Mrs Elliott and I have arrived in Astoria, it's sunny, not so warm, being a bit breezy, but we're at the Wet Dog Saloon, watching a lightning delay. 6-0 Tennessee. Possibly forever.
Finding lodging hereabouts, even after Labor Day, is difficult.
The coast is booked up. The state campgrounds, like Ft. Stevens, Ecola, and the like, are full. Cheek by jowl full. I dislike state campgrounds. California's are over-developed, manicured, crowded, and completely lack seclusion. Your view is into the neighbor's RV windows.
I was disappointed to find that Oregon's state parks are the same.
But they are enormously popular, given how many hundreds of people willingly pack themselves into them.
Mrs Elliot is calling around, looking for lodging while I work my way through a sampler of the pub's beers.
Even crap places like the Shilo Inn and the Holiday Express are full.
It has been a flawlessly beautiful day. All in all, the northern Oregon coast is everything I hoped it would be. Spectacularly beautiful, with clean little towns, and nice places to stay. Our anniversary falls, on design, on New Year's Eve, and staying someplace like Newport in winter tempts us.
Cannon Beach looks to be a woman's paradise: shops, shops, shops.
I have been told that it is warm and sunny in Bend. For this trip along the coast I advised Mrs Elliott to pack for cold and wet (i.e., no cotton). She was a bit dismayed that she brought no clothing for warm and dry. "Prepare for the worst," I said, "expect the best." Bit of smug know-it-all, in case you have not noticed.
She tends to lighten her suitcase as she travels. Not intentionally, but dependably. Hats, scarves, cell phone chargers are often left behind. It appears that she left her greatcoat behind in Pacific City.
The TV people* tell me that the game will start in five minutes.
(Mrs Elliott just found a bed and breakfast in Astoria with a great location and affordable price -- she's really good at things like that.)
Whoops, there's more to write but the game has started and I gotta watch. Apologies for typos.
* Close Encounters of the Third Kind:
Who's here, dear?
The TV people.
Transvestites in my house? No way!