My realtor and I drove to the first house, a more modern house than I’d prefer. I got my first look at engineered hardwood, which I had never heard of (not a fan). Other than the flooring, the first thing I noticed was an awkward angle in the living room. Why did they build it like that? I’ll never know.

The kitchen was nice: wooden cupboards, plenty of space and light, marred only by characterless modern shelving in a recessed pantry area. This motif was repeated in a bedroom closet. The bathrooms had lovely sinks mounted in beautiful wooden tables, but no closets or medicine cabinets. I do not want to display every item that belongs in a bathroom.

The backyard was large and steep, leading to an alley. I could not walk down the exit stairs, which had no railing.

The picture that house left in my mind was the awkward living room wall, with seven houses to come.

House number two looked like a contemporary house from the outside, all sharp planes and picture windows. The realtor had trouble opening the door. When he got it open, the first thing we saw was cracked yellow linoleum. The house turned out to be an older house, facade notwithstanding, with dated wallpaper, hideous carpets and the first wood-paneled bathroom I’ve ever seen. Why would you put wood paneling in a bathroom?

I tried to find some positives in house number two, but, at this remove, I can’t remember them. It required more fixing up and ripping out than I had hoped to tackle.

I think the third house I saw was the one where the layout reminded me of my maternal grandmother’s house in El Cerrito, California. The front door opened onto the living room. The steps up to the front door needed a railing — I had to put a hand down to crab-crawl up them. The house had small bedrooms without closets: I would have to buy wardrobes for clothes storage. The yards had possibilities. The house’s best feature was that it was a short walk to the public library.

I saw a small Craftsman cottage that my cousin had found on Zillow. It featured a porch swing, good windows and light and the ugliest fireplace surround I have seen to date, a white and gold geometric pattern that my realtor said dated to the 1970s. There are lots of things about the ’70s I do not care to remember. Still, if I ripped that out and replaced some flooring, this house was the most promising yet.

House #5 was a larger Craftsman with its original living room intact, all built-in cabinets, hardwood flooring and multi-paned windows, an original front door with stained glass. The yard was beautifully landscaped as well. It’s “bones” were good and I suppose I could have camped in the lovely living room while repainting, stripping wallpaper, pulling up shag carpeting. This house ended up being my second favorite.

I saw two more houses. I can’t remember the order in which I saw them. One had a nice kitchen with some wooden features and a water view. The main bedroom could be instantly improved by painting the wooden ceiling white. The owners had mulched their front yard with wood chips, which made it look better than all of the dying lawns Port Angeles features in late August.

The other house did not look promising from its photo, a bit like a fairy tale cottage with its peaked roof and arched door. When we stepped inside, however, it was in move-in condition. I liked everything from the table in the breakfast nook to the staging in the kitchen, the cabinet pulls, the flooring. It even had a water view. If I could have written a check that day, I would have wanted to buy it, even though I had doubts about its distance from downtown. Alas, others felt that way because a sale was pending within 48 hours (I had seen the house just after it was listed).

None of the houses I saw felt walkable to me, in terms of their proximity to the business district: I couldn’t have known without visiting that Port Angeles did not have housing downtown: there are expensive houses up on the bluff above the businesses, reached by a steep wooden stairway, a car, or perhaps ropes and pitons.

After touring seven houses I felt weary and discouraged. I wasn’t sure I would be able to remember the features of each house, even with the aid of photos. Which house had the narrow, steep staircase to the second floor? Which one had the bedroom turned into a comfortable office? Could I get to a grocery store from the one otherwise perfect house?

As I pondered these questions, lying on my bed in my motel room, I learned that my old friend Carol was arriving. I opened up the room and went to greet her, showed her to her room in my unit. Although she had driven from St Helens, Oregon, she was eager to drive to town to begin to tour the highlights. I directed her to the menu of the Hook and Line Pub with its Louisiana-style Po’ Boys, gumbo and fish ‘n’ chips.

“Looks good,” she said, and we drove off. She had a bowl of gumbo and I had a delicious shrimp po’ boy. I asked our waitress where to find the strongest coffee in town.

“I don’t drink coffee,” she said. What is it with the servers in this town? Fortunately, a young woman picking up a to-go order gave us the coffee scoop we needed. We ended up with very good coffee, but not before we spent some time browsing in Port Book and News where I bantered with the clerk over the Trump mug shot while he found me a copy of The Lost Journals of Sacajawea by Debra Magpie Earling. The shop had wonderful gift items, too, including stuffed Audubon bird toys that made the birds’ calls when you squeezed them. I wanted to buy the loon, but restrained myself. I bought a box of cards instead. I would be happy to have Port Book and News as my hometown bookstore.

I longed to buy art supplies: because I had focused on having adequate water for my train trips and adequate clothing for hot weather and possible rain, I had not added watercolor pencils and paper to my heavy day pack. I missed them and would have had hours to sketch woods and waterways from the train. Next time.

Carol and I flunked an assignment from our zen and writing teacher. I had promised her we would visit Raymond Carver’s Port Angeles grave, but, after our afternoon coffee, I learned that the cemetery closed at 4:30 on Friday and would be closed all weekend. Oh well. I guess we’ll have to come back.

Our next destination has me scheming to come back as soon as I can for as long as I can.

To be continued.