Tag Archives: Oregon

Kite Therapy

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There is nothing more therapeutic than flying a kite.

This surprises me. You wouldn’t think such a simple pursuit would bring much joy. All you’re doing is standing there, holding onto a string. The wind does all the work for you. Sure, you have to tug on it occasionally and make an adjustment or two to ensure that the whole thing doesn’t plummet to earth, but otherwise you’re pretty much just standing still with your neck craned skyward. And yet, there is undeniable joy in the act. A sense of freedom and adventure that is unparalleled.

This past weekend, Tara and I took a trip to the Oregon coast. Saturday was Cinco de Mayo, and Lincoln City was advertising a fish taco cook-off. This sounded like something fun to do and a perfect excuse for a romantic getaway, so we booked a room in a cheapish motel on the edge of a cliff and headed out early in the morning. We stopped to visit briefly with my aunt on the way, and then continued on to Lincoln City, arriving at the Culinary Center (which also doubles as the fourth floor of the local library) a few minutes past noon. Perfect timing. Tacos were $1 each and there were six teams competing, so we bought enough tickets to try all six. There was a good mix of fish – three cod, one tilapia, one salmon, and one blackened mako shark – and beer to wash them all down. Then, with several hours to kill before it was time to check into our room, we drove south along the coast, holding hands and rocking out to music. Just north of Newport we stopped at Beverly Beach. Before our trip Tara decided she wanted to fly a kite on the beach, and I thought this was a wonderful idea, as neither of us had ever done so. She picked up a couple of cheap kites from Target – $2.98 on clearance – and we were good to go!

We walked to the beach and tore open the packaging, quickly assembling our kites. The Oregon coast is always windy, so we weren’t afraid of catching a good breeze. It took a try or two to get them in the air, but before long we had unspooled the full 75′ length of string and our kites were dancing in the sky, weaving and bobbing, buffeted by the gusty winds. And for the next half hour I lost myself in the experience.

I’m not even sure how or why it happened, but I gotta say, it was pure joy. I hadn’t flown a kite in many years, the last time being when my kids were very young, and on those previous rare occasions I was never able to keep it in the air for long. Saturday afternoon, along the coast, this was not a problem. I stood there mesmerized, watching my kite fly with the constant sound of the crashing surf as my backdrop, and I felt the weight of the world simply melt away, all my cares scattered in the wind until they dissolved. I thought of my previous trips to the beach, how I longed for somebody to share my adventures with, and was overcome with elation because this time, finally, I had somebody very special with me. She was a few dozen yards away, flying her own kite, and looked every bit as happy as I did. This warmed my heart.

I love her so much.

And then I was running down the beach, my kite chasing me from seventy-five feet in the air, the sand beneath my toes and the Pacific Ocean lapping at my ankles. Giddy like a child. Free like a bird. I had found happiness at the end of a string.

If you’re ever feeling stressed out in life, go fly a kite. Your worries will melt away. I guarantee this.

The rest of the weekend was bliss. We checked into our room that evening and enjoyed Bloody Marys on our ocean view deck before heading out to dinner. The food was delicious: coconut shrimp for me, a sauteed seafood sampler for Tara, and some of the best clam chowder we had ever tried. We arrived back at the beach just in time to catch a fantastic sunset, and fell asleep that night to the sound of the ocean. Sunday we wanted to take the long way home, so we meandered up the coast, all the way from Lincoln City to Astoria, and had to drive across the bridge because, well, the Astoria-Megler Bridge is awesome and whisks you across the mouth of the Columbia River to Washington. We stopped at the Astoria Column and I convinced Tara to climb the 164 steps to the top for a breathtaking view of…well, everything. You can see for miles and miles in all directions, and the sky was cloudless and blue. Afterwards, we stopped for dinner at a former cannery that had been transformed into a brewhouse and then took the final leg back home. With all the stops we made it took us over nine hours from the time we set out, but it was a fantastic day and a wonderful weekend.

I couldn’t be happier.

Fish tacos in Lincoln City. Happy Cinco de Mayo!

The Oregon Coast at Cape Foulweather.

My lovely girlfriend.

The Yaquina Bay Bridge in Newport.

I had a whale of a good time.

One amazing sunset.

View from the top of the Astoria Column.

Go fly a kite. Cheapest therapy ever.

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How I Crashed Spring Break

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All my adult life, I’ve had this fascination with Spring Break.

This is probably because when I was the proper age to enjoy Spring Break the way it was meant to be enjoyed – which is to say, drinking until the wee hours of the night while surrounded by busty coeds while on vacation someplace warm – I was instead in a serious relationship with the woman who would become my wife (and later, unbecome my wife). Bizarrely, she did not share my enthusiasm for Spring Break, so I never did find myself on South Padre Island or in Lake Havasu or Palm Springs or Panama City, and the closest I ever got to a wet t-shirt contest involved transferring clothes from the washer to the dryer, not nearly as fun as the type I had in mind. Years later, after we were married with children, I’d find myself glued to MTV for their annual Spring Break weeklong specials come early April, living vicariously through the current crop of college fellas. The settings were exotic, the music was loud, the bikinis were tiny, and the debauchery was off the charts. The wife put up with this because she considered it a harmless midlife crisis at the ripe old age of 28, I suppose.

I have no idea whether MTV still shows those Spring Break specials because, I’m happy to say, I outgrew them. But I still…still…have a “thing” for Spring Break, even if it’s a considerably tamer and watered-down version of the Bacchanalia I once yearned for. And that is why, when my parents hauled the kids out to the Oregon coast on Monday for their annual Spring Break ritual (three nights in a beach house and lots of good food and fun), I decided to crash their party and get in on some of that action myself, for one night, at least. OK, I didn’t technically even “crash” it because they knew I was coming, but it sounds more rebellious when I phrase it that way. I figured I might as well take advantage of this down time and also was itching to get away from the noise and turmoil caused by construction on my townhouse, and a trip to the coast would do wonders for my soul (not to mention my hearing). Tuesday morning I hit the road, and after a two-hour rainy drive down to Lincoln City arrived just in time for the clouds to part and the sun to shine magnificently. I rendezvoused with the family, who weren’t at all surprised to see me (can we just PRETEND I crashed it??) before heading further down the coast to Newport for a stop at the South Beach Fish Market, which once upon a time was called the Lighthouse Deli and voted as having the best fish ‘n chips in Oregon. They were awesome then, and are still awesome now. I was on my own since they had already eaten lunch and were eager to hit the beach, so I took my time coming back, making stops at several scenic lookout points and wandering through Depoe Bay, home of the World’s Smallest Harbor.

Best fish 'n chips in Oregon? Quite possibly!

Or so they claim. It’s not quite as impressive as the World’s Largest Frying Pan up in Long Beach WA, though.

I timed the trip almost perfectly, so that it was nearly Happy Hour when I got back to the beach house. (Spring Break, remember? Gotta make sure there’s alcohol!). We had lasagna, salad and bread for dinner, and then walked down to the beach for a magnificent sunset. The kids and I then built a bonfire – I’d always wanted to do this, and had some firewood in the garage that I brought along precisely for this reason. Soon, the fire was blazing, which helped to take away the chill. We may have sang Kumbaya. We may even have done a bit of tribal dancing as the flames flickered in the darkening sky, but I’m copping to nothin’. We would have stayed longer, but it started raining suddenly and without much warning.

Hmm. It never seemed to rain on those MTV Spring Break specials. 

Audrey demonstrates the fine art of tribal dancing around the fire.

It’s okay. Oregon is no Florida (where my kids went for Spring Break last year – hmm, now why didn’t I think to crash that trip?!), but it’s got charm and beauty a-plenty.

In keeping with the theme, I did stay up very, very late – not falling asleep until close to 3 AM. That’s only because the day bed I was sleeping on had an uncomfortably thin mattress and creaked every time I took a breath, but it still counts as a late night!!! 

This morning the fam and I headed to the Chinook Winds casino for their breakfast buffet. While there Rusty, ever the fountain of knowledge, talked about how weird it was eating breakfast in a place that wasn’t America. Because it’s a Native American casino, you see. They own the land and so this means the land isn’t technically in America. I told the boy I own the land my townhouse is built on and wondered if that means the 1500 square feet I inhabit also isn’t technically a part of America. He talked about things like reparations. I don’t know, it didn’t make a lot of sense and truth be told I was too busy digesting my omelette to give it a whole lot of thought. Afterwards I wanted to check out the casino so I did. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I only had a few dollars in my wallet so I was forced to only part with $5 at video poker. Then I fed $2 into a slot machine on the way out, and hit a jackpot for a little over $16. So this is how the high rollers live, I thought, and cashed out my winning ticket. OK, so it may not be much, but this is the second time in a row I walked out of a casino with more money than I had going in. Little by little, I’m earning back the money I gave to Vegas on our first trip there in January.

No Spring Break would be complete without alcohol!

After breakfast we went back to the beach house. It felt really good to be back in America again. Boy, how I’d missed my country ’tis of thee! By now it was really pouring rain, and getting time for me to head back home, so I packed up my stuff, bid my kids and parents farewell, and made the return journey home. I took the scenic route back, driving up Highway 101 along the Oregon coast before crossing the Coast Range into Portland and then, finally, Vancouver.

All in all, I had a great time! It might not have been the Spring Break trip I envisioned fifteen years ago, but so what? Spring Break is Spring Break. And I’m getting too old for that shit, anyway. I think the magic would be gone the first time some hot coed called me “sir.” Besides, Tara totally does it for me, and I’m not just saying that because she reads my blog.

Tuesday afternoon was a perfect day along the Oregon coast.

Wednesday? Not so much.

But we had quite an amazing sunset about half an hour before the rain started on Tuesday.

Love Is In The Air. And Chowder, too.

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A few days ago I got a hankering for a really good cup of clam chowder, so I did what anybody would do to satisfy that craving: made a 240-mile round trip to go get me some.

What? You wouldn’t?!

One of the things that attracted me to Tara was the fact that she once drove 72 miles for a corn dog. Clearly, this is a woman after my own heart.

And okay, fine, there was more than just the clam chowder at the end of my destination. There was sand and surf and salt air. The ocean. Fun shops to browse through. And the world’s largest frying pan. I’d been longing to take a trip to Long Beach, Washington for some time now – and with a kid-free Saturday looming large, decent weather (meaning overcast and drizzly), and an iPod full of tunes, the open road beckoned this past weekend. I decided to hit the road at 9 AM sharp. I stopped in Astoria a couple of hours later to walk along the Columbia River for a bit, before proceeding across the 3.5-mile long bridge that connects Oregon and Washington. I arrived in Long Beach about 11:30.

The unique and cool thing about this place is, cars are allowed on the beach. If you’ve never done so before, let me tell you – driving across the sand is a blast! I had my window rolled down and the breeze in my hair made me giddy with excitement and the sense of adventure.

And cold, too. Brr. February on the Washington coast? A tad chilly. I quickly rolled the window back up.

But still, it was a great way to spend the day. I took a walk along a section of the world’s longest beach (yes, it really is) before retreating to my car to watch the waves crash to shore. I spent an hour or two reading and relaxing and enjoying the scenery. Back in town, I hit a few stores. And when 4:00 rolled around, I headed to a bar and grill called Castaways Seafood Grille for a couple of cocktails. And that clam chowder I had come so far to have. It was delicious, I’m happy to report. And then I added fish ‘n chips to go along with it. I always crave those when I’m at the coast. Properly full, I headed back to the beach, and fate smiled down upon me by providing just enough of a break in the overcast to surprise me with a sunset. It was unexpected, and magnificent.

I then made the long trek back home in the dark, arriving back at Casa Petruska eleven hours after I set out. It was pretty much the perfect day.

I say “pretty much” because Tara wasn’t with me, and she was the one missing ingredient. But while she wasn’t there physically she was there in spirit, and we texted and talked throughout the day, anyway. Next time I go, we will go.

I’m also a little sad that we aren’t together for Valentine’s Day, which is ironic because I never cared much for this day. I used to refer to it as a phony holiday invented by greeting card companies looking to make a fast buck, assuming there were kickbacks involved between the chocolate and flower industries, as well. God, I’m such a romantic. But I realized that this attitude only existed when I was single, or married to somebody who complained that the flowers I gave her weren’t nice enough or delivered to her work. Is it any wonder I greeted this day with cynicism?! I have since discovered that when you are in a relationship that makes you happy, you want to celebrate Valentine’s Day with the person you love. So, the distance between us feels greater than usual today. Add in the fact that today is our official five-month anniversary, and it’s even worse.

But.

Next year we’ll be celebrating together. And, Tara is coming up for another visit on Friday, and staying for eight days and nights. We’re celebrating VD a few days late with a dinner in Portland on Sunday. This helps soften the blow.

It’s going to be a fantastic visit, and brings us ever closer to the day when she moves in with me for good. Every day will feel like Valentine’s then.

Aww. What do you know? I am a romantic bastard, after all.

The Astoria-Megler Bridge spans the Columbia River and connects Oregon and Washington.

That there's the world's largest frying pan in the background.

Well worth the 240-mile roundtrip.

Don't know who these people are, but I don't care: I love this shot.

Burning Down The House, Part 3

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It’s pushing 11:30, and I’ve had a busy and productive day. I should be curled up in bed – it’s right there, after all, soft and cozy and less than two feet away – but instead I’m writing in the ol’ blog. There is a reason for this, though.

I’m practically choking to death on burned popcorn fumes.

Delicious as popcorn is, the smell is another story. Even when it’s cooked perfectly, that aroma – which hangs around longer than an unwanted houseguest over the holidays – permeates the atmosphere and practically seeps into your pores. Kind of like bacon; delicious on the palate, but boy does it overstay its welcome on the nose. Burned popcorn is twice as nauseating, and the smell lingers four times as long. Admittedly, I’ve had issues with stovetop popcorn in the past, but nowadays I’m an expert at making it. In other words, I am not to blame for this latest fiasco. I was, in fact, upstairs in my bedroom, chatting away with Tara on the phone, when I first noticed that the house smelled like it was on fire. Fortunately this was not the case, but I learned later it nearly was the case; Rusty had decided to make himself popcorn, but had either forgotten about it or had the heat up too high or something or other – the exact details disappeared in a haze of teen-excuse-speak – and it doesn’t really matter anyway; all I know is, at one point he carried a smoking pan of popcorn outside in order to prevent a possible raging inferno. I suppose I ought to thank the boy rather than chastise him for the awful smell that is still here hours later.

The only thing worse than the smell of popcorn is the smell of BURNED popcorn. (Courtesy of thenondairyqueen.com)

You know what, though? It’s Christmas Eve Eve. I should have visions of sugarplums dancing in my head, but instead I close my eyes and see flames creeping up the stairway. Do you have any idea how hard it is to sleep when every inhaled breath fills your nostrils with the acrid odor of scorched popcorn?

It’s going to be a long night, folks.

By the way, this is the second time Rusty almost burned the place down. Just a few days after moving here in 2006, I smelled something burning one morning before work but couldn’t locate the source. After a fruitless search I dismissed it as paranoia and nearly walked out the door, but it was so strong I decided to make one more sweep of the premises. That’s when I found his bedspread, half off the bed and draped over a nightlight that was missing a cover. The bulb had burned a hole in the bedspread. Had I just gone to work that day without double checking the house, I’m convinced at some point I would have received a very unpleasant phone call from the fire department.

In all fairness, I too once nearly set my townhouse afire. I was frying chicken in a cast iron skillet, the oil got too hot, and – woosh! Hello, grease fire. Thankfully, I was smart enough to disregard my first instinct to throw water on the burning pan, and instead covered it with a lid. A close call, but honestly, at the time I was more upset that I had ruined that last batch of chicken. Because it had turned out really good. 

I sure hope my insurance agent isn’t reading this post, by the way. Otherwise my premiums might just skyrocket.

Like I said, today was pretty busy. I hit Target for some last minute Christmas items, mostly stocking stuffers, though in truth I hadn’t gotten my parents gifts yet, and to make matters worse I had no idea what to get them. I figured I would wander the aisles hoping for inspiration. Fortunately, it struck. They are just so damn hard to shop for! And whenever I ask them what they want, it’s always the same response: “You don’t have to get us anything.” I know they think that’s helpful, but it sort of isn’t – of course I’m going to get them something, unemployment be damned! You know what I love? When you hit upon the perfect gift idea for somebody. A week ago, I thought of an incredibly awesome and appropriate present for Tara’s mom, Tracy. The only problem is, I had to do some scrambling to put it all together, and I didn’t get it mailed out until this very afternoon. Too late to make it there by Christmas, but I’m hoping she appreciates the thoughtfulness and – let’s face it, modesty be damned, the sheer, unbridled genius of this present enough to overlook the fact that it’ll arrive a few days late. And yes, I know, I didn’t have to get Tracy a gift either, but you think I’m going to turn down an opportunity to impress my girlfriend’s mother? Not a chance, people. Next week, I’ll be busy trying to impress Tara’s friends and her dad’s side of the family, only I won’t have any cool gifts to rely on – just my charm and wit.

Lord help me.

So, this is it. Christmas Eve is 35 minutes away now, and I’m as ready for the holiday as I’m going to be. All the shopping is done, the presents are wrapped, and we’ve gone through our entire collection of holiday movies save for one or two. Saturday afternoon, we head to my aunt’s house in Oregon for our now-traditional Russian dinner, followed by It’s A Wonderful Life when we get home. Just me and the kids. I’ve already told them there will be no popcorn. Then it’s Sunday. Christmas Day. Up early for presents, breakfast with my parents, drop the kids off at their mom’s house, and a few hours later I’ll be deposited at the airport, ready to embark upon my first airplane ride in more than a decade. In a mere 42 hours, I will be in Las Vegas. In 48 or so, Ely.

Merry Christmas, all!

Where’s That King Arthur Dude?

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I think there’s something weird in the air up here. The past couple of days, the news has been full of some very bizarre goings-on that are a wee bit too close to home for comfort.

It all started when some guy in Portland got into an argument with his stepson. The kid invited a few friends over for the night, and they were being loud –  as teenagers often are – so the stepdad kicked them out. The boys came back the next morning and started beating on the stepdad’s truck with sticks and pipes. Realizing that even the always-perky Flo from Progressive couldn’t prevent his insurance premiums from skyrocketing now, the dude hopped in the truck and chased after the boys, hitting two of them “at a slow speed.”

This, in turn, angered the kids. Apparently being sort-of run over is a sign of disrespect in the ‘hood, so they turned around and chased after him, again beating on his truck. Question number one: how’d they catch him? He was in a vehicle, they were on foot, and he doesn’t strike me as being the law-abiding type, what with the whole hitting-kids-with-his-pickup thing. Speed limit, schmeed limit. Question number two: if attacking his truck the first time led him to go all Mad Max on them, did they think doing it again would result in a less-hostile outcome?! I think there was plenty of stupidity all around here.

You scratched my truck. Now you must pay!

Really peeved now, the stepdad ran inside the house and grabbed a machete. That’s right, one of those long, sharp swords that are useful for cutting trails through the rainforest. What, you don’t have one stashed away in the hall closet? Haven’t you ever heard the saying “it’s a jungle out there?” Reminds me of that scene in Pulp Fiction where Bruce Willis is choosing a weapon to deal with his Deliverance-style attackers and settles on the machete. Sort of a case of life imitating art right here in P-Town! The boys, staring down the business end of a very wicked blade, decided to fight back with weapons of their own.

Garden rakes.

Which are perfectly fine for scooping autumn leaves into neat little piles, but as defense against a machete-wielding nutjob? Not so good. Fortunately, the whole ruckus ended with a few minor injuries, and some jail time for the dude with the really big knife.

Not to be outdone, a stepdad in Washington (hey, mom – thanks for staying married to dad all these years, by the way! I’m beginning to feel like I dodged a bullet here) forced his sixteen-year old stepdaughter to dress in armor and fight him with a wooden sword in a medieval-style duel.

You can’t make this stuff up, folks.

The girl did something terrible, committing an offense that no other teenager in the history of time has ever dared to partake in: she disobeyed her parents. That’s right: she went to a party – without their permission.

{Insert gasps of outrage}.

Her mother and stepfather, after gasping outrageously over this blatant transgression, decided to dole out punishment. Nerds to the core Renaissance enthusiasts who often recreate medieval-era battles (hey, everybody needs a hobby, right?), and clearly confused over the fact that the Round Table down the street was actually a pizza restaurant and not home to King Arthur’s court, they made the girl fight them with a sword for two hours, until she collapsed from exhaustion. As opposed to grounding her or revoking her driving privileges or something more mundane (yawn). And just to ensure the fight was fair, they beat her with a tree branch first. Which reminds me of another scene in a different movie: remember how Commudus stabbed Maximus in Gladiator just before their big fight? What ever happened to playing fair?

You ordered a large supreme, m'lord?

Also in my beloved state-that-was-named-after-a-President, a woman attacked her sleeping husband with an electric saw over the weekend. When the cops arrived she claimed an intruder had entered the home through a window and attacked her slumbering sweetie, but in her haste to make this farfetched story sound believable, forgot to remove the child lock – a device that prevented the window from opening more than a few inches.

They would have doubted her story anyway, since her husband was quoted as shouting, “You tried to cut my head off!” while gesturing wildly at the woman he had exchanged I dos with.

I’d reckon that once you awaken to a power saw slicing into your neck and shoulder, you’re beginning to rethink all that “til-death-do-us-part” stuff.

So, what’s the deal? Has the whole world gone crazy…or is it just the Pacific Northwest?

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I’m Not A Portlander*

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Last week, my friend Jess Witkins e-mailed me to let me know I had won a book she was giving away as part of a contest on her blog. I was thrilled, because

  1. One can never have too many books, and
  2. It was free.

Not necessarily in that order, but then again, I’ve been outta work awhile, yo.

Jess asked for my address, and I fired off a reply, thinking nothing of it…until I received a rather astonished response.

WHAT?!  Where’s the Portland address?  I just did a double take.

Oh…right. That. I am, after all, forever raving about Portland. How much I love it here, talking about the places I like to go, even posting pictures of “my beloved Rose City.” I can see why she assumed I have a Portland address. Probably most of my readers think that. And I don’t blame y’all if you do. I kind of, sort of, (un?)intentionally imply that Portland is my home. But because this is National Coming Out Day, an occasion in which one should proudly declare the truth about whom, exactly, one really is…it’s time to step forward and admit the truth to the world, for once and for all.

I am not a Portlander.

In my defense, I’m almost a Portlander. I do live in the “Portland Metropolitan Statistical Area.” Which is why I stuck that asterisk up there in my title. One could argue (and I have, more than once) that living in the PDX MSA still makes me a Portlander. My mailing address just happens to be another city. And, if I’m being completely honest, another state.

Yes, people. I live in Vancouver, Washington. Everybody happy now?

Not a bad place to call home!

The reasons for this tiny, barely significant, reasonable-under-the-circumstances little white lie…nay, not even that so much as a minor, itty-bitty sin of omission…are pretty understandable: whenever I tell people where I’m really from, it confuses them and leads to a series of explanations that I’d honestly rather not deal with.

If I say I’m from Vancouver, they respond, “The Great White North, eh? Have you ever seen a moose? How’s that socialized medicine working out for you? Who’s going to win the Stanley Cup this year? Can you pass me a beer?”

When I correct them with a No, not Canada – Washington, I get, “Oops. So, is it true that the Beltway is the murder capital of the world? Ever run into a Congressman in the grocery store? Think the Redskins will put together a good team this year? Can you pass me some crack?”

It’s maddening, so I usually just say Portland.

Even that answer isn’t without its flaws, as I could theoretically be talking about that other city in Maine, but most people do correctly assume I mean Oregon. And that’s another reason why I don’t mind having them believe that: Portland is cool. It’s hip. It’s funky and cutting-edge and liberal and environmentally conscious and – as evidenced by IFC’s television show Portlandia - not afraid of poking fun at itself. All traits that I really like. So yeah, go ahead and think I’m a Portlander. I like the association.

And the truth is, I also like Vancouver. In many regards, living here is the best of both worlds: I’m just a few miles north of the Columbia River, the border between Oregon and Washington, which means I can easily shop in Oregon (no sales tax!) and work in Washington (no income tax!). Downtown Portland, and all the culture it offers, is twenty minutes away; the Oregon coast, 100 miles. Houses are less expensive in Vancouver, the crime rate is lower, and I can pump my own gas. Plus, it really is a beautiful town – very green, lots of trees and lakes and rivers, mountains in the distance. We’ve got a killer farmer’s market and an awesome waterfront. Some people claim Vancouver is a “bedroom community,” but you know what? The bedroom is probably my favorite room in the house. So, there!!

I no longer suffer from an identity crisis. I’m proud to call Vancouver, Washington home.

And, statistically speaking, I’m also still a Portlander. That’s called a win-win!

Philosophy In The Tides

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Five years ago, I went to the beach.

It was a depressing, confusing and scary time in my life. My marriage was unraveling and I felt helpless to stop it. The kids and their mother were in California, and faced with a rare weekend to myself, I decided to take a trip to the coast. Ocean Shores, Washington was my destination…a spot which, not coincidentally, would require me to travel through Aberdeen, hometown of Kurt Cobain, a man who – despite his flaws – I consider a genius. I drove down the street he grew up on, pausing across from his house to snap a few photos, Nirvana blaring from my speakers. I then continued to the Young Street Bridge, which he famously memorialized in his song Something In The Way. Even then, twelve years after his death, the dark underbelly of the bridge was brightened by colorful graffiti and desiccated flowers left as memorials. For a huge fan like myself, this was the highlight of my trip.

But I digress. This post isn’t about dead rock stars…

I spent the night at a cheap Day’s Inn a few blocks from the beach. I tossed and turned, my mind troubled by the events of the past few months, afraid of what the future would bring. I rose early the next morning and made my way to the beach, where I wandered up and down the shore, filling my lungs full of salt air while collecting sand dollars. At some point I noticed other people on the beach, and most of them were couples, walking hand in hand, laughing and stealing kisses. My heart ached in that moment, and I felt more alone than ever before in my life. I left the beach – it was more than I could handle. My family returned the next day, and the moment I greeted them at the airport, everything was different in the worst way possible. It became painfully obvious there was no salvaging my marriage.

Of course, now when I look back on all this, I realize that our divorce was for the better, and have no regrets. We met young, drifted apart, and decided that life was too short to spend unhappy, so we did something about it. I have grown in immeasurable ways over the past five years, morphing into the person I believe I was meant to be all along. People who have been in relationships for a long time and are suddenly set free become selfish, but I think that’s a good thing: they realize the tenuous bonds of any sort of union, and maybe come to the conclusion that the only person they can rely on for their happiness is themselves. At least that was my experience, and it wasn’t a revelation that happened overnight – but it did happen, and that’s what matters most. This isn’t to say that I don’t care about other people. I do, very much. I’ve just learned to put my own needs first and stop living for others. If something isn’t working for me, I change it. What a simple philosophy. Why’d it take me so long to figure out, I wonder?

The beach still has this strange hold over me. Any beach, all beaches; if there’s sand and surf then I automatically slip into a contemplative and reflective – almost philosophical – mood. I often retreat to the coast for the day in order to clear my head, to rethink my priorities. A trip like that cleanses and refreshes my soul while also, always and inevitably, scaring me a little, because I am forever reminded of the sense of loss and despair I experienced in Ocean Shores so many years ago.

Friday was the last official day of summer vacation. The kids were in denial, Rusty going so far as declaring there was “still a month left” on August 31st, never mind the fact that their first day is September 6th. I’m a little scared that he’s a junior this year. Anyway, I wanted to do something fun with them on their last day, so we drove out to the Oregon coast. The weather was almost perfect: a sunny, cloudless sky; kinda-sorta warm (for the Oregon coast, anyway); and a breeze that wasn’t as vicious as it might have been. After awhile, I even ditched the hoodie. The kids were in their own world, splashing around in the surf and exploring the nearby caves, which left me with plenty of alone time to once again stare out at the ocean and ponder life. Only this time, I wasn’t gripped by the usual melancholy or fear of the unknown. I felt rejuvenated and alive, and while the future is by its very nature as uncertain as ever, damned if I didn’t feel a glimmer of hope for the first time in ages.

We finally packed up our stuff around 5 PM and had the entire beach to ourselves by that time, everybody else gone as the tide rolled in and the westering sun inched closer to the horizon. I decided on the spur of the moment to treat the kids to dinner at Mo’s, a local chain of casual seafood restaurants specializing in clam chowder. We ate while enjoying a view of Haystack Rock through the picture windows, a perfect end to a pretty good day.

And now, I can’t wait to return to the beach…

Bleu Cheese in my Ice Cream & Belly Dancers on my Brain

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Portland is a city known to be a tad “left of center,” if you will. Exactly why I love it: I’m a little left of center. That’s called symbiosis: we have a complementary relationship. I appreciate the quirky, and the Rose City is excellent at dishing it up. Case in point, and one I’ve mentioned before: Voodoo Doughnut. Their maple bacon bar has become infamous. It was probably the oddest food combination I’d eaten around town…until yesterday, when I found myself plowing through a single-scoop cup of Pear and Bleu Cheese ice cream.

Choosing which flavor to divulge in took real effort!

Which, by the way, was not the weirdest flavor on the menu. (That award goes to either the Brown Ale and Bacon or the Three Berry Barbecue). The purveyor of this frozen madness? Salt & Straw Ice Cream, a food-cart-turned-brick-and-mortar ice cream shop that was recently voted as a runner-up in a list of Portland’s best ice cream joints. I’ve always been an adventurous eater, so I had no qualms about ordering such a uniquely flavored ice cream treat. And the verdict? Delicious, of course. Creamy and smooth, riddled with chunks of diced pear and just enough bleu cheese to offer a tangy contrast to the sweetness of the cream and fruit, I was hooked from the first bite. Delicious! And I pretty much never order ice cream in the middle of the day – especially an overcast day in which the temperature is hovering in the mid-sixties – but I couldn’t resist the allure, and the positive press, of Salt & Straw.

I spent a good portion of the afternoon hanging out at the Alberta Street Fair. This funky, artsy neighborhood in northeast Portland has become one of my favorite haunts this year, and I find myself returning often. Every August they close down thirty blocks of the street for a fair that includes arts and crafts vendors, juggling, magicians, music, food carts and booths, and even – be still my heart – belly dancing. How could I pass up that sort of lineup?

Answer: I couldn’t.

The best part of the street fair is probably the people watching. Alberta is home to a colorful parade of hipsters, bohemians, hippies, goths and skaters, all intermingling comfortably with more straight-laced types. There were plenty of families present, as well, small kids in tow who were happy with the offerings of balloons and face painting. A little bit of something for everyone, as it turns out, including a beer garden and three “stages” with a rotating series of entertainers throughout the day. I watched a magician/juggler who would have been right at home on America’s Got Talent - the dude contorted his body through a stringless tennis racket (it helped that he was super skinny, but still, that’s quite the feat); watched a camouflage-bedecked guy give a tarot card reading to an Asian kid; enjoyed a musical set from a three-piece outfit called The Bottlecap Boys who were so good I gave them money; dined on garlic and lemon chicken from The Horn Of Africa; and drunk in the sexy allure of a belly dance troupe called the Gypsy Heart Tribal. Turns out one of the dancers – by far the most sensual – totally wanted me. Think I’m kidding? Check out this look she’s giving me.

The girl on the right totally wants me.

And don’t call it “wishful thinking,” either. I see the desire in her eyes!

There was even an author there – or, to be technical, the wife of an author – who had set up a booth and was selling her husband’s self-published novel. I struck up a conversation with her, telling her that I had just published a book myself and was thinking of buying booth space and trying to sell it at a similar venue in the near future. She said they were there last year and sold “a ton” of books, but this year there’d only been one buyer by the time I stopped by, so it’s a real hit-or-miss proposition. I should have bought a copy of the book – support your fellow writers and good Karma and all that jazz – but I didn’t have much cash on hand. Oh well, food for thought.

All in all, it was an excellent way to spend a Saturday afternoon. A funky, fun festival in the city that I love. I even ended up with a “People’s Republic of Portland” hoodie and a “Put A Bird On It” t-shirt that were a steal at $30 total. Who could ask for more?

The Bottlecap Boys. They were so good, I gave them money.

This garlic and lemon chicken dish from The Horn Of Africa made for a tasty lunch.

Alberta Street is closed to traffic for 30 blocks for the annual Alberta Street Fair.

A camouflaged fortune teller giving a tarot card reading.

One more shot of my honey. What should we name our kids?

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10 Ingredients for a Perfect Summer Day

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At 8:30 yesterday evening, I got up from my spot on the sand, and made my way to the surf line. I was standing on the edge of the continent, camera at the ready, crashing waves from the Pacific Ocean lapping at my feet, as the westering sun dipped toward the horizon. I was there to capture the sunset, the culmination of an absolutely perfect summer day. I’d been worried about seeing the sun set all afternoon, as fog banks played a constant game of hide ‘n seek with the rugged Oregon coastline, but with minutes to spare it was obvious this one was going to be a beauty. A distant drift of fog offshore had blown to the south, and the wispy streams of clouds racing across the sky were not enough to obscure that magic moment. I glanced around me, and was amazed by the sight: hundreds of people lining the shore, all in roughly the same spot – just out of reach of the incoming tide – cameras in hand and tripods at the ready. I laughed out loud, the whole image was so surreal.

And then the sun touched the sea, and despite the massed throngs, I was completely alone for a minute.

Sunset over the Pacific - Haystack Rock, Cannon Beach, Oregon.

It was the ideal way to spend a Friday in late July. I had a full day, leaving the house shortly before 10 AM, and not returning until after 11 PM. Rather than give a blow-by-blow description of the day’s activities, I’ll sum them up in a list, because I have to say – if you’re looking for the ingredients for a perfect summer day – this is it.

List of Ingredients for a Perfect Summer Day

  1. Coffee to get you started. I stopped at McDonald’s for a cup to fuel up for the drive. The drive-through lanes were packed, so I went inside, where I encountered a girl in front of me who could not figure out the difference between a #2 combo and a #5 combo (the answer: one has an egg, the other doesn’t). I think she was hungover. Or stupid. Maybe both.
  2. Cheese. Upon arriving at the coast, I stopped at the Tillamook Cheese Factory for a bite to eat. Made a quick beeline through the place (been there many times), focusing on the free cheese samples, before heading to the cafe for a grilled cheese sandwich with turkey. You can’t have a proper adventure on an empty stomach!
  3. Wine tasting. Next up was the  Blue Heron Cheese Company (hey, Tillamook has a lot of cows). I paid $5 for five samples of wine. My favorite? The pinot gris from Eola Hills…but I’m already familiar with that one. There’s something naughty-feeling about drinking wine in the early afternoon.
  4. A waterfall. In this case, Munson Falls, the tallest waterfall in the Coast Range. Conveniently located seven miles south of Tillamook, the waterfall was an easy 1/4-mile trek from the parking lot. It was big, I’ll give it that.
  5. A lighthouse. The Oregon coast is notoriously rocky and wild, and as a result, lighthouses are plentiful. I drove out to Cape Meares, west of Tillamook, to check out the lighthouse there. It’s on the small side, as far as lighthouses go, but has a beautiful red octagonal-shaped lens, one of only two in the U.S. And the view from the cliff top? Stunning.
  6. A weird natural wonder. Minutes from the Cape Meares lighthouse is the Octopus Tree, so named because of its unique multiple trunks that sort of resemble tentacles from an octopus. It was even featured in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not.
  7. A “secret” beach. Oregon has an abundance of beautiful beaches, most of them well-known. But Short Beach, a small crescent-shaped swath of sand nestled between Oceanside and Cape Meares, is completely unmarked. I found the entrance only because I knew where to look for it; you park on the side of the road and descend “The Stairway of 1,000 Steps” to reach the bottom. Once there, you’ll find a fairly secluded beach with a large rock formation and a waterfall spilling over the cliffs through a wooden flume. Very cool.
  8. A panoramic viewpoint. If you’re a shutterbug like me, you’ll need a great place to pull off the road and snap a few pics. There were plenty of these on the drive north. The views, when not fog-shrouded, were incredible.
  9. A nice dinner. After a day spent exploring, you’ll have worked up an appetite. In Cannon Beach, I stopped at my favorite little spot, Ecola Seafoods Restaurant and Market, for a crab cake and salad topped with fresh Oregon bay shrimp.
  10. A sunset. As mentioned before. A great way to end the day.

Here are some photos of my outing.

Cheesemakers are pretty punny.

Free samples at the Tillamook Cheese Factory.

Munson Falls: tallest waterfall in the Coast Range.

Cape Meares lighthouse. What it lacks in stature, it makes up for in charm.

Oregon's famous Octopus Tree, a Sitka Spruce with character.

The secret beach. I'd tell you where it is, but then I'd have to kill you. (Don't worry, there's always Google).

The waterfall at Short Beach.

These fishermen didn't care that the fog was rolling in.

These Oystercatchers, with their distinctive red beaks, are common along the northern Oregon coast.

Misty beach at Hug Point.

One of several caves at Hug Point.

Fog rolling in over the Oregon coastal headlands.

View of Cannon Beach - my favorite spot on the Oregon coast.

Kites are synonymous with the beach, especially along the windy Oregon coast.

Somebody got really creative with this sand sculpture.

Another day comes to an end along the Oregon coast.

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Oma…huh?!

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A few days ago, I was in a weird place. I don’t mean physically – there’s nothing odd about my townhouse – but rather, in a strange state of mind. How do I know this? Because I found myself looking at classified ads in Omaha. Omaha! WTF is that all about?! Omaha isn’t even one of the places I visited, though I did pass through. For some reason I got it in my head that Omaha might be a nice place to live, so I started researching the job market and the climate and looking at the demographics, cost of living, etc. My reasoning for this temporary bout of Nebraska madness? I’ve always said I wished it would snow more here, and Omaha is not hurting in the snow department. No, sirree: they average 30″ a year. Plus, I reasoned, there’s a Raising Cane’s about an hour away. Anytime I craved chicken fingers, I could get ‘em! Based on the abundance of snow and the proximity of chicken fingers, for a few brief minutes I seriously considered uprooting my whole life and moving to the midwest.

Fortunately, sanity prevailed. An hour later, I wondered what the hell I had been thinking! I’m sure Omaha is great – the Counting Crows sing a nice little ode to it, after all – but, come on. I don’t have a Cornhusker mentality! The Pacific Northwest is my home, and I love it here. I don’t want to live anywhere else. Something similar happened years ago, after I took a business trip to Boston. Suddenly I was sending away for Massachusetts relocation packets and studying the housing market. I even started watching Good Will Hunting often, so I could pick up the Bahs-ton accent and blend in with the locals. Again, that time too, I came to my senses. I guess it’s just the allure of something new. I’ve often said, those first six months after moving up here in 1994 were the most exciting and happiest time of my life. Everything was new, and life was one big adventure. I sort of feel like a crack addict trying to chase after that elusive first high – it’s never the same again, no matter how many hits you take.

I’ve heard, that is.

I attributed my weird Omaha craving to a passing fancy, a fleeting “what if” moment in time that quickly disappeared. Still, I figured the best cure of all – one sure way to guarantee this wouldn’t happen again (and I mean no offense to Omaha people, of course) – was to give myself a fun day in Portland. It had been about a month since I’d even seen my favorite city, so I was overdue anyway. I needed a big ol’ dose of the Rose City in order to set myself straight again and ensure those crazy thoughts would not return. Kind of like a Portland immunization, if you will. An inoculation to prevent any weird I-think-I’ll-become-a-Nebraskan! diseases from developing.

So this morning, I took myself to town, if you will. It was lunchtime, so my first stop was the food cart pod at 10th and Alder. After debating my choices, I opted for a Thai chicken and rice dish from Nong’s Khao Man Gai, which I ate in O’Bryant Square, beneath a gunmetal gray sky that carried with it the hint of a light breeze. I love the hustle and bustle of the city – it energizes me, and makes me feel electric. And the weather? Perfect! A lot of people are complaining about our lack of summer this year. It has been unusually cloudy and cool – the temperature hovered only in the mid-60s all week, and we barely saw the sun – but with news reports of this massive heatwave gripping 2/3 of the country, I am certainly not complaining! I experienced heat and humidity aplenty during my trip. I am loving our weather this year! (Seven day forecast for Omaha: 92/93/96/100/100/100/97. Seven day forecast for Portland: 76/69/73/72/74/70/74. It’s not even close: we win, hands down. And I’ll bet those 70s are optimistic).

After lunch, I drove myself to Forest Park. Forest Park is a sprawling, vast forested wilderness that covers 5100 acres and stretches for eight miles over the hillsides of the Willamette River. It’s a leafy green oasis that is within the Portland city limits, making it the largest forest in a major metropolitan city in the U.S. It’s got a vast network of hiking trails and is home to all sorts of wildlife. And, shockingly, before today I had never been there. This was a serious wrong that needed righting! After all, not only do I love Portland to death, but I’m also an avid hiker. This month’s issue of Portland Monthly featured a big spread on Forest Park and a handy, detachable map, so I stuffed that into my backpack, wound my way into the park, stopped the car, and commenced my hike.

And promptly got lost.

Actually, that’s not true. I was never lost! I just didn’t exactly know where I was at all times. But I knew how to get back to my car, so again, I contend that there is a difference and I was. not. lost. The problem? Forest Park is so big, it’s overwhelming. There are trails bisecting other trails that intersect still other trails. Many of them are interconnected, like a giant spiderweb. But they’re not all marked. Case in point: I came to a junction of five trails, and only three had signs. I studied my sort-of-worthless map for a good five minutes before deciding the trail I wanted was second from the right. The good news: it turned out I was correct! The bad news: I was by now way off course. It really didn’t matter, though – the scenery was stunning. After walking forever, I came to a sign for the Ridge Trail, and came to a screeching halt. “What the hell?” I said out loud, whipping out my map and studying it again. The Ridge Trail was a hike I had contemplated originally, but decided to save for another time as it was way out of my way. Only, apparently, I had hiked so far off course it was right there! “How can this be?” I said, still talking to myself out loud, when another approaching hiker made me jump. She was coming off the Ridge Trail and had clearly heard me holding a conversation with, umm, nobody. How embarrassing! We chatted briefly, though – she was cute, after all – and I decided to walk the twenty minutes or so down the Ridge Trail for the fantastic view of the St. John’s Bridge that had caught my eye in the magazine. Cute hiker assured me it was worth it “if you like bridges,” and I’ve never met a bridge I didn’t like, so I decided to check it out. The Ridge Trail descends 1000 vertical feet (!) and though I wasn’t starting from the top, it was still plenty steep enough. Sure enough, the view of the bridge was breathtaking. Then, of course, I had to conquer the uphill portion of the climb, and that was a killer. Totally worth it, though. I finally made it back to my car 3.5 hours after setting out. I had planned on taking a gentle, scenic 3-mile loop hike, but ended up doing nearly 9 miles instead. Oops.

But you know what? I had an amazing day. This was exactly what I needed! Omaha who?! Portland and I are a match made in heaven.

View of the St. John's Bridge and Portland, from a confusing junction of five trails in Forest Park. Love the cloudy, cool day!

Forest Park is aptly named.

Tiger lily (according to my Nat'l Audubon Society Field Guide). These were growing in clearings throughout Forest Park.

Most definitely not scenery you'd find in Omaha.

Forest Park, Portland

The St. John's Bridge, as seen from the bottom of the Ridge Trail.