If memory serves, winters in Portland, Oregon, can be dark and dreary and wet and rainy and cold and seem never to end. A nice day in February might mean halter-tops, hopefully, if only for an afternoon. Even those without means seek escape.
From March 22, 1989.
It all started months ago when I became the proud owner of a free round-trip airline pass, good for most of North America.
A ticket to ride. Anytime, anywhere. This week seemed like the right time, Florida the right place. Sunshine calling.
I’m on the road again with them Eastern Airlines blues.
Tuesday 9:10 a.m. Continental 1258 out of PDX. Let me describe the flight attendants.
Deborah is pregnant. Gladys reminds me of Louie DePalma on Taxi. Then there’s “Tad,” accent on the first syllable.
Pardon me, but, let’s be honest, air travel was better before women’s lib.
I learn something new every time I head out of town. My latest travel tip? Eschew that third helping of Norma Louise’s Tamale Surprise. Yes, folks, The Pit Bull of Love remained at home. I have this theory about separate vacations: when I am away and she’s at home, we’re both on vacation.
And vice versa. That’s Latin for ‘what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.’
Love may be forever but it doesn’t have to be all the time. Besides, I can travel; I just can’t leave.
Still Tuesday. I’ve lost track of time. Continental 216 to Atlanta.
Daytime television was no better in Denver. Aside from two safe landings, the highlight of the trip so far has been catching Marvin Zindler in Houston on Channel 13. A snow-white toupe’ resting on more plastic surgery than Phyllis Diller ever dreamed of. Clad in a crisp winter white suit, kinda creamy, Marv is trash news without pretense. Everyman’s consumer advocate, he’s the guy who shut down the best little sporting house in Texas.
Atlanta. Real late. Stuck here for the night. Spent the entire day in the sky in the company of the common folk and a partial eclipse. Lunar.
Stranded in a strange land.
At Howard Johnson’s across from the Waffle House (Entrance In The Rear) near the airport. I’m watching VH-1, waiting for Roy Orbison and making do with Robert Plant who’s simply resistably shilling for carbonated sugar water. Now it’s Rick Astley, now it’s Rudy Vallee. I cannot stand this trash another cliche longer.
I check out Sam’s Hideaway Lounge. The locals think it’s midnight but I know it’s only nine.
Country and western music laments loudly, and on the big screen television is a cable channel that seems to have but two frames of video. One a Shaklee advertisement every fifteen seconds and the next fifteen the weather report – 99% humidity and 38 degrees F.
Every once in a while, something else pops up. Really kinda special. Like WHAT IS IN YOUR WATER? DISSATISFIED WITH COLOR, ODOR, OR TASTE?
Or Atlanta USA Pageant is looking for contestants.
Then… For Sale. Water Bed. $950. Pre-owned by a little old lady who didn’t date much.
I am drinking the worst bar tequila I have ever encountered. I ask the bartender – she’s about four-foot-ten – if I can see the bottle. Call me Caveat emptor. The bottle says Superior Silver, with a picture of a mustachioed Senator John Tower in a serape topped by a sombrero. She says it’s “standard in most bars here.”
“I’m not from here,” I tell her. And she asks,”Where you all from?”
I retort proudly, “Oregon. Portland, Oregon. I think we drink a better brand of booze.”
Of course, when she found out I was from the City of Roses, she was full of questions? Is the tavern owner still mayor? Does that black councilman really need to carry a concealed weapon?
I assured her the national media had presented a distorted picture. Chamber of Commerce owes me a drink.
Next morning. Another travel tip – never ask somebody on a picket line for directions.
Wherever you’re going, you can’t get there from here. Overnight, my free ticket went bankrupt. I heeded Karl Malden’s advice and three hundred dollars later I was airborne.
At last. Boca Raton. Home of the World’s Number One volume Porsche dealer, Crissy Evert and my cousin Axel.
Axel is nineteen, into heavy metal, four-wheelers and worshipping girls from afar.
He thinks a great deal of me – go figure – so he solicited my advice. I assured him I know less now about women than I did when I was his age.
When we went out to dinner, a scent caught my attention.
“What’s that smell?”
Axel puffed up, proudly pointed out, he was wearing Aramis.
“Don’t you wear cologne?,” he asked.
“No.”
Axel was surprised. “Why not?!”
I sensed an opportunity to help the kid out.
“The same reason rattlesnakes don’t carry baseball bats.”