Portland in July was a temperate, low humidity heaven on earth. Bungalows, restaurants, cape cods, bars, and flower shops are mixed together and spread out across the straight line of Southeast Division Street. I sat at a tiny outdoor table at The Woodsman Tavern, sipped a coa de jima and thought if I lived in that little house across the street, this would be my regular haunt.
Just spent four days in Syracuse to attend a loved one’s memorial service. I am pretty weary. We made little excursions to favorite places, and I saw some of my most favorite people, but really, I am just sad and tired.
My older sister invites me to come stay at a house on the beach to celebrate her 50th birthday. I rent a Ford Escape that has Bluetooth and satellite radio and cruise control, pack up my two kids, a suitcase and a cooler, kiss my husband goodbye and head for North Carolina. We stop too many times for too many potty breaks, get too deep into the country to find a Starbucks, I drive too fast and get a speeding ticket five miles from the house, but eventually we pull into the driveway as the sun is setting behind Salter Path Road. ...
Spent another three days in Portland last week. The city has become more familiar to me. I have a favorite coffee spot. I got lost slightly less frequently than I did a month ago. I barely noticed rain-soaked hair and hem. And I found a nice warm place to have dinner that feels like my dining room at home. All of these small comforts combined made the separation from my family a little more tolerable.
http://youtu.be/-Wvp8b4Djiw I’m actually writing from yet another airplane, on my way to Portland. Wondering if I will see this lady again, the one who serenaded me with Bob Marley at the food trucks near the office. For the life of me I could not find a dollar in that ridiculous handmade purse of mine to pay her for her music.
A shaggy-haired guy with a toothbrush in one hand and an empty plastic gallon-sized milk bottle in the other approaches me as I walk down Stark Street and asks if I know where he can find some water. I tell him I have no idea, and he gives me a smile and thanks me and keeps walking. At Pioneer Square a man with a blue face leans against a bike rail and smokes a bowl of weed. I ask to take his picture and he smiles his yes, and after I take the shot, he blows smoke in my face. Head spinning, I cross the street and stop near the Starbucks to watch a game of chess. People gather in groups, talking and greeting passers-by, so different from how people act where I live that I just stand staring in awe until they start staring back. On my way back to my hotel I pass a musician playing buckets with a friend. ...
Finding nourishing food while traveling in a new city is a challenge, but it’s important to me to not eat junk while on the road. I Yelped my way to Prasad for an amazing dinner of lightly steamed kale, cabbage, beans, avocado and quinoa. I sat at a high counter in the front window and enjoyed the bowl with a fresh green lemonade. Two guys passed by the shop, deep in conversation. One then stopped in his tracks, turned around, came inside and ordered a wheatgrass shot at the counter behind me, his skeptical friend watching through the glass.
We managed to slip out of town to the beach house and have enjoyed a few warm and sunny days, but now a cold front is rolling on in. At the ready are Playmobil sets, plastic Civil War soldiers, vintage Hardy Boys hardcovers, two decks of playing cards, and a variety of other wet weather beach house staples. I have good chocolate and a good book on hand, and am snuggled underneath a fleece blanket, so I say let the weather come.
I’m headed to Portland today. I’m listening to jazz on satellite radio, looking out the window at the canyons colored with dawn and just feeling so in awe of creation. A dirt road carved into the deep red earth below folds into a sharp angle, looping around a little town as an afterthought.
The flagstone path leads me away from the main house, through dark undergrowth and past waterfall to a clearing. The cabin is made of stone, built before the American revolution. A sweet garden wraps around from side to back. The front door is unlocked, and I step inside. The room is stained glass, dark wood, thick and quiet air that smells of books. A side table holds a bottle of Grand Marnier and two glasses. I want to sit at the desk and write and write until my hand cramps and my mind is still but the sun is going down and I feel the pull of home. I close the door behind me and stand in the back garden, feeling the hot Virginia breeze lift my hair as all around me honeybees stir in the twilight.