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The day started with some chores. The bed and pump needed returning. ‘Was it faulty?’ asked the assistant. ‘No, it didn’t fit the space,’ was the enigmatic reply. Logically confused we resorted to the Starbucks before driving the 32 foot Beast into the depths of Portland in search of a clinic for remedial treatment.
Then onto the airport economy parking Red Lot to leave the RV and, in theory, a quick Light Rail ride back to the city centre. It took longer to decode the workings of the ticket machine than to ride to Old Town/Chinatown. Chinatown, we were told afterwards was a collection of chemists, 3 gift shops and 8 restaurants. The Light Rail was the same as the one that graces Boston and was a good way to beat the roads.
Portland was a strange mixture of derelict and steel fronted buildings, of high end jewelers and strip joints, and of people ranging from the building workers who clocked off at 3.30pm, the few tourists like us and the many locals? whiling away their time on street corners. This latter group included an elderly, ponytailed man working on his hacky sack tricks, tattoo covered girls with Mohicans and orange hair, punks with a rash of body piercings and a girl with Blah, Blah, Blah Y-Fronts. It was as wide a collection of styles and fashions as I have seen in a long time. However, we did find a camping shop and they did sell an airbed that fit the space. Nic was so pleased.
The Hunts picked up Val; I was on dog duty, amassing further specimens for my collection. And then, all at once, we were off. Straight to the ticket barrier which would not accept the ticket. So used the ‘help’ feature and was asked to exit via the cashier at the Blue barrier. Man would take our money but exits were too narrow. What to do? Held hostage in Portland International Airport Economy Lot. So the manager was called. He wanted to squeeze the beast through the narrow exit but eventually and with some attitude took the ticket and the credit card and let us back to the Red exit. We pulled up in the previous slot. ‘Move further forward’ he called, ‘the machine will not work unless you pull right up.’ And so we did and so it did and on we went.
The RV site was rural, complete with pool, spa and tepee. After lighting the campfire and catching up, we settled down to sleep. Nic was relegated to the floor on the new mat. We had the dog in our room. Few of us slept, not necessarily because of our beds but because of the train tracks that ran straight through the site and to make matters worse, the train driver’s idea of fun was to toot his horn as he passed through. It was a great service as the trains continued through the night, every half hour.
Then onto the airport economy parking Red Lot to leave the RV and, in theory, a quick Light Rail ride back to the city centre. It took longer to decode the workings of the ticket machine than to ride to Old Town/Chinatown. Chinatown, we were told afterwards was a collection of chemists, 3 gift shops and 8 restaurants. The Light Rail was the same as the one that graces Boston and was a good way to beat the roads.
Portland was a strange mixture of derelict and steel fronted buildings, of high end jewelers and strip joints, and of people ranging from the building workers who clocked off at 3.30pm, the few tourists like us and the many locals? whiling away their time on street corners. This latter group included an elderly, ponytailed man working on his hacky sack tricks, tattoo covered girls with Mohicans and orange hair, punks with a rash of body piercings and a girl with Blah, Blah, Blah Y-Fronts. It was as wide a collection of styles and fashions as I have seen in a long time. However, we did find a camping shop and they did sell an airbed that fit the space. Nic was so pleased.
The Hunts picked up Val; I was on dog duty, amassing further specimens for my collection. And then, all at once, we were off. Straight to the ticket barrier which would not accept the ticket. So used the ‘help’ feature and was asked to exit via the cashier at the Blue barrier. Man would take our money but exits were too narrow. What to do? Held hostage in Portland International Airport Economy Lot. So the manager was called. He wanted to squeeze the beast through the narrow exit but eventually and with some attitude took the ticket and the credit card and let us back to the Red exit. We pulled up in the previous slot. ‘Move further forward’ he called, ‘the machine will not work unless you pull right up.’ And so we did and so it did and on we went.
The RV site was rural, complete with pool, spa and tepee. After lighting the campfire and catching up, we settled down to sleep. Nic was relegated to the floor on the new mat. We had the dog in our room. Few of us slept, not necessarily because of our beds but because of the train tracks that ran straight through the site and to make matters worse, the train driver’s idea of fun was to toot his horn as he passed through. It was a great service as the trains continued through the night, every half hour.
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