A missed opportunity, a dashed rendevous. It would easy to blame it on the swifts, but that would be silly, as I was there and so were the birds but you weren't. No,we won't blame it on those migratory fowl, we'll just cry foul for that flight your buddy missed. You could have handed that brochure to me that day and possibly changed our destinies. But certainly we won't blame Portland. We still have a meeting to make there someday.
Right up front: I love Portland. I was fortunate to discover that lovely burg early on in my life. As a matter of fact I experienced Portland a couple weeks before I took my first trip to Colorado, which made for shifting alliances for favorite places early on in my life.
I was still a fairly new traveler back then, just a fresh faced, wet behind the ears sailor in town for a fair. The USS Blueridge was moored downriver for the Rose Festival, the first and only time I've been there to celebrate that momumental event. Back in the late seventies the town was far from reinventing itself as one of the great hipster capitals of the United States. It felt funky, raw, very cool in a deep, dark way and was not at all sophisticated. I fell in love with it right away, which was easy to do considering I was somewhat impressionable and anything outside of Orange County was uber hip. I told myself way back then that I would someday end up there. My dream hasn't come true yet, but two and half hours away isn't so bad.
I found the post below about Portland in the NY Times this morning and thought of us. I remember that article I found in Sunset article a few years back, and how excited we were about the possibility of finding our way there together. Amtrak, hotels, museums, restaurants, we looked into all of it. We always ended those fantasy sessions with you saying "what am I thinking?". You could wish, you could dream but in the end you always had to go home.
But once, just once, we came close to realizing that dream, if only for a day.
The Vaux swifts, an annual September phenomena in Portland. I attended the monthly Kingfisher Audubon meeting out in Poulsbo and found out about the elementary school heating stack where the swifts nested nightly in September on their way back down south to Mexico. I ran into you the following day at the antique mall, the one right next to the branch, and told you all about them. September was a magic month for us, one where, once again, everything seemed possible. You were heading down there that weekend with a girlfriend. Was it possible for us to run into each other during that swift sighting? I quickly made plans to go on Sunday, for such a phenomena had to be seen with very my own eyes. My little girl Punkin wanted to come along, too, which was oh so cool with me. Back then everything and anything I did she wanted to do, so we packed up the car with goodies and books and headed down the road to Portland to see the "bird show".
Right up front: I love Portland. I was fortunate to discover that lovely burg early on in my life. As a matter of fact I experienced Portland a couple weeks before I took my first trip to Colorado, which made for shifting alliances for favorite places early on in my life.
I was still a fairly new traveler back then, just a fresh faced, wet behind the ears sailor in town for a fair. The USS Blueridge was moored downriver for the Rose Festival, the first and only time I've been there to celebrate that momumental event. Back in the late seventies the town was far from reinventing itself as one of the great hipster capitals of the United States. It felt funky, raw, very cool in a deep, dark way and was not at all sophisticated. I fell in love with it right away, which was easy to do considering I was somewhat impressionable and anything outside of Orange County was uber hip. I told myself way back then that I would someday end up there. My dream hasn't come true yet, but two and half hours away isn't so bad.
I found the post below about Portland in the NY Times this morning and thought of us. I remember that article I found in Sunset article a few years back, and how excited we were about the possibility of finding our way there together. Amtrak, hotels, museums, restaurants, we looked into all of it. We always ended those fantasy sessions with you saying "what am I thinking?". You could wish, you could dream but in the end you always had to go home.
But once, just once, we came close to realizing that dream, if only for a day.
The Vaux swifts, an annual September phenomena in Portland. I attended the monthly Kingfisher Audubon meeting out in Poulsbo and found out about the elementary school heating stack where the swifts nested nightly in September on their way back down south to Mexico. I ran into you the following day at the antique mall, the one right next to the branch, and told you all about them. September was a magic month for us, one where, once again, everything seemed possible. You were heading down there that weekend with a girlfriend. Was it possible for us to run into each other during that swift sighting? I quickly made plans to go on Sunday, for such a phenomena had to be seen with very my own eyes. My little girl Punkin wanted to come along, too, which was oh so cool with me. Back then everything and anything I did she wanted to do, so we packed up the car with goodies and books and headed down the road to Portland to see the "bird show".
Waiting for the swifts to head down that brick stack was a full out community event. Everybody seemed to converge on that hillside, waiting, party style, for the show to begin. I must admit I was distracted, craning my neck to see if I could find you in that crowd. I must have looked for you just as hard as I looked for those swifts to come flying over the horizon. In the end the Melissa sighting didn't happen. Either you didn't show or I just plain missed you. I found out later what happened. All the same, too bad.
As for Portland, I miss that city these days about as much as I miss you and that's alot. I'm not making the trips down south like I used to three years ago. Back in those days I was pretty much on full alert due to my mom's declining health, so I pulled through Portland fairly regularly. These days my car is sitting in the alley behind the house, encrusted with cherry petals, waiting for me to fix it or trade it in for a new car. It's a bad thing when you start to get a jones for travel and your car is down. But for the moment there is comfort in having that money in the bank. The car can wait, and so can Portland.
I refreshed that Powell's brochure a year or so after our infamous September pogrom. The original was tossed out in a blazing fit of passion, a hard moment when many non-durable goods suffered a similar fate. The original was a small memento of your visit to the city that very same weekend. I was happy to get it, overjoyed to see you that day. I got lucky that morning, a true out of the corner of my eye moment. I was gassing up the car at Chevron, savoring the after effects of my morning cup of coffee. I just about finished when you drove past and into the Walmart parking lot. We ended up trolling the aisles for curtains, went back across the street and drank Starbucks, talked and plotted and parted with I love you toos. Two days later you once again abdicated the throne and we suffered a meltdown that would make Chernoble blush.
But still, Powells. Whenever I go through town I tend make my way there, go across the street afterwards and grab a slice at Rockos. Even if I don't have time to walk the aisles I still love to pop in as I'm heading through town, grab some free reading material, postcards, maps, all that. It's a quick and easy stop either way, easy on the wallet on those trolling missions, even easier when you grab maps and go.
I have no idea whether you and your girlfriend trolled the aisles that day, whether or not you spent time and money on books. From an email you sent me later on that week I know that you found your way up the block and watched the Vaux swifts that night, and while you missed me by a day, you looked around for me and Punkin all the same.
That brochure says to me missed moments, star crossed shoppers, opportunities not acted upon. We could have been in town the very same day had your friend not missed her flight. That cosmic intervention held you up. You almost went ahead to meet her there but waited back in Port Orchard, instead, and that story, like so many others we plotted and set aside, just tells me that were are still destined to cross paths in that town. We may not be looking through Sunset magazines and thinking how much fun we could have there with our mixed broods. No, we'll just look up at the same time from our lattes and our Portland weeklies and see each other across the aisle. Like the swifts we'll find our way back to Portland, but unlike those migratory travelers, maybe then we'll stay long enough to play. Go to Powells and blaze our own way through the stacks, leave those brochures behind for the next pair of star crossed lovers to find.
Your WHMB
As for Portland, I miss that city these days about as much as I miss you and that's alot. I'm not making the trips down south like I used to three years ago. Back in those days I was pretty much on full alert due to my mom's declining health, so I pulled through Portland fairly regularly. These days my car is sitting in the alley behind the house, encrusted with cherry petals, waiting for me to fix it or trade it in for a new car. It's a bad thing when you start to get a jones for travel and your car is down. But for the moment there is comfort in having that money in the bank. The car can wait, and so can Portland.
I refreshed that Powell's brochure a year or so after our infamous September pogrom. The original was tossed out in a blazing fit of passion, a hard moment when many non-durable goods suffered a similar fate. The original was a small memento of your visit to the city that very same weekend. I was happy to get it, overjoyed to see you that day. I got lucky that morning, a true out of the corner of my eye moment. I was gassing up the car at Chevron, savoring the after effects of my morning cup of coffee. I just about finished when you drove past and into the Walmart parking lot. We ended up trolling the aisles for curtains, went back across the street and drank Starbucks, talked and plotted and parted with I love you toos. Two days later you once again abdicated the throne and we suffered a meltdown that would make Chernoble blush.
But still, Powells. Whenever I go through town I tend make my way there, go across the street afterwards and grab a slice at Rockos. Even if I don't have time to walk the aisles I still love to pop in as I'm heading through town, grab some free reading material, postcards, maps, all that. It's a quick and easy stop either way, easy on the wallet on those trolling missions, even easier when you grab maps and go.
I have no idea whether you and your girlfriend trolled the aisles that day, whether or not you spent time and money on books. From an email you sent me later on that week I know that you found your way up the block and watched the Vaux swifts that night, and while you missed me by a day, you looked around for me and Punkin all the same.
That brochure says to me missed moments, star crossed shoppers, opportunities not acted upon. We could have been in town the very same day had your friend not missed her flight. That cosmic intervention held you up. You almost went ahead to meet her there but waited back in Port Orchard, instead, and that story, like so many others we plotted and set aside, just tells me that were are still destined to cross paths in that town. We may not be looking through Sunset magazines and thinking how much fun we could have there with our mixed broods. No, we'll just look up at the same time from our lattes and our Portland weeklies and see each other across the aisle. Like the swifts we'll find our way back to Portland, but unlike those migratory travelers, maybe then we'll stay long enough to play. Go to Powells and blaze our own way through the stacks, leave those brochures behind for the next pair of star crossed lovers to find.
Your WHMB
Frugal Traveler and otherwise in the NY Times posts on Portland travel:
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