Road Trip Day Four, Continued: Eureka!

Eureka means, “We found it!” and we did – before lunch. A quaint city of Victorian homes, it has seen better, noisier days as a shipping port for the many logs felled in Humboldt.

Though Michael knows I dislike Bed & Breakfasts and Victoriana, it was his idea to stay at an authentic Victorian B&B. He thought that the style elements might be a source of inspiration for my work at Red House. He also thought the experience of sharing a bathroom and breakfast with perfect strangers would help me in my quest to acquire patience. Well, it didn’t help that I started out tired, and that I had to stake out some space in the parlor to get some work done while Michael explored Old Town. I’m not used to dealing with distractions such as the public coming in off the street and inquiring about vacancies. And it was nearly impossible to get a wireless signal with all the heavy tapestries and stuffed animals clogging the air space. Being seated at the Victorian séance table was sort of unnerving too. Plus, the velvet chair I had to sit in was precisely a right angle. Better to conjure the undead from a position of excellent posture, I guess. And there was so much clutter in the room that I had trouble concentrating. Stuffed peacock! Antlers! Dolls with tiny teeth that looked like they were taken from real children! And the effect of fringed red silk lampshades is to draw all of the light from the room and reflect back onto me a devilish red pallor. I decided to have a glass of whatever was in the room’s decanter. Wow - one ghastly sip told me it was just for show. Eventually, I settled into a working mode, though when all was said and done Michael accomplished more than I – he found a real gem of a restaurant, Avalon. It’s got to be the only local recipient of the Wine Spectator Award of Excellence. (See it at avaloneureka.com) If you find yourself here you have to go for the pear, bacon and gorgonzola salad - and the smoked quail. Of course, the substantial wine list was a delight after my day in the parlor.

Back at the inn: The bathroom was down the hall and some dark and creaky stairs, but no one was in it when I got there – a plus. We tucked in to what was for us a tiny bed, but it was the rock-hard pillows that made it difficult to sleep. I must have managed though as I was awakened by the sound of talking in the hallway and doors opening and closing. It was 3:14! And again - more of the same at 4:30! Who stays out that late? See what I mean about B&Bs?! Naturally, Michael slept through the noise. I didn’t get back to sleep until it was about time to get up anyway. And I had spent hours thinking about whether to go find the parlor and drain the moonshine from the decanter, but figured I’d crash into one of the priceless antique gramophones en route.

Six normal looking people were seated in the dining room with fruit cups in front of them when Michael and I came down for breakfast. I expected at least two of them to be hung-over 20-somethings, but no. The innkeeper offered us coffee, which we enthusiastically accepted, and then Michael and I exchanged a wide-eyed glance – the coffee was barely tea colored and was flavored with vanilla – GAG! But we learned the story of the nocturnal noise – the poor couple! They came all the way from Alabama for a wedding in the redwoods and their rental car broke down as they were driving back to Eureka. They were by the side of the road for hours waiting for a tow truck. Dazed and confused, they left their cell phone in the truck when it dropped them at the B&B. They fell asleep only to be awakened an hour later by the innkeeper, who had to roust them to the phone in the parlor to take a call from their rental car company. Whoa.

The innkeeper seemed distressed that I hardly ate any of my breakfast, a huge platter of French toast encircled by a string of sausages. There was a good half-pound of powdered sugar there, plus islands of butter adrift on a sea of syrup! I was somewhat ashamed of myself and tried to divert the innkeeper’s attention to a portrait on the wall, which I commented on, saying it looked just like Joseph Stalin. The innkeeper looked as if she’d been kicked in the head, “That’s my great-great Grandfather.” (Ouch!) I wasn’t making any friends here. Michael saved the day by announcing that we had to go. (We did?!)