20090406.1

21 Apr 2009

University of Oregon
Eugene, Oregon

Visibility is unlimited, the pilot says. We’ll be able to see from the Grand Tetons to Arizona. Later, a mustachioed, middle-aged Cincinnati businessman sitting beside me upon noticing that I’m taking in the large breasts of a woman sitting across the isle: I can see the Tetons all right. And they are grand.

The train from Portland is nice. It’s bigger than I expected, quite long with double-decker cars, an entertainment car, a sit-down dining car. The interior is spacious. The isles are wide. The seats have plenty of room, recline, and have foot rests, all making sleep easier for multi-day Vancouver to LA trippers.

The Willamette Valley looks not so different from Kentucky. Wide, flat, with rolling hills to the east and west. There are many farms and small towns spread throughout. Verdant. The only real difference are the occasional large snow-covered volcanic cones of the Cascades that rise up tall and alone. And all the evergreens. And many other things that we’ll ignore right now.

Eugene is quaint, fairly quiet. It isn’t small—200,000 between it and Springfield—but feels it. Buildings are generally low to the ground, streets not too wide, blocks not too long. Bike paths and sidewalks are abundant. There are many people walking, biking, lounging. It feels alive but not bustling.

That’s largely the weather, I think. For people used to a long fall/winter/spring of overcast skies, intermittent drizzle, and 40-50F temps, a sunny 75F day is an even more powerful intoxicant than normal. We’ve all had those days, in college or otherwise. Out come the shorts and skirts, the sandals, the blankets. We kind of read but mostly talk and giddily appreciate the gift of being able to just lay outside, naked or next to it, and not be cold or hot,¹ to feel perfectly comfortable and free, to feel closer to some faraway past of small social groups and constant contact with dirt and damp and sun and breezes.

Remember that it’s not normally like this, I think. Don’t get too drunk on this stroke of weather, get weather-induced beer googles.

It’s 6p and I have no place to stay. I need to check my email, but my laptop’s battery is shot, so I need to find an open plug and free wireless. I wander semi-aimlessly, finally admitting that I don’t quite know where I’m going. I pull out my GPS,² search for the public library, head there.

I pass the main bus depot. Hippies, homeless, anarchists, and ‘alternative’ high-schoolers abound. People-wise, Eugene is living up to its counter-culture reputation.

I find a chair and a plug-in. An email from Gayla:³ no housing. I look up the Whiteaker Hostel, write down their phone number, memorize the directions.

Phone call: We have one bed left. Would you like to reserve it? Yes.

The hostel is in the Whiteaker neighborhood, Eugene’s happy hippie hangout. There are lots of brightly-colored houses with junk-laden porches full of old car seats, couches, signs, oil paintings of Ted Nugent.⁴ Lots of dreads, bro.

The place itself is quaint, a small converted house. Reneia, the girl working the desk, is very cute, spunky, friendly.⁵ From the back: a fenced backyard with some chairs, a garden; a music and entertainment room with some old couches, a raised platform with faux-movie theater seats, a giant relic of a projector,⁶ a keyboard, a drumset, stacks of old paperbacks; a common room with full kitchen, computers, a small table; an upstairs with two rooms (male and female) of bunkbeds; a corridor of private rooms. Everything is clean, freshly painted. The style is generally old-housey with wood floors, solid wood furniture, pictures on the walls from around the world, maps and local advertisements pinned to billboards.

Zoe and Shawn. Zoe has very short hair and a hoop through her septum, Shawn a very slight mohawk with the surrounding hair died a leopard-skin pattern. They’re headed back north from Mexico. Sounds like they hitchhiked most of the way. They have basically no money and have set it up to work some shifts at the hostel (cleaning, maintenance) in lieu of paying for their rooms. The owner, Mac, is cool with that. Good man.

Tom, a young bloke from London. His accent is impeccable standard educated Londoner. He’s a Cambridge man, an English major, who’s using his gap year to travel the west coast, through Mexico and Central America, throughout South America, then back to London. He seems young and has the well-intentioned, harmless haughtiness that very smart but inexperienced and so bewildered and scared people often produce for self-defense.⁷

Brad. A wandering mid-20s nouveau-hippie. He’s been in and out of Eugene over the years, stopping over between music festivals and time in the woods. Sandals, a big pack, lots of hemp clothing and ornaments (scarves, necklaces) in layers. He has a very slight mullet with a long, thin dread falling down his back. He’s very good looking—tanned skin, a short beard, large brown liquid eyes—and pulls off the hippie look with an rare elegance that’s striking. Soft-spoken stoner-inflected voice. I just wanna kinda put down roots, start settling in, you know? I’m trying to find a place and kinda calm down, he says. He doesn’t seem to know how, but I hope it works out.

Dave. This dude is a trip and beyond being done justice by anything less than a long, personal encounter. 40s-50s, shoulder-length straight thin hair, a big belly, mustache, squat puffy face, not-really-cowboy straw hat, thin-from-wear festival and band tees. Dave’s a member of the Rainbow Family, a loose community/religion of super-hippies that started in 1972. It was post-Woodstock, and this group decided to organize a big meeting in a National Forest for singing, drum circles, emanating vibes of peace, and generally freaking out. They’ve been having a gathering every year since. This year, they’re having a special shindig for the recently-deceased Grandpa Woodstock, or, as Dave always called him, The Grandpa.

Dave has clearly done so many psychedelics that he’s in a constant liminal state between regular existence and tripping the fuck out. One small example:

A 15-minute diatribe on the profundity of Eragon—yes, that’s right, the fantasy movie about a dragon. Apparently, it’s the oldest legend ever told. And, like, dude, the person Dave looks up to more than anyone—except his father, of course—is… MERLIN, dude. He’s, like, a wizard and shit, you know? He makes luuuuuuuuv to mother earth, bro.

Another guest asks, Isn’t that a kids movie? How many dragon movies have you seen?, Dave asks, with a very serious, challenging look on his face. Um… [long pause] none, I guess. But [looking at a nearby DVD of El Topo] I’ve seen some movies with midgets.

Midgets! says Dave. Oh man… They look so small and harmless but… I mean, I’m a big dude, right? I figure, Hey, I can beat that little dude’s ass. But they’re so hard to catch! They just keep movin’ around, and you can never catch ‘em, and you’re like, Slow down, little dude! Come ‘ere ya son of a bitch, ya know!? But watch out man… that little dude’ll have you down on your knees man, make you lick the sweat off his nuts, ya know? Fuckin’ Lillaputians, he mutters.

Well, alright. We proceed to watch the “film.” Dave constantly responds to statements made in the movie much like a devout follower might do during a religious ceremony. To call the dragon, you must touch the source. Uh-huh. If a dragon dies, his master lives on. That’s right. But if the master dies, so too his dragon. Yes.

Etc.

The only thing I’ll add: I’ve never seen someone so thoroughly enjoy taking off their shoes. Late at night in the bunk, Dave de-shoed and just started Uuuuuuuuuunhh- and Ummmmmmmmmmmmphfff-ing long and loud again and again in his deep, gravelly basso. And throughout the night, he moaned and snorted and everythinged so, so loud. I didn’t begrudge him the pleasure and self-satisfaction, but it did make it a little hard to go to sleep. A fellow hosteller got up in the middle of the night: I can’t fuckin’ take this anymore.

[to be continued…]

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