Ashland Branch Library, Ashland, Oregon (BONUS: Plague in Galt, the summary)

I had all sorts of plans for California. I was going to see my friend Amanda and visit the main library in San Francisco. I was going to drive up the coast and see the Pacific. I was going to see General Sherman, the massive sequoia, and drive through Yosemite National Park, seeing the sights and soaking up the nature. I was going to drive through the Redwood National and State Parks and spend quality time around my very favorite flora on this green and bountiful earth.

Instead I got the plague and had to take a five day side trip to Galt, California. More on that in the Epilogue.

Once mostly mended, I paid my bill (broken trumpet sounds) and headed north toward Sacramento and the Oregon border. My eventual stopping point for the night was Manzanita Rest Area, just north of Grants Pass, Oregon, about six hours from my starting point. Before Manzanita, however, was one destination I could not pass by, even if I was feeling a bit knocked out by all that driving: the Ashland Branch Library in Ashland, Oregon.

Don't think I didn't notice my illness was also bookended by Dragons.

First, let me tell you about this town. It is exactly where you want to live. It is in a mountainous region surrounded by thick, green trees, some turning to fall colors, blasting yellow, red, and glorious in the sun. The town itself is as Cute as a Goddamned Button, with main drags down the center where the walkways are plentiful and the rustic, charming shops and restaurants are overflowing with hearty, be-sweatered Americans with cash to burn, smiling and jolly and full of chowder. There are also plenty of kids with black and blue hair skateboarding all about, exuding not only teenaged ennui, but with manners to boot which is, let me tell you, beyond kitten adorable.

I saw a lot of Cape Cods and Victorians, with a scattering of minimalls away from the twee-est part of town, and one old-fashioned Wendy's like a festering pimple on an otherwise inscrutable but lovely face, pale with dark eyes, framed in a sheath of glowing brown curls. Oh Ashland, Ashland. I love you.

Ashland is the home of the Southern Oregon University. If the signs hadn't given it away, the clutches of college kids walking about nearby would have. I drove up and down the main roads several times, and at each pass saw groups going to and fro, which was a weird sight since there were always at least ten of them, sometimes upwards of twenty. Safety in numbers? Cult regulations? University rules? Who can say.

I just loved Ashland--even the theater in the minimall (CINEMA eeeee) made me perversely happy. I considered finally watching It there, but still felt too punkish to commit to it. Instead I visited the library, drove around, and finally booked it to Manzanita to sleep for eleven hours.

But the library, the library, oh man, what a dream. It felt fitting that two of the loveliest little libraries I've visited on this trip would bookend the horrorshow of the 5 sickly days in between. It is as though the Plague Gods said look here, you. We're going to punch you in the face for five days, but before and after you get to see some truly inspiring libraries so shut up and take your medicine.

The first floor of the library doesn't give away its most stunning architectural secret (you have to go up to the second floor to view that) but it has its own beguiling charms to compete for patrons' interests and attention. If the beautiful views out the windows aren't enough, Ashland also has art displays, some concepts familiar, one in particular completely new to me.

I loved the re-purposed books, pulled out of the recycling bin and turned into something more. It's an art project I've seen done before, but I was happy to see it in Ashland, too. Any bibliophile will tell you there is so much more to books than the words within. That's where the deep and unbending love begins, of course, but it spreads farther, out to the ends of the infinite tactile pull--the feel of the rough, cloth casing, the sticky binding, the satin bookmark, the tight, hard endpapers, the pressed fabric of the head and footbands, and of course the main stock paper, smooth, thick, and whispering against your fingers, telling you the stories and lives and kinescoping worlds whirling within. How can you not be enchanted by the rich smell of the leaves, the casing, the binding, the toxic and intoxicating black print therein. It's beyond magic. And by far one of our best inventions as a species. A totem. A saving grace.

I especially loved the butterfly book, etched out of wood (what else), and set free and flying above the stacks. Only a true bibliophile (and gifted artist) would come up with that. I called up the library to learn more and was informed that the piece, unnamed, was created by local artist Tom Hopkins and was donated by The Friends of the Library in memory of Virginia Fowler.

The second floor is breathtaking, with beautiful, exposed wood framing all along the ceiling that casts a rich glow across the entire area. Oh how I wanted to stay. Unfortunately, the library closed at five that day, and I'd only arrived at 4:30. Bad time management, I know, but blame the plague still jamming up my sinuses and skewing my perspective ever so slightly into the twilight zone.

Isn't it glorious? In addition to the wonderful art and architecture, I also had to capture the microfiche viewer sighting for posterity--isn't it fab? It looks brand new, but it can't be...can it? Maybe it is just very well preserved. I actually saw someone using a microfiche machine in the main Seattle library just a couple of days ago and my heart went a-pitter-patter because YAY, it's still useful, even today, in the futuristic future. Probably not forever, though.

I left just before the library closed, wistful but needing to blow my nose for the 400th time that day. I'd like to think I could find myself in Ashland again--it's worth the trip, and on the way to other more well-traveled places like Sacramento and Portland...never say never.

BONUS EPILOGUE: The Plague, Electric Boogaloo.

Best Western has become my Best Friend, it turns out, as I've had to rely on it (and my rewards membership) far more than I could have imagined as I was putting the plans together for this leg of my library tour.

When I was sitting in the parking lot of Incline Village's lovely library, all I wanted to do was curl into a sad ball and sleep. But I had to make a plan first, which let me tell you, sucks the big one. The biggest one. Being sick on the road means there are no home comforts. You can't just move from the couch full of blankets to the bed full of blankets, your pantry stocked with soups, your mom bringing you aspirins or maybe a hammer to end your suffering entirely. You're cold and alone and dripping and wheezing all by your lonesome. The suckage is intense.

I found the best prices in Galt, a town just south of Sacramento, and made my way there. I don't remember the rest of that drive or checking in, really. I don't remember much about the experience at all except for going through a box of Kleenex, taking Dayquil, taking supplements that were supposed to enhance my immune system, and watching an episode of Law & Order that lasted roughly 3 days. The Briscoe years, so it was awesome, but it was also one, long story where lots of people got murdered between commercials for life insurance.

I only went out once to the nearby and Very Sad™ pharmacy, a national chain I will not name because Boy Howdy was it freaking sad. I scored more Dayquil and too much chocolate because I was feeling sorry for myself and I can do whatever I want especially when I am sick so nyeh. I also picked up a Carl's Jr. burger which tasted vaguely of alleyway cardboard and onion farts.

How did I survive? Well, their name is Pizza Guys and they deliver. They had good salads and good enough pizza (better than Pizza Hut, better than Dominoes, and don't even talk to me about that hot garbage Papa John's pizza, which is criminally bad and should be illegal). I also ate the free breakfasts Best Western offers and, before you say HEY YOU HAD PLAGUE, two things:

* First, whatever, I was hungry and paid for it so suck it.
* Second, and more important, if you don't know me, then Hi, how are you, but also I am a germaphobe. It's true. I'll do just about anything not to have to touch things other people have touched. Panic attacks on the subway? Germs. Even if I touched nothing, the realization that I was breathing the same air as the other commuters was sometimes too much. Their lung germs were touching me, even going into my lungs. You know that whenever you smell something, that's because tiny particles of that something are traveling up your nostrils right? They're touching you. This includes poop. Let that marinate.

Shasta Lake-ish

Anyway, I had a process. I would get up, take my pills (because I can't eat for an hour after I take them--tummy traumas), put on pants (begrudgingly), tie up my hair extra tight, then would wash my hands as though I was about to perform an appendectomy on the Pope, okay? Scrub, scrub, scrub. I would then go out amongst the living and gather up my breakfast. I wasn't coughing much then, so would remain almost totally silent, gathering eggs and sausage, juice and coffee, and making my way back to my room, which was only two doors down from the breakfast area. No one was the wiser--and half the time, there was no one even there. The only person who knew for sure was Jessey, my Galt Best Western front desk attendant and floor manager, who offered me pizza one day and made sure to ask how I was doing whenever he saw me.

Mount Shasta

When I finally left the Galt Best Western five days later, I was still in a bit of a fog but 80% better at least. I got to see Lake Shasta, Mount Shasta, and the hopeful permanence of tree scarification along the way...a youthful endeavor I would think about differently a couple of days later, looking at the vast and still obvious blast zone of Mount St. Helens.