(pg. 2 of 3)
Escape
After the Great Dental Episode of 1997, I decided to finally do something about this Thanksgiving Curse. I didn't like Thanksgiving and Thanksgiving didn't like me, so the best course of action seemed to be to avoid the holiday altogether. Now that I live 3,000 miles away from my nuclear family unit, I no longer feel the compulsion to return to the East Coast each year -- I've always preferred coming home for Christmas, anyway, so why spend all that airfare for a visit just a month before?
Of course, most of my new friends in the area weren't quite as free. They still had to go to see their families, and would invite me to their homes. That's when I would get The Look -- that awful stricken look that comes across peoples' faces when they realize my poor, lonely soul did not have a place to go for Thanksgiving. "How he must miss it so! I'll take pity on him," their eyes would say to me. I'd always make some lame excuse and try to change the subject. Thanksgiving is bad enough without adding strangers and forced politeness into the mix. At least with my family I'm comfortable and casual. At someone else's place, I'd have to dress up in a suit and be stiff and formal with everyone.
It was then I realized the silver lining to Thanksgiving -- four days off. It's the longest paid holiday in workaholic America, and I was damned if I was going to let another one pass in a yellow-orange-brown haze.
I finally hit on a wonderful solution: Escape to Canada! The border is only a few hours away from Seattle, and the Canadians get all this Thanksgiving silliness out of the way in October. To them, the last weekend in November is just like any other weekend. My lifelong dream! I decided I'd cross Puget Sound on a ferry, drive out to Port Angeles, Wash., and grab another ferry across the Strait of Juan de Fuca to beautiful, rugged Vancouver Island, British Columbia, and the gorgeous provincial capital, Victoria. I could see the wonderful seaside town, then go motoring off into the empty, inviting rainforests along the western coast.
Paradise beckoned, but the Curse answered before I had a chance. Since the Port Angeles ferry did not take reservations, the proprietors simply said to get to the dock at least an hour before the scheduled time of departure. Being the cynic that I am, I didn't believe them, and pushed my schedule ahead so I could get to the dock a full two hours in advance. Imagine my surprise when I arrived to see a line of cars snaking around the waterfront, with many making U-turns and heading back.
When I finally pulled up to the attendant he said, "Well, we're already full right now. You'll have to catch the next boat."
"When's that?" I said apprehensively.
"Seven o'clock tomorrow morning," he said, matter-of-factly. "Be sure you get there early."
So there I was, stuck in this tiny Washington port town, with the blue line of Vancouver Island and Canada mocking me from far across the water. If I had just stayed in Seattle, I could've easily blended in with the urban landscape. But out in Port Angeles, it was blatantly obvious I was Alone and Not From Here on a major holiday. I wanted to head back home, but it was at least a three-hour drive to Seattle. Besides, I still wanted to see Vancouver Island for the next three days. I decided to crash for the night and try to catch the next ferry.
After a bit of a search, I found a vacant hotel room in town. When I picked up my keys, I could smell the unmistakable scent of gravy and stuffing coming from the hotel operator's private quarters. I could hear other family members having their turkey dinner, and I couldn't help but feel like a loser and an interloper. That evening, hunger drove me to cruise up and down the empty streets of Port Angeles, looking for a restaurant that was still open. The town was like a tomb. I finally found a greasy little diner with an exhausted and grumpy waitress who was grousing with her alcoholic regulars about how she had to work on Thanksgiving. I tried to look as inconspicuous as possible and kept my nose in my magazine.
All the while, I kept thinking about what I'd do for next year's Thanksgiving. Since I was going to rainforests in 1998, why not go the other direction in 1999? The desert! I could fly cheaply into Vegas and head out to some uncharted spot and get some real peace and quiet... someplace completely foreign to the ways of the turkey and its hunters... someplace so isolated it would scare off all the tourists... someplace like... Death Valley! The lowest and most forbidding place in North America.
Perfect.
I wound up making the next morning's boat and had a lovely time hiking in the forests and along the coast for the next few days, but I kept kicking myself about that terrible Thanksgiving night.
I would not make the same mistake again.