Vashon Island, Washington

At the top (ish) of the Olympic Peninsula is the charming town of Port Angeles. From here leprechauns (ferries - see earlier post) run regularly to Canada, which it is possible to see from this viewing platform, helpfully erected at the quay.


It was here that I bumped into three disaffected youths with musical aspirations, loitering around the platform and swinging recklessly from its stairs. They were all dressed in semi-Goth style, black on black, eye makeup and multiple layers of probably fairly unhygienic clothing. One of them was sporting a fluffy black tail protruding from the seat of his pants.

I thought that was pretty cool and unusual, so I told him. "I love your tail." I immediately regretted it, thinking that it was foolish to have said such a thing. What if he misinterpreted the compliment, thought I was mocking him and flew into some kind of adolescent fit of rage?

Just to prove that you shouldn't ever judge a book by its cover, even one with a tail, he gave me an extraordinarily sweet and genuine smile. "Thank you," he said, making direct and warm eye contact.

I met more charming, warm and friendly young people at the Vashon Island Hostel. The cream puff and I took the leprechaun over to the island and found our way to the hostel fairly quickly (it's a small island).

The hostel itself is a pretty cool place. Accommodation options include tepees (for two people), covered wagons (for one) and dorm rooms (for wimps - and me).

Every night there is a campfire, with marshmallows, around which the guests gather to talk. By popular demand I played some Australian music through my laptop and Tobias' USB speakers and we all sat around, shared stories and talked politics. By popular consensus the President of the USA and the Prime Minister of Australia should be thrown into a pit and made to fight to the death for the good of humanity. Of course, a straw poll of this audience also concluded that the CIA is running a secret alien research facility in the Australian desert, but I take my friends where I can find them on the road.

Especially to Eric and Tobias, thank you for your company around the campfire. You have generous, artistic souls and are a living gift to everyone you meet. I admire the trust you have in your fellow man, but try not to believe everything you hear.

The hostel also provides pancake mix in the kitchen for breakfast and I cooked some up before I hit the road. On my way out the gate one of the staff suggested looking for blackberries by the side of the road. He was right. They were absolutely everywhere, ripe and juicy and delicious. I quickly filled an absurdly large bag that I was sure I would never be able to finish eating and, of course, did.