Turning

Today isn't my 111th birthday but like Bilbo I do feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread. Which is why I'v run far away to the town of Centralia. I have no idea what it looks like since we got here at night but the hotel is by far the strangest and most delightful place I've ever stayed. It's one of the McMenamin's projects, an old collection of rooms turned into a pub/therater/hotel/pool hall. The theater has a working sink next to the couch in a corner. Stories of ill repute line the halls and decorate the bathroom walls and everywhere are murals of the type of lower class characters that frequented the place in its less respectable days. The room is a tiny space, with a bunk bed, a sink, bathrobes, fringe lamps, lots of coat hooks, a skylight and an excess of hot air pumping in from two different ceiling vents.  The toilets and showers are scatterd around the halls of the 26 rooms at random, each with its own quirks. We watched a movie in the theater lounging on a small coach, our feet propped up on a chair and ridiculous food on the end tables. It could have been Manos: Hands of Fate and I think I still would have enjoyed myself. But now I'm very sleepy. My birthday has been celebrated. I've destroyed a pinata with a sword, had two cakes, several cards, the obligatory song and gotten away on a short but jolly holiday. I'm feeling happy, spoiled and sleepy. Tomorrow I'm going to attempt to tackle Pike's Place Market and a little shopping. Until then...