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One of the things I love about any friendship is when you create shared memories together. It pushes you from the realm of merely “people who get along” into the world of “people who have been through some shit together.” It opens up the door to inside jokes and stories that begin with, “Remember that one time …”

I love traveling with other people. I realize it’s a risky venture – that sometimes you can encounter people who are cranky or not particularly adventurous, or who whine because things aren’t like they are back home (note: if you encounter someone like that, it is perfectly acceptable to lure them into a McDonald’s and them abandon them there. That’s the whole point of a McDonald’s: abandoning people).

But sometimes, you find people who you can spend a day with, and it is seamless and lovely and fun. And afterwards, you can say to them, “Remember that one time …” And you all delight in your little bit of collective history, and anyone within earshot will realize that you are tied together by more than just a common love of bearded men and baked goods.

And, to their credit, they don’t murder you every time you stop right in front of them and take a photo (yet, miraculously, manage to not get a single photo WITH them).

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On a rainy weekend in London, we went to the Columbia Road Flower Market with our friends Ruth and Justin. We made a few memories, laid the foundation for a few inside jokes. Nothing particularly eventful happened. Nothing exceptionally memorable or scarring or damaging. But it served, like so many things, to add another layer of depth to our friendship, to make it a little bit grander and richer than it was.

And from now on, I suspect that every time I think of that market, I’ll think of them, too.

The market on Columbia Road is smaller than the one we strolled through in Portobello. As you’d guess from its name, it has more flowers (and fewer antiques). Both markets are filled with vendors who operate rain or shine, and since it’s London, there’s very little shine.

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But who are we to judge? We are from Seattle, after all.

Because of this, the Columbia Road Flower Market felt vaguely familiar. The stalls and the sellers milling about (often with the same woolen hats and gloves with cut-off fingers that are so popular back home) could have been plucked from our own Pike Place Market.

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Before I proceed any further with tales of our adventures, I would like to take a minute to note something about Ruth’s taste in men. Mainly, that it is absolutely stellar. See, she seems to prefer socially-conscious, dark-haired gentlemen with beards.

Obviously, she’s a romantic genius.

The first time I met Justin, I told Ruth that he was an absolute charmer, and she nodded gleefully before warning me to back off or she’d cut me (I might be dramatizing the events slightly, but whatever. It was delightful.)

She and Justin put up with us for a good three hours or so, which is no small feat. We’re exceptionally annoying. I’m constantly distracted by the promise of cake …

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And Rand and I are both continually stopping to take photos of nothing in particular.

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I was seriously taking a photo of nothing. And then Rand took a photo of me, taking a photo of nothing. We should both be abandoned in a Mc Donald’s, I swear.

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Then there’s Rand’s tendency to disappear three or four times without any warning. Ruth and Justin didn’t seem to really mind that, either.

Rand, enjoying his favorite pastime of wandering off.

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My beloved is sort of like a four-year-old in that respect – take your eyes off him for more than a few seconds, and he’ll vanish. I keep thinking that I need to get one of those kiddie leashes for him, but the only ones they have in adult sizes are studded leather, and that communicates something very different, so …

Anyway. About the market.

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The principal items sold there are flowers, which is kind of miraculous, if you think about it. It’s such a superfluous thing, but everywhere people were bustling about, buying bouquets and haggling with vendors, who were shouting out prices with such precise repetition that it sounded pre-recorded.

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We walked past stand after stand, breathing in chilly air perfumed by the many blooms.

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We popped into stores, pressed our noses against window displays, and demolished cupcakes and cookies for a good cause.

And I regretted not getting the pug mug.

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We got overheated between the warm stores and the cool air, and made cracks about my brain tumor.  (I guess you had to be there.)

When we felt tired, we wandered into a pub, where we sat at the bar and ate french fries and talked about upcoming weddings and Halloween costumes that required facial hair and older brothers who live in the U.K. and who are absolutely real and not at all fictional. And then we went headed off in our separate ways.

Like I said, nothing crazy happened, nothing disastrous or hilarious or cringe-worthy. We just had a nice day with Ruth and Justin, that one time we went to the Columbia Road Flower Market.

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The other day I did an excellent job of keeping my mouth shut while a distant in-law explained to me how television was bad for children. The comment had been prompted by my admission that I’d spent the morning watching Yo Gabba Gabba with my nine-month-old nephew.

Now, before all of you start raising pitchforks and torches (where did you even get those, by the way?) and storm my office, let me be clear: I know NOTHING about babies. He was teething and freaking out and the show looked almost educational and the host was a vivacious black man in a skintight orange suit (which was totally captivating for both of us), so I think my actions were pretty damn defensible.

Plus, television did an excellent job raising me, so who I am to deprive a new generation of that?

Still, I smiled as I was scolded for delaying my nephew’s cognitive development and leading him on a path to sloth and criminal activity, or whatever. I AM A PILLAR OF RESTRAINT. There might even be some truth to it, as I’m sure that plopping a kid in front of a television for hours on end isn’t a great idea.

But let’s be honest: children who don’t watch TV are just weird.

Later, they will grow up to be adults who suck at bar trivia and are alienated from their friends because they don’t understand cultural touchstones and just stare blankly when you quote Cheers (don’t tell me that stuff isn’t important, because otherwise I’ll have wasted my life).

I should know: I married someone who grew up without regular access to TV.

There are days when we have discussions during which I’ll prattle on about something and he will just stare blankly at me.

Me: Sorry. Did I just go all Cliff Clavin on you?

Him: I don’t know what that is.

Me: Cliff Clavin?

Him: Yeah. Who is that?

Me: Cliff … from Cheers?

Him: I’ve never seen that show.

Me: I … zuh … WHAT?

Him: Oooh, wait. Is that the show that Frasier came from?

Me: I … leave. Just leave … now.

Him: What? … because I’ve never seen Cheers?

Me: And also because I’m pretty sure you’re an alien posing as a human to learn our weaknesses and I’m not sure I can be married to you.

This is how our lives go. Rand gets roughly 1/10th of the jokes I make, which sucks, because I guarantee you I am delivering some quality humor and it is WASTED ON HIM. I sincerely think he might not be from this earth.  Although, really, any alien impostor worth his salt would have enough good sense to brush up on Cheers.

The other day, he had the pleasure of being on the other side of this discussion. He was thrilled that we were going to be in London on a Saturday (a rare occurrence), which is when Portobello Road Market is open.

Rand: Baby, we can go to Portobello Road.

Me: Wonderful. I will buy all the mushrooms!

Rand: No, like from the movie.

Me: What?

Rand: You know … (begins singing) Portobello Road / Portobello Road / Street where the riches of ages are stowed …

Me: Dude, is my tumor acting up or something? Because I have no idea what you are talking about.

Rand: From Bednobs and Broomsticks? When they visit Portobello Road?

Me: Nope. Never seen it.

Rand: Zerk … gah … No. How? How have you never seen Bednobs and Broomsticks?

Me: Said the man who’s never seen The Wonder Years.*

(*Later, Rand noted: “I did see part of it once. And I was like, ‘Why is he talking over the show?’”)

So Rand forced me to watch this video on YouTube, which was confusing, but did teach me that Angela Lansbury has great gams.

Portobello Road is, as the song suggests, home to the world’s largest antique market. I can only assume that it is always mobbed, because even on the chilly, rainy day that we were there it was packed.

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There were all sorts of delightful things that I didn’t know I needed there. Like a dollhouse. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve looked at my child-free, 30-something life, and thought: damn it, I need a dollhouse. I am fairly certain having one would not at all make me seem creepy and weird.

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And I also need some tiny little musical instruments, too. So the dolls living in the dollhouse have something to do.

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While we walked, Rand would occasionally sing bits from the movie’s song. The lines fit perfectly, and there was something comforting about the fact that this strange and bustling market hadn’t really changed all the much in the last century or so. You can still find the same mix of antiques and cheap reproductions. There are people looking for deals and sellers looking to get rid of their wares, very often under a grey London sky.

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Anything and everything a chap can unload
Is sold off the barrow in Portobello road.

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Tokens and treasures, yesterday’s pleasures
Cheap imitations of heirlooms of old

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Dented and tarnished, scarred and unvarnished
In old Portobello they’re bought and they’re sold

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You’ll find what you want in the Portobello Road.

We probably should have bought this.

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I walked with him in the rain, listening to him sing. He draped an arm around me as we browsed the strange collections, and even saw a thing or two that reminded us both of our childhoods – a rare thing indeed.

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I realize that TV made me who I am, and a lack of it made Rand who he is. Either way, I think it’s safe to say that my dear nephew will probably be okay. He just needs to find the right person to compliment his life.

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Even if it’s someone who doesn’t understand what he’s talking about half the time.

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The Essentials on Portobello Road:

• Verdict: Yes. If you’ve checked out the touristy bits of London and want to see something a little different, head here. The surrounding Notting Hill neighborhood is pretty damn charming, too.
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• How to Get There: We took a cab, but there are tube stations that can drop you off fairly close to here, too.
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• Ideal for: Antique-hunters, window shoppers, people-watchers, and anyone who loves a long walk (usually in the rain).
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• Insider tips: The market gets very crowded, so try to go early (before 10am) or late (after 1pm). Things start to close down in the mid-afternoon. Many of the stalls and sellers are open rain or shine, so you can even go when it’s grey out, but bring an umbrella and wear comfy shoes (the entire market spans about 2 miles).
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• Nearby food: There are a few restaurants along the street, but they get positively mobbed during the market. You’d be better off grabbing a bite and eating while walking, but be warned that I was screamed at by some crazed shop owner for having the gall to stop in front of her shop and take a few bites of cupcake.
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• Good for kids: I’m going to lean towards no. Little ones will probably get very tired and bored. Many of the toys they’d see are antiques, so they can’t touch or play with any of them. Wee ones in strollers should fare just fine, but note that the market gets very crowded and noisy, and maneuvering through all the people could be very difficult.

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It’s funny how quickly the bizarre becomes normal.

How things that are strange and weird become familiar and every day. So that after a while, we forget that they’re even all that strange, until someone else points it out to us.

When we first moved back to Seattle from Florida, nearly 20 years ago (good heavens, the years. They are slippery little suckers, are they not?) my mother and I were faced with an odd problem. Our home felt far too empty. My brother had gone off to college, so it was just the two of us, living in far more square footage than we’d ever known.

We dealt with the problem in the usual way: we bought a mannequin.

When we first met Melba, as my mother later named her, she was a mess. Horribly clad in an old shirt and shorts, with a miserable grey wig that was doing her no favors. She was missing a hand, or possibly two (I forget now), and so the sign for the garage sale she was advertising was taped crudely to her chest.

“How much for the mannequin?” my mom asked.

The gentleman running the sale stared blankly at us. “You … you want her?” he asked us, as though we were the crazy ones. I mean, he was the guy selling a perfectly good (except for her missing hands) mannequin.

“I’ll give you ten bucks for her,” my mother offered. He negotiated us up a few dollars more. And that night, we loaded Melba into the car, and took her home.

We gave her a makeover: a long black velvet dress, a shorter, much-improved wig. We touched up her face, and my mother stuffed leather gloves with newsprint, which served as make-shift prosthetics for her missing hands (because actual mannequin hands are hard to find. Who knew?)

In the end, she looked like a young Raquel Welch.

Beloved as she was, at first, Melba startled me. I’d round a corner and, having forgotten she was there, would clutch my heart and gasp every time I saw her.

“Right,” I’d think, trying to regain my composure. “We have a mannequin now.”

Over time, I grew used to her. My mother and I would decorate Melba for the holidays; we’d say goodbye to her as we left the house, hello when we returned.

And as years passed, I forgot that she was something rare and strange.

The first time I brought Rand home, he froze in the doorway when he saw her.

“Um …” he said, staring blankly at her tall, silent figure.

“Huh? Oh, that’s just Melba,” I said, and walked right by. And now, whenever we visit my mother, Rand barely bats an eyelash at the mannequin in the corner.

Weird things, in the end, become normal.

That’s kind of how things went at Koppa’s Fulbeli Deli in Milwaukee. Our friend and Rand’s colleague, Jamie, recommended the spot. He’d spent plenty of time in Wisconsin (his wife went to school there), and he became our unofficial guide during our trip.

From the outside, the place looks small and unassuming.

Note: the sign in the window reads “Marsday Special: Tacos 2/$3.00″

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But the inside … well, it looks like my mother was hired as interior decorator. It’s just pure, delightful madness.

The best part about this picture is the WTF look on Rand’s face.

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Imported from Wisconsin!

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As we walked through, Jamie noted that he’d forgotten how strange it was. Over the years, he’d just gotten used to it. Everyone there had. Rand and I were the only ones fazed by it. I took photo after photo, and the staff stared at me like I was a madwoman. 

“What intrigues me so? I don’t know … how about the Dairy case with transposed letters surrounded by illustrations from the early 1970s?”

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It was just like me with Melba – they no longer saw the strangeness of it. We’d stopped in the doorway and stared blankly, but to them, it was commonplace.

“That’s just Melba.”

Or, in this case,

“That’s just Jabba.”

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“That just the poorly taxidermied coyote in the milk aisle.”

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“That’s just a free Atari station.”

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“And, what, you’re taking a photo of this? Why on earth would you do that? Haven’t you seen an end cap turned into a living room vignette before?”

To be honest, no. No, I have not.

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“You can’t expect me to believe that they don’t have bananas in Seattle …”

We have them. Just not usually on huge fake trees.

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At least the copy on the packaging was normal, right?

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This brought me so much delight, I ended up purchasing two packs.

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Parenthetically, there is a band in Seattle called “Creamed Korn” and they only play acoustic versions of Korn songs. True story.

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At least, I thought it was normal at the time. But by then, we’d been inside Koppa’s for a while. Everything was becoming familiar. Everything was a little less strange.

Oh, look. A Coors can hanging from the ceiling. Whatever. No big deal.

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Heck, it was even starting to feel like home.

View of Astoria from The Hotel Elliott.

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I’m such a sucker for old things.

Whether it be grey-haired octogenarians or day-old pastries, I find myself smitten. Sure, they’re sometimes a bit crustier than you’d like them to be, and you can’t help but think of what they were like when fresh, but they’re still fun to nibble on. AND THAT GOES DOUBLE FOR THE PASTRIES!

(Rereads previous three sentences. Sighs heavily.)

Back to my original sentiment: I like old stuff.

This affection for things of yore is why I love Astoria so much. Nostalgia hangs over the town like a cloud (as do, you know, actual clouds: Astoria gets something like 12 sunny days a year). It helps, of course, that this grey little town was the filming location for one of my favorite childhood films: The Goonies. In fact, Astoria hasn’t changed all that much since then. You can still spot many of the locations where the movie was filmed, and they look much the same as they once did.

Indeed, visiting there – and I say this with all due affection – is a bit like taking a step back in time. Not terribly far, mind you. Just a few years – to the late eighties or early nineties.

To a time when travel agencies still existed …

This agency office had actually closed … and moved down the street. That’s right: it was still in operation.

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And Perot was a viable candidate …

Please note that in the lower right-hand corner, it says “Nard Bag.”

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Of course, Astoria itself is far older than that. It first became a town back in the late 1800s, which, by our American standards, is POSITIVELY ANCIENT (hush, Europeans: no one wants to hear about how much longer you’ve existed than we have). As a result, there are lots of cool, old buildings downtown.

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And plenty of neon signs:

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Including the one on our hotel.

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But perhaps my favorite part of Astoria (besides, of course, the Goonies house) is the antique shops. There are two which I love.

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Vintage Hardware

This shop is located in downtown Astoria, and is full of salvaged fixtures and signs.

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You know that relative you have who’s a weensy bit of a compulsive hoarder? The one with the garage that’s really fun to dig around in, even though you realize you will probably require a tentanus shot afterwards? Vintage Hardware is kind of like that. But cleaner.

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Rand and I both dug the ceiling:

Yes, it’s falling apart, but so are zombies and … wait, no. I hate zombies.

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If you go, keep an eye out for the old wheelchair, which looks like something out of a Hemingway novel.

Anyone else slightly creeped out by old medical supply stuff?

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Phog Bounders Antique Mall

This shop – a collection of little alcoves and consignment stands – is located on the other end of town, next door to a bowling alley (die-hard Goonies fans will recognize the alley from the intro to the movie: it’s where Chunk sees the police chase and accidentally slams his shake and pizza into the window).

It’s like eBay exploded in there. Phog Bounders is brimming with all kinds of stuff.

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The ticking of these clocks drove me mad, in a it’s-the-beating-of-that-hideous-heart kind of way.

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One man’s trash … is now going to cost you $4.00.

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Be sure to check out the downstairs, which has some fantastic displays:

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Including this item, which … well, I don’t know what the hell it’s supposed to do. Besides inspire nightmares. (Seriously, someone please explain to me why this exists.)

It’s really easy to take care of – you just feed it the soul of a child every week or so.

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And, because it’s Astoria, after all, there’s plenty of Goonies memorabilia for sale:

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Also pictured: those damn construct-o-bots that were impossible to put together.

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To reiterate: I like old stuff.

It’s not that I fear change. I dealt with Mad Men going through not two, not three, but  four Bobby Drapers in as many years. I love putting new sheets on my bed, and I secretly delight in tossing out milk a day before it expires (by then it’s already started to taste funny). But there is something I love about the past – whether it be recent or not – that makes visiting Astoria all the more magical.

It’s enough to make you hope it always stays exactly as it is.

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Well, for the most part, anyway.