Day Twenty-Two, Northbound

Made it all of a dozen miles today but I did get some shopping done. Borrowed money is too quickly spent but I will pay the piper someday. Or not; really, you never know. I may just keep walking forever.

Woke up in my dingy little motel after two or three hours of rest. I always have the damnedest time falling asleep indoors. It may be the cable TV. Or the soft bed or the roar of the fan or the neighbors drinking next door. Whatever the reason I could have done with more sleep, another eighteen or twenty hours.

There are many roads that lead into a city. Which you choose may color your view. In New Delhi, for example, there is a regular boulevard, lined with trees and garnished with flowers, leading from the airport to the halls of government. A visiting dignitary would be forgiven for believing he was in a modern efficient city. But two blocks over in any direction another story is told.

I believe I entered Spokane through the sewers, up the canal; in through the out door, as it were. The roads were narrow; the buildings were grubby; the whole place smelled like wet dog and prophylactic latex. Only late in the day did I realise the smells were coming from my raincoat and musty clothes. But by then it was too late. My opinions were formed. I had soured on poor Spokane.

I walked into town on a road with no shoulder in a rain that would not stop all day. I twas cold and my feet were horribly cramped when I arrived in a sort of Bowery. The people I passed seemed as homeless as me and had demons worse than my own. There were some pretty views, though. A river passes through town. And there was a splendid railroad bridge, ugly but nonetheless grand.

There is a magnificient waterfall in the center of town, not high but powerful. It generates enough electricity for a city of almost half a million people. That much I learned from a Scoutmaster who could have been more friendly, more courteous and kind. But the uniform goes to some mens' heads, seduced by their own tasselled socks.

I guess it's harder to be a bum in the city. In the country they take me more as I am. Good or bad, they know I'm a man of the road and are interested in where I've been. In the city they remain suspicious of me, perhaps burdened by the arrogant notion that I intend to stay. The longer I am out here, the wilder I look; but I am still polite and well-spoken. But that doesn't do me any good in a place where people think they know me at a glance. Or anyone, for that matter. Talk to people, for the love of Christ. I am a hobo with business cards. I hate that it makes a difference.

Gradually I came to meet more and more hipsters, young urban youth on the edge. The kind of people who frankly ruined Seattle and are all the more insufferable now that they are in their thirties and forties. I stopped into a trendy but comfortable cafe where they fed me like a king and my attractive young waitress broke my heart by calling me "sir".

From there I was on to REI, where I let an earnest young man called Jake talk me into a new pair of boots. My Wenatchee boots are showing noticable signs of wear. I needed something a bit firmer. And I needed something called "arch supports", if not a Zimmer frame. Old age, I suppose, has something to do with it. Being called "sir" is small compensation.

Young Jake was kind enough not to sell me the very most expensive boots he had, which is good because they can cost a fortune. And even these rugged specimens aren't going to last forever. He did, however, insist on selling me something in a size 13.

I am not superstitious but, by golly, I've worn eleven-and-a-halfs or twelves since I was sixteen years old. Now here I am at thirteen. Good God, what have I done to myself? I'm mutating. Jake says it's because my arches are in the wrong place and my toes need wiggle room. But were my arches always in the wrong place? Why didn't anyone tell me?

I had cherished the secret hope that if my body were to be at all changed by this adventure, I'd get them chiselled abdominal muscles like the fellows you see on TV. As it is I will be lucky to maintain an even vaguely human form. I'll be hideous. No one will ever love me.

I too picked up a new pair of pants and three pairs of quick-drying socks made out of sheeps from New Zealand. They're a little rough on my feet, to be honest. Kiwis are a hardy breed. I also got a fancy fast-drying towel and a stick of wax which, properly applied, will prevent me from chafing myself. And water purification tablets, for emergencies in Montana. I looked at long-sleeved shirts but didn't invest. I'll pay three times more for sunscreen.

I headed north out of town after long hours there. It just keeps raining harder. It got dark at six when I was still in the suburbs. I was worried I wouldn't find a place to camp. Find me now positioned precariously between Highway 2 and a chain link fence, behind a thin row of pines. It's a substantial fence, the kind put up by the federal government. Or yuppies. Who knows what it's meant to protect. I don't feel safe here at all.

MET: a very pretty girl at the REI who runs fifty miles a day, just for fun. She told me her name but I deliberately forgot it. I knew somehow it would haunt me.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.1