It’s nice to get away. Before last Wednesday, the closest I’d been to Washington State was San Diego and Cedar City, Utah. I always assume distant places are going to feel totally foreign. And they do, to an extent (my Florida brain is not set up to process the Rockies), but it’s also comforting how familiar 3,000 miles away can feel—that you can travel across the country (or further) and talk to strangers and find your way around and don’t wind up lost on some busy city street in the fetal position, weeping. I don’t know; maybe I just have low expectations for my traveling abilities.
I’M OVER HERE: I wore a red hat so they could find me in the rainforest.
As promised, Mom staged a grand Broadway musical of a trip, centered on a cousin’s wedding on Lake Quinault. It was a week of hiking the streets of Seattle and the rainforests of the Olympic Peninsula, of getting reacquainted with family and learning to square dance; of ducking thrown fish and scouring tchotchke shops for Space Needle cookie cutters and stuffed crabs.
ME AND MCDREAMY: I was actually looking for Frasier trinkets, hence my less-than-thrilled expression.
And, of course, a week of keeping my mother from trying to take scenic photographs while she’s driving. Damn multi-tasking stage managers.
RELAXATION: Converse in a canoe on Quinault.