I guess none of us should have been too surprised when we arrived in Crescent City, California – unofficial gateway to the Redwoods – and instead of a vibrant, tourist-friendly, sunny, seaside town we found a dreary, cold, and foggy downerville. I mean, we were in the Pacific Northwest and the Redwoods have to sustain their height and constant moisture somehow but this little community had little to offer in the way of tourist entertainment, not counting Ocean World (it’s like a distant tenth cousin to Sea World, thrice removed). We later learned from a friendly local that the once vibrant logging and fishing industries of the area are failing and the only thing keeping the community going (aside from the scant bits of tourism) is the maximum security Pelican Bay State Prison (with whom said local was gainfully employed). Turns out if you’re an unsuspecting tourist or a gangster thug in deep doo-doo (we’re talking the worst of California’s worst) this is where you’re incarcerated. Yep, a veritable paradise.
All things considered, we did have the best motel in the area – right on the ocean front – just a stone’s throw from Battery Point Lighthouse. Great views from our third story patio to the beaches below. This would represent the depth of our western exploration and a three day stay awaited us. Our five hour trip along coastal highway 101 brought us here and to top things off we were desperately searching for exciting ways to celebrate our oldest son’s eleventh birthday. The best we could come up with was a night out for dinner in town.
I should mention that we’ve kind of made it customary, when traveling abroad, to patronize the local eateries to get a bit of the culture and tastes of the region and avoid the franchise food that we can get anywhere. So, we let the birthday boy, with some encouragement, choose a local dining establishment. Within minutes we found ourselves parking in the lot of the local Pizza King only to open the front doors, scan the room (the three customers and two employees simply glared at us), reel back from the unappetizing smell and turn to leave. That night, out of necessity, we drafted an exclusionary clause to our travel dining custom. Pizza Hut never tasted better.