the long way home
The clouds grew heavier as the night grew darker, and heavy raindrops flew onto our windshield. When we finally saw a sign for a hotel, we pulled in and stayed the night. The hotel, more like a lodge, was luxurious, and we ate dinner in the dining room while snow fell from the sky. Somehow, we had gone from summer weather to winter weather in one day.
We hit the road again early the next morning and drove to Portland. We wandered the small city, and perused Powells bookstore, where I spent the entire time gasping over the food and cooking section, settling eventually on The Amateur Gourmet, a much anticipated read from one of my favorite bloggers.
As the magic hour took place (a film term my dad just taught me, when the sky goes from day to night and the lighting changes), we drove out of the charming city and back onto the highway. I have stared at more roads and road signs in the past few days than I care to for a long time. Eventually we stopped at a cheap motel on the side of the highway. Far from the luxury of the night before, it was time to cut corners and deal with the dirty smell and scratchy feel of motel sheets. Other than some rowdy boys upstairs, and some creeps in pickup trucks trying to talk to my mother up as she grabbed water from the car in the middle of the night, we slept just fine.
We woke early the next morning and packed our bags. I threw on my dress and stumbled to the breakfast room. The advertised Belgian Waffles I had anticipated were cups of wet batter sitting beside a cheap looking waffle maker. I settled for stale cereal and a white english muffin. My parents, wise things with patient appetites, waited for better food along the road.
After many more hours of driving we made our way into British Columbia, and I smiled to see the trees, mountains and ocean once more. This is where I'll be living, again, for the next month or so.
We had fun on the road, but sometimes the best part about travel is coming home.