Walla Walla, Washington, or as I like to think of it, the other www, is a Washington state wine country college town. There are over 100 wineries in this area and the best of them are producing the big bold Cabs that Washington is known for. It’s also home to Whitman College (and a bunch of other less-well-known schools). Whitman is a picturesque little campus right in the heart of the historical district and from the looks of things there, it is well endowed. (Think acres of manicured lawn and monster art installations.)

As one strolls across campus (and we did more than several times) one could feel as if they’d slipped into a time warp. The student body appears to be extraordinarily wholesome looking, almost like they are from a generation ago. Or, then again, maybe we’ve just been living in Portland for a year so we’re used to young folks with some ink on them. (Not a single tattoo shop was spotted in greater Walla Walla.)

Venture off campus and you will encounter another element of young folk, shall we say, a tad bit more expressive in terms of sartorial choices and grooming practices? We had a nice little convo with some young ladies born and bred about the division. Was it accurate to say the townies and the “Whitties” (their word for the college kids) kept to themselves?  Was there no common ground between the two groups? They seemed reluctant to discuss it candidly leaving us to speculate on the sociological divide. It isn’t a matter of money. Lots of the townie kids come from wheat farmer families and/or are winery brats; they will never be economically disadvantaged. (Not as long as the third world needs American wheat and the rest of America needs their vino. So, never.) Lots of the Whitman kids are there on scholarship, so no, not wealthy. It was a real thing though. Suffice it to say, we felt a bit  like extras in that old 90s movie Breaking Away about college townies vs. Indiana State University frat kids on bicycles. Remember the “cutters” vs. “the jocks”?  – and the real villains, the Eye-talians?  Great movie. Watch it and you’ve  practically been to WWW. We had perfect weather for swilling wine on the patios of some pretty nice wineries but I suspect that the winters in WWW are nearly as bad as they are in southern Indiana. Oh, but the wine is sooooo very much better than the Indiana stuff of grapes. (Yes, Indiana makes some wine but we don’t recommend it. You’re on your own there. Sorry Hoosiers. (http://www.indianawineries.com)

Bridges and buildings and mountains, oh my! Throw La Luna in the picture and we’re talking some serious sky-scapes. The city and her bridges still look mighty puny when you can see the grandeur of Mt. Hood, Mt. St. Helens, and Mt. Adams.  Watching the sky is better than anything on TV.

The Wreck of the Peter Iredale

The wreck of the Peter Iredale is a major tourist attraction on the northern coast of Oregon within the beautiful Fort Stevens State park (just south of the still active shipping town of Astoria). This tall-mast commercial sailing vessel was grounded in a storm on October 25, 1906 as it tried to reach the mouth of the Columbia river and its ultimate desto, Portland, OR. A hundred and ten years later the bones of the hulk are still bleaching on the Oregon shore, a shrine of sorts to the so-called  “Graveyard of the Pacific”.

Mr. Iredale, a Brit out of Liverpool, was a shipping magnate at one time in possession of a large fleet of tall mast sailing vessels commonly used in trans-oceanic international commerce. The Iredale shipping fleet was hugely successful in its heyday. Apparently though, the old man was a stubborn bastard and one of that ilk of industrialists at the turn of the twentieth century who failed to see technology bearing down on them like, you’ll pardon the expression, a steam roller. (Does this sound familiar? Hello, fossil fuel folks. A cautionary tale?)

By the time the Iredale grounded on the Oregon beach, steam powered ships had been around for decades and would soon render sailing vessels completely obsolete for the transfer of goods. According to the well placed plaques on the bluff overlooking the wreck, Mr. Iredale’s commercial shipping enterprise failed to adapt and the company went under. Who knows? Had he made the shift over to steam ships when it looked like they were here to stay, perhaps the SS Iredale* would have weathered the storm and then the tourists would have only the majesty of nature to take pictures of up there.

Desto3 fun fact: The “SS” in a boat’s name stands for “Steam Ship”. We did not know that!

Desto3 faithful followers: Yes, it’s been quiet over here. Maybe this will help explain:

What’s Next For Women

Plus, we’ve been busy re-locating corporate headquarters to the fair city of Portland, or as we like to call it, Paris of the west. (Truly, the bread here is to die for! Just one reason to live here.)

But, the really good news is….Desto3 is getting ready to end the long hiatus. Where to? Well, for starters we’ll head over to Germany for a brat or two and then mosey on up to the other Paris before we journey north to Normandy. We’ll spend a week there and hope to give you some helpful tips and info in our usual manner. Oh, you are yawning? Western Europe too unspectacular for you?

Well stay tuned because the really creative half of Desto3 is moving along to all the Stans. Yep, count ‘em, Uzbekistan. Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan. Plus Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan! We will be posting from these exotic locations.

This is the saddest Desto postcard you’ll ever read.

The sight of Horseshoe Bend probably takes nearly everyone’s breath away but it also took me to a surprising interior place. A place involving involuntary weeping. What is it about vistas like this one that evoke the deepest emotions? Sure, the grandeur and the unbelievable natural beauty and the majesty of the geological drama that created such a view are part of why it’s so spectacularly moving. And maybe that’s the whole of it for most folks but this kind of view takes me to a place of reflection and personal introspective thought that has NOTHING to do with the locale but everything to do with how lucky I feel to live in a time when travel to these remote spots is not only possible but easy.

I have no clue why, but this spot randomly makes me think about my old granmma.

It’s sometimes hard to believe but just two generations ago my namesake lived the whole of her entire life within about 50 square miles of the farm she was born on. (She may have once made a pilgrimage up to the Mayo clinic in Rochester MN because that was a travel Mecca for Norwegian farm families in Illinois back in the day, but in terms of travel, that was IT for Gram. Oh, Gramma got out to the Piggly Wiggly in town on the reg, but otherwise… travel just didn’t happen.

Very few people traveled widely in her generation. By contrast, we can hop in the car any old time we like and drive over to Arizona in a day, completely entertained by audio books on the car sound system and well fed by any number of not-too-terrible eateries that now cater to highway travelers.

It’s hard to say what Gramma would have said looking into the thousand foot drop carved out by the Colorado River in Arizona’s Glen Canyon National Recreation Area (had she ever ventured west of the Mississippi River). Odds are good though that she would have said, “Looks exactly like a horseshoe.”

They Call It Portlandia

Comparisons to other, bigger cities, abound.

Recently, the New York Times labeled Brooklyn the “Portland of the 5 Boroughs” (Think Food.) (And, that is blatant plagiarism because I’ve been calling Portland the Mini Me of New York City for at least a decade.) I’ve also heard fond comparisons to Paris (the one in France). “Paris of the West”, and that reference is also about the food-centric population and the fact that the city lies along a flowing river. (“The Willamette, damn it!”)

Portland also reminds me of Paris because it is cleaved neatly into four very distinct quadrants and the layout of the place makes complete sense. You can master the geography of the metropolitan and surrounding areas in one weekend. The northwest, (NW), the southwest (SW), the northeast (NE) and the southeast, (SE).  Just master that much and you are already ¾ of the way to your desto, whatever that desto might be. Then there’s the awesome public transportation system and the bike friendly culture in the city center. And, (much like Paris), each neighborhood has its own very distinctive personality.

Weather-wise, the die-hard, “Keep Portland Weird” citizens tell you not to let on that the rumors of incessant rain are grossly exaggerated. They would like to discourage new transplants and keep this little gem of a city all to themselves. And, who can blame them? The place is now already filthy with Californians and everybody knows, with THEM you also get motor driven four wheeled vehicles, several for each family member. The vehicular traffic has been gradually increasing every year and it is now nearly constant into the city from the suburbs. It goes from bad to worse to god-awful at the rush hours.

If I lived there I would ditch my car and take mass transit everywhere. I adore walking out of the airport fifty yards away from baggage claim and jumping on the clean and modern light rail. Lickety split I am in the City Center where I can hop off and grab the street car that runs reliably just like clockwork to my local in-town desto, whatever it happens to be. From downtown or even from the remote Southwest District I have taken the trolley to transfer to the Red Line all the way out to the extreme Northwest ‘burbs to nearly the end of the line. A few times I have done so with my bike whereupon I mount my trusty steed and pedal the remaining ten miles or so to where I want to be. If you have a bike and you aren’t afraid to ride it, you can survive in Portland NICELY without a car. And that is why Portland routinely gets on the list of “Best Bike Friendly Cities in America”. You do need to be prepared for rain. A rear fender is a must, and a good bright yellow rain slicker and flashing red lights will increase your chances of survival.

The annual “Bridges Bike Ride” is a “must do”. A sea of bikes crosses the river in ten places. The ride is closed to automobiles for many hours on a Sunday morning. It is beautiful thing to behold. Understandably, Portlanders are VERY proud of their “Green-ness” in more ways than just the bountiful foliage that they are famous for.

Alright, yeah, weather is an issue up in the Northwest. It is. But, this is one benefit of having a slate-gray sky for 9/10th of the year: When the sun finally does shine in Portland, every street is a carnival. Every café and restaurant suddenly has sidewalk tables and PEOPLE are EVERYWHERE. Mt. Hood’s visibility is like the Bat signal. Party time! On a few lucky days, you can see Mt. Hood, Mt. St. Helens up in Washington state and a few lesser mountains to boot. Visibility of all these snow capped peaks is like a gaseous cloud of some feel good drug has been dispersed into the atmosphere. Likewise when the odd snow storm hits the city. But, in reverse. EVERYBODY disappears. Portlanders are good with a constant drab, gray forecast. Extremes – either extremely good, or extremely bad weather – has an effect on the populace and their behavior like no other place I’ve ever been. There’s something really unique about Portland and it starts there with their response to the environment. I wasn’t kidding. The town motto really is “Keep Portland Weird”. They just seem to have a knack for elevating ordinary life to a celebratory level.

Just one more critical reason to fall in love with Portland is the proximity it has to both the coast (2 hours to Cannon Beach) and the mountains, (about the same to Sisters and beyond to Bend), each area lovely and desirable for obviously different attractions. In addition to those spectacular opportunities for “getting out of town” the Columbia River gorge area is right across the state line, (less than an hour’s car ride, but many Portlanders bike over there for recreation).

If you like cities, or even if you don’t, I recommend this one. Put it on your Desto3 list.

I’ll admit this. The one true thing I really knew about the state of Oregon was that Lewis and Clark ended up there. (I think.) And, it rained a lot. Like a LOT. So they said. The rain, they said, made it a very green place. Green and so beautiful! The emerald state. So, I agreed to go. This was many years ago when a girl could still hop onto a bicycle with no appreciable prior training and stay in the saddle for 80 miles in a single day. (Okay, maybe I was crying real tears when I got off the bike, but, damn it, I didn’t get in the support van, which back then seemed like a shameful thing to do.)

Older and wiser I no longer do stupid things like that. (Other stupid things, yes, but I know my limits on a bike these days. Today I would get in the van and shamelessly stuff my pie-hole with high-carb snacks long, long, long before my feet and my butt cheeks made me weep.)

What I recall most about Oregon from that first visit was an intense dislike for the ubiquitous clear cutting all over the state. It was awful and it made an impression that was kind of sad and anything but green. The other notable and memorable physical feature during that bike trip was Oregon’s utter lack of anything you could remotely refer to as “architecture”. We never made it into Portland on that first trip, or even Eugene or Corvallis. We were mostly out in the sticks, but it seemed that the same guy had been in charge of constructing every single structure in the state and he apparently had a real penchant for post WWII rectangles and corrugated metal roofs. Every single building was a low-slung affair with the same kind of flair you might expect in a re-location camp. U.G.L.Y.

Fast forward, I have now been to the state of Oregon many, many times. Most of the time, because of time constraints, I fly in to PDX (one of my favorite US international airports-so good), but on the most recent trip we drove up. We wanted to “do” the coast of Oregon.

Regarding long west coast road trips, can we come to the reasonable agreement that Interstate Highway 5 is nasty, boring and interminable in California? From Tijuana to Shasta. You just do not ever enjoy the ride. The only good thing to say about it is…lots of rest stops and almost every one is clean and well-supplied. TP at least. A little less often, soap.  Seat covers more often than you’d expect. It’s the little things, people.

But, from Shasta north the scenery gets attractive fairly quickly. I’m happy to report that the state of Oregon got the memo about clear cutting. It seems like there’s a lot less of that going on in Southern Oregon these days.

We took the 5 until we crossed over the state westward to get to the beach (Gold Beach), driving along the Rogue River for much of the way. We sheltered in Gold Beach for a couple nights at a lodge ten miles up the Rogue, Tu Tu Tun Lodge. It was ten kinds of decadent and except for the communal dining arrangement, we loved it. You can kayak in the river by day, have a lovely massage out on the river front gazebo (highly recommended) and then enjoy the lodge happy hour courtesy of your hosts. If you have an iconoclastic bent, (some of us do) you can dine alone in the library but this must be arranged prior to dinner and you have to know about this special arrangement in order to request it. (Consider yourself so informed.) The only catch is that everyone else is dining at the large communal tables in the regular dining room and in order to get to the restrooms they have to walk through the library. It’s okay if you don’t mind the glare of people who clearly have every right to think you are snubbing them by eating at the “special” table for the swell people. My guess is that the hosts are trying to recreate the feel of the old, original hunting and fishing “lodges” of yesteryear wherein the guests all just ate at one big table. (We’ve been to a couple of these in Oregon, now. Here’s how I feel about them. Meh.) Forced summer-camp-camaraderie is not our thing. Sometimes, on a long road trip we find it all we can do to be civil to each other over the evening vittles. I don’t want to ask a total stranger to pass the salad dressing. And, if you get seated next to one of those garrulous old geezers who can’t control his dentures so he winds up spitting his mashed whatever onto your plate….well, just go ahead and think ill of me. But, give me my own table, please. Otherwise, a complete delight, that place.

Onward north to Florence where you get to see the “two Oregons” in close proximity to each other like no place else (except Portland).And by two Oregons, I’m talking about demographic divisions. (Here we go again with the class warfare.)  In the quaint old town that lies in the shadow of the bridge you will find cultured and artistic shop folk along with fine dining establishments and lovely galleries and boutiques. Up the road and just outside of the old town is the more plebian Oregon. Every fast-food franchise in America calls this outer area home and the folk are, shall we say, a tad bit less discerning when it comes to fashion. This is the part of the Oregonian population that bears a striking pale resemblance to the extra cast from The Children Of The Corn. The kiddies apparently all have similar dietary deficiencies and they all go to the same hair salon, (shampoo must be hard to obtain) since every single underfed child is stringy haired and vacant eyed. I know that’s a little harsh, but, also a little true. Go see for yourself. That stretch of Oregon is kind of like Appalachia by the sea. (Try not to make eye contact with “Daddy” – you just know there’s a loaded gun under the driver’s seat in all those 1989 Datsuns.)

And, then life and the winding road throw you a real curve…in the little town of Yachats, follow the signs to the bakery about a half block off the main drag through town directly across from the brewery. I am still dreaming (weeks later) about the good things in that bakery, both savory and sweet. Scrumptious doesn’t cut it by a long shot. I knew it would be good when I saw the Tibetan Prayer Flags flying over the door, but, inside those doors, I promise you that you will fall to your knees and sing praises to whatever God you believe in. This is a personal guarantee. (Note: this offer does not apply to the gluten Nazis.)

Our ultimate desto for that leg of our trip was the Willamette Valley where -from all things Pinot Noir emanate. You will find other appellations in Oregon wine country, but Pinot Noir is king. And, drink it colder than other heartier reds, damn it! Do we have to remind you? (But, not so cold that it tastes like Kool-Aid. A few degrees make all the diff.) See our trip notes for recs in wine country, please.

Wine country in Oregon is quickly catching up to California in terms of wine production, (and pretention – not a single plebian zombie from the apocalypse to be found anywhere). And, it’s a little bit on the expensive side. But, the food and (we covered this) great Pinot Noir bring a constant influx of tourism to all the towns of the valley and lots of them are local Oregon “staties” who venture down from Portland or up from the college towns throughout the year. You really do need to book lodging in advance and there are lots of very nice options.

We’ll give it a rest here while we re-group (and drink). Next desto…a rendezvous with Mssrs. Lewis and Clarke.

This is classic So Cal. It’s a picture that makes me proud to live in a place where flip flops are such an onerous burden you simply have to take a load off and slip out of them when you get a chance. This young lady was spotted at a VIP reception put on by TREK TRAVEL up in Santa Barbara this week where we went to welcome the TREK riders from the Tour of California at the finish line.

Let me tell you… It’s GOOD to be a VIP. Especially when it involves a perfectly chilled grassy local Sauvignon Blanc (never ending pours) and noshes like bacon wrapped scallops and mini crab cakes. Apologies to my vegan friends and the pig. There are a lot of “Premium” Bike Tour companies now, but nobody does it better than TREK, and this is not just the copious amounts of free booze and luscious seafood talking. We’ve taken five trips with TREK. In country and international. I’ve got nothing but love for TREK TRAVEL. (Unfortunately this is not a sponsored ad – just organic love spilling forth – although if you go on one of their supported bike trips you do get some pretty neat swag.)

After a mere century in the saddle – a hundred miles for those of you who don’t bike, and that’s a damn shame if you ask me, (in 100 degree heat and climbing mountains) the TREK pros jumped into showers, and lickety split, presented themselves at the reception, graciously signing autographs and posing for pictures with geezers 3 times their age who still fantasize about riding the Giro d’ Italia on a TREK Madone 5.

Three days later the tour wrapped up with the Sky team’s Bradley Wiggins in the yellow jersey. (He won – in case you aren’t in the know when it comes to bike lingo.)

Desto3 greetings from Temecula California or as Southern Californians call it, the “other wine country”.

In the U.S. THE wine country is and always will be the Napa Valley, (Napa/Sonoma). That’s a given. Okay, yeah, yeah, everybody here saw “Sideways” and ever since that movie came out Santa Barbara and Paso Robles think they are all that and a bag of chips, but, Jeez Louise, you guys have the majestic Pacific Ocean for cryin’ out loud…can you give the little inland town of Temecula a break? And, some vine love? Rise above, Central Coast. Be nice. Share the love. (Of the vino.)

Sure, I too had my Sideways-Santa Barbara period. (Just say NO! to merlot.) And, further north, Pablo and I have shared more than a few decent reds and a few decent bike rides amongst the noble vineyards in the rolling hills of San Luis Obispo. But, I have to say this: I am currently a little bit in love with Temecula, and here’s why. It’s trying so hard. You have to love a town that knows it’s not Hertz, it’s not Avis, it isn’t even Enterprise. Temecula, if you let me extend this sketchy metaphor, is Europcar. And by that I mean it isn’t Napa. Or, the Central Coast. Or even Livermore, which has a happening little wine-town revival going on. It’s kind of like “wine country for beginners”. It’s down south for starters, almost to the Mexican border, and who thinks of wine when you say San Diego? See? But, swear to the gods of enology, rumor has it they are bottling some half way decent wines down there. Who knew? Well, now we do and so you do too.

And, here’s another thing about little Temecula, California: it’s charming. The downtown of the old town area is bustling with quaint shops, eateries and pubs. It has a nice little Rue du Crapola, if that’s your thing. Oddly, I actually like it quite a bit better than San Diego’s Old Town area even though it lacks the whole “Old California Mission vibe”. What’s lacking in authenticity in terms of an “Old World Spanish” flair however is more than compensated for by the winery folks (and there are dozens now) who display an obvious penchant for anything faux French. So, if you are hankering for a teensy little taste of something with a European flavor without actually having to get a passport, spend a night or two in Temecula. I highly recommend the Inn at Europa Village  (out of town about 4 miles) that gives you a killer view of the surrounding cultivated hillsides and the misty mountains in the distance. You could be in France. (Bordeaux.) Or Italy. (Tuscany). Or Spain. (Basque country). Chef Dean does the brekkie and it is spectacular. If you don’t take the crack of dawn balloon ride, you can still watch them take off from your private balcony. But, we took the ride with D & D Ballooning  so you could see this photo. (My motto: No Child Left A Dime.) (Sorry kids.)

Another opportunity for a bit of Europa without leaving home is the Shamrock Irish Pub just up the road in Murietta. Oh, what a fine time you’ll have. Two nice limey-boyos own the pub and they’ll provide real pints of fine brew and live music that’ll have you off your feet and dancin’ a jig before you know what hit ya’. Surely now, one of God’s finest miracles is the corned beef and cabbage…delicious and truly authentic. You’ll swear your Irish gran cooked it up special for your Sunday supper. But, if you prefer, order the fish and chips. Best F&C this side of the Atlantic, don’t you know. And, trust your server for a wine rec. ‘Tis the wine country, boyo, and these servers know their stuff. All in all if you can’t go to Europe this summer, do yourself the next best. Temecula for a taste of France. And the Shamrock for an Irish/English pub experience. But check the live music schedule and make sure the gypsy band Quel Bordel  is playing and the wee Irish dancers are kicking up their heels for ya’. Slainte!