If: As Chance Would Have It

A meteor crashed and crackled through the atmosphere a couple of days ago. A friend saw the flames and was stunned. He said the fireball seemed to have landed right here in Pacific Grove, and I missed the whole thing, of course. So, I began wondering how many near misses have happened to me, or almost to me. The innocent walk down the street blithely unaware of how close they are to disaster. I get a funny feeling I have had far more close calls than I'll ever know.

Comedians make whole slapstick routines hilarious based on near misses. Remember Tim Allen or the Marx Brothers? They appeared perfectly clueless as whole rooms collapsed around them.

On the other hand, there are really close calls that the whole world watches as they unfold. Michael Phelps's famous 100 Fly finish at the Beijing Olympics in 2008 is one of those. A hundredth of a second - the length of a fingernail - brought him fame and glory, while Cavic was defeated (defeat seems like such an overstatement in a really close race). Dara Torres lost her 50 freestyle by a hundredth of a second at the same Games. Whether it was luck or a true win is hard to figure. If Dara had done just one little thing differently as she swam like mad for 50 meters - and I mean just one thing, she would have won. If - the word sums up the idea of fate or chance in such a nutshell.

Don't you just wonder sometimes how you missed seeing a 20-dollar bill on the floor when someone else spotted it? Or miss the lottery grand prize by just one number? So close! The fun of it's in the retelling and sharing the agony of that realization with friends. Everyone has a few stories about how close they came to some disaster or glory.

That little word: If.

If only the bat had swung a little lower, the batter would have hit the bases-loaded home run. Instead, he whiffs and gets the final out. Tragedy! If only...There are so many ways that possibility can play out - and has been used as a story-telling device in movies and books. If only Cary Grant had realized that Deborah Kerr loved him, had been injured and tried so hard to get back to the Empire State Building in An Affair to Remember, everything could have been so much better for them both.

The thing is that possibility, when viewed as a spur for more focused effort in the future, provides such food for thought and speculation. You see it the other way though, and sit there fearfully avoiding what might happen? The world becomes a bleak and ugly place. I missed the meteor show, but then again, it missed me, my town and roared harmlessly into the ocean (I assume). Whew! And I never even saw it coming - or going.

Looking back at Portland

I am not in Portland, have not been in Portland since Monday. This is Thursday.

The sky here in Monterey has retreated behind its coastal gray blanket of clouds. If I were to stand up on my rooftop, the peak of the rooftop, and look way over east, I might see a lighter version of gray than I see directly outside my window. If I were a bird, I'd head there now to find warmth and bright daylight that changes by the hour as the sun, which would be visibly  bright in the sky, arced across the span of blue from east to west.

No, I am not in Portland, but I have brought home my experiences and impressions, my mind stamped like a paper in a letterpress, a first and lasting collection of images.

Monday took us to the Columbia River Gorge. We only had a few hours to drive around, head off the Interstate to find views of the river, the bluffs, the mountains, and the smoke-haze-veiled trees. A fire was burning somewhere in the distance. It made all the long views of the river appear to be paintings done by traveling artists in the Lewis and Clark expedition. Short of actual leaping salmon in the wide and very grand river, the beauty and riches of the river gorge were splendid.

Of course we went to Multnomah Falls and had a little hike up to see the pretty scenery, doodled around in the gift store, bought a fridge magnet and wondered if we could just go AWOL from both our jobs.

Nope. We had to leave.

I'll go back. I talked to a young woman at breakfast at Besaws Cafe (Do not hesitate; go there. Diners cling to their table, chain themselves to the chair until they have savored every last morsel.) who said she'd grown up in the area, left for a number of years and always found herself coming back again. She gave up and moved back and feels content, satisfied and energized by the city. I understand, not because I am looking up at the fog here, hearing the seagulls' hoarse shrieks and empathetically feeling a kinship with Pacific Grove (I'm not), but because Portland is a fine place, and its people respond to it with a deep resonant love that plays out in a thousand interesting ways. It kind of gets to you. Right in the heart.

Walking Downtown Portland

It's late afternoon, and Portland is squeezing the last juice out of a fine weekend. We are walking on a long street to the heart of town, the muffled rumble of traffic resounding from the freeways in the near distance. I could mistake it for the thumping rumble of surf back home. I can't get my bearings except to heed the order of the street names. We're heading downhill to the river, which, like the Seine does in Paris, bends around Portland's edges. It's no use to use it for a landmark.

What you see in Portland you also see in other pretty American cities: Shade trees, bike lanes, large homes built in the '20s or earlier, now restored or converted to condos or apartments. Benson Bubblers? Only in Portland. Bubblers are curiously unique and generous creations that date back to 1912, kind of a four-bowled drinking fountain that flows with sweet fresh water continuously from early morning to late at night. I see them very randomly while out walking. I've read there are 52 of them around the city. Fresh water is provided for you without request, effort or payment asked. All you do is bend over and take a long cool drink.

The walk is taking us to the Pearl District where I will find REI. I've heard it's big; I need socks. It is big, and the clerks use little devices to ring the sales and email you a receipt if you wish to have one. Seems pretty simple. I want to buy everything in the store, as usual. I end up with no new socks, but two new tops that are on sale. Not sure how that happened, but it did.

Then, onward along more streets, all very easy to walk as they are narrow, pretty flat. The have interesting buildings that line them now that we are in The Pearl District, a more funky and artistically hip area. On we stride until we reach Powell's City of Books, a ridiculously enormous bookstore. Well, it's two bookstores or at least two buildings four stories high. It's the bookstore of my dreams, of any reader's dreams. You need a map to find your way around. How did this happen? Why has it not happened everywhere? Barnes and Noble as well as other bookstores are going ten toes up, dying sad deaths, but Powell's is robust and vigorous.

As the light fades slowly away, hunger rises, and we dither about trying on the ideas of movie or dinner or both. Dinner wins. Jake's Grill is nearby, a place we'd staked out two nights ago when my shoes were blistering my feet (different pair than tonight). The streets are quiet as it's Sunday, and that magic hour of evening light mixed with the day's last glow is upon us. I keep my eyes open for photography possibilities, but we have ducked into the restaurant before I can really get any shots.

Jake's is in a beautiful historic landmark building built in the early 1900's in the arts and crafts style, each bit of it hand made. It was called The Seward Hotel back in its original iteration, was restored in the 1990's and reopened as The Governor Hotel with Jake's established at that time. It's bones are evident in mica lampshades, heavy wooden beams, high painted tin ceiling in the dining room and the pattern of mosaic tiles on the floor. After dinner, we snoop further into the hotel's grand dining rooms and lobby. There is a glowing mural of the early settler's days along the Columbia and deep old leather easy chairs it would be wonderful to sit down into. The fire is crackling nearby. Surely, God lives in a place like this with fine leather chairs and his feet up for the evening.

We must be off to our hotel. We are weary and our eyes are drooping. The moon is hauling up into the night sky. I listen for the creak of winches pulling it up. Portland is a workingman's town historically. I'd think a moon lift must exist here, invented by some enterprising man with a gleam in his eye back in the town's early days. The gleam is still there, and I've seen it in many an eye in the past few days. Good night, Portland.

A Different Portland

Food trucks and breweries are breeding like rabbits in Portland. It becomes much more evident the farther away you go from Nob Hill. There are a few food trucks back in The Groove, where I live, but it's nothing compared to P-town (I'm picking up the names for this city, like pennies off the pavement.)

We are driving now, searching for The Big Egg, a food truck with some notoriety in that devotees write long drooling sentences about the delectable Steak and Egg Sandwich they serve. I just want to see a newer version of Portland, still seek the organic upheaval of creativity that lies behind so many things done so well about town. It's Sunday and brunch must be considered with all due respect.

Mississippi Avenue is straight ahead now, and I'm thinking, here we go, this may be ground zero for creativity, where neutron bombs of inspiration go off. There on the left is a converted parking lot with a shade tent down the middle and the periphery lined with little trailers. The near trailer is bright yolk yellow, the Big Egg we seek. People are milling around, but they look patient and a little sleepy. More interesting hair styles are worn by the young men who also have very thin legs and tall narrow bodies. A young woman walks by wearing Converse high tops and bright orange leg warmers. We're here.

"The wait will be about 55 minutes!" calls a young woman scribbling orders furiously at the counter window of the trailer. We order a PDX and a Steak and Egg Sandwich. I have no idea what I'm in for, but with this many people crowded around willing to wait, I'm good for the hour as long as I have some Stumptown Coffee (Portland's morning nectar).

We set about casing the Avenue and find a row of businesses in a brick-front building. I like the looks of it. A crow sitting on a crowbar, black on gray, is understated and funny. Across the street is a lighting store with what looks like the history of lightbulbs displayed on filament lines in its front windows. A concert venue is closed but looks well kept and on the rise. Gravy, a local cafe, has attracted another patient crowd of mostly twenty-somethings who chat in quiet voices out on the front sidewalk. The inside is jammed. Business is very good.

Back at the food court, we count about 10 trailers, most of which are closed. The Big Egg and a trailer selling biscuits and gravy, grits and bacon sandwiches are taking constant orders and working like the devil to get their orders out. After more than an hour, ours is ready.

Damn! Somehow, they have created a juicy but not soggy grilled sandwich with gourmet flavors including a delicate mustard that counterbalances the melted cheese and ham. It's not massive, but it is a piping hot sandwich with calories leaping off of it straight onto my waistline. I am transported. We thank them as we leave. They grin and glow with pride - a common and very appealing trait among Portlanders.

Mississippi Avenue is emerging - or a cynic could say it may be in a state of arrested decay - from a corner of North Portland where it sits in isolation, like a kid sent to sit in the corner as punishment, separated from the downtown rush and roar by the river, rail yards, industrial steel and graveled lots. It feels resurgent to me. Crummy low-rent old homes with sagging porches on one block have as neighbors some real beauties - Arts and Crafts bungalows, Victorian family homes where care as been given to the yards and structures. It could go either way, but my sense of it is, it's going pretty well.