Up, Down, East, West

I was very sleepy at work on Monday, and my mind couldn’t focus on spreadsheets, or financial statements, or court pleadings. Instead, I kept thinking about the bright blue robin’s eggs I photographed Saturday afternoon, and the yummy-but-sloppy polenta torta I made for dinner Sunday night. I also started thinking about Bay & Champion: I have a page-long list of places around town I’d planned to capture and write about, but this isn’t supposed to be a guidebook, and it doesn’t feel right to go around hunting things down and checking them off a list. I’m not any sort of expert; I only want to uncover the simple, the ordinary, the Bellingham culture that’s as breezy as the air coming off the bay. My list of places (and events and treats) will eventually turn up, I’m sure, but on their own time as they pop up naturally. Meanwhile, I’m going to be a bit looser here, and probably a great deal more personal.

Besides the robin’s eggs and the torta, the past five weeks have been a landslide of adventures. At the beginning of May, Joel and I hiked up to the Oyster Dome. I’ve never been much of an outdoorsperson, but I’m starting to come around. I appreciate hiking mostly for the exercise and opportunity to get out of the house; I have yet to feel any sort of grand connection to wilderness. The view from the top is, of course, sensational – but I was far more taken with the view from the Samish Overlook; the farms laid out below remind me of flying over the Mid-West, with its endless, quirky patterns of crops. The islands West of the Oyster Dome lookout just aren’t as inspiring to me; looking South from the Overlook, you can see the tiny grove of trees that mark Edison, with Farm To Market Road shooting out and over the hill. Samish Island and Anacortes appear more clearly, and that entire nook of land and towns is even more ideal and romantic to me than my memories of Southern France.

The Samish Overlook is also better suited for a picnic lunch or dinner, as you can drive right up to it. Joel and I snacked on tasty sandwiches atop the Oyster Dome, but once we were back down and resting on the Overlook, I couldn’t help but think it would be a prime location for a drawn out, lazy, multiple-course affair.

The following weekend took us East to Concrete, where I was finally able to quench a longtime curiosity. I’m not sure how or when I first heard of Concrete, but I was immediately intrigued by its low-brow reputation. I tried to explain the allure – a hick town in the middle of nowhere apparently didn’t have the same, pressing draw to Joel – but after chatting with a co-worker and former resident then subsequently renting This Boy’s Life, he was as hooked as me. We drove out on the sunny Saturday that happened to be Concrete’s 100th anniversary; we missed all of the planned festivities, but had much fun poking around in the few small shops. I found a nice selection of cast iron pans and Mason jars at the main hardware store, but a $4.50 copy of Dr. Weil’s Natural Health, Natural Medicine was my sole souvenir, purchased from the poorly stocked but well-intended Rainy Day Books. We picked through junk at a neon-blue shack run by a man named Rhino, and took a random dirt road up to an abandoned mill of some sort. Concrete is definitely worth a trip; the two blocks of shopfronts on Main Street is as surreal as a de Chirico painting. I regret not trying a local restaurant; the Red Cedar Inn looked like it might have some good burgers.

The weekend after Concrete brought us a trip to Port Townsend to meet up with my mom for her 50th birthday. Joel was adamant that we should spend the night, and found us an amazing castle of a hotel. I spent my early childhood in Port Angeles and am no stranger to Port Townsend’s charms, but after a full day of perusing upscale kitchenware shops and walking around the waterfront and around the beach and lighthouse, I was smitten. I nearly denounced Bellingham – I started planning a move to Port Townsend. At dusk, after dinner at The Belmont and en route to a punk show at the American Legion Hall, we passed a guy playing gypsy-style violin on the street and I was immediately sure Port Townsend and I were truly meant to be. Violin players of Whatcom County - why aren’t you on the streets at night? I gave that guy $3.00 in quarters if that’s any motivation for you.

Port Townsend got me thinking about Bellingham’s waterfront redevelopment, though, and how I should be paying closer attention to it; there is nothing more lovely than a waterfront boardwalk on a warm evening. We have a lot to look forward to. Port Townsend is exquisite, but maybe a little too finely sanded; I’m far too amused by the late-night dance parties on the corner of Railroad and Holly to really be serious about leaving town.