THE ROAD TRIP
WEEK 3

DAY 21 – Friday, April 3

START: Kirkland, WA

END: Sandpoint, ID

MILEAGE: 356 miles

HIGHLIGHTS: Frank’s Diner

We heard Rebekah’s daughter Laili up and about around six-thirty or so, and when our alarm went off at seven, we figured we should probably get up and be social.  Instead we fell back asleep for another two hours.  The last couple days of lighthouses and more lighthouses had whooped us.  We eventually made it out of our room, said good morning, took showers and ate some nice cold cereal that had an actual crunch for the first time in forever.  We all sat around talking and playing, in no big rush to get going.  Pretty much the only thing we had on our schedule for today was driving, and more of it.  After Skeet helped me get the bags back down to the car, Lauren and Rebekah posed for a picture of their dual pregnant bellies and we all said our goodbyes around eleven o’clock. 

Lauren and I filled up at a nearby gas station and then got a little fuel of our own at an espresso hut next door.  We made our way to Interstate 90 and for the first time since leaving Sayreville, began driving east.  It was hard to believe we were actually heading home again.  Well, sort of.  We still had a good three thousand miles left to cover before we went back to our daily lives, but after almost three weeks of driving, dozens of touristy and off-beat stopovers, several near-death experiences involving cliffs and mountain roads, and God knew how many miscellaneous pee breaks along the way, the final leg of our journey was now upon us.  It had been so easy to ignore with everything else we’d been doing all trip.  As long as we were still driving away from the place where we’d started, we were able to forget about what was so obvious now: eventually this trip would have to end.  By this time one week from now, barring any unforeseen circumstances, we would be back in New Jersey, home just in time for Easter, and this trip, which had been preceded by nearly three years of anticipation, would be over.  Behind us.  Nothing but a collection of very vivid memories.  Neither of us said anything about it, but we both knew the other was thinking it.  It didn’t help that all day, for some reason, we kept thinking it was Friday, only to realize our goof up later in the afternoon, and feeling that much more disheartened over the loss of an entire day.   

Trying to remain ever cheerful, I put in yet another mix CD, this one full of songs that were not only my favorites, but were also in a range that I could sing along with without sounding like the tone deaf non-vocalist that I am.  “Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby” by Counting Crows, “Uneasy Rider” by Charlie Daniels, “If I Had a Million Dollars” by The Barenaked Ladies.  They put me in a good mood, which in turn put Lauren in a good mood and so we started back east on the interstate, traveling through wide open patches of rugged green countryside toward a jagged line of imposing snowcapped mountains, bound inexorably for home.

While we were in no way eager to speed up the trip’s conclusion, I was a bit perplexed by how slow traffic was moving along I-90.  I mean, I guess “slow” isn’t exactly the right word.  Not technically.  After all there was no midday congestion, no jam-ups up ahead, plenty of room in front of and beside us to maneuver, and for pretty much the entire length of the state traffic moved along smoothly and without incident at the posted speed limit of seventy miles per hour.  And I guess that’s what was so surreal.  Had this been New Jersey, the slowest person on the road would have doing at least seventy-five.  Back home, a speed limit sign is more of a suggestion than a hard and fast rule.  But here in Washington State, with very few exceptions, nobody was going even one single mile above the posted limit.  And it wasn’t like in Los Angeles where traffic routinely moves about five miles per hour slower than indicated simply because the freeway is so crowded and the people there are deathly afraid of their cars.  Out here, away from any city or metropolitan area, with miles and miles of visible open highway ahead of us and not that many cars on the road to contend with, and without any visible cop presence that I could detect, the residents of Washington State were still voluntarily choosing to obey, you know… the law.

I remembered the Espresso Lady warning me to watch my speed yesterday as we left The Boondocks, but I just assumed she’d meant it as I was driving through town.  Perhaps that area was notorious for its speed traps.  Well to judge by the way things were moving out here, it seemed like the entire state must be one giant speed trap.  And even though I hadn’t seen so much as a single cop parked along the median of the highway pointing a radar gun at the passing cars, I just assumed these people who lived here year round must know something I didn’t and I followed their lead.  Or at the very least, when I got sick of following their lead, I only accelerated another three miles per hour to pass. 

It’s really quite ironic when you think about it.  If the caffeine-fueled Espresso Lady was anything to judge the entire state by, then you wouldn’t think these people would have the patience or self-control to keep their jittery feet from flooring that accelerator.  I guess like any good addicts though, they’ve learned the value of being cool and handling their highs.  Either that or nobody even considers buying a car without cruise control.

GRAFFITI LOG:

In an I-90 rest stop bathroom:

GRATEFUL DEAD

ROCK     SUCK     ROCK    SUCK

We pulled off the interstate in Spokane around three o’clock to grab an early dinner (or a really late breakfast depending on how you looked at it) from Frank’s Diner, another suggestion from the book ROADFOOD.  Built and operated inside an actual honest-to-God railroad car from the early 1900’s, Frank’s is a place worth visiting as much for the atmosphere as for the food – which we soon discovered was also quite good.  Stepping into Frank’s is like stepping back in time.  Exactly which time period is a little difficult to ascertain, because while the railroad car’s décor indicated pre-30’s class and stateliness, the music booming through the speakers was 1950’s rock-n-roll.  However specific or not the owners of Frank’s stuck to their theme is irrelevant.  This was quite simply the coolest place we’d eaten all trip, and definitely on my top ten list of coolest restaurants ever.

Frank’s had a decent sized lunch and dinner menu, but from what we had read, breakfast was definitely the way to go here.  Neither of us had the appetite for Frank’s signature dish, the King of the Road omelet, which consists of six eggs (count’em), filled with cheese, ham, peppers and onions and a big heap of hash browns and toast dumped on top for good cholesterol-raising measure.  I opted for the more modest Hobo Scramble, made with a mere three eggs, sausage, cheese, tomatoes, peppers and onions and served with hash browns and toast.  Lauren likewise got a relatively small ham and cheese omelet that she still had no prayer of finishing – especially with her side of bacon which they sliced and served thicker than anything you’ll likely find anywhere else in the country.  Stuffed to the brim on some darn good eating, we still had a smidgen of room leftover for a helping of cherry cobbler and ice-cream sundae.  With our stomachs gurgling at us in violent protest we left, not sorry at all that we’d eaten so much.

Turns out we’d timed our visit to Frank’s just right.  By the time we waddled out the door, past fully occupied tables and several groups of people standing around, it was obvious that there was already a good forty-five minute waiting list.  It’s apparently in your best interest to come to Frank’s during off hours if you hope to actually get a seat, because while the charm of eating inside a railroad car draws people in, that same charm means seating is necessarily limited.

Back in our own car we continued our strictly-by-the-speed-limit drive across the remainder of Washington and into Idaho where we began to look for a motel.  We probably could have gone even farther because neither of us was particularly tired, but we really wanted to spend the night in Idaho.  We had no real valid reason for this except (and Lauren is going to kill me for writing this) we thought it might be kind of fun for Lauren to be able to yell, “I-da-HO!  I-da-HO!  I-da-HO!” while we were, you know… adding another heart to our road journal. 

We found a privately owned motel in the town of Sandpoint, which had such horribly translucent venetian blinds that you could actually see through them whenever the lights were on inside the room.  To make sure we avoided the much dreaded extra-occupant charge, we had to perform all our pre-bedtime tasks by just the light of the TV.  When we finally flopped down on our bed, we realized that we were still too exhausted from another full week of road-tripping to do anything but sleep.  The only utterances of “Idaho” that night were expressed at normal conversational volume during a phone call home to Lauren’s parents.