Time: 1:42 pm
Location: a rest stop south of Eugene but north of Medford
Listening to: TED talks
Number of naps taken: 2
Number of electronic gadgets that have crapped out on us so far: 1 (our gps died- WTF?)
Number of electronic gadgets we’ve spontaneously bought on the road: 1 (a radar detector that we’re returning as soon as we get home. Suckaz.)

Time: 10:00 am
Location: mother’s bistro, Portland, OR
Number of calories consumed: I don’t want to know

We made it to Portland just as my absolute favorite breakfast place in the world was opening, so we were able to eat without a wait. (By the time we finished the wait was an hour and a half.). Why was it so important to get the timing just right? Because this is the home of the greatest biscuits in the world.
Next, a quick stop to stock up on water and contact solution, and we’re off.

Time left: 5:32 am
Injuries sustained while walking to the car: 1 (I twisted my ankle. Shut up. Walking is hard.)
Currently listening to: spice girls “I wanna make you holler” (it’s sentimental)
En route to: a stop at the Microsoft campus so mike can drop off the gifts he forgot yesterday, then straight to Portland for breakfast. Fingers crossed that we’ll get near San Francisco by night.

So in my last post, I stuck to the high points of Mary and Scott’s trip to Seattle- good food, a beautiful hike,mike’s leggins and super happy friend love crap.  In an effort to keep the post more Hemmingway than Tolstoy, I decided to skip on their visit’s definite low point.

But then Scott bitched about it in the comments section so I decided that I had to tell you about the worst 30 minutes of last weekend.  And it was all Scott’s fault.

On the way to Wallace Falls State Park, we passed a sign that read “Washington State Salmon Hatchery.”  Scott, who had previously been singing along to the Miley Cyrus’ opus “Party in the USA” (thank you KISS and your 3 XM stations that played the song 4 times during our one hour drive), suddenly started shrieking like a woman possessed and insisted that we stop there on the way back.  Well, actually, he wanted to cancel the hike and just go look at salmon, but I told him to shut it and we hiked anyway.

But we did indulge him on the way home.

And it was horrific.  Or, as Scott would say, “horrif.”

As soon as we parked, we were greeted by this sign:

I really don’t know what to say about these visual fun facts, except that I really hope that this is a popular spot for elementary school field trips.  And I really hope that it prompts lots of interesting dinner table conversation afterwards.  “Mommy, why does the boy salmon get squeezed and pee on the bucket of salmon eggs?”

Evidently, late October is the time of year when the adult salmon have already made it back to their spawning grounds, let their goodies loose and are basically just waiting to die.  We went down to look at the live fish, and they were big.  And fat.  And barely alive.  It was really just depressing.

If you look closely, you can see nasty dead salmon carcasses piling up on the bottom of the holding pen.  This was so depressing that I took a big step back…  right into a giant pile of dog poo.  Nice.  And then I saw this:

Yeah, that’s a dead salmon.  Filled with maggots.  Evidently the salmon here are so half dead that just about any hungry animal thinks of this holding pen of their own Vegas buffet during this time of year.  The entire lawn was filled with nasty rotting carcasses.  Between that and the dog poo, I wanted to cry.

Meanwhile, Scott pranced around, explored the hatchery, and learned about his favorite fish.  I sat in the car and complained.

The rest of the day went well- we celebrated our friend Shaun’s birthday, where Mary and Scott met my Seattle friends and we ate his pulled pork, followed by an after dinner snack of rillette, duck confit and sparkling wine at Bastille.  I honestly don’t know how the hell we ate that much after seeing the dead salmon fiesta.  Scott really brings out the best in me.

Thank you so much, Scott, for adding this side trip into our day.  I’ll never forget it.

Oh, if you aren’t familiar with the amazing musical achievement that is “Party in the USA,” I think the best way to acquaint yourself with it is via this epic rendition:

On our last day in Mexico, we decided to set out for a little adventure.  Just me, Mike, our Dodge Accent and the open road.

Well, “road” may be overstating it.  We decided to attempt the drive to Punta Allen, a tiny (even tinier than Tulum) fishing village about 45 kilometers south of Tulum.  I say “attempt” because every guide book or travel article I had read said you needed a 4 wheel drive vehicle, preferably a Jeep, to make it.  The only route to Punta Allen involves driving down a dirt road through the Sian Kaan Biosphere, a World Heritage Site famous for it’s gigantic lagoon and jungle.  Considering we were driving a teensy Dodge Accent that wasn’t exactly outfitted for extreme conditions, we knew there was a good chance that we might be getting into some trouble.

Thankfully, guide books are full of crap and mostly designed to trick you into paying for unnecessary tours.  We were golden.  And we only got stopped by the Federalis once!

We stopped at the Sian Kaan visitors center.  It was too windy that day to see any real sea life (the lagoon is populated by dolphins and manatees!), but the view from the top was amazing.

I tried to find out if there was ANY chance of seeing manatees without actually going on a boat.  There wasn’t.

So we took a picture on the dock, skipped the boat tour (which saved us $100 and mike vomiting over the side of the dingy.)

And we took off on our adventure.

It was a perilous journey.  But our brave little Dodge Accent made it through the dirt road.

We drove and drove and drove.

We braved the threat of dangerous creatures.

And we only ran into the Federalis twice!

And then we got hungry.  At the Sian Kaan visitor’s center, the guide told us about a little fishing bungalow called Sol Caribe on the way to Punta Allen that had really good food- so we stopped.

There was nobody there.

So we started to walk back to the car.  Then a short American guy shouted at us from the beach and asked us what we were doing.  We told him that somebody had told us to eat there but that the place must not be open so we were leaving, but he shook his head and told us that he was the owner and they were open, but nobody else was there.  Then he asked us what we wanted to eat.

We were a little sketched out to say the least, but Mike asked for a menu anyway.  The guy laughed and said there was no menu- just tell him what we wanted to eat.  I asked what they had on hand and he told me they had gotten some really good shrimp that morning.  I was still confused, but he seemed so excited to see people that we decided to split a plate of shrimp.  What the hell, right?  It was pretty.  So we wandered around the empty beach while he made us food.

Mike found a quality walking stick.

When we got back, the owner offered me a margarita and I decided that he was good people.

Um, if you can’t tell by the look on my face, the margarita was really, really strong.  Like, I got nervous hearing him make it. It was delicious though.)

Later that day I realized that we had basically set ourselves up to be killed in some horror movie universe- we wandered into an abandoned beach shack, some strange guy offered to feed us and then tried to get me drunk.  Really, the day should have ended with our bodies being thrown off a boat out in the Atlantic Ocean somewhere.

Thankfully though, that didn’t happen.  Instead of killing us, he brought us some awesome food:

Alive and full, we set off to Punta Allen.  It was indeed a VERY small town.  But great for wandering and photo-taking.

hehe.

After some wanderings, we headed back.  We stopped at some tide pools, looked at crabs, I peed on the side of the road (thank you mr. margarita) and we stopped on another beach to take a 2 hour nap.  And then we saw THE GREATEST AD IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD:

I have nothing more to say about that, other than it was the perfect end to a fabulous day.

I know I’ve been going on and on about our vacation, but you’ll have to endure one or two more post before I finally shut up about it.  Only two more- I promise.  Then I’ll get back to chronicling our slightly more monotonous and definitely colder day to day non-adventures in Seattle.

When you think Mexican food, you generally think of the typical stuff- tacos, burritos and anything with salsa and guac.  Maybe throw in some ceviche for a bit of good measure and you’re set.  Well, we definitely ate all of that, but we also had some of the best Italian food either of us have ever had.

I know, I know- you’re sitting there thinking “Italian food?”  And you’re probably silently judging us for being the stupid tourists who go to another country and don’t take advantage of local eating options.  (Well, you’re probably judging ME and thinking that you’re still rather impressed that Mike made it through the entire trip without finding a Weinerschnitzel.)  Well, before you totally judge (or just laugh at my habit of projecting my insecurity on anonymous readers), let me preface it by telling you that we had set out to go eat some ceviche on the beach, but our original destination was closed for a wedding so we decided to check out the place next door, Posada Margherita .  Mostly because there was a flower on the sign, and it was close.  We were hungry.

We wandered into a tiny patio in the middle of some beachfront cottages- so far, so good.  There were about 10 tables and we were told to just sit down wherever we wanted, so we did.  A waiter came by a few minutes later, and instead of giving us a menu, he sat down at the empty chair and listed about 5 options.  Once he said “fresh tagliatelle” for the third time, I realized that we had wandered into an Italian joint.  I was a bit confused.  (His heavy Italian accent probably should have tipped me off as well).

At this point I woke from my low-blood-sugar-induced stupor and looked around.  I realized that we were sitting next to a gorgeous wine cellar and were surrounded by older couples who were all dressed with at least a hint of Eurotrash- heavy on the ascots and flowing silk scarves.  I suddenly suspected that we had sat down to a meal that was going to cost more than what we had intended.

So I did the dumbest, most embarrassing, Ugly-American thing I’d done in a while- I interrupted our waiter and asked how much the meals he had listed actually cost (no prices had been mentioned).  He paused, gave us the prices in pesos, and said he’d come back to take our orders in a minute.  Meanwhile, I did some math and realized we were talking about $30 a plate- not something I’d bat an eye at for a nice meal in Seattle or LA, but in the land of $3 ceviche, it suddenly seemed REALLY expensive.

While we debated whether or not we wanted to really complete the embarrassment and leave, the table next to us got our food.  Mike took one look at the feast in front of them and told me to stay in my seat, order whatever I wanted and get some wine for good measure.  I was confused.  And then I remembered- my husband is a whore for lobster.

So here is what the most expensive meal in Tulum looks like:

the complementary meze platter. love at first sight.

my grilled prawns. heaven.

the lobster that stole mike's heart. magic amazing seafood bliss.

Seriously, if you are ever in Tulum and you want an amazing meal, go to Posada Margherita.  Eat pasta in Mexico without shame.  Yum.

After spending $70 on dinner on Saturday, we ate for $8 on Sunday.  And it was super good too, if not a tad more authentic.

if this face doesn't say happy (or homicidal maniac) i don't know what does

This post encompasses everything that is good about vacation food.

Ok, I have one more post to share about our vacation, and then it’s back to pictures of gray skies.  I promise.

Well, we weren’t actually on an island, and the beaches weren’t technically deserted (except once), but that’s how we felt most of the time on the beach last week.  See for yourself:

Ugh.  I want to go back.  Now.

The beaches in Tulum are GORGEOUS.  White sands, dramatic skies, clear water…  and this October, they were practically empty.

Looking at some of these pictures, I almost can’t believe we were actually there.  But we were.  I have proof.

I almost look tan!

this is how mike found relief from his 10,000 mosquito bites

See the bikes?  That’s how we got to the beach.  Note that my bike has a completely flat front tire.  I didn’t notice this until we had already rode half a mile, when I almost broke down in tears because it was SO hard to ride the freaking bike and I assumed that the only explanation was that I suddenly in the worst possible shape ever.  Mike switched bikes with me, immediately realized that the tire was busted, and then rode the broken bike back to get one with a functional tire.  (It was super chivalrous, but don’t worry, he still made fun of the me the rest of the way).

That particular beach trip must have been cursed though, because on the way back, Mike’s chain broke and we had to walk the bikes back.  It was dark and there were about 284,283,573 mosquitoes out and they all bit Mike.  I even got a few bites, and I am the person who brags about being “immune” to mosquitoes.  Dumb.

Thank god there is one foolproof cure for mosquito bites.

And all was right with the world.

After the cenote, we were both starving, and since we were heading towards Akumel, our guide’s home town, we asked him to take us somewhere where HE wanted to eat.

Victor chose well.

the best guacamole EVER.

mike's carnitas and victor's chicken fajitas. the restaurant was out of beef.

my ceviche- shrimp, octopus, fish and MORE avocado. mmmmm...

i LOVED this sign.

So after you eat a gigantic lunch, what’s better than showing off your bloated belly in a swimsuit?  Thankfully, the turtles we swam with didn’t seem to be too judgey.

Turtles weren’t the only thing we saw…

Stingrays are way to pretty to be so dangerous.  We didn’t know that they would be around, and as soon as I saw one, I had flashbacks to Vietnam and swam straight over to Mike to make sure he wasn’t having any post-traumatic-stress-disorder attacks.  (Addendum: Mike got bitten by a mystery sea creature on our honeymoon, which resulted in a 3 day stay in a rural hospital and his near death.  We don’t actually know what bit/stung/attacked him, but we both harbor some anxiety in the face of any poisonous aquatic creatures.)  (Stupid second addendum: Mike also has extra hatred for sting rays because he is still sad about the Crocodile Hunter dying.)

At this point, I wanted to see more sea life, so Victor took us to a lagoon where the fresh cenote water meets the salty ocean water.  It was possibly the most peaceful place I’ve ever been.

Victor said he was taking us somewhere where there were a lot of fish.  This was a VERY accurate description.

I spent most of the afternoon in the water.

Mike was tired, so he made friends with the nice 84-year-old British woman we met.  While I bonded with fish, he bonded with her- evidently she was on vacation with her son and daughter and law, who were snorkeling.  She lives in northern England and went to Egypt in January.  I think that now they’re penpals or something.

After I was completely raisin-ifed, we piled back in the car and left the lagoon.  We dropped Victor off at his house, which he had just finished building (I’m still pissed I didn’t take a good picture of us with him) and waved at his kids. Then we finally headed back to the hotel.

Next up: margaritas, broken bicycles, and LOTS of mosquitoes.

We got back from Mexico Monday night.  Needless to say, as soon as the plane landed and we felt that first rush of cold air, we were both ready to hop on another plane and go back.  Mexico was awesome- thanks to the crap economy and swine flu paranoia, we spent four days frolicking on deserted beaches, hanging out with turtles, sting rays, barracudas and 80-year-old British women, and  consuming ridiculously fresh seafood and margaritas at ridiculously awesome prices.

So what are the basic ingredients for a successful vacation in Tulum?  Well, first of all, as soon as you land, you search out the car rental companies and find yourself a really sweet ride.

Then you immediately start making friends with the locals and force them to take stupid pictures with you.

Once you are settled in your transportation, you can start with the stupid self-portriats.

Tulum is about a 2 hour drive from the airport in Cancun.  While basking in the sunny weather and the pretty coastal drive, you find yourself already adjusting to the slower pace of life and even considering alternate career options.  After several hectic weeks of work, Mike was especially excited by this prospect:

Motorcycles AND all the crappy pizza you can eat?  What could be better?

Once we passed the madness of Cancun and the sprawl in Playa del Carmen, we noticed the pueblos we passed were getting smaller and smaller.  We knew we were getting close, and by 2:00 we found ourselves pulling up to what would be our home base for the next four nights- the Teetotum Hotel.  And no, I didn’t just pick it because of all the orange.  But that was a big selling point.

Teetotum is exactly what we were looking for- tiny (they only have 4 rooms), run by a super friendly, very casual group of ex-pats who are always willing to join you for a drink or tell you where to find the best local grub, and equpiped with comfy hammocks and mattresses that help you get some truly spectacular napping in.  And napping was the first thing we did that day- after a red eye flight, a 2 hour time difference and a long drive, we were both exhausted when we arrived and immediately settled in for one of those fantastic, incredibly deep mid-afternoon naps where you wake up not knowing what day it is, let alone what time it is, but since you’re on vacation, you don’t really care anyway.

It was a good start to a great trip.

Even though Millie may have stolen the show, our trip to Portland had even more goodness to offer.  It was all a little random, so I think it’s time to whip out the bullet list again.

• After we arrived at the Hostess House, Dominic, Miles and I decided we needed to decompress and eat some dinner.  (We didn’t leave until 9:30, which is wayyyy past Barrie’s bedtime, so she opted to stay in and get some sleep.)  Most of the week prior to our trip had centered around an email chain planning out all the places where we would eat while in Oregon so we decided not to waste any time and made our way to Pok Pok, a hipster-Thai-fusion restaurant in Portland that is super famous for the Fish Sauce wings- chicken wings marinated in fish sauce and cane sugar for 24 hours and fried, then doused with a generous splash of chili sauce.  When we sat down and were greeted by our stereotypical Portland waiter (thick horn-rimmed glasses, fixed-gear-bicycle-ready capri pants, willing to talk about the pandan-infused tap water with the same gusto that a sommelier would describe a bottle of Rothschild), I was a little leery, but I was wrong.  I generally don’t like chicken wings, fried meat or chicken skin, but I wanted to eat the shit out of those wings- especially the skin.  Yum.  (The $4 a piece prawns were less impressive though.)  I am so sad I didn’t take a picture of those.
• We spent Saturday wandering around Portland proper- a visit to the Saturday market, some quality time at Powell’s, lunch at a  Lebanese place where the waiter may or may not have been an actual employee (he didn’t know the bathroom required a key even though there was a HUGE sign declaring so right behind him, and when Barrie ordered lebneh and eggs, he asked her if she really needed the eggs.  Huh?) and some afternoon art appreciation.

I was sad that I was still too full from breakfast to try the Wedge Fries- mostly because the sign said they are “tossed with happiness.”  How can you NOT want to eat something that positive?

Miles was NOT too full for a 2nd breakfast, obviously.

Miles, Dominic and I spent the afternoon at the Portland Art Museum, where we had some stereotypical discussions about the nature of art and checked out the really awesome China Design Now exhibit.  I wanted to take pictures of the Ju Jin models, but I got caught by a 120-year-old docent and had to delete them.

Barrie wanted something a little more kitschy so she went to check out what she thought was an Elvis museum, but was actually the 24 Hour Church of Elvis.  After seeing the “exhibit” (which took about 4 minutes), she wandered down the street for some sipping chocolate at Cacao, which got her sipping-chocolate-obsessed-self’s seal of approval.

The four of us reunited near Cacao.  The boys headed to an arcade, I called my mom and Barrie took a nap in the car.

I shouldn’t make fun.  I was asleep in the front seat 20 minutes after I took this picture.

• For dinner, we went to Mother’s Bistro and Bar, where we ate the best effing biscuits in the history of the world.  Our friend Brooke first raved about these biscuits a year ago, and she is totally right about them.  They are like giant clouds of butter with a little flour thrown in for good measure.  You throw some strawberry freezer jam on these babies and you basically have the best strawberry shortcake ever- and all this before you even start dinner.  (Note: Mother’s has a cookbook coming out next month.  I can’t bake, but if there is a biscuit recipe in there and you promise to make them for me, I will preorder this book for you today.)
• The next day, after another breakfast lovingly prepared by Millie, we set out to do what we came to Portland for in the first place- run an 8k.  You may have seen my earlier posts about other races I’ve run, but this one was a bit different- there were only about 20 participants.  Maybe.  We actually drove past the race once because we thought it was a family setting up for their kid’s birthday party- it was that small.  However, we did discover that really tiny races have one distinct advantage- it makes it a LOT easier to win.

Barrie and Dominic rocked it out and both won blue ribbons for their age groups.  Go team winner!

Um, I was still feeling kind of crappy thanks to last week’s brush with the swine flu combined with 45 degree weather that morning, so I stopped running after mile 3.  Miles walked the rest of the race with me because he hadn’t actually trained at all.  We were not winners.  (Technically Miles still got a ribbon because he was the only guy in his age range.  I think I was the only person in the entire race to not win a ribbon at all- I like to think that this was a victory in it’s own way.)

I DO think I had the best hat there though.

• Post race, we decided to reward ourselves with brunch at Kenny and Zuke’s.

Barrie feasted on a TONGUE sandwich.  When she showed me the gigantic tastebud in her sandwich, I finally remembered to document a meal.

Barrie nearly peed with joy when she saw that they had Celery soda on the menu- evidently, nothing compliments tongue like celery-flavored soda.  I don’t get it, but it made her incredibly happy.

Finally, Miles couldn’t decide whether he wanted to go the savory or sweet route, so he did what any real man would do- he ordered both.  Pastrami Eggs Benedict AND Berry Blintzes.  Impressive.  (Can you tell that Miles likes food?  I cannot wait to introduce him to Scott next weekend!)

• After brunch, it was time to head home.  But we had one more VERY CRUCIAL stop to make before we called the weekend a true success.

Dave’s Killer Bread IS the greatest effing bread in the history of the world, and the factory is located right outside of Portland.  Once we found out that you can buy day-old bread at half price (each loaf usually runs almost $6!), we knew we had to make a pit stop.

Dave wasn’t actually there that day, so we had to settle for a cardboard version.

So that was Portland.  I hope that this keeps you entertained for a few days, because tomorrow at midnight Mike and I are heading out for 5 days in Tulum, Mexico.  90 degree weather, sun, ocean and margaritas- here we come!  I’m so excited to go on a real vacation that I won’t even complain when Mike orders his margaritas blended.  Cheers!