Warming on a winter day. Surprising after a night of rain. The streets were still glistening when we walked out, hatless and without gloves. Portland’s streetcars were built in the Czech Republic, a sign read. (They reminded me of Prague). A sleepy city during the day and sleepier in the night, I wondered about the mostly empty restaurants, and how the block-long Powell’s Books stay in business. In its rare book room they displayed Ginberg’s Howl and William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch (first editions). Both had a price tag of $2000.
I had a taste of Portland’s finest croissant and macaroon with raspberry filling, Killer Dave’s bread, crayfish sushi and Pok Pok wings (and not so tasty wontons). The exquisite Chinese Garden I carried it in my mind. The time spent with Julia, Brent and Morty was pleasurable. But the pull to leave was made stronger by the messages left on my phone. It was time to go home.
Lanterns in the study, Chinese Garden. Photo by Brent Beneway.
