Vegas

Blueberry

Dubbes

John and I at Red Rocks

John with his dogs Dubbes and Blueberry. They were the cutest dogs ever!

I totally wanted to get this as my Hoover Dam souvenier. Who wouldn't want a ring-tailed cat plush toy?

Statute at Hoover Dam.

The Chihuly ceiling at the Bellagio

California, Day Two

Does anyone know what this plant is? I think it looks like the plant from "Litte Shop of Horrors." Feed me Seymour!!!

Crossing the Golden Gate bridge.

California

I kept humming the theme song from the O.C. today. Such a catchy tune. The California coast line is bee-a-ut-iful!!! I drove curvy Highway 1 for hours. I'm staying tonight in Petaluma, which is a little north of San Francisco.

Sunset as I was getting closer to San Francisco.

Pretty!

Who knew my high school had a pier named after it?

Aka: Highway 1

Look at the size of the lumberjack compared to the truck! At the Trees of Mystery place.

Can I PLEASE get my own gas?

So, a really weird fact: You can't get your own gas in Oregon. A gas attendant comes up, takes your credit card, swipes it in the machine while you wait in the car or go into the convenience store. I was amused by this at first. The gas attendants were nice and it seemed like an "only in Oregon" type of thing. But it started to really anger me after a while. First of all, I just think it's weird. Second, why can't I get my own freakin' gas? I was getting ready to leave the state today. Figured gas would probably be cheaper in Oregon than California. I pull up to the station and get out -- like normal. I get my credit card out, ready to swipe it in the machine. "I'll be there in just a minute miss!" a rough voice yells. An old man is staring me down. OK, this is no longer cute. Why can't I get my own freaking gas? Turns out, it's against the law. It's also against the law in New Jersey, but I've never tried to get gas there. Strange. Very strange.

The beautiful Oregon coast.

Oregon sand dunes

Tillamook Cheese plant.

This was from when I left Washington state two days ago.

You can kind of see the bottom of Mt. St. Helens (darn clouds...)

Where are you from?

Another big problem with not having a stable home I discovered this weekend: Customs. I was barraged (well, maybe not barraged, but asked) a bunch of questions crossing the border both ways. I’m not sure what I was expecting – something along the lines of me showing them my passport and them welcoming me to Canada/U.S. Yeah, didn’t go that way.
First question: Where do you live? Hmmm…that’s kind of complicated. I want to go with the simple answer, and since all of my paperwork says it, I say, “Missouri.”
What are you doing here? “I’m going on vacation.”
How long are you going to stay? “Probably two days.”
Probably? “Yes, two days.”
What are you doing up here, I mean, in this part of the country?
OK, I’m nervous by this point. What does he want? My whole life story? “I was in Olympia for four months working as a reporter covering the Legislature.”
He stopped asking questions after I said “reporter.”
On the way back to the U.S. (I took a ferry from Victoria to Port Angeles), I was questioned by three different officers. It was kind of crazy. First question: Where are you from? Ughhh…not THIS question again. I explain myself. One of the officers: “You’re traveling ALL by yourself?” Yep, is that strange or something? “Why did you go to Canada?” Uh, vacation. “Were you visiting a friend?” OK, I don’t see why she needed to know this, but if she finds it SOO unfathomable for a 20-something single female to travel ALL BY HERSELF—I tell her, I did see a friend. We had dinner. It was true, after all. “Well, OK, then.” I know she’s just doing her job, but customs officers make me very nervous. I don’t think I’ll be leaving the country again for a while.

Crossing the Strait of Juan de FucaGoing into Port Angeles.

Gorgeous view from the Olympic National Park.

At Hurricane Ridge.

Pacific Ocean from the west side of the Olympic Peninsula.