Yasmine Molavi vs.Yogi the Bear

Putting aside Yasi's extreme dislike for the lovable yet highly idiotic cartoon bear of Jellystone, the (actual) park is one of the true gems of North America.

Due to some poor timezone calculations and a car clock that doesn't change automatically we got into Yellowstone much later than excepted. Fortunately, we snagged some free Internet from Starbucks earlier that day and knew where we were sleeping that night. What we didn't know, was the ranger had assigned us one of the absolute worst campsites on the grounds. Strategicially placed right under a massive street light and sandwiched between the RV entrance road and the bathrooms, I wondered if I had said something to upset Vicky, the seemingly sweet bull dyke who checked us in that night.

We changed sites early the next morning. I'll tell you, I had no idea how aggro tree-huggers could get until we waited in the line up at the entrance of the Indian Creek Campgrounds. I likened it to the gold rush and something out of the Legends of the Fall, Brad Pitt played by me, of course. Apparently, a chair thrown in a site means it's taken and backing up on a one way road with kids playing is totally cool - lesson learned. In the end, we snagged a beaut, a corner lot towards the east end of the grounds that backed up to a beautiful ravine, our ravine. If only I had a stake to claim the land my own.

Our stay in Yellowstone was five days, and while I wouldn't call our daily pace aggressive, we saw about as much as one could within our time frame. First on the list, geysers. Geysers, geysers everywhere. Imperial Geyser, Orphan Geyser, White Dome and Pink Cone, Steady Geyser and of course, our favorite, the Schizer Geyser. Okay, that's not really a geyser but it damn well should be. You don't need an amazing imagination to picture what a bubbling Yellowstone paint pot looks like. Get a huge waft of sulfur to the face and you can practically taste it. Yummmy.

The animals of the park were surely a highlight too - eagles, hawks, wolves, foxes, bison, sheep, elk, deer and meese. That's right, according to our resident Canadian, Yasmine Molavi, the plural for moose is meese, you know, just like goose to geese. Thankfully I wasn't driving, for had I been we most assuredly would of ended up in a ravine, perhaps surrounded by some local meese.

Hmm, I wonder if Yogi eats meese or if he's restricted to just picnic baskets?




"Why hello, Vicky!"



Love this pic - no touchy.

But just in case the signs didn't work, they drew up this amazing illustration.

Crystal Pool was probably my favorite. It looked so inviting.
Thank goodness for those caution signs.

Gibbons Falls in Firehole Canyon.

Welcome to our humble abode.

These idiots didn't get the memo that there are three times
more bison incidents than bear attacks in Yellowstone.

Idaho, you-da-hoe.

The title of this post has absolutely nothing to do with its contents. In fact, it's not even that funny, and I know it. I mean, Fraticelli and all of my copywriters wouldn't even entertain the notion of this title.

Ahhh, how very pleasurable.

As we pulled away from Vancouver (windshield wipers on, of course) I was excited about embarking on our northwest American adventure - another first for me. Once we hit Interstate 90 the weather become storybook. Contrary to Yasi's recollection of the trip, I even did a bit of driving that day. Thank god for cruise control and a desolate highway.

Around late afternoon we figured we could get to Coeur d'Alene, just passed the Washington border in the northern panhandle of Idaho. Apparently, French Canadian fur traders gave the local Indian tribe the name, which directly translated means "heart of the awl". In layman’s terms, they were tough negotiators.

We decided to stop off in Spokane to grab some groceries and stumbled into this great natural grocery store, Mother's Cupboard. After borrowing a salt shaker and some pepper, as well as cutlery from the food court we picked up some very fresh salmon, greens, apricots and potatoes (naturally). All we needed was some firewood and we were good to go. Unfortunately, they didn’t sell any. Or that’s what Bob, the tiny, bearded man with thick black frames told me as he was shelving the new milk inventory. About 5 minutes later as we were about to check out Bob flagged us down. He said, “Ya know, this might sound a bit strange, but I live three blocks up from here and you're welcome to as much of the wood in my shed as you would like”. We looked at each other for a second, shrugged our shoulders and said, "why not." We jotted some directions down and sure enough when we got there the shed was unlocked, full of dry wood, and nobody named Billy Bob with a jack-o-lantern smile waiting for us. We wrote him a nice note about karma, left it in the shed and shoved off.

When we got to our campsite in Coeur d’Alene we set up camp right as night fell and started a fire. I am proud to say that not only was I able to start the fire with just one match, I burned an Ed Hardy ad in the process. I don’t know if it was that, the gifted wood or the feeling that the trip was in full swing but the fish tasted divine. I remember thinking to myself, I’m pretty sure this is what our adventure is all about.

Bearded Bob, in all his milk stocking glory.

Bob L. Wood's shed.

Dusk at our campsite in Coeur d'Alene

Burn Ed Hardy, burn!!!

{insert chest thumping here}

A Tuesday Wedding

After two days of driving detox, we headed from Vancouver to Anacortes, Washington for Melodie and Calvin’s wedding; the first of three weddings, on our summer circuit. Karin, Dave, Dan, and their facial hair (not Karin’s) picked us up early on Monday morning, to beat the border rush. Well, not really, that was the plan but who can hold Dan to a schedule; planning is for sissies and those lacking good facial hair.

Being forewarned by our fellow wedding goers, that the border line up was anywhere between 2-4 hours long. We decided to play the Duty free card. This basically entails buying a pack of gum at duty free and using their express lane, to whiz through the border. Turned out the express lane didn’t prove to be very express. So we resorted to Plan B: Boozing in the car, Jägermeister shots to be more specific. This plan proved to be much more efficient. And before we knew it we were at the Anacortes ferry terminal, where 15 or so other guests were also eager to partake in taking pulls of Jagger  or the “coffee” game as we called it.

We arrived in Doe Bay (on Orcas) in time to catch the tail end of the rehearsal dinner. This was our first visit to the San Juan Islands, a chain of three islands to the northwest of Washington State. The area prides itself on locally grown produce and an amazing variety of meats and seafood.

The next three days were a blur of great eats*, good friends, and highly rewarding games of kancho. Melo and Cal’s wedding was possibly the sweetest wedding I’ve ever been to. The groom had even made the bride’s dress! (I don’t think you can get any cuter than that).

*yes, that was Justin and I hovering around the oyster bar, like two vultures stalking prey.

The coffee addicts on the ferry, with our very own live band.

Karin trying to fit in the facial hair club.

Baked eggs with white cheddar, and the most delicious grits ever!

The picture says it all.

A display of the Japanese love for Kancho.

Wedding card, painted at the wedding.

Eat it, Vancouver!

Just as expected, after Yasi's guarantee of sunshine, Vancouver delivered about four solid days of rain. But it was fine, she was tired from all the driving and I was in need of a place to elevate my foot and take a load off, after an exhausting last week in LA.

I love going to Vancouver and seeing the Molavi clan, because as with my family they take eating very seriously. Sure we saw a couple of sights, visited a few friends and thumbed through the old family photo albums. But soon after we finished having a laugh at Yasi's little boy phase and progressive haircuts we got right back to business. Food. And I loved every minute of it.

Even though it's been several generations since my relatives lived in Italy we carry on the custom that food brings family together and the Persians (or the Iranians if you're reading this Soroush) are no different. It may be tea instead of coffee or ghormeh sabzi instead of lasagna but at the heart it's exactly the same. Take family and friends, throw in a smorgasbord of good eats and you have yourself quite a memorable time.


The Molavis and some white dude grubbing at Hi Nippon
 (more commmonly known as High Nipple).

  




Wednesday night reggae dancehall at Shine. Ba ba.

Boyzzzz just wanna have faa-un. They just wanna...

  

Are you from the Cricket family?

I'm actually jumping ahead a bit here, but frankly, I need to vent. I understand that I'm probably being an oversensitive narrow-minded traveller here but what's with the chirping. An example:
"So Yasi, did you enjoy your dim sum dish that you..."
CHIRP CHIRP!
"...that you seemed to..."
CHIRP CHIRP!
"Never mind!"

Basically, after meals (especially in Indonesia) it seems that it is customary to try and vacuum the remaining food particles lodged deep within your teeth. From what I can see, the method is to first pull your lips apart, press them firmly against the gums, direct your tongue to the piece of, we'll say, pork stuck between your, we'll say, canine and first premolar and suck. The outcome is a high frequency sound that I would equate to a high pressure sporadic faucet leak or the common cricket.

General table manners vastly differ from culture to culture - salad fork on the outer left, eat with your hands, slurp, don't slurp. I get that. The irony enters when you notice that there are toothpicks on every table, every hawker stall, food cart or structure even slightly resembling a place to consume sustenance. Some people even have cigarette cases just for tooth picks, so it behooves me what the necessity for the sucking is. And believe me, I've tried it. Unless my form is horribly off, it's pretty ineffective.

It gets better. It seems that this post-eating ritual has made the leap. Yes, apparently it likens itself to the quarterback who licks his fingers before he hikes the ball and consequently licks his finger before performing any task. Either that or it's a type of tick commonly associated with a form of southeast asian tourettes that I'm unfamiliar with. On several occasions our taxi drivers found the urge (or compulsion) to chirp every 30 to 45 second. Fan-tastic!



It's official, there is one thing I most assuredly do no like about this place. Oh, that, and the smell of sauteing chillies. Really, it's actually noxious.

It must be time for a ginger tea, I sound cranky.

Driving through Trees

After a night in Fort Bragg, a town full of ex-military men and the dirtiest hippies I have ever seen we headed to Portland via the PCH. We stepped out at 6am eager to make good time to be in Portland by dinner. Driving Highway 1 really tested my already poor driving skills. This trip has opened my eyes to who I am and enjoy being in life: A PASSENGER. 

A few hours into the day, the thick morning fog cleared, just in time for us to visit the Chandelier Tree (yes, we enjoyed some super touristy sites) in Leggett, California. This 315ft tall coast redwood tree, has a 6' wide x 6'9" high hole cut through it's base allowing you to drive, skip or cartwheel through it. Though my driving skills were tested again, I highly enjoyed this experience.

We arrived in Portland at 8pm, and were greeted by our host Gavin, who not only offered us his room, but  also took us to one of the best micro breweries (Deschutes Brewery), and 80s dance clubs I have ever been to. After a night of dancing (on a bum ankle) and drinking, we were comfortably tucked into Gavin's bed and ready for another day of more high energy activities: eating, drinking, and driving (not necessarily in that order).

We woke up early on Saturday, determined to try Tin Shed cafe for breakfast; a recommendation from our fellow foodies Ethan and Roxanne. After a hearty breakfast of poached eggs, biscuits, rosemary-mushroom gravy, and coconut milk jasmine rice porridge (my favorite) Justin and I were once again on the road, headed for what I had promised him to be a sunny summer Vancouver. A city completely different from what he had experienced the previous winter...



The morning fog.




Protege 5 going through the Chandelier Tree.



Vitamin B at Deschutes Brewery, Portland, Oregon.



Devoted Dragon boaters.




Girls just wanna have fun at Portland's Crystal Ballroom.



Blurry dancing monsters.

Tin Shed cafe, a love of hippies and hipsters alike.



If only all traffic was accompanied by airshows.



Nausea comes before Oysters & Forts

Off we went, with the Golden Gate in our rear view and Portland our destination. I was probably the one more excited about venturing off Interstate 5 and winding north up the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway or the 1 for some of you east coasters). Through beautiful Muir Beach, across strangely named Dogtown and spinning around Olema. That's when it happened, the stiffening of the neck, the tacky tongue and those burps, oh those burps. Yep, motion sickness. Some of the worst I had ever had. I felt like someone had me pinned against the passengers seat. Suddenly every twist, turn and dip moved me closer and closer to an eruption. What started as breathtaking vistas and exhilarating roadways had quickly become a potential 3rd grade science fair exhibit. Fortunately, for us and the car, we rolled into a small gas-stop town called Point Reyes Station - that to my surprise had a pharmacy. After gobbling down some non-drowsy Dramamine and a ginger beer, I told Yas I just needed to walk around a bit and I'd be ready to roll again.

I never thought I'd be grateful for motion sickness, but thanks to it we stumbled into a place renown for their BBQ oysters. As we were meandering around a couple of the cute shops in town waiting for my stomach to settle, we inquired about the best spot to get some shelled deliciousness. It turned out that the best place was actually about 10 miles north at a roadside stop called Marshall General Store. By this point Yas and I were so hyped about the oysters I had totally forgotten about my bout with nausea just a half hour before.

When we landed at The Marshall Store it smelled heavenly. Surrounded by small time boat repair shops, it was obviously a locals spot. We bellied up to the counter and ordered a half dozen raw oysters and a half dozen BBQ'd. Delicious local oysters pulled out of the north pacific waters only hours before they were on our plate. I'm no food journalist, so please take a gander at the pictures, they show our bliss.

What I was not expecting was to have possibly the best sweet beef jerky I've ever consumed. There it was just sitting at the register, so discrete and innocent. How were we to know our quick beefy hor d'oeuvre would nearly induce tears. Naturally, after we finished the oysters we marched back into the store and grabbed several more pieces and hit the road.

Hours later entering Fort Bragg still licking our well-seasoned fingers, we pulled into North Coast Brewing Company and had some surprisingly tasty nosh - a calamari steak to be exact. We also guzzled down a couple of Red Seal Ales, which unbeknown to me were brewed right across the street. Looking at the map, we really hadn't made it very far but it was getting late and my driver was getting tired so we ducked into a roadside motel and called it a night.

Photography exhibit in a Point Reyes gallery.



Half a dozen BBQ'd oysters at The Marshall Store.



Patiently waiting for their Red Seal Ales at the North Coast Brewing Company