Whittoons

The New York Times just ran a spread (Idyllic Island, Toxic Workplace 4/28/21) that obliterated one of our top epicurean fantasies.

Back in 2019, we had saved up to splurge for a Birthday celebration for Michele at the Willows Inn. We had stayed at the Inn before the “Before Blaine Wetzel” era. Before the place was on the map following gushing reviews in major papers. For us, the Willows Inn had been a quiet retreat situated on Lummi Island. A short ferry ride from the Lummi reservation took us to a less traveled island in the Puget Sound. Lummi Island had always been that mysterious place on the horizon across Bellingham Bay when I was growing up in Bellingham. (Orcas had been our retreat at the time when we were lucky to stay at a neighbor’s cabin.) Getting to Lummi meant driving through the rez, through a world unknown to me except for the annual salmon bakes and wild canoe races. The Lummi people were not a wealthy tribe at the time, rich in culture but not in financial equity. Now they have a casino, so perhaps they share some wealth. Houses were aging in the mossy forest. Old cars rusted in driveways.

On the last visit to Willows Inn, during the off-season several years ago, we and one family were the only visitors. In chatting, it turned out the father was the author of the first Lonely Planet guide to Cuba. He had led bike tours there and Lonely Planet brought him on. It was serendipitous, since we had been scheming for years on how to visit Cuba. [We did eventually make it – see Cuba-The Loveliest Land page on my blog.]

Even then, the food was well presented and lovely with taste treats…but nothing extraordinary by New York food critic standards.

This time, we booked the Willows Inn cabin near the main lodge and settled in.

We budgeted for one dinner and one breakfast at the Willows Inn. The rest of our meals would be elsewhere on the island, or we would make snacks at the cabin.

Preparations for dinner were underway around the BBQ pit as we approached the main lodge to check in for our reservations. All tables were outside. This was to be a total al fresco immersive experience. Having been forewarned, we dressed accordingly but some other guests were in lovely but thin diaphanous fabrics. Space heaters above some of the tables…(except ours), gave you some indication of the possible complications. Blankets on the seats were another clue.

As the twenty plus courses arrived, most of the women started to cover themselves in wool, losing the au couture look, though we were all still cozily wrapped in privilege. Don’t cry for me, bartender. But I must say, since the morsels were tiny, and the air was chilly, some guests started looking as desperate as the Donner Party.

Each course was basically a mouthful, with a few exceptions. We were sampling the “Best of the NW” ingredients from Lummi Island…supposedly. And getting chilled to the bone. Since pneumonia should not be part of the aftertaste of any epicurean indulgence, we requested to move inside near the fire for coffee and dessert. Soon other guests chose the warmth over the fresh air. When your are investing in a meal, you do not want to suffer too much.

The Willows Inn breakfast was served all at once, like on a Thali plate, with multiple bowls of organic goodies. This was a vast improvement over the outdoor dining. We had hot coffee and tea, and we were inside…and comfortable. The staff appeared more relaxed. And we could linger.

We thought it worth another visit to Lummi Peak for the beautiful view spot high above the Rosario Strait, with views of Orcas Island and beyond. We made sure not to step too far back for the selfie. It’s a long way down.

The artist Ann Morris opens up her Sculpture Woods once a month on the first Saturday (10 a.m. – 5 p.m.). Her gallery is open by appointment only. After a long conversation with Ann, we toured her studio to check out her boat sculptures. One of the boats sailed away with us, dangling from the coat hooks over the back seat. It bobbed and swayed with the waves of cross drafts.

Ann Morris’s earlier works are much more substantial metal sculptures of mythical proportions that inhabit the landscape.

The Beach Store Cafe offered a reasonably priced and very nice dinner. The cafe was packed with locals. People stopped by to chat with other diners. Two elder sisters next to us seemed to be the main attraction. This was much closer to the island life I was familiar with on Orcas.

So chock it up to Ignorance is Bliss, but our stay was restful, soothing and tasty. We used the time to recuperate from the stress we had been living with for a good while.

Yes, we regret that so much abuse was taking place at the time, according to the NYT report. Mea Culpa. (And I am shocked that the some of the tasty morsels might not have really come from the island.. the Horror, the Horror.) The Willows Inn did finally reach a monetary settlement, and the chef and management claim they will do better. Right. But this is yet again another tale of arrogant chefs taking advantage of their staff, and many staff being too intimidated to do anything about the abuse. The culture of commercial kitchens needs a revolutionary movement to overturn the modern day tribal lords. As Che Guevara must had said at least once, Viva La Revolucion!

American Samoa and Western Samoa

Approaching a small island in the mid-Pacific, it is a bit of a relief to see land after flying above such a vast expanse of water.  On landing, my taxi driver tried to rip me off pretending to misunderstand my directions and mumbling responses, but eventually we reached the cheap motel that I had scoped out. It was full.  I ended up staying in an extra room at the home of Chief Napoleone A. Tuiteleleapaga. 

The imposing gentleman sat comfortably before a large TV, fanning himself and slapping himself under the armpits.  His card listed his various titles and interests: Grand Knight, International Mark Twain Society, Private Detective, Musician…member of the Samoan Church Unification Committee, Sierra Club and more.

On my first morning in this remote spot, I headed for the forest. Following a track below the ridgeline, I ended up on the far side of the island and dropped down into a valley. The canopy enclosed the moist space that I had all to myself until I heard the gun shots. Not wanting to be mistaken for a wild boar, I did my best to slip through the jungle following a stream towards the ocean.   I ran into the hunters anyway.  They were taking pot shots at birds. White seabirds flew overhead, their long 2’ tail feathers making undulating brush strokes across the sky.   Enormous fruit bats flapped to their roost.   My companions were on the hunt for the huge South Pacific crab that climbs trees in search of coconuts, which they break with their claws.  Their meat was supposed to be incredible.   I earned a jungle boy merit badge by learning to weave a palm leaf basket which they would use to carry back their haul of succulent critters.

Heading back along the ridge with the guys, they pointed out Western Samoa, its outline broken by a canopy of palm leaves.

My stay was brief since my destination was Western Samoa and Sava’ii.  I spent my first night in Western Samoa at a dive called the Casino that was on its last legs and about to be torn down.  The bar turned out to have been the local afternoon drinking hole for locals and Peace Corps volunteers.   Over beer the PC guys gave me advice and some contacts on Sava’ii.   As their story goes, you can tell how long a PC volunteer has been in Samoa by the reactions to a fly in their beer glass.  If he/she asks for a new glass of beer, they have on been on Samoa for a couple of weeks.  If they pick the fly out of their glass and drink the beer, they have been in country for at least 6 months.  And if they pick up their glass and drink the beer, fly and all, they have been around for at least a year.

That night I thought I would walk around town.  I did not get far before encountering two gangs doing some ritualized stand-off with rocks in hand on my side of the street.  I casually slipped across the street and headed right on back to the safety of the hotel bar.

My flight to Savai’i was canceled since all planes were undergoing repairs.  An airline worker invited me to spend the night with his family where cultural immersion began. His sister’s home was a “fale” house with a grass thatched roof.  I was given a lava-lava to wear.  The colorful fabric wrapped around your waist definitely beats wearing pants in the humidity. 

I was instructed in dining cross-legged on mats, eating with my fingers. Flies were buzzing during the meal as a young boy fanned my food.  Getting this much attention while eating was a bit disconcerting, so I tried to reduce my intake, and the kid could rest his arm.

Once on Savai’i, I had extra time waiting for a bus.  Two boys were fascinated by the “palagi” (white) and every move I made, so I used the time to construct a 5” outrigger with a few sticks and some grass to wrap them together. I advised them not to take it on the high seas. This activity then attracted 15 more kids who came to either admire…or maybe they were deriding my handiwork.

There was an Oregon based lumber company in one village, and my plan was to visit this American compound. But three local girls walked on by, asked what I was up to and invited me to their home.  The three lived with family in a beach village next to a bay enclosed by a reef.  How could I refuse the offer.   Escorted along the beach, they let me push an outrigger out into the bay and paddle.  They claimed that I looked like a fisherman, but by their giggling I may have not reached that status in their eyes.   Later on a walk (in my lava-lava) down mainstreet, as we carried our bottles of orange drink, Apaula insisted that I not sip from the bottle since these were the same bottles used for beer. Others might think we were boozing it up together.  With the guys watching us, I figured it was best to follow her direction.  Dinner was fresh fish from the bay, which did offer a change of pace since most Samoans seemed to rely heavily on canned fish.

In the evening, I was given the only bed in the hut. Apaula tucked the mosquito netting in around my bed once I was under the sheets…and then returned to the family compound.  I was having a Margaret Mead moment, wondering about Apaula’s expectations and intentions.  She seemed to be acting as a sixteen-year-old in search of a husband. From my perspective, she was underage and, though very kind, not eligible for any relationship.  Though hesitant, I agreed to stay another night.

Her father left at 4 a.m. to fish. At dawn, her mother, after cooking for the family with help from the children, started weaving mats as wind breaks. Younger kids went off to school. Between rain squalls, Apaula did my laundry.  This was getting a bit too domestic. Others might think I was living the Gauguin dream, but the reality of unmet expectations was dampening my enthusiasm. Time to move on after many thanks and profound apologies for any cultural snafus.

Even with reservations, the rush was on to get into Roozengaard. No reminders to stay 6 feet apart while waiting in line or in the bunched up starting gate. And they’re OFF!

We looked for the path less taken. The crowd thinned the further you walked away from the tulip store and coffee stop. The workers were taking a beer break outside the fence and then covered head to toe, they mounted their tractors and were off, the tractors’ blades tilling the rows. A nephew raced down the row and back again trying to keep up.

Would he be as excited if the machines were automated and robots did the work? Robotic machines are already on some farms zapping weeds automatically. How soon before they invade this Tulip world? Terminators eliminating migrant workers’ jobs.

On the way down the rows, everyone seems joyfully immersed in the Van Gough dashes of color, strollng through a impressionist landscape. This is probably more sensory saturation than I will get viewing the traveling 3-D Van Gough show.

Eddies in the stream of Agritourists allow for selfie and group photo opportunities, holding visitors’ attention briefly before the willing subjects swirl out and merge once again with the flow. The bright sun on this almost freaky spring day makes the colors pop.

But where are the birds and the bees? Nada.

There are inherent risks in Agritourism? The sign does not greet you when plunging into the fields of color, but it sits at the end of the rows facing away as if embarrassed to give the bad news. So the return trip can be clouded with doubt about acting in a “negligent manner”. What does that mean? Not paying attention to the chemicals, the dust, the run-a-way tractors and….COVID blended into the warm Skagit Valley air.

What the Heck! Throw caution to the wind, enjoy the bliss and let the tulip color spectrum sooth your troubles.

In an instant, Mom transformed into Calamity Jane and went after the drunken Zombies. There was no stopping her. I was startled to watch my mother in action defending the homestead. They were dumbstruck and did not hesitate to leave the scene.

I had the suspicion that we must have had some back-up to cause such a reversal of fortune, and scare the living daylights out of Zombies. And then I looked behind us.

Now you might conclude that all I saw in the dark fir forest behind us were the sparks from the fireworks, but to my eyes (and ears) Suzette’s call of the wild had brought out ferocious defenders of our shared territory.

We reclaimed our campsite and settled down. Snug in my sleeping bag, I thanked the still and now quiet night for the magnificent, scary and magical time…and howled in my dreams.