The Bureau

I finished my roadtrip with a journey into the interior of Washington State. Around 40 minutes' drive from Seattle lie the towns of Fall City, Snoqualmie and North Bend, all used during the filming of David Lynch's Twin Peaks TV series.

To say I'm a fan of Twin Peaks is something of an understatement. An ex-boyfriend introduced me to it at university and I've returned to it constantly since. I'm a Lynch fan anyway, but something about Twin Peaks stands apart for me, possibly because the atmosphere it evokes echoes very closely the place in which I grew up in the north of Scotland (lots of trees, lots of grey skies, although no handsome FBI agents, sadly).

I'm not going to start analysing TP, but I can say that I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the location holds all of the atmospheric magic that comes across on screen. There's a dividing line somewhere on Highway 202, after which I felt a change in the environment that made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. First, it gets gloomier, the sky more melodramatic. The dull suburban landscape of the Seattle hinterlands is replaced by mountainous countryside, and as you divert from the highway onto the back roads around Fall City, you notice what made FBI agent Dale Cooper stop in his tracks on his first approach to Twin Peaks: Douglas Firs. Magnificent, swooping evergreen trees that add majesty and menace to the landscape.

I drove on to North Bend, site of Twede's cafe, which was used as the Double R Diner in Twin Peaks. The original building burned down a few years ago (things seem to burn down frequently in this area, adding a nice little link to the 'fire walk with me' theme of the series). The current owners milk the connection by supplying coffee in Twin Peaks mugs, and the compulsory slice of cherry pie. Both the coffee and the pie were excellent, but I was disappointed not to find Norma or Shelly serving behind the counter. Twede's is staffed by young men who listen to death metal in the kitchen. They're fearsomely polite though. My server repeatedly referred to me as 'ma'am', which I kind of liked. There were a bunch of snotty local high street kids drinking malt shakes in there. I think they cottoned on that I was a tourist, and I could hear them talking about some of the old characters in Twin Peaks. The back wall of the diner is covered in memorabilia - some beautiful photos of the actors resting between sets and messing around in the diner, as well as many interesting newspaper clippings.


Damn fine.


Buzzing neon.


Twede's cafe/Double R Diner

After my slice of pie I doubled back to Snoqualmie, which is the home of the magnificent waterfalls that feature heavily in Twin Peaks. In a moment of madness I'd booked myself into the Salish Lodge at the top of the falls, the exterior of which is used to represent the Great Northern hotel, run by TVs greatest crook, Benjamin Horne. There were no members of the Horne family in evidence at Salish Lodge, just obsequiously polite staff (American servers are incredibly polite anyways, but when you're spending a lot of money they really lay it on with a trowel). Once I'd checked in I had time to observe the falls from my window, and then to wander out to the observation deck to look at them more closely. They are over 100 feet taller than Niagara, and the noise the water makes as it hits the bottom is intense. There's an almost smoke-like quality to the spray that rises from the pool. I peered closely and saw a lone swimmer - a tiny figure barely visible in the dark waters. He tried to get close the torrent but couldn't manage it, and in the end resorted to basking on the rocks. I wonder if Agent Cooper ever took a dip?

Great Northern/Salish Lodge


View of the falls from my room.

Snoqualmie itself is satisfyingly weird. There's a railway museum with some excellent burnt out old rail cars and a log that would give the log lady something to think about. I spent longer than necessary hovering the bookstore listening to a truly extraordinary conversation between the owner and a young man. I didn't get the entire gist, but the old man was reminiscing about his time as a reporter during the Vietnam war and both praising and berating the young man for deciding to become a journalist. "You knew what you were signing up for," he muttered ominously at one point.


"My log saw something."

I snooped around the back streets, finding an intriguing crime scene behind the hairdressers and buying some unironic owl mementoes in the hardware store. The man behind the counter was completely deaf, and also slightly doolally. He rung up my purchases three times, giving his wife plenty of time to welcome me to the area and to encourage me to head out on some of the mountain trails. Snoqualmie is dominated by Mount Si to the east, and the actual Twin Peaks to the north. They hover in the skyline, sort of inviting you at the same time as making you nervous. I bought some maps even though I knew I'd have no time for trekking.


Snoqualmie crime scene: but where's the sheriff?

My evening was spent in disgusting luxury: lounging in the spa, drinking very pleasant local wine and eating local cheeses. I fell asleep to the sound of the falls and the crackling of logs from the open fireplace in my room. Everything about the lodge (even the fact that it's called a lodge) was reminiscent of Twin Peaks: from the carpets with native American design to the wood panelling in the corridors. No one pushed a note under the door during the night and I wasn't served a glass of milk by a shaky octogenarian, but perhaps that was just as well.

The next day I went hunting for other famous Twin Peaks locations. I got lost looking for the building used as the Sheriff's department, but I did manage to find the Sheriff, skulking in his car in an empty car lot at the top of a very steep hill. As soon as I arrived he started up his car and drove off in a hurry, perhaps off to an assignation with the bookhouse boys.

I did manage to find the building used as the Roadhouse, which lies at a junction in North Bend. It's still called the Roadhouse, but seems to be some kind of upscale restaurant. I had a quick nose about but by this time I was running late and had to cut short my investigations.


The Roadhouse

As I rejoined the highway I had a sudden sense of loss. Just as the atmosphere had changed when I crossed some invisible line on arriving, so the feeling left me as I moved away. While I was there I told myself to enjoy the experience as much as possible because it was unlikely I'd ever come back. Now I'm not so sure. Aside from its association with a rather bizarre old TV series, it's a place worth visiting for its own sake. I've put the maps up on my wall to ponder.

In Seattle now, theoretically at the end of our journey, in mileage terms at least. We have covered the whole of the west coast, pretty much (should really have started in San Diego). 1040 miles as the crow flies, many many more the way we traveled it: some inland routes, some along the coast. We did everything we wanted to do, except go to Yosemite. We had to make do with the redwood national parks instead.


Redwood!

California
California was long, and hot and overwhelming. Further north it got more relaxed. We stayed in a small hippy town on the coast called Arcata. It was straight out of a David Lynch film. Intensely weird, intensely creepy, shrouded in mist. Three of the tallest men I have ever seen I saw there (two were brothers, I think). We ate in a darkened, cavernous restaurant with a stage and backdrop hidden by thick heavy drapes at one end. The waitress was freakishly beautiful. She was in love with one of the tall men. They embraced in an alcove at the side of the room. She stood on her tiptoes and stared up into his eyes while he stroked her arms. I couldn't take my eyes off them. Something about them made me very happy. I don't know why, except that they radiated love for one another. Maybe that's enough. On the way home that night I got pulled over by a cop for turning right from the wrong lane. I sat quietly and waited for him, knowing nothing would happen. As soon as he heard our voices his whole tone changed. He told us he used to live in Hungary; explained he had to pull over anyone driving erratically as 'this town is rife with people who smoke weed and drive badly'. Wished us a good night and went on his way. I enjoyed the whole experience, like the tourist I am.

Biscuits
I had biscuits and gravy for breakfast one morning. Biscuits seem to be part scone, part rusk, part macaroon (without the coconut). Gravy seems to be more like macaroni cheese than actual gravy. The whole concoction is vile, but I'm glad I tried it.


There's biscuits in there somewhere.

Breakfast
We eat a large breakfast at the start of each day's drive and then skip lunch. Breakfast is always immense, always accompanied by endless coffee, and is always followed by a massive insulin crash (for me) which means I have to sleep in the car for an hour even though I've been sleeping well most of the trip. Sometimes I have French toast, sometimes waffles, sometimes pancakes, eggs, bacon, links, maple syrup, strawberries, cream. It is intense, and addictive, and I am very glad I won't be able to do it anymore when I go home. More and more I am impressed by the many people in this country who have managed not to become obese.


Breakfast: it's political.

Oregon
At first, Oregon is no different than California, except there are more trees. We kind of skipped through this state. It's not so big, and the drive we chose was kind of dull. We slept through Eugene (the low point of the trip for me: tired, overly emotional, fed up of all the driving and searching for motel rooms and no privacy). The second day we made it to Portland, and things improved. We settled in one place for a couple of nights. It's a nice city - not how I imagined it. More spread out, more focused on the river, gentler vibe. We hung out in a student district, ate some very good sushi, watched the expensive people and their expensive mutts. I went to see Food Inc at an indie cinema and promptly regretted everything I'd eaten over the previous ten days. Still stunned by the fact there are only thirteen (thirteen!) slaughterhouses in the whole of the United States of America. We celebrated my birthday on the fourth by driving to the beach. This involved four hours in the car, which has come to mean a short drive in this country. Cannon Beach is beautiful, epically beautiful. Everyone there is happy and wealthy and nice. We stayed on the beach for several hours, reading, digging holes, listening to kids playing (even on a baking hot day the Pacific is too cold to swim in). Some little Asian American kids came over and stood by me shyly. I looked up from my book. They wanted to know if they could have some of my sand (I had a pile of sand beside me). I told them it was ok. They were so happy I almost cried behind my sunglasses. We headed back to Portland for the evening fireworks. Sat by the riverside with thousands and thousands of people, watched the display. It took half an hour, building to an epic finale. People clapped and roared as the intensity of the fireworks increased. By the time they erupted in a final shower of red, white and blue I was clapping too. Went out for drinks with some friends of a good old friend I have recently gotten back in touch with. They told us how untypical of America proper California, Oregon and Washington are. 'The recycling stops on the other side of the mountains,' as they put it.


Portland dawg.

Washington
Washington is colder, sparser, further north. It feels like a relief to be here. It feels a thousand miles away from LA. Our first stop was Tacoma, for a mission most tourists don't get to experience in this country. In 1913, when my then three-year-old grandfather was naturalised an American citizen his address was a residential area of Tacoma. To my surprise, when I entered it into Google maps, up popped the same address, still residential. Not sure why I was surprised, but I was. I guess everything feels a lot less than 100 years old in cities here. It didn't take us long to find it: a rustic house with a wooden tiled exterior, a beautiful tree outside and the gutter hanging off. The whole street was filled with unique, picturesque wooden houses and had a lovely atmosphere. The blinds were drawn but two cars were parked outside. I decided to be brave and knocked on the door. One of the fattest men I have ever met opened it. His name was Art. His wife's name was Sandra. Sandra was also very fat. They had lived in the house for 23 years and were slowly renovating it. They very kindly ushered me inside and answered my questions. During the renovations they had discovered the original insulation materials in the walls: newspapers from 1911, from which they had dated the house. As my grandfather was born in 1910 I guess maybe his father had built the house. Art explained that 'none of the walls are straight'. Art And Sandra didn't ask us any questions: seemed a little shy. I didn't overstay my welcome, but I would have liked to have stayed and sat under the tree for a while (Sandra told me it was a weeping birch, and that her children wanted her to cut it down as it blocked the light but she never would.) It still seems extraordinary to me that I have traveled so far in this strange and alien land, only to have found a tiny patch of my own history - a place that, on some level, I have been to before.


Grandpa's house!


Tomorrow
Tomorrow me and my bro are breaking ranks. He's going to search for Jimi Hendrix's grave in Seattle. I'm going to a place I have visited before many times in my dreams and my imagination. If you know me well, you can guess where I'm going. If you don't, you can guess anyway. Time to go and choose an appropriate shade of lipstick.

The trip has become a trip. Initial wonderment has been replaced by a strange mixture of emotions. There are long periods of driving, through sometimes extremely beautiful and sometimes quite monotonous terrain. There is so much of everything in California - millions of redwood trees, endless miles of sun-bleached grass, vineyard upon vineyard, closer to the coast just mile after mile of grey haar. The haar is almost constant at the coast, which is both a relief after the boiling interior and a nuisance when we want to see the ocean and sit on warm sand. We zigzag back and forth between the two, and it creates a strange natural mirror of my moods: open and optimistic for part of the day, sunken and muted the rest. There is so much time to think. When I'm driving there is almost nothing to worry about - an automatic car and wide empty roads make for an easy drive. When I'm the passenger car sickness means I can't read or move around too much. To be honest this is not much fun. I spend most of my time thinking anyway, and at the moment there is a lot to perturb me. I'd rather the distractions of company and events, but instead I am thrust into an uncomfortable confrontation with thoughts I'd prefer to escape from. In a way it doesn't help that I'm traveling with my brother. Unless something happens on our journey, there's not an awful lot to talk about - we already know pretty much everything about each other's lives. I feel a little guilty for being glum some of the time.

That said, the last few days have been extremely eventful, and there have been some moments where I've thought to myself: "this is one of the coolest things you will ever experience". Some examples:

Driving
I've always been dismissive of Americans and their attachment to their cars, but until you visit somewhere like California and start driving yourself, you can't really comprehend just how dependent this nation is on the automobile. Take somewhere like Mulholland Drive for example. It's IN Los Angeles, and yet it is so high up and isolated from amenities. There are houses all along it, but no gas stations, no stores, no hospitals. It's in the center of a massive conurbation, but if its residents didn't drive, they'd literally starve to death. Out in the sticks the distance between houses and amenities is just staggering. I don't think I could live here purely because I'd feel so vulnerable to the price of oil.
That said, I had the most amazing driving experience of my life the other day. I drove us from Monterey to San Francisco, a drive that takes in an incredible freeway that winds down through spectacular hillsides, and another that cruises up Silicon Valley and then hits the city. We finally got the iPod to work and I caught my first glimpse of San Fran to the sounds of Yello's 'Oh Yeah'. Fans of Ferris Bueller will appreciate the juxtaposition. Driving a big SUV along an American freeway to a classic song - that makes you feel all conquering and all powerful. No wonder these people cling on to that part of their way of life with such defiance.

Animals
On the way up I've had the chance to see elephant seals and sealions up close in their natural habitat. So close, in fact, that I can tell you elephant seals are STINKY, and sealions are total posers. No matter how low I'm feeling, animals always manage to bring me out of myself. They're just so much themselves, so idiosyncratic, and somehow so similar to us. Americans adore their pets. In fact I've even seen anti-PETA advertising exhorting Americans to stand up for their 'right to own a pet'. Our preferred motel has a welcome policy to pets, and so there are generally happy looking dogs bounding about and barking up a storm. It's nice.

Strangers
My poor brother took ill yesterday, after some dodgy Chinatown seafood in San Fran. He was forced to spend the day in bed, and so I was forced to go out and make my own company. We were staying on Geary Street, on the edge of the tenderloin district, which is one of the skankiest places I have ever witnessed anywhere (waaay worse than anything I've seen in Asia). There were people smoking crack on the street, women covered in track marks, homeless guys wandering around in the middle of the road like zombies, doing scary random shit. This gave me a somewhat unfavorable initial impression of 'America's most beautiful city' and I wandered as far from the hotel as I could get. This meant an overdose of shopping areas and tourist attractions, which tired me out. Somewhat disillusioned at the end of my day, I wandered back towards the hotel. Just a few meters up the street I chanced upon a nice looking coffee bar, with some normal looking people inside. I wandered in and began reading my book. It didn't take long before I got sucked into a conversation with the bar owner (a Turkish Cypriot) and a psychic called Elizabeth (a reformed psychic, to be precise). It soon became apparent that I'd wandered into the epicenter of neighborhood social life. Everyone who walked by popped in to say hello, ask a question, share some gossip, try and sell a stolen bicycle, find a partner to play poker with. I must have been introduced to between 15 and 20 people, each of whom had something interesting to say. At some point a local homeless guy came in and asked to play the piano. I sat there, listening to a bunch of amusing strangers discussing the nature of reality as this guy played one haunting melody after another on this utterly tuneless old piano. It was a truly beautiful moment. If it wasn't for the black poker chip nestling at the bottom of my handbag this morning, I'd think it was all a dream.