Seven

Having a motel room downtown looses its appeal as the evening progresses. It is Friday night and the hottest place for going out seems to be a Sushi bar just accross the motel’s parking lot. Given the temperatures, a good share of the fun happens outside. I walk over to maybe join in on it, but the crowd’s definition of fun looks too much frontier style for my taste. You know, bar brawls with bottles smashed over heads, that kind of thing. So I’d rather go back to my room and drink my beer in peace. Or whatever I can get instead. The fun also seems to involve the use of rather noisy automobiles.

Saturday morning is a good time to replace the dubious continental breakfast with some original American breakfast. In the list of local establisments in my motel room, I spot a cafe which promises just that. As I pull into their parking lot, they appear to be closed. How odd. But since this isn’t Arcata, a Denny’s is available accross the street.

Unlike its continental sister, American breakfast contains serious amounts of foodstuffs exclusively from the top of the food pyramid. I’m probably outing myself as a sissy European here, but Steak and Eggs is a bit too much for my taste. Also, needing ketchup and mustard for breakfast? I order a combination meal which turns out to consist of three pancakes with a icecream sized scoop of butter and what I believe to be mapple sirup, a generous portion of potato hashes, scrambled eggs, bacon and three cevapcici. I have no idea how they fit in. After I have finished I actually could do with an Uzo, but resort to large amounts of coffee instead. Out here you still get real American coffee otherwise known as brownish hot water, and not this Double Decaf Latte Macchiatto stuff. The advantage is of course, that you can drink galeons of it without fear of any heart problems.

Off to the car again. The first bit is along Interstate 5 and hence about as thrilling as a ride on the German Autobahn. Sorry to shatter dreams here, but even 180 km/h get boring pretty fast when all you see is concrete and other cars. Things improve vastly beyond Medford, where I am back on a normal highway heading east again. First, the landscape is rather Shire-like, quite lovely, really. Beyond which, as everybody knows, lie the Misty Mountains only they are called Cascade Range around here. The road climbs up to a bit over 5000 feet (which sounds way more impressive than 1500 meters) before going down to the Upper Klamath Lake and, ultimately, Klamath Falls. This doesn’t refer to a waterfall (at least none that I could find) but yet another example of small town America. Also, this being Saturday, it is rather empty. The only attraction is a farmer’s street market on 9th.

Just outside Klamath Falls, now soutbound again, I spot Mount Shasta for the first time. Mind you, it is still about seventy miles away. The first fifteen of them are a savannah like landscape which, behind the border to California, turns into farmland. Then, it is mountains again before we come down to meet Interstate 5 near the small town of Weed. Which, I can report, does not smell in any way suspicous.

A bit further on lies the city of Mount Shasta where I make quarters for the day. It is only four, but it is Saturday so I gather it a good idea to get a room right away. While there are enough motels to choose from, none is really close to the center. This is the drawback of the otherwise fantastic system of having motels everywhere: Most often the motels are where the pubs are not. And I am not yet bold enough to drive downtown for a beer.