
“Only sixty fleeting seconds!” Monique exclaims. “That’s cutting it too fine, Dodoy! [her Cebuano-derived nickname for me] If we miss the connection, how long until the next bus, 33?” Hope it’s under ten minutes.
I glance at my chart. “Uh, looks like 49 minutes, 32.” What!
“Forty-nine minutes! What are we going to do for forty-freaking-nine minutes?” I’ll be starting to zoom by then. Ate that THC cookie at 9:53. Or, was it 9:35? Already feel some synaptic syncopation. Going to be a great day. No matter what bus we miss. Or make.
“Well, there’s an outlet mall across the street.” Yey!
“Forty-nine minutes will be fantabulously [sic] fine for some shopping,” Monique replies. What a sudden change of heart. Womentality. [sic]
“Ok, but just remember that we don’t have any spare room in our luggage for shoes,” I remind her. Grrr … He always assumes that I want to buy shoes.
Monique gives me a playful snarl and our conversation ceases.
Just before we cross the southern town limit of Seaside on US 101 North, our bus driver radios another bus driver. “Zed, I got a couple of folks bound for Astoria. Looks like I’m about two minutes behind schedule. Can you wait for them?” He must have overheard our conversation. How nice of him!
Sure enough when we roll into the Seaside Cinema bus stop, the Route 101 bus (to Astoria) is idling.
“There’s your next bus,” the 60-ish, white-haired Caucasian driver divulges as we approach the front to exit. Yes! What a pleasant surprise. This would never happen in Charlotte. / Guess I’ll have to do my shopping on the return leg. Hope there’s a significant layover – one that can’t be eliminated by stalling the connecting bus for several minutes.
“I truly appreciate what you did,” I state as I walk past him.
“No problem,” he replies. “Have a nice time in Astoria.”
“Will do,” I chirp.
The 101 bus, which is just like the 20, proceeds northward on US 101 towards Warrenton, briefly stopping in the small coastal communities of Gearhart, Surf Pines, and Sunset Beach. Right after we pass through the Marlin Avenue intersection, I see it looming on the northeastern horizon: the southern extent of the mint-green, opened-in-late-July-of-1966, cantilever-through-truss Astoria – Megler Bridge. Wow! So, there it is. Looks gangly. Though, it’s probably sturdy enough. [wind rating: 150 MPH (240 km/h); river current rating: 9 MPH (14 km/h)]
We are soon zipping across placid Youngs Bay on a long, narrow causeway. It’s our kind of day as we ascend the drawbridge: filtered sunlight is breaking through seams here and there, but the sky is still predominantly a leaden blanket.
“We’re on the homestretch now, mahal,” [‘love’ in Tagalog] I inform Monique as we descend the hump towards the westernmost nub of Astoria.
“What is Astoria known for, 33?” The creepy catacombs? Cancel.
“Well, it was the first American settlement to take root west of the Rocky Mountains, 32.” This far west? Weird.
“Anything else?” Monique asks while staring at the mesh-of-prominently-exposed-girders bridge.
“More recently, Astoria was put on the moviegoers’ map, as The Goonies was filmed in various parts of the town from late 1984 through early 1985.” The Goonies? Sounds like a word that hubby would make up.
“Hmmm … Never heard of that one, 33.”
“It’s more of a children’s movie, 32.”
“So, what’s the deal with that bridge?” Monique asks as we semicircle a roundabout. “It’s kind of ugly.” Such a harsh critic.
“Granted it’s not as aesthetically arousing as the world-renowned Golden Gate Bridge, 32, but the Columbia River is four miles [6.4 km] wide here; the strait of Golden Gate is only a mile [1.6 km] across. Perhaps an artsy suspension bridge was just too expensive. Or more likely, the cost couldn’t be justified given the low traffic volume. There is no town, much less a city, of any size on the immediate Washington side; Megler and McGowan are tiny with just a sprinkling of houses – not even a single traffic light.”
The bus then stops for a red light at the base of the bridge’s curling, elevation-gaining wind-up. When the light turns green, we soon get a great view of the tallest section over the shipping channel. Very impressive.
“It looks better the closer we get to it,” Monique blurts.
“The opposite of people,” I mordantly append. Oh no, not the Homo sapiens negativity again. It’s really getting old. / Maybe shouldn’t have said that.
“You would rather be a nebulous gas cloud in outer space, wouldn’t you, 33?” Very astute of her. Nevertheless, make it plasma.
“Sure, where do I sign?” I guffaw. It’s gonna be a full-on woothie-wokker [sic] from this point onward. Hope I can keep my wits about me. Why would one have two wits? Vaht’s wit dat? [sic] To double one’s mental acuity? Wary-witty. [sic]
Monique makes a ‘whish’ sound, signaling me to reel it in. Then she gives me a fork-in-the-throat gesture. Maybe I was laughing too loud. That petite-yet-potent cookie is now zapping my post-middle-age bean. Can feel the neural pulsations. Jeez, what am I thinking? Glad I’m not driving the Nissan. Into an Olympic-swimming-pool-size bowl of miso noodles. What exactly is miso anyway? [Miso is made from a mash of cooked soybeans and grains (usually rice or barley) mixed with salt and a fungus called Aspergillus oryzae, or koji in Japanese. This mixture is left to ferment in crocks anywhere from three weeks to over a year.] Funny how a watched pot never smiles back. Anymore. That dude who said he was non-life-transformative – only death-formative. Splendid dark humor. If I could only remember his name. Seem to forget nearly everything now. Except our bleak finances. Well, could be worse. / I just know he is having crazy thoughts again. My stomach just growled; am so hungry. Ready to eat. Right now!
The final, three-and-a-half-minute, Marine-Drive-left-merge-onto-Astor-Street dash to the Astoria Transit Center (essentially a diagonal cut through a city block at 9th Street) is in silence. Once off the bus at 11:36 AM with our backpacks back packed to our backs, we survey the surroundings. Humans are few and far between. Certainly not too crowded. / Where is everyone? This Covid-19 era.
“The [Astoria] Column is closed, so let’s take a stroll on the Riverwalk and get a few pics,” I suggest to long-raven-hair-blowing-across-her-cute-Asian-face Monique.
“How far is it? I’m hungry.”
“Just down there,” I answer while pointing eastward towards 10th Street.
“Ok, but I’ll need to fill my tummy very soon.” She’s gonna carb-crash in 15 minutes. But, this is so close.
“No problem, 32. There are restaurants all around.” But how many are open?
We are soon walking northwestward on wide railroad ties (a seasonal trolley line runs down the middle) past closed businesses. When we get to 6th Street, I turn right and Monique hesitantly follows. We proceed to the Riverwalk Viewpoint and ascend to the steep-metal-roof-covered, deck-like platform. The wind speed increases three-fold. A surprising wind-chill factor is now a part of the equation. Brrr … So chilly-willy [sic] up here.
We snap a few cursory shots of the bridge, the river, the indistinct Washington shoreline and mountains beyond, and then descend to street level. Four brisk minutes later, we are back at the corner of 9th & Astor. Curry and CoCo, a Thai eatery, has just opened. We cautiously enter after re-donning our polyester/cotton-blend facemasks, not knowing if inside eating is permitted. Oregon is fairly strict; might not be able to eat in here. / Bet it’s takeout only. Where will we sit?
I query the dark-haired, 40-ish, stout man standing near the cash register: “Is it ok to eat in here?” Dude could be an NFL linebacker. The [Luke] Kuechly-less [Carolina] Panthers could use him.
“Well, let’s see; it’s me, you two, and the cook – a grand total of four. Four is less than ten. Therefore, you guys are ok to sit inside by that bay window.” Ah, perfect: the dining area to ourselves. / Yes! I’m utterly famished!
Monique orders the red curry with tofu and I opt for the yellow. Both are delicious. After finishing up, the black-T-shirt-with-black-facemask man comes over to our table.
“Anything else?” he kindly asks.
“I’m fine,” Monique immediately answers.
“I’ll just have a Buoy IPA for dessert. By the way, the food was excellent; it really hit the spot. I’ll give you a five-star review on Google Maps later.” That would be nice.
“Why, thanks,” he responds. Strange … He doesn’t have a hint of a Thai accent.
“So, is this your restaurant?” I venture. Do I really look like the owner of a Thai restaurant? Tourists.
“No, I’m Cuban; my wife is Thai. It’s her place. I’m just helping out.” A good man. / Wonder how they met and ended up here. No, don’t ask – too intrusive.
“Do you like Astoria?” I enquire, sensing that he may want to converse a bit. Hope I didn’t just ignite another tirade. Though, the last one was great material.
“It’s a nice town. I like it more now – in the summer – than in the winter. It’s very rainy here in the winter. Weeks of nonstop light drizzle. [simulates softly falling rain with his fingers] Too much wetness. Even the frogs would ribbit so.” Even the frogs would ribbit so? Think I misheard that. Or, did I? Soaring. Glad we’re next to the bus terminal. Body immobilized. Though, my mind is whirling a mile a millisecond. / Spoken like a true resident. Wonder when this café opened.
“I read somewhere that there are something like 200 days a year with precipitation in Astoria,” [actually 191 days on average] I posit. “And more rain than Portland and Seattle combined.” [a slight exaggeration; annual rainfall amounts: Portland, 36” (914 mm); Seattle, 37” (940 mm); Astoria, 67” (1702 mm)]
“Yes, lots of rain,” he affirms. “But, the rain keeps us green and wildfire-free.” True that. / Speaking of green …
“What do you think of the green bridge?” Monique then asks.
“Ah, ‘Old gangly’, as my local friend calls it.” Psynchronicity [sic] is in the ether. What were the chances? One in 292 million? Powerballed [sic] into oblivion. Why me? / Gangly? Never heard that English word before.
The bus ride back was not without incident: a male bicyclist wanted to get off at an old (apparently discontinued) bus stop after Warrenton. The 50-something Caucasian driver initially refused his request, but then safely pulled the airport-like shuttle off US 101 onto a wide shoulder for him to disembark. The 30-ish white guy then calmly stated: “No, changed my mind; I’ll just ride it all the way to McDonald’s.” [at Avenue A in Seaside] The exasperated driver became livid and muttered loud enough for me to hear: “This is why I can’t wait to retire!” Another real-life, landed-right-in-my-lap vignette. Will include this brief episode.
Monique would decide to pass on the outlet mall in Seaside, opting for a trip to Clackamas Town Center Mall on the weekend. Haystack Rock (on Cannon Beach) concluded the delightful, intriguingly-bewildering-at-times day.