Just like Cannon, Astoria has a dumb blanket no camping law that makes zero sense. 1) My van isn’t an encampment. 2) I’m not sleeping in a tent. I figured under the bridge would be a fitting place to “camp” in Astoria. Cliché, but kind of rad.
Saturday morning, around 4am, I hear this racket going on outside the van. My first thought: I’m getting hooked up by a tow truck. The van is backed into a parking spot with the river directly behind it. I look out the front window. Nothing.
What the fuck? Am I making this up? I lay back in bed. More crashes and vibrations outside the van.
I get up again and peek at the driver side mirror. I can make out a figure. I grab my knife and crawl over to the driver side door. Slowly I unlock it.
I crack the door open and lean halfway out. All I could muster up half asleep is a load bear growl. “RAWWWWRRRR, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
The silhouette looks back then disappears behind the van into the night.
What the fuck just happened?!
I look down and there’s 4 gas cans sitting next to my van. Really?
I get out of the van to look around. A man walking on the boardwalk comes over, “I think she went that a way”.
The coppers show up. Ask their questions. Take the cans and remind me that camping is not allowed in Astoria.
Kind of a bummer to. I had planned to go back to the Goondock and truffle shuffle in my party shirt. You have to give credit to the Jewish family that owns the Goonie house. All day, every day, people come by and snap pictures of your home. While you’re in it – like fish in a bowl.
