Vacations Blog

Road Trip - photo by wili_hybrid

(Continued from Part One, Part Two, and Part Three.)

Back when my husband was about ten years old, his family took a road trip from Arizona to Wyoming to visit some family. Picture, if you will, the family packed in the old woody station wagon - Mom, Dad, my husband, and his two younger sisters. Picture, if you will, all of the luggage and gear that said family would require, also packed into the aforementioned station wagon. And, picture (again, if you will) two 150+ pound German Shepherds gleefully sprawled among the children in the back seat, tongues lolling, drool a-spraying. All crammed into this one station wagon. For fifteen hours straight (his dad didn’t believe in pit stops), and nearly a thousand miles. One way.

It’s a wonder my husband didn’t need therapy for this childhood experience. But, not only did he come out the other side of it (basically) normal, he’s willing to repeat the experience. Sans the station wagon. And the other family members. And the dogs.

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We’ve already covered what to ask when looking for good local eats, right? But there’s a good chance they’re still going to send you somewhere safe - someplace where the menu isn’t laminated.

Which means you gotta dig - and here’s a trick I learned during my 5 years in China:

Find a construction site around mid-day and wait for the whistle to blow*.

Then follow the workers.

See - we’re talking about big boys who don’t get paid big money but need to eat. And they always seem to know where this predicament can be taken care of.

So, while in the less-than-thrifty Honolulu, I did just that. I followed a few yardworkers to a serious place.

Helena’s.

Now - I’ll go ahead and tell you I was quite pleased with myself but would soon find out that this is a rather well-known local dive that tourists occasionally get taken to. But even with a few haole sitting in - it was exactly what you’d want in a hidden haunt.

Now - you’ve learned the main lesson of who to follow.

And when it comes to dining, here’s another.

Order one of each from the appetizer menu.

Sure, it might cost you a few dollars more, but there’s no better way to sample what the kitchen can do.

I ordered this - and still don’t know exactly what it was:

I mean, I know the fish is called ‘poke’, but the eyeball thingy I’m not sure about. It’s a mussel of sorts and is really salty.

But that’s just it - I experienced something that wasn’t that great and am still not sure what it is but am better for it.

Which is exactly what travel should be all about.

*Entirely based on The Flinstones, I’ve never had a callus on these hands, so am not sure what it sounds like.

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(photo courtesy of Clayton.com- All other photos by Joe Romano)

I recently introduced you to Clayton, CA, a small town in the shadow of Mt. Diablo. 

After many years of political wrangling, Clayton finally managed to move forward with its plans for The Grove Park, which is now a focal point for many of Clayton’s downtown activities. 

Situated between Main St., Center St. and old Marsh Creek Rd, the park is home to what was once a huge orchard of Eucalyptus trees, referred to by locals simply as “the grove.” As a kid I spent many a 4^th of July in the grove. Residents would gather there after the traditional 4^thof July parade to enjoy barbequed corn-on-the-cob, hot dogs and watermelon. There were greased pole climbing contests and other great activities. Nowadays the grove is home to a local farmers market and some fabulous evening concerts. Saturday night Lisa and I took in local act, Mamaluke. 

Billed as one of “the Bay Area’s premier classic rock dance bands,” Mamaluke was also one of two finalists in KFOX radio’s “Last Band Standing” competition. Adding to their local roots, two members, lead singer Kenny Byers and guitarist Chris Rossi, graduated from Clayton Valley High School. And, to drill-down even further on the local slant, I was in Mr. Almond’s 5^thgrade class with Chris Rossi, and worked at Skipolini’s Pizza with Kenny Byars. Did any of this earn me a guest vocal during last night’s show?  Performance fail! 

Nevertheless, take one warm summer night, mix in a pitcher of sangrias and one of Skipolini’s famous pies, and top off with some great rock and roll; result - a guaranteed great time. All of Clayton’s local eateries literally surround The Grove, and all of them offer food to go. Or you can even save a few bucks and bring your own picnic.

There’s also the Clayton Store on the south end of the park for those last minute snack and beverage purchases. I’d suggest arriving a little early to stake out a nice spot on the lawn. Throw out a blank, have a beverage and a snack, read and enjoy the sunshine before show time. 

The Grove Park also has a playground and plenty of room to run, so Concerts in the Grove is definitely a kid-friendly event.

To check out upcoming concerts, click here –>  Concerts in the Grove - 2009  <— there.

The Grove Park
Main St. and Marsh Creek Rd.
Clayton, CA, 94517

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Waking up blows. And no doubt, this is the last thing you want to do when you’re on holiday.

But, as we’ve talked about before - vacations are all about making us cool, yes? If you don’t come back with stories of drinking with the locals, boring tidbits on food preparation and a few sets of unfortunate coasters, then you haven’t really done your job, have you?

Oh yes - and pictures. In this day in age of social networking, if you’re not ‘tagging’ your own feet with the beach in the background, then your vacation credentials should be taken away all together.

Which brings me to my original point of waking up early…once.

For a sunrise, of course:

Now - a few things you need to do to prepare for said ‘rise’.

It’s cold. No matter where you are. See, the sun keeps things warm. So if it’s not visible, then you won’t be warm. So bring warm clothes. You roll your eyes and wonder if I’m just trying to meet word count (totally possible), but I’ve climbed* 2 volcanoes in the past year and have witnessed too many strangers cuddling (which, if you’re into, I can recommend a few bars in Berlin) out of poor preparation.

So bring a blanket or something.

And then charge the camera.

Get a coffee.

And have one day when you see both a rise and set.

‘Cause that’s the kind of thing friends back home love to hear about.

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Enter Talking Heads lyrics here.

This is what I saw. Not as zoomed in as you see now, but you get what I’m saying.

See, there’s this inherent curiosity in guys that always gets the better of us. Which is why we refuse maps, challenge ‘the man’ and smell everything.

So when I saw a point, I told myself ‘I’d like to see that point’. And I did - but that’s not what this is about. To be honest, the point looked a lot like the rest of the island and I’m not sure exactly what I had hoped to find.

But, as the old adage goes, ‘the journey’ is the reward.

Wherever you go, rent a car. Or a scooter. Or a bike. Tuck an emergency quarter* into your sock for a phone call and head out.

It’s what I did.

I drove on roads like this:

I accidentally found churches like this:

I got lost. On the only road on the island.

Met a few locals.

Drank their coffee.

Picked up a hitchhiker.

Etc.

See, there’s something about the hotels in Hawaii that don’t want you to go anywhere. Which makes you wonder ‘why’?

Could be that they want your money.

Could be that they’re worried about your safety.

Or it could just be that they create this adult-Disneyland for you…

So they can have the good stuff all to themselves.

*This cost was entirely based on my years of 7-13 years of age. Prices may vary

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The irony of this entire thing is that I could have chosen any hotel in the greater Portland area.

It was a business trip and they’d pick up the tab.

Marriott on the water? A night in one of the McMenamin’s pub-based rooms? Hilton?

I could have had any.

I decided to try for ‘cool’ and ‘funky’.

In fact, that’s what I typed into Google.

The first to pop up was the Jupiter Hotel and from the initial look of the website, it was everything I hoped to find my one night in town.

It’s a motel with a makeover. I can dig it.

I got off of the plane and into the cab.

‘800 East Burnside, please’, I said.

‘Jupiter Hotel! Nice choice, man’ he said.

‘Thanks!’ I said back, suddenly reminded of how nice everyone was in this town.

‘Have fun!’ he said as I got out of the cab, which seemed weird, but I didn’t mind as he was so kind to only charge me $4.

-

‘Hi!’ said the very nice boy behind the counter.

‘Hi!’ I said back, again reminded of how nice everyone was in this town.

‘Here’s your key!’ he said handing me a key.

‘Thanks!’ I said, taking the key.

‘No problem, sweetie!’ he said as I walked out of the office, which seemed weird, but I didn’t mind as he was so kind to ignore the fact that I was from Oklahoma…with a last name of Queen. Which usually gets me a few comments.

-

And so I walked past a lot of very nice guys with beards to my room.

‘Hi!’ a lot of them said.

‘Hi!’ I said back to a lot of them.

And then opened my door:

It was like a forest! With nice pillows and a flat-screen television and some ‘cool’ and ‘funky’ toiletry ideas for a greener world:

And so I sat and thought about how quaint and wonderful this place was and how nice everyone was in and around the area and it wasn’t until I noticed the condom on the pillow that this might be a little bit more than ‘cool’ and ‘funky’.

It could be a gathering place of boys-who-like-boys; which is fine. I’m fine with it. Even tried a little makin’-out with another boy back in the 90’s to see if I was. I was not, but have no problem with it.

But just to be sure, I went ahead and re-visited Google for some answers…

‘Jupiter Hotel’, ‘Portland’, ‘possibly gay’.

And I found out…well, everything and nothing.

Portland is a free-thinking city, that’s what makes it so wonderful. So I’m sure I could replace ‘Jupiter Hotel’ with any and get some hits.

Let’s try:

‘Hilton hotel’, ‘Portland’, ‘possibly gay’.

Oh. Okay, nothing, really.

Which means it was either, yes, a very gay hotel, or just run by a bunch of well-dressed hipsters who were nice.

I left more confused than when I came in - which, if owned by the types that I think own it, is exactly what they wanted.

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Where the lava meets the water.

I’m sure there are people out there who hate camping…

But I don’t want to meet them.

We’re American. We camp. That and make everything 33% more!/faster!/stronger!.

What you’re looking at wasn’t there 100 years ago. And in another 100, this picture won’t be possible. Reason is that it’s growing. It’s lava. Lava that comes down from the active volcano on The Big Island in Hawaii and meets the ocean.

It’s cool, trust me. An apocalyptic cool, if you will. Think Cormac McCarthy’s ‘The Road’ meets a Jack Johnson video. Sort of.

Even cooler? Our heavily-tattooed guide Warren informed me that you can camp in this area, as long as you’re a mile away from the road. It’s in a national park, see, which means you have to pay $10 a car and that’s it. Bring a tent for 2 of you, some wine, food (if you must) and spend a few days exploring the lava tubes and forests, peer into the moon-like features of the craters (just not directly over it - can’t believe they have to tell you this) and wake up to some ridiculous sights.

I don’t want to give them away, as it should be for the person(s) who actually experience it - but to think that for in a place where expenses add up, you can spend a few days hiking the 330,000 acres and visit a beach like none other, well…let’s just say it beats what you just spent $50 on yesterday.

And you know what I’m talking about.

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Grammy-nominated Makana plays...loudly. (Hint, hint)

Fact: Coming home from a vacation and talking about the local live music makes you cool. Seriously. And you can work it into more dinner-party conversations than you can that unbelievably boring wine tour you keep convincing yourself is interesting (wine-tours recaps are the slide-shows of the 21st century).

Anyway.

Music. Yes. Hawaiian music, to be precise. Award-winning, Grammy-nominated organic local music to be very, very precise. The famed ‘Makana‘ to be just amazingly anal about the details of this entire paragraph.

He’s good. Very good. People smarter than you and I who know music say so. Like, Esquire, for example, who called him the “greatest living player” of Hawaiian slack key guitar

Now, you can go about getting this one of two ways.

The first, being the obvious, make your way to the Sheraton Waikiki’s Rum Fire on Oahu anytime around 8pm, pay good money for beautiful drinks surrounded by sunburnt Brits with loud shirts. Wait, I take all that back. Said hotel threw us a great welcoming party and I’m going to try and score a few more free pints off of their publicist before this trip is over.

In fact, here’s part of his show he did when we were there, filmed by my friend Christine.

Let’s try that again:

Now, you can go about getting this one of two ways.

The first, being the obvious, treat yourself to one of the nicest hotels in Honolulu, grab an adult beverage and make your way to the table that sits not 4 feet in front of him on the deck.

Or…

You can slum it.

See, this hotel is so nice, it’s on the main strip that divides the stage from the crashing waves of the oceanfront Diamond Head Point.

Did I mention he plays loud? Famous people tend to do that.

You getting me here?

Fine, I’ll spell it out, but if this costs me my pints I’m sending you my PayPal info, okay?

Sit on the public lawn and listen. You don’t get to see him straight-on, but saving $50 on drinks might make that okay.

But buy a CD from the guy, he’s an absolute sweetheart.

Plus, let’s be honest - listening to a dreadlocked hippie from Michigan strum ‘Redemption Song’ on a cheap ukulele under a banyan tree isn’t exactly immersion…

And you’re better than that.

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