OREGON COAST, 36 HOURS

SATURDAY

11 am: Escaping the city (and myself)

WW gave me $48 and 36 hours to get to the beach and back on my own. I am armed with only my wits, a sleeping bag and a clean pair of boxers. My allies will end up being a few unsuspecting drunks and a couple of philanthropic denizens of coastal towns. I have only one goal: to prove I can fly by the seat of my pants without getting my ass smacked.

3 pm: Destination Cannon Beach

I hitch a ride with friends who are driving to the coast. We take Highway 26, heading west. The pillars of our road trip become conversation and a few nips of whiskey. An hour and a half later, though, I'm alone. Cannon Beach is tranquil all right, but plastic, replete with rich whitefolk and antique shops that look more like souvenir stores. Traveler's tip for this place: Shave, and wear at least one clean article of clothing.

9:30 pm: Lead me to the water(ing hole)

I have two options. Sleep on the beach (and risk being arrested by the police), or drink like a hillbilly. I walk to Schooner Bay Restaurant and Lounge (123 S Hemlock St., Cannon Beach, 503-436-9338) to find it has just the right amount of local flavor to get me in my mini-vacation mood--and anyway, it's Steve's 21st birthday. Who's Steve? Who cares! Immediately after I sit down, Steve's buddy hands me a shot of JŠger, and my visitor status vanishes. Ten minutes later, Steve is vomiting out the window.

Midnight: The bewitching hour

Steve's back! While he and his friends sing "All My Exes Live in Texas," another guy named Steve-O, a 29-year-old local cook, invites me to play dice. We commence scanning the crowd lasciviously for lovely ladies. Beer goggles? Beer Hubble Telescope.

2 am: The night turns ugly

The party's winding down and I have yet to resolve my sleeping situation. This leads me to the most startling realization in all my 23 years: When faced with sleeping in the cold, I'm not very picky when it comes to women.

SUNDAY

11 am: What the hell was I thinking?

Strange room. Strange house. A strange state of panic sets in when I can't locate my boxers. I'm lying alone in a stranger's bed when I look over and realize there are junior-prom tickets on the nightstand. This can't be good.

2 pm: Blind. Date.

"Officer, the good news is that she was 18, but the bad news is that she was 18 during the Vietnam War." Her (high-school) kids make me breakfast. I feel like a weak imitation of Jason Biggs as the Dustin Hoffman character in The Graduate. Why did I do it? Because it was there, and it was cold. Outside, I mean. That said, she does drive me to Astoria. We take Highway 101 and engage in conversation. It would be more comfortable if I could remember her name.

3 pm: Well, at least we had Astoria

We stop at the Sunday Market, eat seafood and head to the legendary Astoria Column, a giant phallic symbol atop a hill. I ask her if she could drop me off on Old Highway 30 near Svensen. Never heard of Svensen? There's a reason: Nothin' there. After a short goodbye, I grab a veggie sandwich at the Wickiup Inn (40505 Old Highway 30, Svensen, 503-458-6645). They've got pool, beer and Peter Frampton on the jukebox. On the bathroom wall I read "Chevy trucks suck." Nineteen bucks remain in my pocket. It's time to head home.

5:30 pm: The road least traveled

I've walked 12 miles and I've got 88 more to go. My dirty jeans are doubling as sandpaper. My surroundings are eerily familiar. I don't want to be an extra in Deliverance.

8 pm: Salvation!

A rustbox pulls up. In it is a 70-year-old couple. Chuck and Eleanor offer to drive me as far as Longview, Wash., so I can catch a Greyhound bus. Chuck is barely audible through his consumptive coughing, and Eleanor won't stop talking about her heart disease. I smile and hope neither of them dies in the car. After a brief doze, I wake up in desolate Longview, where I bid farewell to my geriatric journeymen. I ask a guy named Tim the whereabouts of the terminal. Tim has been riding his bike across the country for six years--pretty standard for crazy people. He makes me feel uncomfortable with his intrusive (and insane) eyes. Then again, I can only imagine what I look like by now. He points me toward Kelso, Wash., hops on his 10-speed and is on his way to Seattle.

9:30 pm: All aboard to P-town

The Greyhound terminal (501 S 1st Ave., Kelso, Wash., 360-423-7380) is decorated with street urchins and weekend vagabonds like myself. I spend $12.25 of my remaining $13 for a ticket home. And that's when it hits me. I need to do this more often. I need to remember why I came to Portland in the first place: the atavistic thrill that comes from being released from my regimen. And nothing says freedom like sex with a 45-year-old woman you barely know.

My advice to those who want to travel: Reject all logic. Get out. Don't plan. And make sure you have a clean pair of underwear.

Oregon Coast, 36 Hours: James Loses It

The Next Next Napa: Walla Walla Wineries

Baby, I Can (Still) Drive My Car: Nightriding

WEB EXTRA: Summer Festival Roundup

FASHION
With the Greatest of Ease: Girly Girl Fashion
Back in Black...and White: Manly Man Fashion
Escape from Kobe: Adidas goes Old-Skool

OUTDOOR
Adults Gone Wild! Swimming for Grownups
Raise High the Rafters: The River Wild
Fly the Friendly Skies (For Free!): Kiteboarding
Checkmate! Street Chess
Summer Boot Camp: An Adventure Story
On your Feet! Hiking Trails
Get Your Ass on Gears: Bike Trail
Balls Up! Adult Amusement Parkss

MUSIC & ARTS
The Short Cuts: Summer Movie Guide
Embarrassment of Riches: Classical Music
At Play in the Country: Ashland's For Bard Lovers
The Handheld Vacation: Summer Books

FOOD & DRINK
Flesh for Fantasy: Exotic Meats
Out of the Frying Pan: Farmers Markets
Strange Brew: Crazy for Malternatives
On the Waterfront: Riverfront Bars

WORK
The Ice-Cream Man Cometh: Working
Crunch Hour: Lunchtime Picnics

HOME & HOOD
Payback Time: Volunteering
Water Works: Summer Health
Not for Credit: Summer Classes
The Reel Thing: Backyard Movie Theaters

EDITOR:
Byron Beck

CONTRIBUTORS:
Rachel Beckman, James Buonantuono, Kelly N. Clarke, Kim B. Colton, Zach Dundas, Elizabeth Dye, Ian Gillingham, Abram Goldman-Armstrong, Stacy Ison, Eric Larson, Godfrey Leung, Brian Libby, Chris Lydgate, Rob Manning, Grant Menzies, Otis Rubottom, Brittany L. Schaeffer, John Schrag, Katherine Sharpe, Steffen Silvis, David Walker

COPY EDITORS:
Matt Buckingham, Ian Gillingham, Margaret Seiler

ART DIRECTION AND DESIGN:
Anne Reeser, Jesse Woodruff, Jason Landis

PHOTOGRAPHY:
Martinthiel.com

ILLUSTRATIONS:
Terrence Gasca

THANK YOU:
Kristin Rogers, Oaks Park Association, Rob (our escape artist/cover model)

WWeek 2015