Judgment day is upon us. We reach the U.S. border around 9 am Saturday. I let fate and Murphy's Law converge in choosing a checkpoint lane. Wise decision. The Asian-American guard reviews our Nevada driver's licenses, notes the Oregon license plates on the rental car, and takes our truth at face value.
"We bought children's books and some items at the duty free."
"And you have no proof of your citizenship?"
"No, I haven't flown out of America since I was five."
"Where were you born?"
"North Carolina."
"Illinois."
Another glance at the well-positioned stuff in the back seat. "Okay, well, you should really bring proof of your citizenship next time. Enjoy your day."
What? No customs agents? No cavity searches? This day just got a whole lot better. We celebrate by spending that allotted extra hour at the Seattle Premium Outlets on our way back down to Portland.
We arrive and check into the Silver Cloud Inn by the airport. Surprisingly nice for $75 a night: our first fridge and microwave of the trip, plus computer access and continental breakfast in the spacious but cozy lobby. My sister rests as I begin to compile our bounty (which includes four Sokol Blosser Winery glasses and some Okanagan hard apple cider) into suitcases and carry-ons.
Last weekend we ordered front row tickets to Frogz, an avant-
garde children's show at the Imago Theatre. I called Kristy and arranged to meet up at the nearby Old Wives' Tales restaurant so that I could deliver some peach cider and her copy of Take the Cannoli. She was very nice to give us gifts in return, appropriately from a store called Made in Oregon.
My hot chicken and veggie sandwich was a little simple and dry, but the Hungarian mushroom soup more than compensated. The show was a nice capper. We were surrounded by youngsters, one of whom provided a running commentary. (I blame his parents, and most of the audience for their encouragement.)
The production is mostly wordless, and occasionally a little risque and scary, but overall worth seeing. They move the show to an extended run in Cambridge, Massachusetts later this summer. Readers in that area would be wise to catch it.
We toasted the trip with refrigerated hard apple cider and meaningless TV. The breakfast Sunday morning was startlingly divine: limited packable items, but they had a decent French toast and bagel, and we especially liked the option of preparing our own fresh Belgian waffles. We each ate one and split a third.
Within hours we had returned to nonstop sun, but with an important lesson learned: we can't bring the Pacific Northwest to Las Vegas, but we can buy a French press coffee maker and a Belgian waffle iron.
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