The Goonies never got old.
Something else from my childhood that remains near and dear is Jasmine, one of my best friends since Mrs. Dally’s second grade class. Now, nearing 40, we’re in Seattle, ready to embark on a Pacific Northwest adventure. Back in Girl Scouts, we had each selected a national park tome as our reward for selling magazine subscriptions. Its beautiful and shiny pages had encouraged us to one day visit these magical places. Now, both somewhat comfortable in our lives and careers, we were finally able to go on “bigger trips.”
After a few days in Seattle, we drove our rental onto a ferry and floated across the Puget Sound. Then, we were back on the road.
“Port Angeles,” said Jasmine, reading a mile marker sign. “Isn’t that where Twilight took place?” To us, it was just a dot on the map. To others, it was a sacred site: the setting—and actual film locations—of the popular book-to-movie vampire series.
We made our way across a section of the Olympic Peninsula and reached Forks, the national park’s gateway town, which apparently was also featured in Twilight. We pulled over to grab a picture of the wooden “The City of Forks Welcomes You” sign and the adjacent “City of Forks: Pop. 3,175” marker. But another sign caught my attention. “No Trespassing” it said, a warning from the Oregon Department of Transportation not to enter a dirt road. Visitors before us had used the grimy sign as a canvas, their fingertips etching names in the filth. Amidst the Hailee, Margot, Lauren, Matt, and Ashley were also “Blood!” and “Here there be vampires!” messages. We laughed and took another picture. Silly movie fans.
We stopped at a ranger station that was attached to a bus station; or maybe it was a bus station with a ranger post. We grabbed some maps and asked some questions. “Do people really come here just to see sites from the movie?” I asked the ranger. He told us many of the young adults who arrive by bus ask if there really are vampires in Washington, to which the rangers give open-ended responses, giving the fans a sense of mystery about this enchanting part of the Pacific Northwest. We giggled at the idea of uniformed park officials playing along with the tourists who only trekked this way to see where their overrated movie was filmed. Real travelers like us were here for the Hall of Mosses, the hot springs, the Space Needle, or Seattle Aquarium. Nature. Culture.
As we continued through Forks, we discovered some local businesses and residents found ways to profit from this fandom. The town drug store was dubbed, unofficially, “Bella’s First Aid Station,” as noted by a sandwich board on the sidewalk. Colorful letters painted on big windows told us the local drive-in was “Home of the Bella Burger,” and a random house selling logs to campers had posted a hand-painted plywood sign next to the pile: “Jake’s Firewood.”
“Oh, this is so ridiculous,” I finally said, shaking my head at the exploitation of Hollywood.
Jasmine laughed along with me. But then her eyes suddenly got big; something had struck her. A thought.
“Wait. Where are we going next week?” she asked, stretching out the “wheeeeeere” portion of her question.
I had to reply. “Astoria, Oregon.”
“And wh-h-h-y-y-y are we going there?”
I had no choice but to reply.
“Because that’s where the The Goonies was filmed,” I said, a vibe of defeat in my voice.
I was no different than those obsessed teens chasing vampires from Forks to Port Angeles. Only I was chasing the good old days: treasure hunting with childhood friends. My movie was a classic, I reasoned. Not just some passing fad, like sparkly vampires. The Goonies was immortal. And we’d be just one state away. How could I get THAT close to the Goondocks and NOT visit? My friend had agreed to tack on this side trip. We’d see the Walsh house, Mikey’s dad’s museum, and, oh my god, the old jailhouse used in the opening scene where one of the Fratellis was being held. (It’s now the Oregon Film Museum.)
The next few days at Olympic National Park showed me greens I’d never seen before! We hiked among the tallest trees I’d ever seen, we walked on a beach covered with driftwood, and we bathed in a natural hot spring. I tried salmon for the first time, and I fell in love with mushrooms. I had my face stuck in my Audubon guide as we walked so I could point out names of trees, plants, insects, and other living things. I touched all kinds of moss and lichen, and Jasmine nicknamed me Tactile Talarico.
When our time at Olympic was over, it was my turn to drive. How poetic that I’d be the one who’d take us across the long, narrow, nightmare-inducing bridge from Washington, over the Columbia River, into Oregon. As we entered the city limits of Astoria, Jasmine was fiddling around with her iPhone. Then, suddenly, the sounds of Cyndi Lauper filled our rental SUV. Despite her poking fun at my obsession days earlier, Jasmine had delivered the best surprise: Queueing up The Goonies’ theme song to welcome us into town, back into the 80s.
Donna Talarico is a writer, content marketing consultant, and founder of Hippocampus magazine and books as well as its annual nonfiction conference, HippoCamp. She lives in downtown Lancaster.
See more stories like this live in person at Lancaster Story Slam the fourth Tuesday of each month at Zoetropolis. In York, Story Slam takes place third Tuesdays at Holy Hound Taproom. Visit lancasterstoryslam.com or yorkstoryslam.com for more info.
