Fly Away

It's time to say goodbye. Here in the airport terminal with the free Wi-Fi (how very Portland, eh?), I will bid her adieu. I almost feel like there's nothing to say. We've spent the last few days exchanging thoughts, feelings, parting words. Now, it is time to go. And I'll admit that I am ready. I feel a bit guilty saying that, as though the proper response at this moment would be one of tortured departure, of begging and pleading for one more day. But that's just not the case. Portland has been kind enough, sharing her charms for the last 10 weeks. But I am not hers, and she is not mine, and it's only fitting and proper that this courtship comes to a close before it gets too stale.

I nearly wrote here on Wednesday night. I had stopped at my "old standby", the aptly-named Old Pharmacy Café, and it was pleasantly quiet, perfect for writing. They were doing major construction inside; I like what they're doing with the place. It feels more open now, more inviting. But something kept me from writing (senseless eBay searching?...no, no something more romantic than that.) And now the task has been given to Portland International Airport.

Rode the MAX one final time. By Pioneer Courthouse Square, and the pretty, East Coast mall, across the river, past the coffee shop that I frequented often before walking from the station to work. But no sentimental goodbyes, no biting nostalgia. It's time. It's time to be back in Phoenix -- to see the sky build in the afternoon, break, and pour out in the evening. It's time for Athens -- to settle into that warm, Southern embrace. Portland, it's been a story. Never anticipated chasing after you here. But that season has come to an end, more peacefully than I'd imagined it, and now it's time to be on my way. So adieu, my dear. I'll remember you fondly, and I hope you'll remember me likewise. But as the artist said, "All things go; all things go."

New Old Home

This morning it is Kornblatt's Delicatessen. Jewish deli in the middle of upscale NW 23rd Ave, Portland, Oregon. So just how Jewish -- just how New York -- can it be? An entirely fair question, and as one who has never been to the city (and whose Jewishness may rightfully be questioned) I'm probably not the most reliable commentator. Be that as it may, I am feeling too comfortable, too "at home", here at Kornblatt's to give much care for whether or not these feelings are fitting.

Besides, it's possible that I was in fact born in the wrong city, at the wrong time in history, etc., etc. It might not be just coincidence that I have a secret, deep-seated love for onion bagels and cream cheese (and even, when the wallet is unusually fat, for lox. Unfortunately, that scenario is not the case today). It might not be just coincidence that I have a secret, deep-seated appreciation for the sort of quality newspaper writing found in publications like the New York Times. Of course, I've also at times fancied that I ought to have been born into Regency-era England (see Jane Austen fetish), or Revolutionary America, or... But for this morning, I would like to be in my Jewish New York deli, and this Portland incarnation is the nearest thing I can get.

On a separate note...

"They", the ubiquitous "they", say that it's all about "finishing well". Unfortunately, I've never been so adept at fulfilling the lofty ideal. One of my most vivid high school memories involves a particular English teacher, who I sorely sold short in my efforts I'll admit, commented that unlike most students, who begin the year slowly and build their efforts to a crescendo at the end, I had peaked rather early and leveled. "You are an anomaly, Aaron." Knowing the meaning of the word, but liking its sound nonetheless (and having a taste for self-deprecating irony), I replied, "Thank you." "It's not a compliment," she retorted. "I know," I clarified, with a smile. Beneath the bizarre student-teacher dynamics in this anecdote, there is an insight that I have been hesitant to admit. She is right. I don't often finish well. When there is enough intrinsic motivation in the thing, I can make it out alright. There have been certain classes, certain positions of leadership, etc. that I have, indeed, risen to the occasion. But there are others, probably the majority, in which I have rolled slowly across the finish line, feet dragging, shoulders slouched.

The context for this introspection has been the coming end of the Portland adventure. Less than two weeks now, and I can feel that familiar creep of complacency, of atrophying apathy, coming upon me. Actually, I'd been resolving rather clearly to myself that this time would be different. I've been trying to learn in recent years to make the conscious choice to persist. Farther back, I just blamed it on fate, a set of impermeable dispositions, that forbade me from "finishing well" an activity that I found increasingly meaningless (Unsurprisingly, I often found/find myself empathizing heartily with Solomon's Ecclesiastes). But now, I am more taken with the idea that choices are ever ours. I can choose this way or that. I can choose to love well or not. I can choose to push on or not. But the trick to it all, and it is one that I think I've been forgetting in recent days, is that while we possess the power of choice, it's still grace that gets us along. I can choose to press on, but it is grace that carries me there. Without that important addendum, it's just bootstrap theology.

So, anyway, there are 13 days or so left in Portland, cloudy Portland. Work has been stultifying, and there seems little chance of it suddenly turning otherwise. As best I try, I cannot keep from glancing at the calendar once, or twice, or a few times more each day, counting down the days until I am back in PHX and Athens. The question is whether or not you can "finish well" while still yearning, even if not as violently as in the past, for the future. I'm not sure. For purposes of self-justification, I want to say it can be done. For optimism, not normally my strong-suit, I want to say it can be done. But, much like my assessment of dear Kornblatt's (who has refilled my coffee cup probably seven or eight times already), I may not be the most reliable judge.

Whatever. For now, I have an onion bagel filling my stomach; good coffee keeping my fingers fleet; and enough youthful naivete remaining to not care much for resolving existential questions. Good morning, Portland.

Tea for One

Here ye, here ye; henceforth I declare that the reign of coffee has ended! Ascending the throne in its stead is that elegant, oft-forgotten, yet finally-returned queen of beverages -- tea! Here in the Pacific Northwest, where coffee has its clutches most firmly entrenched, the rogue drink lies in wait, calculating the right time to burst forth in the gleaming colors of triumph -- Black, Green, and White. That time must be now. Here in Tea Chai Té, gazing down onto NW 23rd between Hoyt and Irving, the reign has begun. 80+ teas offer themselves up, each with the promise of some comfort for the weary body. Hear the trumpets now, my friends, and get thee onto the bandwagon; there's room enough for everyone.

Anyway, the dearth of posts can be attributed to my family's recent arrival (and more recent departure, unfortunately) to the fair city of Portland. They stayed 10 days or so, all four of us tucked tightly into my studio (the one with heavy on picturesque views and lights on space). Clearly, it was no small miracle that all escaped not only intact but relatively happy! Festivities during their stay included a pair of trips to the most glorious Portland Farmer's Market (where I will be going tomorrow morning for fruits, vegetables, and a fine bowl of organic oatmeal w/ golden raisins and cranberries), a journey northward to Astoria and back down through Canon Beach, a trek through the Columbia River Gorge and Hood River, not to mention many a splendid evening spent grilling atop the 13th story terrace of my current residence. Let me briefly return to Hood River. It's a fine town, a fine one indeed!; but it's true value lies in its close proximity to the "Fruit Loop" -- a 35-mile loop of farms heading southward toward Mt. Hood. At one point we stood between rows of lavender, drenched in sun and scent, glancing out toward snowy Mt. Hood on one side and, across the valleys of northern Oregon and southern Washington, the equally frosted Mt. Adams on the other. It was like a scene from a National Geographic special on the Swiss Alps. That sight is mine now, and has made the summer so far.

But enough of my descriptions; I'll have more words later, you can be sure of that. Now, I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.

A is for All the Days I Thought of You

I'm thinking of Athens. I never would have expected, prior to leaving AZ last August, to find myself looking back so fondly on my new home. But so it has been since I arrived in PDX. The psycho-analysts out there will quickly suggest that my appreciation for Athens is only so acute because of the newness and anxiety that the move to a new(er) town has brought on. I won't argue them much on the point, not because I think they're right (I do, but only partially), but because, at the end of the day, I don't really care why Athens has become so dear. However it got there, there it now resides, and I care only to appreciate that blessing; sing a few praises to the Author; and listen to the songs that remind of that fine Southern town.

I stole these pictures from a fellow intern. It's quite fortunate that others are adept at taking pictures, because I rarely think to do it.

Here's my little cohort of "financial management" fellows at the Oregon State Capitol. Financial management deserves quotes because I have no right in designating myself someone who understands the concept. Social sciences, human services, assorted pop culture trivia -- sure. But financial management? Not so much. Nevertheless, Metro, my employer, thought it prudent to hire me for the summer, so a "fellow" I have become.

Here is a more direct picture of the golden man looming behind us in the previous picture. I don't know if he has a legitimate name; we called him "Oregon Man". I do know that he weighs a lot -- it took a few days, and an intricate pulley system (it was the 1930s) to hoist him atop the capitol building. He's adorned with new gold leafing every 15 years or so. He carries an axe in one hand and a wagon cover in the other, symbolizing Oregon's reliance on natural resources and pioneer roots, respectively. His body faces north for some reason unbeknownst to our guide, but his face looks out to the west, once again as a bit of tribute to Oregon's pioneering ways. He's also very shiny.

This is Willamette University. It's just to the south of the capitol building. It's nice and green, but then what isn't in this state? Those are the "star trees" in the center of the picture. See below for further explanation.

When you're in the middle of them, you look up to find a reasonably-decent figure of a star overhead. At Christmas time, they put up lights and it's all festive-like. On the summer solstice, they sacrifice a goat and then run like lemmings to the shores of the Willamette River, where they set it ablaze with a mixture of biodiesel and corn starch. That doesn't even make sense. Absurdist humor for you...

The Buildings Are Tall in This Part of the City

Waiting for the day to begin -- a meeting with one of the original pursuers of the Portland light rail system. Perhaps he will say something to instill in me the hope that Phoenix's own version of the thing will prove as successful as the one here in Portland.

My internet is working very slow. Now, it's being provided for free by the City of Portland, so I can't complain too much. I just typed out a snarky sentence about being American and therefore having a natural inclination to complain, but the fear of reprisal, immediate or future, kept me from leaving it here for your consumption. Sorry -- it's a trust issue, I know.

Orientation has begun this week for my internship program, and it has been rather delightful. It's not 8:00 - 5:00, and it's not sitting in front of a computer, so that alone has won it favor in my eyes. Add to that the chance to meet friendly co-interns, take trips to Salem (today), and trade in slacks for jeans make this a week to savor. Truly, though, the week has been very good so far. I am enjoying the chance to talk to other people my age about our shared experiences. I don't think it's unfair to want, or to appreciate, being around people in similar situations as yourself. It's supportive, and in a new town and a new job and the like, such support is quite welcomed.

And, should you find yourself forced to buy a cup of coffee from Starbucks, perhaps because it was the only shop you could see in an unfamiliar part of a new city, go with the Serena Organic. It's not great, but there weren't any coffee grounds at the bottom of the cup either (unlike my last experience with this chain). Drinking Starbucks in this city should be blasphemy, and I should thus be burned at the stake. It was a move of desperation; that is my only defense.

The Terminator

I am sitting at McMenamin's, in particular their "Blue Moon" location, on NW 21st and Glisan. I am drinking a fine beer called the Terminator Stout, and it is at times like these that I realize what a fine life God has given us. Beer and wireless internet -- proof of the Trinity.

I am inclined to begin exploring, once more, the wonder that is Ms. Jane Austen. Finished Emma and, after only a little convincing of myself, decided that it is my favorite of the famous three novels she penned. But as I've well exhausted your capacity for Regency-era authoresses, I'll go down another path this evening.

It has been suggested that I talk a little of my job, and, though it's Friday night and not at all a time for thinking of work, I'm willing to do just that. I work for Metro Regional Government -- the latter two words in that phrase being the most important. Metro is an amazingly unique regional government entity. Typically, you have the state, then the county, and the the local government. Here, we have a "regional" government, which manages a number of affairs that, for one reason or another, didn't seem fitting for the local municipalities to take on. Thus, it's centered around regional planning -- parks, natural spaces, the Oregon zoo, and perhaps a few other areas random areas (for example, Metro apparently owns a golf course...God only knows why.)

In my little corner of the Metro world -- which, if I have my way, will soon turn into more of an burgeoning empire -- I'm working on an asset management / renewal and replacement program. Isn't jargon grand? It's like this: Metro has a bunch of crap; that crap is valuable; we don't always do a great job of keeping track of the crap; at some point, that crap will break. So, my job is to aid in the development of a system that can effectively account and plan for the future needs regarding of all the crap (technically, we refer to that crap as "assets", but what do you care?). Sound exciting? Well, it's a good thing I don't listen to you, because I like it just fine. I'm learning a ton of stuff about accounting and budgeting, although, with no background whatsoever in those areas, such bountiful learning is more a function of ignorance than catalytic opportunity. What you should be envious of is the fact that, at least twice a week, I've been spending my morning touring some beautiful Oregon park (or, on one particularly lucky day, the Oregon Zoo. Yeah, my boss took me there and said, "Okay, have fun." I did.) Should you ever make it to this fine region of the country, let me suggest Oxbow Regional Park -- like an Amazon rain forest, minus the Amazon.

Well, my pint is nigh empty, and that means we must end this discussion. Will he get another pint or not? Only time, and the bartender, will know.

Here are a few pictures I pilfered from someone else's site. Kind of robbed of the splendor of the place in person, but it's all I can give you for now: (many thanks to The Grich for these fine pics: http://thegrich.blogspot.com/2007/05/oxbow-regional-park.html)

I took the 405.

It is a grey Saturday morning in Portland. I wish the city didn't feel so forced to live up to all her clichés. On the upside, it makes the mood all the more right for coffee and writing and slow, beautifully sad music.

The 405, by the way, runs through the center of Portland, so when he sings, "I took the 405 and drove a stake down into your center...," I feel as though I can somehow relate. But really, between you and me, it's the next line he sings that I think of most; "You keep twisting the truth [that keeps me thrown askew.]" You can't divine punctuation just from listening to the song. Did he mean to put a period after "truth"? If not, was it the "truth" that had been keeping him thrown askew? That seems odd, but then I'm not an artist either. Whatever the case, it seems that "truth", twisted or not, will keep on slipping through these clouds above, and while that may, indeed, keep me thrown askew, or at the very least a bit dizzy, I am happy that it sneaks through at all.

I don't have any new pictures of Portland, though I'm working on it. There are so many things that you need to see here. The view from the roof of the building I work in, spanning the rises and falls of the Portland skyline. The view from the roof of my own temporary dwelling, which on clear days lets you gaze out onto Mt. St. Helen's, Mt. Adams, Mt. Hood and time immemorial. This place feels so very three-dimensional. In Phoenix, the horizon is so long, the earth so often flat, that sometimes you're apt to forget about its depth (which, of course, it has much). But here you cannot avoid it; the trees cut and slice into the hillsides, up, down, and all around you. The proper sort of setting for a summer adventure, I suppose.

A pair of pictures for you: the other half of the room, and more evidence of the City of Roses.