Lamentations

Things sure ain’t what they used to be.

For one thing, I don’t remember so many sea lions at the waterfront in Newport. I always heard that the fishermen hated them, because they eat a lot of salmon, and nobody could do anything about it. Except sharks, maybe. We still have Great Whites, I do believe. Maybe this one hates his life because the radiation from the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant is making things uncomfortable. It certainly is never far from my mind when I come to the coast, but the idea that it is still spreading feels a bit surreal. I guess it is always that way when nobody talks about something important.

But I came down here with the determination to live dangerously and eat some irradiated seafood. After writing all morning, I was hungry, and needed to take a break in order to catch the bus from the marina office. I didn’t want to take down all the curtains and leave the site empty, though there was plenty of room. My two camping compadres here in the dry camping area, who were in big fancy motorhomes, had left, and Janet was all alone.

The bus is free, or was for me due to room tax, and there were a couple of people on it, two quite unsavory, with their life belongings and their two dogs. However the dogs were quiet, and the people got off early in the route. The old bus driver, who looked like a template for a Cap’n on a seafood restaurant with his white whiskers, didn’t say a word about the dogs, the massive stroller full of crap, etc. and I decided I was impressed at his tolerance. However the culture of gas-powered snobbery is quite alive and well on the coast these days. More about that soon.

Going up and over the bridge was fun, and not having to drive for once, I could look out at the view. Arriving at the waterfront, I walked up one side and down the other, and am reporting that not only is it not better than when I used to come down here decades ago, but it is worse. There is still the touristy stuff like Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, and still a couple of real seafood wholesalers, but no good restaurants or shops. A sweeping statement, I know. In the 70s the hippies discovered the Oregon coast, and opened funky and sometimes truly artistic places full of earthy, bohemian charm. In the 80s the rage for high quality, gourmet food added refinement to some of the places, like the old Whale’s Tale, which is long gone. The hippies are now the aged boomers, and seem to be delusional and hypocritical after all. “Never trust anybody over 30,” I remember hearing them say. I was ten, so not worried at the time. And the ten-year-old in me was fascinated by this slab from an old tree, but I’m not sure I believe the dates on there. In fact I’m pretty sure this is BS, Mr. Ripley.

I investigated a sushi restaurant and found a lovely, spacious deck in the back, over the water, in full sun and warm enough to enjoy. I could hear sea lions barking again, and wondered where they were. I did enjoy the cozy miso soup in the damp air, but the sushi roll was abysmal. They sprinkled such a microscopic amount of seafood on it that they felt the need to plop a disgusting looking dollop of yellow mayonnaise on top of each slice. Which did not look freshly dolloped, either. My meal was punctuated at intervals by a sudden, loud splash from the dock next door, and I saw that some people were crabbing, throwing crab pots in after checking them. So no excuse for the skimpy sushi.

I walked down further and saw a dock full of people looking at something, and wandered down to see the most grotesque pile of sea lions crowded on a floating platform, basking in the sun, their heads all on each other’s bellies.  I did not find the situation fascinating and endearing, as I think you normally would. Perhaps it is just my attitude. I wonder if the local Indians would have killed them promptly on sight, thus keeping them away from their own food sources. Without a predator, creatures become distasteful, don’t they? I might include humans in that assertion. Complacency is not noble.

The rest of the walk was t-shirt stores, about six candy shops in a two block area, and the strange redundancy of  three Mo’s seafood restaurants in one block. They have spread to other coastal towns, since we got good chowder at the tiny original location. This now has a hideous painting of Mo, the old lady, and a nice piece of sheer nonsense eulogizing her. She was hardworking and crusty but with a heart of gold (read: bitch) who passed on her work ethic to her children and grandchildren (read: abusive and dull witted). An anecdote that was supposed to be endearing was clearly a blatant fabrication, something about a car (no doubt one of the many unrestrained drunks in town back in the day) driving right through the front of her restaurant, and her response being to not get angry but rather to tell the person she would just make a garage door since it was such a good idea to drive in there. And thus some indoor/outdoor patio was born. However I did not see one. Cool story, bro.

God I am so sick of bullshit. Dishonest food. Dishonest PR. Dishonest vacationing!

After walking by an ‘art’ shop that featured rocks of fake colors etched with words like adore or dream or any number of equally banal words of fake meaning, I stopped for an ice cream. Of course they sold Umpqua ice cream, which is not good, but I bought a generous chocolate peanut butter scoop anyway. Nearly flavorless sugar glop. Dishonest dessert. But I finished it.

And then Janet and I had a nice sunset back at the marina.