The Trip So Far :: February 19th, 2002 ::
![[all cities require mascots; Portland is one of the few that actually has one.]](/images/seaport/portlandia_sm.jpg)
When we went to Portland I found out that the city isn’t actually on
the Pacific coast. It’s an inland city, built on the intersection of
two rivers. Today, she and I had to
endure a short rainstorm as we walked to the bus station. We crossed
the Wilamette river on the Steel Bridge, I became slightly overwhelmed
watching the rain fall from the impossibly large counter-weights
suspended from high towers at either end of a section of the bridge.
As we passed under them, I pondered the arcane feat of engineering
that brought forth such a monstrous, yet functional piece of
machinery, and the darker side of my mind wondered how easily one
could be killed by it. Technological advancements such as this, old
and necessary as they may be, always conjure up a familiar
neurosis.
We’d come to Portland two days before. It was after dark and we drove through the fog to get there. Jessamyn’s friend picked us up from the bus station and as we drove through downtown, I noticed the old-style architecture and the industrial backdrop of the city, which spurred my first real feeling of nostalgia for Milwaukee this trip I’ve taken to the west coast. Since then, I have found many stark differences between the Portland and the city in which I grew up, but my first impression was one of familiarity, it has stuck with me the for the duration of our excursion — in part because I relished the slight feeling of homesickness that familiarity created, I think.
Dinner that first night was Southern fried. We ate at a place called the Delta, which served us Red Beans and Rice, Succotash, corn bread, mashed potatoes, and so many other entrees I lost track. The piles of food cascaded first onto our table then into our stomachs, and soon I was painfully full. But the best part? 40-ounce bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon, served in a bucket of ice.
The next day, we left for the city sometime around noon. Walking the city of Portland, it became apparent that we could not get anywhere substantial without crossing, then re-crossing the river at several different bridges, at several different points on the roughly North-South axis that the Willamette river made. We walked like this for a day and a half, Jessamyn and I. We walked all over, we took public transportation, we left our invisible, cross-hatched trails. As I write this, my memory of the experience is slowly becoming a singular blur of sidewalks, of newly renovated parks, public transportation, and sore calves.
Second day, second friend’s house. Since I’ve known Jessamyn, I’ve gotten used to the fact that she has a lot of friends, and that many times, before I am able to fully commit last night’s friends to memory, I’m introduced to today’s friends. Though I sound sarcastic when mentioning it, having this new dynamic in my life has been exciting for me. I can’t remember the last time I’ve met this many new people within the span of a few months. They’ve all been very nice and accepting of me, which is great, because my natural inclination is to think that people are not particularly interested in knowing me. Being in situations in which already sort of know these people (even if it is only by being the significant other of their friends) makes the awkward getting-to-know-you phase a lot easier to deal with. But Jessamyn’s these day’s friends were great. The husband was a comic book artist, the wife was an author. Their book collection was great, their company was even better, and it was nice to feel friendly with people I’d met only recently. I fell asleep after reading a few pages of Ring Lardner, which I found to be quite fun, if not signifying the good feelings I had toward these new people.
Now I’m back in Seattle, trying to shoehorn all of what has happened into a set of paragraphs that are at least coherent, if not artistic. I’d hope for some level of artistry, but it doesn’t seem to be coming right now — at least in this first draft. Who knows, maybe after I give it a copy-edit. Or, failing that, I let all of what has happened in the past three days ferment in my head — let the rain and the traffic and the hills and my sore shins and my childish feelings of exploration and discovery all blend into a poorly documented memory — then I’ll begin to generate some work with artistry. But until that happens, we are left to read what I’ve remembered here.
