Centralia, WA
I am making smaller hops so as to spend a bit more time
off-bike. Centralia looked great on the map in that I’d never heard of it, and
expected little tourism. I was right. I’m still unsure why the town
exists, but I’m grateful for it. No hotel chain bothered to build
here.
Subway Class Differentials
The only eatery in walking distance of the hotel is a Subway. I don’t
remember ever having been in one of those, so in I go.

A very friendly woman in her early 20s explains the process to me. You
enter where it says ‘Order.’ She asks multiple choice questions, which
I answer to the best of my decision making capacity, given time limitations set by social convention.
We are the only ones in the space. So we chat while she browns my
bread in the oven. She moved here three months ago from Oregon for the
first place of her own. She is patient, explaining the breads and
awaiting my agonized choice making around cheeses and cucumber.
As I pay and take a seat the restaurant suddenly fills with Asians. A
second attendant emerges from the back. A bit older than my sweetie,
though not much. But: hardened by Subway life. She has a chip on her
shoulder.
She starts tidying up in the seating area. Trash container door open!
Full trash bag out!! New one in. Slam. Sweep floor with vicious
strokes of the broom. This broom is not attacking the floor, but
someone else; you can feel it.
Then I hear this from sweetie:
“All you from the bus, please pay first, then order.”
Hmm, no entering at the ‘Order’ side. Pay up first. Ms. Angry now
joins sweetie behind the counter. One of the Asians, having paid, is
communicating her choices in low-volume supplication.
“You need to speak louder! It is very hard to hear what you are
saying.”
Ms. Angry has cleary made sandwiches at Subway from the age her
brothers joined their Daddy in the coal mines.
Slam. Oven door open. Swish, bread shoveled in. Bang. Door shut
“Next!”
Not all the Asians are shy. Some joke with each other. But:
“Next!”
An irritated, though efficient pipeline.
Eventually, all have left with their sandwiches. The whole place
exhales. Approaching the counter I buy cookies, but mostly as an
excuse for asking:
“What was that rush of people?”
“The Grayhound bus stops behind the building at 8pm. So we always lock
the front door at 7:58pm. We forgot today.”
The shop is open till 9pm, so I’m slow to understand.
“We leave the other door open.”
That other door opens to the side, directly onto a patch of grass, and
it is clearly not intended for entry.
“They try the locked door. But they think they don’t have enough time,
so they don’t explore further.”
… and thus never find that unlocked door.
Ms. Angry mutters:
“And I’m not even punched in.”
Ms. Sweetie is a bit subdued by the overwhelming presence of her
colleague. And maybe she is the one who was supposed to lock that door
in time. The two start cleaning. I see the Grayhound bus pull
away. Ms. Angry instructs Ms. Sweetie:
“Cutting boards need to be processed in the back. Oven needs
cleaning.”
Without Ms. Angry I would have loved to talk to Sweetie to ask what
made her pick Centralia for her first step into independent
adulthood. But Ms. Angry is too intimidating.
I slink out the side door.

A couple of photos I’d forgotten.
Museum in 3-Valley Gap, BC
A collection of antique railroad engines, and houses from the 19th C.






In one of the hotels
