No, Thursday's Out....

Going places as a tourist, and then complaining about how there are too many tourists, is valid and useless and a cliché, and as such, I believe it is a Human Right. Going to a place of pilgrimage and complaining that pilgrims can be weird/raucous/not pious is just one time-honored variation. Case in point: when I was a teen, my family went to Paris, very briefly. We decided to make a quick run to the Louvre, to catch the Mona Lisa. Haha. We vilified whoever had posted the little                                     To the Mona Lisa → signs in every room, which were CLEARLY taking us the long way. And when we finally got to THE room, we couldn’t see the painting for the many-deep crowd around it. But we could hear an American accent coming from the front of the clot, a woman whining, “It’s just a little PICK-CHA! It’s LITTLE! I thought it would be BIG!” At that moment, I invented the idea of saying ...

I came to pencil excitement quite late in life, specifically Tuesday, when we visited the Derwent Pencil Museum in Keswick, on our first day in the Lake District. The Pencil Museum is small in size and in subject, one of those perfect niche places.  There are many things I have never properlyly appreciated about the pencil, but I am now awakened. One display describes the early days when pencils were made by hand, and when graphite was mined around these parts, at one time becoming more valuable than gold. It made me stop and think about how incredibly convenient things are now, how abundant paper and writing tools are, how easily I can write (or type) anything I want, nearly any time I want.  (The museum made me remember Percival Everett’s novel, James , where the acquisition of a precious stolen pencil allows James the liberty to tell his story. It’s a paean to literacy. And then, thinking about how I have - almost - never lacked for writing implements, I recalled my strange...

I struggled with the local accent in Durham. I asked about a salad, and they said it was just little jamolattas. I asked what a jamolatta might be. No, no, LITTLE jamolattas! Turned out to be boring enough: only Little Gem Lettuce. Also, the second time I locked myself out of my room, I told the cheery receptionist (Oh, HELLO, again!) that I needed another key, but first, I needed a bathroom. Did they have one in the lobby? She said, “Down the hall, but I’ll have to get a cord, because the toilet is unstable.” I knew this was wrong. I should have let it go. But I had questions. “You need to get a cord because the toilet is unstable?” She tried to explain, but no joy. I was so sorry I had brought it up. We were wasting entire seconds. I smiled in faux-understanding. She disappeared into a back room, then reappeared -- cordless -- and began leading me down the hall. I forced myself to hold all questions, along with everything else. We reached an unmarked door. She punched in a ...

Forty years ago, early in April, 1986, our daughter Anne was born at Emanuel Hospital in Portland. Like many a new parent, I found myself suddenly super-sensitized to the precarity of human life.   Ten days later, Ronald Reagan bombed Libya.When I heard news of the bombing on the radio, I started rage-crying. How dare he? How dare he start a war, when there were babies and children, all over the world? A month later, the Mount Hood disaster happened. Sophomores from Oregon Episcopal School, and some adult companions, set off on a school-mandated adventure trip from Timberline Lodge at 2:30 on a Tuesday morning, despite iffy weather. Some turned back, but the rest were caught in a storm, and not found until Wednesday night, by which time nine had died – seven students and two adults.  Two more victims were revived from near-death at Emanuel Hospital, right where Anne had been born. I had a dear friend working at Emanuel, I wasn’t sleeping much, and like many in Portland, I ...

Some decades ago, I was visiting my parents, and I observed that a salwar kameez was the most flattering - and also the most comfortable – dressy outfit a woman could wear, especially if she had a little pot belly. (Maybe we’d been down at the Pike Place Market? Maybe we’d seen someone wearing one? I don’t know.)  Anyway, I said I wished I had been born into an ethnicity, or on a subcontinent, which would allow me to wear such a wondrous garment. My dad, the research scientist, was often lost in thought. I doubt I made this observation TO him, but I can imagine that maybe I was talking to my mom, and he overheard it. In any case, somehow, it hooked his attention. What was a salwar kameez, why did I covet one, and why couldn’t I wear it? He found a picture. I said see, they have a very comfy fit –   loose pyjama pants, a long tunic with room for a small belly, but a fetchingly fitted bodice. And they are often made of these lustrous silks! So why couldn’t I wear one? Well...

The Buffalo Pothole Bandit came to Portland this year, and transformed some of our potholes. These two works of art are in my neighborhood, and I like them very much. There’s a map on the Bandit’s Facebook page of their other works around Portland (and around the country – most of their work is on the East coast). If I am filled with ambition someday, I may go on a ramble around town to find more of them. Today is not that day, though. Today the Alarmist Weather app predicts sleet, and though I don’t set much store by their predictions, I’m pretending to believe this one, so I can sit in front of the fire. Happy New Year! Also in my neighborhood, there is an installation depicting some terrible tragedy involving plastic miniatures. As with much installation art, no photos can deliver the impact of walking the whole route, which includes maybe 60 or 70 figures. Still, I’ll give you a few tastes. It might depict a Ghosts-vs-Animals tale, or an Ghosts-of-Animals tale. Or maybe I’m not th...

I  don’t get out much, in terms of pop culture, or really, any culture other than my own little bubble. So I heard a new (to me) Christmas song last week when I was shopping. The lyrics that snagged my attention went:         Could’ve been the sun,          Could’ve been the sea,         Could’ve been my childhood fantasy,         But I saw Santa in his bathing suit …. My very first reaction was, “I’m asleep, and this is not a real song.”  The next two reactions were “When did this song come out??“ and then “That image was definitely never a fantasy of mine, but okay….” (You may think I'm oozing depravity by assuming this childhood fantasy was unwholesome, but have you heard this song? "You look naughty, but I'm sure you're nice." There's a a bit about being left breathless. It's not just me, I swear.) Anyway, I looked it up. “Christmas in the Sand” came out in 2012, sung by one Colbie Cailla...

We went chanterelle hunting with a friend of Rick's yesterday. I'd never met him before, but Rick had told me that he usually wore a MAGA hat, and - unlike some of you - I have no one in my current crew who does, so I was a tad nervous. Rick also said he (the friend, let's call him Dean) had a good heart under a gruff exterior, and that had to be true, because in the hunter-gatherer subculture, taking someone to your chanterelle spot is an act of supreme generosity.  I was determined to show my gratitude by being a good sport and not a woke liberal elitist snob, and I jumped out of our truck the minute we saw Dean, and ran over to shake his hand. He must have dressed up for me, too, because his hat was plain brown, no decoration. Good omen, and off we went, and the day went without a hitch except for that one outhouse incident where we set off.  (Please n ote both messages, including the one in red. No signal. The guys waited patiently for me for a while.) You may not know ...

                                                                                                (The interactive map is at BridgetownBites.) Portland has had a blissful few days out of the news, or at least in the news for happenings unrelated to the ICE facility, inflatable costumes, and the threat of National Guard deployments.  About a week ago, when it became clear that SNAP benefits were really going to be cut, Portland food purveyors began to offer help – free kids’ meals, free clam chowder, free chili, free fresh-baked bread, free donuts, free oatmeal, ten free squash or pumpkins….  One of the first people to offer help, and I think by now the most famous, was Josh White , owner of Her...

Before joining the Emergency Naked Bike Ride last week, my youngish friend called her HR department, just to be sure there wasn’t some policy against such things, and she wasn’t putting her job at risk. The HR person told her she was free to participate, but they would appreciate it if she didn’t wear any merchandise sporting the organization’s name or logo. She said Okay, will do! That’s because she has amazing self-control, and could somehow resist the urge to explain what “naked” means. She wore a helmet, glasses, and a mask, and when she showed me a picture, I couldn’t have identified her. She said the Ride was great except for two things: 1) she didn’t enjoy the rooftop guys pointing guns at them as they went past the ICE building, and 2) she hurt one nipple, can’t imagine how. Didn't see that coming, did you? Me neither. I know the algorithm sends each of us crafted info, so maybe you aren’t getting deluged, as I am, with ADVICE about what to do, or not do, for the No Kings ...