I have just returned from Portland needing no further convincing to pack it in and become an Oregonian. None! Portland lacks nothing contained in the definition of awesomeness, and it has a raging case of the nices. It is navigable (cirumnavigable, if you've got, say, 15 minutes), it is full of interesting independent things, it is full of friendly people. I told strangers that I didn't really know anyone in town and they told me, "Not for long." I guardedly told potential roommates that I'm not the biggest social butterfly but I do like to have game nights and dinners with friends, and they asked in surprise what I thought people did with their free time if not that. Even the rain didn't curb my delight; I stomped around in my big coat with my feet wet and the rest of me dry and found that life went on. I learned the secret of the spare socks (though I still need to master the secret of the spare sneakers), the damply zen acceptance of being rained upon, and that when all else fails one simply ducks into the nearest coffeeshop and, provided one hasn't left the city limits, one finds that it is warm and cozy and full of quietly friendly people and vegan pastries. And because one has the spare socks one can go back out, refreshed, and walk across the Hawthorne bridge in a downpour because it's Portland and you have to. I mean one has to.
On the other hand, I came home in delightful indecision over two lovely rooms in two old, intriguing, beautifully restored Alberta houses for under $400 and found when I checked my email that one of the houses was suddenly sold and isn't for rent anymore. And technically the other one isn't quite mine for the asking; its current inhabitant is still mulling over prospects. And now I'm saddened and need to readjust my brain and all in all I don't get to live with an adorable Labrador puppy and his queer vegan composting co-op-member mama.
Between analyses of potential living situations, notes relating to my one job interview this morning, notes on various parts of the city, discoveries relating to eating establishments and transit features, and general soliloquizing, I wrote something like 25 pages in my journal this weekend. Most of it is reproducible here. Some of it is interesting. All of it is sitting in my (suddenly exorbitantly expensive) apartment, where the internet access is still fucking not working after 2 weeks, this is getting ridiculous, we are a week and two service calls past where Comcast should be either providing us with the internet access we are paying for or telling us not to pay for it until it is actually provided. But they are not, because it is Comcast.
I leave you with the words of a jovial gentleman on the #8 bus heading down NE 15th Avenue on Saturday night: "Better to be late to the Pearly Gate than to arrive on time in Hell."
To what that might relate around here, I haven't the faintest clue. But we at Snoqualmie believe in picking up discarded epigrams and re-using them. You never know when they might turn out to be a nonrenewable resource.Posted by dianna at June 11, 2007 07:57 PM