Oregon 1, or Adventures In Family Travel
written 6/4/07-6/5/07

It started, as do many things, with my mother and a desperate phone call. My father's birthday was approaching too rapidly for comfort, and she had no gift ideas. It's virtually impossible to actually buy the man anything, since he doesn't pine for material things - he buys whatever he needs or really wants, and doesn't need or want anything else. The last time my mother tried to buy him a present, he put it in the opposite corner of the living room and went out and bought himself something he liked better. My mother and I kvetched for awhile about my father's gift impossibilities, and hung up with resolutions to brainstorm like mad.

The result of those brainstorms, and many months of planning was this: a 10-day vacation to the West Coast, with three components: a drive up the coast from San Francisco to Oregon, a whitewater rafting trip down the Rogue River, and a three-day digital photography class for my dad to attend.

Right now, we're in the last stage of the trip, and my father seems to have enjoyed himself thus far. My sister and I have managed to share the backseat of a rented Chevy Impala without any major insults or injuries (we'll just forget that bit about my saying she couldn't harmonize for beans), the scenery has been beyond incredible, and - dare I say it - my family seems to be behaving functionally. We're traveling well.

Traveling with my family is completely in contrast with the travels I did in Europe. I noticed this immediately when we arrived at the airport and got to stand in the "Priority/Elite/FirstClass" baggage line. My first thought was this: the last time I was flying, I was nobody's "Priority" but my own. The baggage handlers at this airport were polite and friendly, called my mother "Ma'am" and laughed at my jokes about being a "Priority."

When my family travels, we stay in places that aren't just "nice". They're often beautiful and luxurious, like this house on the beach. When I traveled as a student, I traveled cheaply, with comfort as a secondary priority. But I still made decisions. It was more important for me to eat good food than stay in a hotel or a nicer hostel. I liked people-watching from street cafes better than art museums, although I did see some fantastic art museums. I jumped on a trampoline in a park in Budapest instead of going to one of its famous spas. I went to the London Gay Film Festival instead of the Tower of London. I think I'm pretty weird about traveling, actually. But that's an analysis for another entry.

At this point, I'm enjoying Oregon, a state I've never been to before. But I'd like to relate one more incident that really startled me. I think you all might find it amusing.

I had an experience several days ago in which my younger sister sent a pasta dish back to the kitchen at a restaurant. I almost stopped her. Why? Because two simultaneous thoughts went off in my head like fireworks:

1. Wait, you can’t do that! Who does that? They’ll never accept it - just eat what you can and you’ll eat at home.

2. You're complaining about a little too much cream on your pasta? Are you for real? They got your order right - what more do you want?

And then the waitress happily took the order back to the kitchen, apologized to my sister for not getting it right, and brought her back a steaming cream-less plate without charging her for the other one. I don’t think I spoke for whole minutes after that (which, for me, is generally a feat). Welcome back from the Czech Republic, Dane.