People sometimes complain that fiction is insufficiently factual for their taste. Why trust an author who tells lies for a living? It is possible that the following tale may appeal to that particular market segment or set of lifestyle adherents. Drove north. Or rather, set off on a Friday afternoon with the declared intent of driving north. Broken stoplights on Burnside meant that one hour later we were still in Portland. With whizzy new phone, L. looked up umpteen places where we might dine, also reviews on Yelp. Eventually settled on exactly the place we probably would have picked without such aid, a brewpub in Tacoma where the raucous office workers celebrating Friday's twilight mingled with families on iced-tea and water-only. Cashed in accumulated points for a free night in Everett. Was reminded of that punchline, "and the second prize is two free nights." Not an awful motel, one personned by really very personable people, but not a place I'd recommend. Breakfast (free): egg-like substance, orange-juice-like substance, coffee-like substance...polystyrene vessels, plastic implements, all tossed in the garbage at the end of the meal. At the next table a family of barrel-shaped people--nearly as round as they were tall--encouraged their kids to eat. They were very successful. The Canadian border guard thought there was something suspicious about people coming into her country for a single night. "Why are you visiting?" "To see friends." "It's a long way from Portland." "We know." "Why aren't you staying?" "We have to work on Monday." She seemed unconvinced; did Canada really need people who behaved this way? We did have ulterior motives: a friend is recovering from chemotherapy and seemed ready for a small dose of company; Phoebus Maximus, the daughter of another friend, was available to be taken out for a helping of decent food; there was the promise of catching up with D., the ex-cabinet minister turned painter and "Raging Grannie." (She would join us in the early evening, just as soon as the Demonstration was done.) A botanist who used to shoot the tops off fir trees for a living wanted to know how interested we are in bone china. We had run out of Maltesers. I won't bore you with details. In broad brush strokes: everyone was well fed, views on Canada's elections were well aired, and the drive home was well...wet. We stopped at the same brewpub on the way back--happy hour, all-you-can-eat fish and chips--arrived home to find ants. I believe the house-sitter had spilled soda; this is not a fact. David Ritchie, Portland, Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------ To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off, digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html