Oregon Coast

Rideshare via craigslist.org worked for the first time yesterday. It’s like mifahrzentrale.de, only smaller and worse. Petrol is still too cheap here. I get a lift to Portland for $10, funny people. My bus to the coast doesn’t leave until the evening, so it’s a 6-hour journey. I visit the supposedly biggest and best bookstore in America, www.powell.com. Hugendubel Munich is at least as big, but nicer.

I do some surfing and Skype in a café and then take the bus on to Seaside in the evening through steamy forests and rain. The last place before Seaside is called Cannon Beach. That’s what it looks like: Storm 70km/h. Surf shop after surf shop. High waves, torn-off tarpaulins, swept-away chairs, trees at their maximum load. Yes! Wind at last!
The bus sways after every slipstream. I quickly find my hosts directly on Highway 101.

The next morning, after 13 hours of sleep, the joy is blown away – well, that’s probably the wrong word. It’s raining cats and dogs. No bus for local transport. 86 cars drive past my wet thumb. And worst of all: no wind. The curse continues. Off to the local surf shop. Forecast: 25mp/h today, 15 tomorrow, waves around 2m. Dangerous currents, in which a student of my hosts died just 2 weeks ago. Hasn’t “surfaced” again yet. I haven’t noticed anything of the 25mp/h today yet. 5 o’clock. The day is over, just like the next few.

I spend the whole day sitting in a cafe as a coffee hater. The internet culture is funny here, but it still wasn’t my destination. I try online chess with Werner in Germany. Unfortunately he doesn’t have Java, so it’s postponed. Score to hold 43:19. Some more chatting and travel planning.

The city is pretty dead. Not quiet, but dead. Like off-season. 50% of the cafes closed, few guests. Fog in the forest hills directly behind the coast. Afterwards I have a nice walk of about an hour along the edge of the motorway. At least the water comes from a different direction. I love variety. Tomorrow I’ll move on to the Columbia River.

I walk back to my hosts on the beach until a river blocks my path. It’s raining again. Back to the motorway and onwards with my thumb outstretched. This time, after three miles, I get a lift from a broken-down couple. She apologises for being “car-sick”. I think to myself “Hm, doesn’t smell like that” and joke about the Americans’ fear of murdering hitchhikers. My driver comments curtly with “I’ve been to jail for murder”. When I get out, I understand the apology. I shake my hand in the rain.