I’m not in Alaska

I’m in Vancouver, in the YMCA, where the toilet in our room won’t flush. It’s the fourth day since we left Palo Alto, and the 1000 miles traveled make missing college something that skulks into my head every few hours, rather than a constant nagging presence. No more tears in the shower now, or breakdowns on lonely roads, prompted by the Mountain Goats coming up on shuffle. This is how the process is supposed to work, I guess.

Speaking of the Mountain Goats, I find myself proselytizing them to my dad at a controlled rate of about one or two songs a day. So far: he likes “International Small Arms Traffic Blues” and “Jenny,” he dislikes “Terror Song,” and finds “This Year” whiny. What’s weird is, I didn’t even really like them until Sunday. Maybe by turning into a frightened 20-something wandering North America by car, I pretty much painted myself into a corner.

There’s nothing left to say. I don’t know how to blog yet. The Pacific Northwest is where it’s at, though. Portland and Seattle and Vancouver, obviously, but even little bullshit places like Arcata. And Redwood Nat’l Park, which I revisited briefly so Howie could lie down at the feet of the Great Corkscrew Tree. “They’re wise,” he says of the trees. “Being around them is reassuring.”

Up to now:

Tomorrow: boat to Nanaimo on Vancouver Island, drive up the island to Port Hardy.