On the road, part two

Just woke up after a car nap. I love a good car nap and today is perfect—sunny and warm, a long drive home, and scenery that is lovely but repetitive, so I don’t feel I’m missing too much if I close my eyes. I have the laptop across my knees and one of Tim’s sweatshirts hanging in the window to reduce glare, so I am highway-blogging, which is not particularly glam, but better than sitting here eating jelly worms. There is a dwindling bag of jelly worms nesting between our seats.
After yesterday’s stroll round the picture-perfect Ferndale, we had lunch at Applebee’s, a rather good chain restaurant, not like anything in NZ, really. Tim, with his love of a bargain and a good honest feed, has developed a passion for Applebee’s and its celebrity chef, Tyler Somebody, who is often on the box talking up his latest flavor combos, such as chicken with salsa, which don’t sound particularly clever, and certainly not new, but taste fantastic all the same. There isn’t one in the city, so we keep an eye out as we drive new highways. Our first Applebee’s was in Kentucky. Yesterday, we hit the one in Eureka and it was just as good—and practically identical in appearance; the décor is Americana, with lots of road signs and pictures of Cadillacs and football helmets and such. Tim had a quesadilla burger with rosemary-parmesan fries; I had the Caesar salad topped with crispy garlic prawns. Could have fed a horse comfortably. And cheap as chips.
After that, we took a walk in the woods, getting up close and personal with more redwoods. I scared myself silly with thoughts of bears after a mysterious noise, a low, drawn-out keening, went unexplained. It was all very beautiful but I couldn’t wait to get back to the car. And then we drove to Fort Bragg, scene of one of my great childhood disappointments.
When I was about 11, one of my best friends from John Swett Elementary in Martinez, a girl I had managed to keep in touch with during a two-year stint in NZ, spent the weekend with my family. We drove up to Fort Bragg, a former military outpost, now white trash hangout (I’m horrid, I know), and caught the Skunk Train, an old steam engine that meanders through the redwoods to another nothing-much town, Willits. Dad was really excited about the train, and he had talked about it enough that I was too. Sadly, Alyson, a skinny blonde girl who often wore lavender jeans, which I thought were the coolest, was cold and miserable and unimpressed with all options laid before her. Basically, she was bored, which is about as bad as it got for middle class pre-teens in the 1980s. She didn’t like the train, she didn’t like the chile served in Styrofoam cups we ate at a pitstop along the way, she hated our charmless hotel, and she didn’t like my parents either. The years between 10 and 15 were particularly unattractive for me, so I suspect my clothes were pretty lame, and my hair dull, and my music taste dorky. Meanwhile, Alyson had the lavender jeans and a walkman. By the end of the weekend we were no longer friends. When we got home, I cried and cried.
Fort Bragg hasn’t improved much in 21 years. We ate pizza and went to bed.