Something's Missing

I am rested after all the walking in the morning. My legs and feet have ceased their complaints finally. It's time to get out again. My husband rejoins me after being gone on business all day, declares his stomach empty, a need to fill it. I tell him about my walkabout, confident that I can suggest dinner at any number of places nearby. Paley's Place is so close that I can hear the kitchen clattering, and Marrakesh (Moroccan food) is about to float up into the night air on its own cloud of cumin, cardamom and lamb braising with onions.

No, they will not do tonight, he says. We ramble up Northrup to NW 23rd St and turn left toward the cafes I'd seen earlier. There are young people sitting, strolling, texting and chatting everywhere we look. Cars make their way hesitantly up the street, progress interrupted by jaywalkers and couples on the move. Pizza, burgers, pubs, more pizza (including Escape From New York, which would be my choice if you were to ask me, based on the way pizzas were getting slung about by young men with interesting haircuts) and finally Santa Fe Tacqueria. Bingo!

Santa Fe has a barn-like interior with spray-painted murals of heroic Aztecs frowning down on us from all the walls. The food crew are quick as cats. These are cheap eats, in distinct contrast to high-end Higgins the night before. It seems we shall average out our expenses to about mid-range after all. The place, empty when we arrive, quickly fills, the energy rising in the room along with the decibel level. It's a place that could just as easily push back the few middle tables, put on some salsa music and attract a partying crowd. I inhale a ceviche tostada and his carne asada burrito evaporates in mere minutes. We are happy.

Out into the night, we walk along and window shop, talk about the day, compare this place to Berkeley, Santa Cruz, and other college towns. It has all the usual high notes: pizza, coffee joints, pubs, New Age bookstores, high end corporate stores and foodie havens.

We surprise ourselves and begin to plan our breakfast destination. With full stomachs. At the end of the day. Right?

I continue to feel that I have not really discovered anything yet, except that I am interested in finding the heart and soul of Portland. It isn't here. There is a cushion of safety and connectedness here in the Northwest End that is pleasant for a vacation. I feel complacent here in this part of town, pretty as it is. I have found no local art yet and no evidence of anything distinctly different than other college towns with affluent students. Not complaining, mind you, but I am aware I am still hunting for something from the blood, sweat and tears of the place. Is it a reflection of my own inner search? Travel almost always is a parallel journey, the outer reflecting the inner one.

On Foot in NW Portland

I am on foot today in NW Portland, and it's time to get out there and see it. Being alone in a city for the first time in a year or two makes me feel, oh, like my compass is spinning a bit. Time to case the neighborhood, orient myself and see what's going on.

Up Northrup Street two blocks from my hotel (Inn at Northrup Station), I walk east to find the boundaries of the neighborhood and then north again, uphill. The eastern boundary is easy to find as prosperity dwindles down to a sparse and barren area that abuts a freeway. Going north there are clots of cafes and neighborhood businesses. Homes that I guess date to about 1910 predominate. Virtually all are well kept and attractive, indicating some kind of money in regular doses being applied to maintenance and upkeep. Young women with the fixed gaze of connected effort trot by. Parents with strollers are on the move, shoving the complicated baby movers ahead of themselves. Their chins jut a bit; they look inspired, righteous. It's Saturday midmorning, and the day is in full swing.

I walk up a gradual incline along what seems like miles of straight lanes lined with beautiful elm, poplar and maple trees. The neighborhood is well established, a little lumpy in the sidewalks and pleasing. After taking a zig-zag route I turn left and soon find a large pretty park where children are yelling happily as they rush away from their parents. Dogs are corralled in a large dog park under more leafy elms and a group of young men are playing flag football. It's a modern tableau representing young urbanism, filled with health, vigor and self-aware coolness. America is doing well here it appears. I turn left again and go back downhill, past more handsome Victorian homes and Arts and Crafts bungalows. It's very appealing, this successful and vigorous lifestyle playing out all around me. Youth is on the move, on its way to a safe middle age someday.

On 23rd Avenue, the business community is shaking out its doormats and flipping signs around, from "closed" to "open." I see a tall hill behind them that locals call Nob Hill, a prominent ridge that affords a grand overlook for miles around. That's where the enormous mansions reside, easily dwarfing even the most substantial residences I've been walking among all morning. Down along this avenue, cafes and pubs stand shoulder to hip. I try to imagine their crowds later in the evening. I am in a walking mood and keep moving. From the look of it, all citizens have set forth in jog bras and Nike shoes.

Ahead of me, one man is talking loudly, frowning, glaring at trees and fences, paranoid about the coming wrath of God and shaking his fist at impassive storefronts. They are silent. He finds no fight, shuffles through shadows along the sidewalk, anomalous amid the chic.

The sun is coming out, and I am working up my usual sweat, wishing I had brought something to mop my face. I am not a delicate rose that simply glows. My hair is damp and my face has rivulets. I've only been walking at a moderate pace. Imagine if I'd been running.

Taking this new distress as a sign to slow down, I am delighted to find a chocolate cafe. Having mostly sworn off of sugar and flour, I hesitate for a nanosecond and then yield to the seduction of Moonstruck Chocolate. Far better than coffee, I am convinced, is a small delicious Mayan Dark Hot Chocolate. I'm not sure how, but I manage not to buy any of their beautiful truffles. I might go back. It's likely.

I am refreshed, but if I sit any longer, I'll stiffen up and be unable to move. The rest of the walk is meandering, in and out of shops, up and down side streets until my legs and feet finally protest so loudly I cannot ignore them. I want to watch people and see how Portland - at least Northwest Portland - takes on life. The challenges they experience are not evident today. It is all a serene and harmonious morning. I will have to look further to find another layer of Portland life I suppose. A city this size must have more to offer than this perfection.

It is 80 degrees, nearly the end of September in Portland, Oregon, where I sit now, writing. I've just arrived, and I'm getting my bearings, looking for a point of beginning, a place to leave myself behind and see what's really here.

What happens next? It's a good question to ask myself. I am used to certain features of traveling: packing, looking online for things that might interest me, looking at maps and weather reports. But, I like to see what it feels like in a new place, let the place take me by the heart and lead me around. There may be an embrace, a fit of anger, and there may be a long relationship that begins. Who knows.

For me, a pretty quiet person, an introvert really, what piques my interest is listening to voices, seeing the landscapes and cityscapes as three-dimensional art in real time, feeling the movement and energy around me, and letting it move me. It's as much physical as emotional, internal and external. I travel; I learn.

Portland moves as cities usually do, with pace and sound. It has a pride and sense of itself that derives from its geology and geography. Big hills roll up and away from its big rivers, and grand mansions stand on high promontories above the riverbanks. The symmetrically arranged grid pattern of suburban streets and avenues further away are interrupted by the random wandering paths of streams and rivers.

It's Indian Summer, a warm incongruity that doesn't seem to match my vague idea of what the northwest should be. On a day so warm and languid as this one, the complaints I've heard of rain upon rain upon moist cold ring false. From what I see around me, this is a fine, easy town, used to warmth and an outdoor lifestyle.

What did I do today?

I arrived. That's an accomplishment sometimes, I have to say. There was a bland lack of challenge in it at first, but Portland doesn't sit around for long, waiting for a person to wake up to it. There is energy here, not restless and unruly so much as undaunted by problems, a town walking into its future with intention. That sounds odd to me to say after only a brief time walking along its streets, but the set of the shoulders, the pace and look of the populace tells me that it is more that than not.

I didn't really get a sense of Portland ahead of time except that friends told me it's a pretty town (it is) and that there are good street cars and light rail (there is). Maybe I will admit to believing that Portland is a funny mix of tree huggers and rednecks. It might turn out to be, but I need to have a look, feel it out. Definitely, I did not expect the torpid heat.

But, that's the point of traveling. You get your mind set on an expectation so easily. Then, things pop up differently than you'd planned, so you have to listen more closely, see what's around you, learn it for what it really is. Lots of trees shade the streets. People are out walking, cycling, sitting in cafes, riding street cars and talking to each other. There is an air of self-acceptance and something else here. Independence?

I photographed roses by the millions in the International Rose Test Garden, rode the street cars around town and ate at a lovely restaurant (see? I am not a cagey, thrifty traveler!) called Higgins. I walked for awhile, heard young buskers playing plaintively on street corners that echoed the sounds of their violins and horns. I wore the wrong shoes, got a blister, and reveled in the warm night air despite the discomfort of my feet.

I am sitting here late at night, listening to the same echoing rumble I might hear at the shore of my own town when the waves of the ocean break, but there is the sound of humanity out there in Portland, voices and engine sounds coming through the night air in similar waves. In the morning I will wade in, up to my heart, up to my eyes and ears.

Fog vs Poppy

Fog is draping itself around our coast like a slovenly visitor, gray and humorless. This is when I dig out photos of spring poppies and vistas of wilderness backlit by a hot sun. It's also when I start to think of places to go where summer exists as a season of heat that ripens fruit on trees and dries the river water on my skin as I sit baking like a brown piece of toast.

I may go inland and up into the foothills of the Sierra. I am considering another trip to Hawaii or Canada where I have yet to visit and explore. New York is a possibility, but then a friend has asked me to see her again in Colorado and share a little time with her there. I'm thinking it over, but I haven't decided yet.

The sight of the clammy fog, in all its sullen chill, got me thinking again about travel. Where shall I go this time? I'll reach into my closet for some maps and go to the bookcase to find a few travel guides, check the internet. It all begins with twinges of longing to be away from here.

Summertime is coming, our second winter. The only way I can tell it's summer and not winter? The daylight hours are longer. I'm glad I spotted the poppies one day, bright and cheery looking, bobbing in the breeze at midday.

I guess the fog is a prompt for travel, a good pique to my consciousness to get on with planning. I don't think it will be long before a plan materializes. If nothing else, I need to go out and photograph more flowers to store up as beacons of hope in our long gray summer.

France: Beginning our journey

At the predawn hour of 4:30, my iPhone's harp plays a soft riff of notes and awakens me from a restless sleep at the City Garden Hotel near the San Francisco airport. This is the beginning of our two-week journey to the land where I was born as second child to a young American military couple 55 years ago. France awaits. First, though, we must begin a series of travel chores including catching an early shuttle bus to the futuristic San Francisco Airport in half an hour.

My husband and I have been planning this trip in fits and starts since last November when we first proposed the idea over a cup of cappuccino in Boise, Idaho, with dear ones there. Arduous work schedules conspired to prevent us from traveling, but when we actually determined that we must hit the road, planning fell into place. It was time, we felt, to explore land beyond the boundaries of our own country.

We found two separate retreats to attend in France, both during the same week, but in two different cities. My husband will make a retreat to the fascinating and mysteriously beautiful Chartres cathedral while I meet other writers in the heart of Paris for a week of honing writing skills and ideas. After that, a week in Provence and then home. Of course, those are the beginning points, but beginnings are only that, a place at which you step into a stream of life that then carries you where it will.

I sit up in bed and feel a familiar lack of sleep clogging my consciousness and know this will be a long day. Hydration is key at this point. I gulp a cup of water and fumble for my clothes, assemble my few belongings and in short time I am ready to depart the hotel. I spent all day yesterday imagining what I'd need for the next two weeks as well as living in the present time, an odd split of conscious mind that left me feeling disoriented for a while. I think I've got everything I need.

It seems a treat all of a sudden to listen to American English as we board the bus. A disconcerting plunge into a culture dominated by a foreign language will signal the real beginning of the journey, so for now, the familiar slang, customs and courtesies Americans extend to each other by smiling, gesturing and allowing for each other's needs on the shuttle bus and in the airport are comforting. We Americans are a shuffling lot today, stopping to read signs and orient ourselves to terminal building layouts.

The flight to Seattle is quick, smooth and easy. Seattle's surrounding snow-laden mountains look like a rim of teeth guarding the waterways and undulations of the spreading land below them. It's a beautiful day. "The mountain is out today" is the phrase that folks say in the Northwest when Mt. Rainier stands regally naked in the midday light, unclothed of clouds or mist. If that volcanic mountain ever comes back to life, havoc will surely ensue. It appears very close to a vast and complicated metropolitan area.

We await our flight to Paris now, playing with WiFi, 3G and Data Push settings on our iPhones in order to learn how to prevent massive phone bills from AT&T. The main terminal is new, airy and offers lots of fish at its food court cafes. Airports are usually focused centers of whatever the regional economy and culture offers. Some of the most interesting art exhibits I've ever seen have been at airports.

We are on our way. The world is out there and we intend to shed almost all intention and let our noses lead us. This is good travel, in this river of humanity and life. Time to begin.