Chapter 11: San Francisco
We made it out of Westport, retracing our wheel rotations from the night prior, remembering our sorry escapade with the ketchup, the maple syrup, the gallon of water, the wet-wipe bathing, and the six dollar campsite less than fondly. There was a terrible stench about us; one that spoke of men who had not showered, or wiped themselves properly, in a good many days; a smell of stale wet-wipe and sea water mixed with bitter tears and scatterings of Heinz ketchup.
Route 1 proved itself to be different than Route 101, despite their numerical brotherhood. Whereas Route 101 told a tale of highways and byways and truck routes and getting from Point A to Point B, Route 1 told the story of a roundabout journey down a lesser known path from Point Arena to Point Reyes. It was only a short morning’s journey for us to arrive at our panacea, our Graceland, our Fort Bragg — and when we rode in we put all thoughts of Westport, Rockport, Anyport, behind us. Just two tenths of a mile out of town (a stone’s throw from the laundry and grocery store) we found a campsite pushed back among a row of houses, setup tent, and hit the town. We hit the internet café and the movie theatres; we hit the organic food store and the Japanese restaurant; we hit the laundry and we hit the showers; and we almost hit a red-headed boy in a green outfit who was riding a Schwinn bicycle carelessly and endlessly throughout all of Fort Bragg — he was everywhere we ever went, following our path like a disrespected, oft neglected, shadow — and eventually his punctual and repeated appearance throughout the day began to give us chills and a haunted feeling.
Fort Bragg is a wonderful little town and ranks very high on a very short list of places I would like to visit again before I develop dementia and/or die. I want to go back and I want to take Ben and I want us to go see the waitress at the Japanese restaurant where we ate our dinner. She was as white as I ever will be and had lived in Fort Bragg her entire life — except for a brief stint somewhere nearby that didn’t work out for her. I am certain she had never been to Japan and, possibly, never even ventured into Japantown in San Francisco. Fort Bragg was it. Just that small little town on the Pacific Ocean sitting among the swelling hills of Route 1. It is easy to see how someone, without any particular ambition, could have never left: Route 1 screams of isolation. The only way to get anywhere is to go either North or South — there is no alternate route. I want to go back because there is a very good chance that this waitress will still be there; maybe not at the Japanese restaurant, maybe at a new Thai Place has opened up in town, but I suspect she will still be in Fort Bragg. I would like to go back and talk to her again, and tell her about the places I’ve been and again see in her eyes the look of a person perfectly content where they are — because where they are, is as perfect as they could ever hope.
She’d never been to the East Coast, but she had heard that the weather there was terrible. I asked her to define terrible.
“Cold,” she said.
“Well,” I asked, “how cold does it get here, in Fort Bragg?” Ben was already uncomfortable with the length of the time I had spent conversing with this young woman. Behind my back he made little gestures signaling that she should run for her life — after she had brought us our food, of course.
“Well, sometimes, if it gets really cold, like maybe forties, or, sometimes, even in the thirties. Once in a while it gets even colder than that, if you can believe it.”
“Yea,” I said, “Um, well: New England’s a lot like that. Only colder. A little colder. A lot colder. Definitely. Very cold.”
DAMON: Today is July 11th, Ben and I rode about 21 miles to Fort Bragg. Fort Bragg is our new Crescent City. Inasmuch as it provided us with everything — and I do mean everything — we could need within, literally, a square block. With the exception of one restaurant, which we went to called the Route One Café. It was possibly the most amazing food — it was the most amazing food we’ve eaten this entire trip. It was all organic, all natural. I had something called a Warm Rosie, which was this awesome enormous salad with warm rice and tofu. Ben had a tempeh Reuben sandwich, which was awesome. Then we had pie and cake and a vanilla soy shake, which I have never before experienced and I would like experience it again and again and again.
Ben and I both like chunky peanut butter; however, Ben likes extra peanut butter on his sandwiches whereas I prefer extra jelly. Therefore, whenever we sat down to manufacture our sandwich stores for the day, I was in charge of applying the jelly and he, the peanut butter. This made for a condiment heavy meal; however, we were both satisfied. We would pack the sandwiches back in the crumby bread bag — eight halves for a midday meal.
Ben and I both like chocolate milano cookies; however, Ben finds great satisfaction in devouring an entire bag whereas I derive satisfaction from eating none at all. Therefore, Ben is usually the one eating them and I am usually the one watching him and still: we both are happy. I can understand Ben’s appreciation for the Milano, however, Ben simply thinks I am insane for not dueling with him cookie for cookie. I know better, for I become miserable after having succumbed to my desire while Ben is miserable having not.
Ben and I both hate washing dishes; however, we always offer to wash them and find great satisfaction in having washed them well and appreciate anyone who is a competent and willing dishwasher. Therefore, our dishes are always washed and there is never any complaining about the matter, despite our joint disdain for the task. In fact: what we hate more than washing dishes is being asked to wash dishes, and if you do not understand already why this is the way it is I doubt I can help you to understand it.
But I can try: the reason we hate being asked to wash dishes is because people who are slackers need to be asked to wash dishes and Ben and I are not slackers; we are not the kind of people to hide behind a television or computer screen while dishes go unwashed; we are not the kind of people that nod their heads in the dishes’ general direction while walking out the backdoor for the local pub; we are, in fact, constantly aware of their ever-loving presence and know that, eventually, we will wash them. There is no doubt in our minds that it is, ultimately, our own responsibility. We will wash all the dishes. Therefore, to ask one of us to wash dishes is an insult to our very nature and calling: like asking a dog to piss or a child to cry or an ice cream cone to melt in your hands on a hot day. And, by asking one of us to wash dishes you are willingly acknowledging your own failing as a true dishwasher and, therefore, are unworthy of our time, place, or attention.
Furthermore, (in the event that the issue has not been addressed thoroughly enough) Ben and I never ask each other, or anyone else to wash dishes for us and, by asking one of us, you establish yourself as the type of person both of us desire not to be. It is one of our many tests of character upon which we pass harsh judgment: how readily a person wields the sponge and towel. There are no exceptions. It matters not if I cooked the entire meal while Ben sat smoking his pipe and reading Umberto Eco — there is no assumption that he is now responsible for the dishes and I am not. As a general rule: the responsibility for washing dishes is not dependent on any previous or future actions; it is an autonomous institution and will not be included in the great reckoning because we both know what the answer will be if we asked St. Peter how many dishes were washed by us both for the answer is: a lot, but not enough.
While Ben was impressed by many of #6’s numerous attributes, the fact that she washed dishes brought him to a place of quiet admiration and respect. “She’s a keeper,” he said on more than one occasion. Not only did she wash dishes but she washed dishes she didn’t even eat out of; she washed dishes for a meal she hadn’t even partaken in; she washed dishes that were dirty from days and trips prior, that she had already washed once before. Ben and I cooked, ate, made a foul mess, lay on our backs and farted and laughed and when we looked up, she was scrubbing the pants off our pans. And we couldn’t wrestle it away from her; couldn’t get her to stop. She washed dishes. And it wasn’t to impress us (for she did it when we weren’t looking and Lord knows we were already impressed) and it wasn’t because I had explained to her the importance of a good dish-washing impression and it wasn’t because she liked washing dishes — no, it was simply because the dishes needed to be washed.
That turned me on.
And I thought of her every time I washed dishes in a stream, in a dirty sink, with a hose, in the ocean, in a bathroom, or with leftover water from our water bottles. Every time I picked up a dirty pot I thought of her hunched over the fountain at Crater Lake or scrunched down near the water pump at Iron Creek. I could see her hair damp and curly against the side of her face where it had fallen out of place. The soap on her hands and nails. With every dish I thought of her; with every drop of soap I remembered our moments together.
I was going to see her again. Soon. Very soon.
This made me happy.
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