getting there is half the fun
"Can I see your passport?"
It's another hot night in the apartment and dad's curious to see what kind of passport $87 buys you. I hand it over and he studies the thing, thumbing through the mostly-empty pages. It's been a while since anyone in this little pocket of the family had a passport, so it's understandable.
"You know, I really like what you're doing," he says as he hands back my passport. "If you want to do something or go somewhere, you just do it. I wish I coulda done that."
"You wanted to travel?" The last time he'd gone somewhere was twenty-two years ago, and that was to OK Falls to see his parents. Before that, it was Reno with my mom and my aunt and uncle. But besides that, for as long as I've known him, he never wanted to go anywhere.
"Yeah," he confirms. "To Rio. For Carnival."
"Why don't you go anywhere, then?" I ask.
"I'm too old for that now," he laments. "That, and I'm lazy."
"Ah, yes." His last statement is true. Traveling--even if it's just to a place a few hours away for a few days--requires a fair amount of planning and preparation, both things my dad doesn't exactly excel at. While it's true that you could just throw a few things in a bag and take the first plane, train, or bus out of town to wherever and see where it takes you, but most are not that adventurous. So planning is usually the way to go. And seeing as how the dude has problems doing things like buying groceries before things run out and taking public transit anywhere beyond our zone's boundaries, there's no way dad could ever go anywhere.
As for me, just give me a reason to be somewhere and I'll start thinking about it, making budgets and doing research before I finalize any plans. Sure, that hostel's downtown, but do I really want to share a room with 15 strangers when I could go to that great little campsite on the island and stay in a covered wagon for less money? How late do the ferries run? Not very? How about a nice motel instead? Failing that, how about a motel? Is it on a bus line? And what's the schedule for that route like? And how am I getting down there in the first place? And so on.
So by the time I'm at the Greyhound station with my backpack and my documentation, I'm ready to ride. However, I wasn't quite ready for a packed bus. While I manage to call a window seat, the aisle seat's taken not long after that. So between the guy, me, and my backpack, it's pretty crowded here, just like everywhere else. But it's cheap, so I ain't gonna complain.
We've just left the border and are heading to Bellingham when I get the urge. While I went to the bathroom before we left, that kind of thing doesn't really help me. So I have to take a trip to the noxious chemical toilet at the back of the bus. I'm barely back from the toilet when I get another urge, but this one has me glad that somewhere in my backpack is a plastic bag. Not that I was planning on being sick, mind you, but plastic bags have a million uses beyond grocery toting. In any case, I'd like to see a cloth sack double as a barf bag. Naturally, my seatmate isn't too fond of seeing any bag being used for barfing and immediately gets up out of his seat. At first, I think it's to let me out to dispose of the bag--which I do with a quickness--but when I emerge from the chemtoilet, I see him asking someone up front if he can sit in the empty seat there. While I can't help but feel rejected, I can't deny that I appreciate the extra room. I never thought I'd say this, but hooray for Swine Flu paranoia.
Bellingham comes and goes and the seat gets taken, but I don't mind. I crank my iPod and stare out the window at the alternating greenery and big box stores. I'll be in Seattle soon enough.
----------------------------
The first thing I do after getting off the Greyhound is head towards Westlake Centre. Two immediately relevant things I know about Westlake: There are bathrooms, and it's right next to the Transit Tunnel. Now, the transit tunnel is about the best thing ever: apart from buses running through it and above it, there's a Metro information booth and racks upon racks of schedules and other information. Not only that, but it looks classy. I pick up a 358 schedule and head to the nearest stop. Travelodge, here I come.
Last time I was in Seattle, I stayed at the Inn at Queen Anne, a lovely little place that I managed to book for surprisingly cheap. It was right next to Dick's, and disarmingly close to Seattle Center. In comparison, the midtown Travelodge is right next to Jack in the Box and close to other motels. Also, it's not nearly as lovely and is much more utilitarian and basic. But since I won't be here that often, it'll do. Apparently, they have free wi-fi here, but the wi-fi of the motel across the way is much easier to access. But there's not much time for that now. I quickly unpack and leave for Capitol Hill.
It's another hot night in the apartment and dad's curious to see what kind of passport $87 buys you. I hand it over and he studies the thing, thumbing through the mostly-empty pages. It's been a while since anyone in this little pocket of the family had a passport, so it's understandable.
"You know, I really like what you're doing," he says as he hands back my passport. "If you want to do something or go somewhere, you just do it. I wish I coulda done that."
"You wanted to travel?" The last time he'd gone somewhere was twenty-two years ago, and that was to OK Falls to see his parents. Before that, it was Reno with my mom and my aunt and uncle. But besides that, for as long as I've known him, he never wanted to go anywhere.
"Yeah," he confirms. "To Rio. For Carnival."
"Why don't you go anywhere, then?" I ask.
"I'm too old for that now," he laments. "That, and I'm lazy."
"Ah, yes." His last statement is true. Traveling--even if it's just to a place a few hours away for a few days--requires a fair amount of planning and preparation, both things my dad doesn't exactly excel at. While it's true that you could just throw a few things in a bag and take the first plane, train, or bus out of town to wherever and see where it takes you, but most are not that adventurous. So planning is usually the way to go. And seeing as how the dude has problems doing things like buying groceries before things run out and taking public transit anywhere beyond our zone's boundaries, there's no way dad could ever go anywhere.
As for me, just give me a reason to be somewhere and I'll start thinking about it, making budgets and doing research before I finalize any plans. Sure, that hostel's downtown, but do I really want to share a room with 15 strangers when I could go to that great little campsite on the island and stay in a covered wagon for less money? How late do the ferries run? Not very? How about a nice motel instead? Failing that, how about a motel? Is it on a bus line? And what's the schedule for that route like? And how am I getting down there in the first place? And so on.
So by the time I'm at the Greyhound station with my backpack and my documentation, I'm ready to ride. However, I wasn't quite ready for a packed bus. While I manage to call a window seat, the aisle seat's taken not long after that. So between the guy, me, and my backpack, it's pretty crowded here, just like everywhere else. But it's cheap, so I ain't gonna complain.
We've just left the border and are heading to Bellingham when I get the urge. While I went to the bathroom before we left, that kind of thing doesn't really help me. So I have to take a trip to the noxious chemical toilet at the back of the bus. I'm barely back from the toilet when I get another urge, but this one has me glad that somewhere in my backpack is a plastic bag. Not that I was planning on being sick, mind you, but plastic bags have a million uses beyond grocery toting. In any case, I'd like to see a cloth sack double as a barf bag. Naturally, my seatmate isn't too fond of seeing any bag being used for barfing and immediately gets up out of his seat. At first, I think it's to let me out to dispose of the bag--which I do with a quickness--but when I emerge from the chemtoilet, I see him asking someone up front if he can sit in the empty seat there. While I can't help but feel rejected, I can't deny that I appreciate the extra room. I never thought I'd say this, but hooray for Swine Flu paranoia.
Bellingham comes and goes and the seat gets taken, but I don't mind. I crank my iPod and stare out the window at the alternating greenery and big box stores. I'll be in Seattle soon enough.
----------------------------
The first thing I do after getting off the Greyhound is head towards Westlake Centre. Two immediately relevant things I know about Westlake: There are bathrooms, and it's right next to the Transit Tunnel. Now, the transit tunnel is about the best thing ever: apart from buses running through it and above it, there's a Metro information booth and racks upon racks of schedules and other information. Not only that, but it looks classy. I pick up a 358 schedule and head to the nearest stop. Travelodge, here I come.
Last time I was in Seattle, I stayed at the Inn at Queen Anne, a lovely little place that I managed to book for surprisingly cheap. It was right next to Dick's, and disarmingly close to Seattle Center. In comparison, the midtown Travelodge is right next to Jack in the Box and close to other motels. Also, it's not nearly as lovely and is much more utilitarian and basic. But since I won't be here that often, it'll do. Apparently, they have free wi-fi here, but the wi-fi of the motel across the way is much easier to access. But there's not much time for that now. I quickly unpack and leave for Capitol Hill.