Nowhere in Particular
Posted on Jan 20, 2008
by
Chantel
in Daily Life, Cocktails, Photos to kill the monotony, Dating and Men
|
5 Comments
Chantel
in Daily Life, Cocktails, Photos to kill the monotony, Dating and Men
|
5 Comments
It started in Google Talk
“Lets do something”
“Wanna go for a drive?”
“Where?”
“Lets go to the Gorge?”
“OK, gimme 30 minutes I need to shower.”
An hour later I was trapped in a Buick with a man who had ADD and a PHD. He came armed with an MP3 player loaded with a hundred mash-up songs and the entire Insane Clown Posse collection. I was beginning to wonder if leaving my house was such a good idea due to the tension filing my back like a slow rising tide. My senses were overloaded with the sound of the tires racing on wet pavement, the music screaming from the speakers, rain drops pelting the windshield and the barrage of questions from my companion cleverly disquised as conversation.
I realized if I didn’t relax the long drive to the gorge could be a disaster.
My brains finally began to settle and the knots in my neck loosened to tolerable grips, after a few hours, endless sharp turns and, a compromise on the music selections and decible level. The rain continued and so did Dr. G. “Why stop if we’re gonna get wet?” We passed Stevenson, Skamania and then the Dalles. We made a disgusting gas station stop that left us with cold beer and crumpled corn dog wrappers. Nothing better than a six pack of mediocre beer, a warm man and, a cold wind to make an over-anxious girl relax. Long after we passed our original destination and the sun disappeared the question begs answering. Maybe we should just find a hotel so we can see all of this beautiful landscape in the daylight?
Pendleton became a new destination due to Dr. G’s fascination with all things Indian Casino and kitch. We settled in a small town which was born way before the West was won. We bedded down in a cheap, questional motel at my request and set out to find all that Pendleton had to offer. Deep inside I was hoping the night would turn out like a scene from a bad coming of age country movie with smokie bars, tequila shots with a side plot of heroic redemption of the town slut and the downfall of the prom king. Instead we settled on the best steak I’ve had in years at the nicest restaurant in town. A shot of bourbon and the oldest bar in town and five minutes in the worst dance club with some of the ugliest people I’ve ever seen try to “drop that ass”. The music was last year, the dance moves were exaggerated yet missing any type of rythm. I weighed the ambiance of the bar and the beautiful 2005 Cabernet I found at a wine tasting earlier when the sun was out and decided; that this was the first bar I’ve met where I didn’t want to stay and have a drink.
We awoke to a cold gray day and sprinkling of snow but still decided to take our 25th detour and go to the new Wine mecca that is Walla Walla for brunch. We drove endlessly through the desolate landscape. We passed run down towns and working ranches, golden hills sprinkled with snow against a blinding gray horizon. Homes and ranches scattered through the hills like floating ships on and sunsoaked sea. “This is fucking beautiful” is all Dr. G and I could speak. The desolation was deafening, the beauty blinding, the juxtaposition of two of us versus our present surroundings was uncomfortable and strange.
We broke up the periods of strangeness with pretentious lunching at a pretentious restaurant where the coffee cups seemed appropriate for an Alice in Wonderland story. Where there were rennovated buildings filled wine boutiques standing appropriately next to the empty store front that long spoiled after the economic slump in the seventies or eighties. It doesn’t matter any longer, Winery’s are replacing the lost economy and a new found pretentiousness filling in for the lost culture. Soon no one will lament the loss of the cowboy but will lavish praise on a bountiful harvest. I can pinpoint my moment of bitterness back to the menu of the pretentious cafe where I read, “not so country gravy”.
I lived my life by the sole beleif that “country gravy” is where a soul swims. We made it home 9 or ten hours later a few bottles of wine richer and our insides full of something we found in the desolate desert of my adopted home.
My Flickr set
“Lets do something”
“Wanna go for a drive?”
“Where?”
“Lets go to the Gorge?”
“OK, gimme 30 minutes I need to shower.”
An hour later I was trapped in a Buick with a man who had ADD and a PHD. He came armed with an MP3 player loaded with a hundred mash-up songs and the entire Insane Clown Posse collection. I was beginning to wonder if leaving my house was such a good idea due to the tension filing my back like a slow rising tide. My senses were overloaded with the sound of the tires racing on wet pavement, the music screaming from the speakers, rain drops pelting the windshield and the barrage of questions from my companion cleverly disquised as conversation.
I realized if I didn’t relax the long drive to the gorge could be a disaster.
My brains finally began to settle and the knots in my neck loosened to tolerable grips, after a few hours, endless sharp turns and, a compromise on the music selections and decible level. The rain continued and so did Dr. G. “Why stop if we’re gonna get wet?” We passed Stevenson, Skamania and then the Dalles. We made a disgusting gas station stop that left us with cold beer and crumpled corn dog wrappers. Nothing better than a six pack of mediocre beer, a warm man and, a cold wind to make an over-anxious girl relax. Long after we passed our original destination and the sun disappeared the question begs answering. Maybe we should just find a hotel so we can see all of this beautiful landscape in the daylight?
Photo by Chantel Williams, 2008
Pendleton became a new destination due to Dr. G’s fascination with all things Indian Casino and kitch. We settled in a small town which was born way before the West was won. We bedded down in a cheap, questional motel at my request and set out to find all that Pendleton had to offer. Deep inside I was hoping the night would turn out like a scene from a bad coming of age country movie with smokie bars, tequila shots with a side plot of heroic redemption of the town slut and the downfall of the prom king. Instead we settled on the best steak I’ve had in years at the nicest restaurant in town. A shot of bourbon and the oldest bar in town and five minutes in the worst dance club with some of the ugliest people I’ve ever seen try to “drop that ass”. The music was last year, the dance moves were exaggerated yet missing any type of rythm. I weighed the ambiance of the bar and the beautiful 2005 Cabernet I found at a wine tasting earlier when the sun was out and decided; that this was the first bar I’ve met where I didn’t want to stay and have a drink.
Chantel Williams, 2008
We awoke to a cold gray day and sprinkling of snow but still decided to take our 25th detour and go to the new Wine mecca that is Walla Walla for brunch. We drove endlessly through the desolate landscape. We passed run down towns and working ranches, golden hills sprinkled with snow against a blinding gray horizon. Homes and ranches scattered through the hills like floating ships on and sunsoaked sea. “This is fucking beautiful” is all Dr. G and I could speak. The desolation was deafening, the beauty blinding, the juxtaposition of two of us versus our present surroundings was uncomfortable and strange.
We broke up the periods of strangeness with pretentious lunching at a pretentious restaurant where the coffee cups seemed appropriate for an Alice in Wonderland story. Where there were rennovated buildings filled wine boutiques standing appropriately next to the empty store front that long spoiled after the economic slump in the seventies or eighties. It doesn’t matter any longer, Winery’s are replacing the lost economy and a new found pretentiousness filling in for the lost culture. Soon no one will lament the loss of the cowboy but will lavish praise on a bountiful harvest. I can pinpoint my moment of bitterness back to the menu of the pretentious cafe where I read, “not so country gravy”.
I lived my life by the sole beleif that “country gravy” is where a soul swims. We made it home 9 or ten hours later a few bottles of wine richer and our insides full of something we found in the desolate desert of my adopted home.
Photo by Chantel Williams, 2008
My Flickr set
Email Article to Friend
Reader Comments (5)
Great pics.
Great pics.
I think streatching i topless with pj bottoms on (rear view) is my fave.