Vongole, Vongole, Vongole
Trip Start Jun 19, 2010
74Trip End Sep 01, 2010
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After a quick feast of my favorite recipe, Linguine alle Vongole, that one with clams and white wine and garlic, so simple and so good, and after I carelessly send the clam bucket to the bottom of the sea, we take a bloated hike to Twanoh Park, a emerald rainforest full of pine and pleasure, talking about Adam Sandler records and the positive aspects of Swedish culture
The Beard deep-fries those oysters we shucked yesterday, while I work on a pot of Thai Clam & Crab Chowder (I secretly call it, to myself, Clab Chowder – get it?? -- while I’m walking up the pier, and I do amuse myself so). It’s pretty quiet around here today, as Cornbread wades neck-deep in Randian Philosophies and Captain Filigree rows on the kayak for another seven hours (to be fair, though, Cornbread is, at this time, the only one that manages to kayak to the other side of the canal, and can proudly claim to have spanned one of only two glacial fjords in the entire continent)
Now we all sit around doing our own thing. Duck scribbles into the cabin’s log, reporting all about our trip and about Pearl – he has The Beard sketch her floor plan out for the next guest to see, and shares the link to this website for posterity, thank you very much – while Cornbread reads Rand, The Beard chats on the phone outside, Captain Filigree snores on the couch (from all the rowing, you see), and Shmark plays his guitar for about two consecutive hours. There are moments where I can’t concentrate because of his incessant, very skilled (and, I won’t deny, mellifluous) droning, and occasionally I do feel like telling him to quiet up, but to be frank, he’s good at it and his passion is irrepressible, and I can’t help but really appreciate it, even when my head is returning from a weekend’s worth of gorging on shellfish and booze
Tomorrow we’re headed to Seattle, and from there, Vancouver, where we’ll add two more to bring our total to seven. We’ve been lucky to have had the assistance of friends and friends of friends for the majority of our first week, hosting and showering us with goodwill, but moving forward, it will only start to dwindle, where we’ll be out of the king-sized waterbeds and organic kitchens and back saddled in the cots and the pitch cook-tops, tripping over one another’s smells and hustling frantically toward a toilet. After all, while it’s great to be coddled, the aim of this trip was the smell and the starkness, and I can only imagine that we’ll get those, and we’ll get them soon. As before, we move forward, still with a full summer of unpredictable, unquantifiable joy, or disaster, or something in between, and we do so full of wind and vague hope and complete blindness. Whether failure or revelation, whither the condition we return, we are living in zig-zags and in full color and in complete earnest, and I don’t think that any of us would hope for much more than that.
Also, there was a painting of Erroll Flynn.