Do you enjoy riding ferries?

Friends,

One of the consequences of my gephyrophobia as a child was becoming a regular on the Algiers and Jackson Avenue ferries. Besides being a superior form of transportation to the Westbank, a form that encouraged meeting strangers, seeing the city from a different angle, and contemplation, the ferries were friends to me. I would refer to them by first name, Thomas and Frank, whenever I rode the Thomas Jefferson or Frank Armiger, my best friends at the time. Neville Levy was more of an acquaintance.

Ferries are also my preferred mode of travel when visiting other places, for the reasons mentioned above and they often save time. I have taken ferries in most states of our Union, including Alabama, Oregon, California, Florida, North Carolina, Virginia, North Carolina, Texas, Mississippi, New Jersey, New York, Illinois (where they call them water taxis). The ferries abroad have been wonderful as well: Scotland, Norway, France, and Italy have some of my favorites.

As the automobile and fear further isolate us as a society, a society in unbidden retreat to the solitary confinements of steel cage and house, the decline in ferry use, like the movie theater and church attendance, is expected. While the time for elegy of the ferry is not quite nigh, I do recommend that whenever you have the opportunity to take a ferry, you do so. As tomorrow, the 14th anniversary of the closure of the Jackson Avenue Ferry, reminds us, our ferry system is not promised a morrow.

On my recent nine day trip to the Pacific Northwest, I noted that the shortest route between Olympic and North Cascades National Parks would be over water. I also realized that, despite being the second biggest ferry system in the US behind only NY, I had never before taken a ferry in Washington. The ferry service from Port Townsend to Fort Casey on Whidbey Island promised to save over 100 miles in distance and more than an hour in time. The limited number of reservations were taken, but the word online was that nearly 70% of car spaces were for walk-up riders.





Around noon or so, I pulled up to one of two ticketing windows at Port Townsend where I purchased my $16.50 ticket. “Do you think I will get on the next ferry?” I asked the agent, hoping, as missing the ferry would add 90 minutes to the journey.

She turned and looked in the opposite direction of her chair, at row 8, smiled, and said, “I think you have a very good shot at it. You have about 45 minutes to explore the town, but be sure you are here fifteen minutes before departure time.”

At the other ticketing booth was a late 1980s Chevy conversion van. I recognized it for its rarity and as the car that had nearly hit me entering the road somewhere near Blyn, WA. It led the way to the Port, but because my ticketing agent was quicker, I pulled into row 8 just ahead of him, as the seventh car.

Port Townsend is a lovely little Victorian town at the northeastern tip of the Olympic Peninsula. To its north is the Strait of Juan de fuca, which leads to the Pacific. To its east is Puget Sound. In the middle of the nineteenth century, some speculated that it would become the West Coast’s biggest port and it was a boomtown. But when railroad companies did not extend rail west of Tacoma and Seattle, those ports rapidly overtook it and Port Townsend became the Natchez of Washington, although with a lot more money.







The weather was lovely: sunny and around 70. It is a walkable town and the people seemed friendlier than elsewhere near Seattle. I was quite hungry and noted two slice shops on the main street, so I tried them. Waterfront looked like a legit slice shop with a custom oven the likes of which I had never before seen. “I will have one plain slice.”

The man wearing an N-95 mask behind the counter furrowed his brow in confusion. “What type?”

“One plain slice.”

“What do you mean?” His confusion was giving a hint at frustration.

“No toppings, just a plain slice, please,” trying to defuse the situation, I said.

“You mean just cheese? Why didn’t you just say you wanted a cheese slice?”

Now I was confused. I have been eating pizza all my life, and I have always called a slice of cheese pizza a plain slice. I wonder if this stems from an incident I witnessed at DiFara in Brooklyn back in the 90s before it was such a tourist magnet. An obvious non-local was ordering a plain slice from Dom at the window. He ordered a cheese slice several times, but Dom said, “We do not sell cheese here.” Finally someone else stepped in and said, “Dom, he just wants a plain slice.” And that was all it took for Dom to throw a plain slice into the oven. Do not ever try to order a plain slice in New York by calling it a cheese slice.

“I guess you could say we are two pizza lands separated by a common language,” alluding to the oft used British expression about how our words often confuse others. The pizza worker did not laugh, as I hoped he would. Instead, he tossed over the hefty slice, which I believe was $4.75. The counter had fake Parm, red pepper flakes, and oregano. I loaded up on the oregano and pepper flakes, and smiled in my heart, because a slice shop that has the cheap canisters of those three accouterments usually makes a good slice. And it was. A solid 7.0. The dough was a little thicker than I like, but it was cooked well, the cheese was plentiful, and the sauce good.









Closer to the ferry terminal, was Pizza Factory, which also looked promising. Upon entering, however, it was obvious from the indoor signage and the conveyor belt oven that it was a chain pizzeria. But at least they sold pizza by the slice, so I was willing to give it a shot. For a conveyor belt oven pizza, it was not terrible, perhaps a 5.8. If you are ever in Port Townsend, I recommend Waterfront first.