Back on the bus, y'all

At the Greyhound station in Seattle, around 11:00 P.M., we were approached by a man I thought was a fellow passenger. He didn’t have a name tag or uniform that I could discern, but from his questions I guess he must have been a security guard: “Where are you going tonight? Spokane at 11:45?” It was clear, though he didn’t use this word, that he was checking to make sure we weren’t vagrants. If we had been, he’d have cleared us off the property.

I was vaguely proud that we were scruffy enough to be asked, with our backpacks and all. I had heard that Immigration and Customs Enforcement, or whichever branch of Fatherland Security is responsible for treating 100 miles from the U.S. border as “border cities,” was going onto buses and taking off people who didn’t have proper immigration documents. But I never saw any bus passenger even asked for I.D., and I don’t know if it’s just that someone like me would not be targeted. I’d like to think, if I were asked for my papers in “my own” country, I would stand up and complain, on behalf of those who have more to fear.

But the vagrant question points to another target. I didn’t get this phrase from my socialist magazine, I’m just calling it like I see it: Poverty is being criminalized. The more homeless people I saw on the streets of Portland or Seattle, the more I wondered how in the world they must live. By definition, homeless people have to do everything in public. Everything. Yet normal, natural things that we all have to do, like eat and rest, are increasingly banned in public places. If I sat on a bench and ate a banana or even fell asleep, I doubt a police officer would come over and stop me or move me along. But where are homeless people supposed to go?

I understand the bus stations, I really do. Customers should be able to use the bathroom without it being filled with people who live there. And nobody wants their sidewalk to be somebody else’s sewer. Yet poor people have the same needs you and I have. It’s one thing for the trail hikers to choose to sleep in a park. At least they have a choice.

Bummer, eh? Let me tell you, we were glad to get to Spokane! (And I finally confirmed that it’s pronounced Spok-AN, with a short a. You know, like Appalachia.) This is the home of T’s cousin Deirdre, Cuin and Cade’s mother, and her husband Brad, daughters Madeleine (Cade’s twin) and Jacqueline, son-in-law Chris, plus friends, dogs, cats, fish, and a horse called Huckleberry. You name it, it lives on their property. Even the deer are welcome there, although they’re legitimate objects of the hunt in other places.

Deirdre reckons it’s the Irish ancestry, but T’s relatives have ended up all over the world. In Deirdre’s case, she fell in love with an American. I have long thought that is an extremely risky thing to do, but she did and the rest, as they say…

Eastern Washington is a completely different landscape from the coast. Although it was too dark on the overnight bus to see it, as soon as you cross the Cascades you are in high desert. I was impressed by how much land there is out in the country where Deirdre lives, yet how close they are to Spokane. Before British fur traders arrived and set up a trading post, Spokane was long a crossroads for various indigenous nations, who met there to powwow and yes, trade.

That's Herbert Hoover, then Secretary of Commerce, with Alice Gary, great-granddaughter of Chief Spokane Garry, 1926. Picture in the Davenport Hotel

 One of the questions Jacqueline asked about our travels was if we had experienced any problems in different countries because of our relationship. Neither of us could think of any! Of course, this is The Discreet Traveler, and we make choices about which countries to visit and how discreet we need to be; but I couldn’t think of anywhere where we’d particularly had to hide, do the twin beds thing, etc. I did say I imagined a male couple would have a harder time, or at least would have to be more careful. As Cuca Hepburn wrote, I don't know whether it's because the revolution has been won or because people ignore women.

Chris took this picture of us.

The best thing about visiting relatives, besides being with people we know (or are getting to know), is home comfort. Deirdre and co. obliged with lots of good food, including an outing to Green Bluff, where we could pick our own peaches.

I’ve mentioned before that a perfect peach, as opposed to a mealy one you get in a supermarket, is just about my favorite food in the world. Along with peach ice cream, which is as good as it is rare. The peach ice cream we got at Beck’s Harvest House was almost as good as Ljubljana’s, possibly the best thing I’ve eaten on our travels.

We also had a Thai lunch at a tiny place that just looked like it was built around someone’s home kitchen, followed by a visit to a state park. There’s a rifle range built on the edge of it, and I was glad I’d seen the sign, or the once familiar sound of shots ringing out might have startled me. The formation one can view here along the Spokane River is called the Bowl and Pitcher. See if you can pick them out.

Me either

Deirdre also took us around downtown Spokane one day. This is a city with a lot of churches. I know one can say that about any number of American towns, but really, there seemed to be a different denomination on every block, from Korean to Greek Orthodox. 

The river runs right through downtown, which means you can walk down and look at Spokane Falls from the central park.

Spokane also has a cool independent bookstore called Auntie’s, and you know I’m always up for those. Indeed, it was the prettiest downtown, with the healthiest looking mix of businesses, that I’d seen in quite a while. Deirdre also pointed out these signs, which we’d seen a lot of on the West Coast.

It kind of makes me sad that we live in a time when Americans feel they have to put up signs like this. Like the statement I once read about “open and accepting” signs at churches: “I thought everyone was welcome in a church.” But at least the signs are there.

The most famous son of Spokane was Bing Crosby. He was actually born in Tacoma, but grew up in Spokane and used to sing in the historic Davenport Hotel.

Hall of Doges

Photo: Deirdre Hansen

The Davenport is yet another example of a gorgeously preserved building saved from dereliction in the last century. It was once, and evidently still is, one of the grand hotels of the United States. I understand it is quite reasonably priced considering, but we had an even better deal at Deirdre’s.

It was amazingly sunny and warm while we were in Spokane, a pattern that would continue as we traveled north. Our final stop in town was Manito Park, which has lovely formal gardens. It also has a great collection of lilacs—a favorite of mine—but they’re not in bloom in August.

After pork chops, waffles with strawberries, roast beef dinner, homebaked soda bread, oatmeal with fresh peaches, plus all the stuff T. cooked while we were there, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when Deirdre offered to pack us lunch for the bus. I was surprised that she threw in Madeleine’s homemade chocolate chip cookies, too! The only thing we didn’t have while we were there was junk and alcohol. T. bought Doritos at a rest stop, and I can’t say anything about the other, because it is banned on Greyhound buses.

I mentioned the rest stop. It was at a place called Ritzville, which believe me, it wasn’t. They really need to work on their place names in Washington. We didn’t go, for example, to Potholes State Park, but I’m willing to bet it is nicer than Ritzville. Now who mixed these up?

The bus over to Everett took what might be called the scenic route. We stopped a couple of times to pick up hikers from the Pacific Crest Trail, for instance at Stevens Pass (4,061 feet). The bus crossed the Wenatchee River, wound its way through the Mt. Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest, and passed a state fair, with tents dedicated to Goat, Sheep, Swine, etc. Most of the scenery was fabulous.

In Everett we switched to our seventh and final bus of our West Coast journey, and the only one driven by a woman. I have to say Greyhound (and the affiliates it contracts to) was 7 for 7 in terms of decent journeys. Only this last bus to Vancouver was not on time, and that was understandable given rush hour traffic north of Seattle, plus the Canadian border at Blaine. In the event, we hardly had to wait at all to cross the border, and the Canadians were not concerned about T. even though our plan was to come back and spend several months in their country. I mean mine! We were asked what we did for work and the border official concluded that I am on kind of a sabbatical. I guess you could call it that.

I’ve never been to the western provinces of Canada, so British Columbia was like “coming home to a place I’d never been before” (as John Denver used to sing). Gastown seemed like a happening neighborhood although we didn’t have time to enjoy it. We were spending one night and, as Vancouver is another very expensive city, we spent it at the Cambie Hostel. A little less shiny than the H.I., but then they had a live band in the bar (and a bar for that matter), and a resident cat. 

We were so grateful for our cousins’ hospitality, especially as we’d never met most (or in my case, any) of them before. Americans, including those who have immigrated to the U.S., are a diverse people, and they’re also the salt of the earth. As happy as I was to arrive in Canada, we weren’t quite finished with the western United States. The biggest state of all was still to come.

At the Canadian border, Surrey, BC. Canada est toujours "ouvert"!