The finale that was grand:

We moseyed over to Multnomah Falls on our road trip back to P-Land. Talk about the perfect day to visit; it had rained only two days before, so the falls were fresh and magnificently fierce. The sun shined through the looming mist, the air smelt crisp, and Oregon glimmered vibrantly, saturated in technicolor beauty.

Our stomach’s were rumbling loud gurgles, exaggerating the extent of their hunger, so our stay was short but sweet. Next time we’d definitely like to hike to the top of the falls. Well Drew would like to, and I’d be happy if I was towed in a wagon with a built in mister, and a sac lunch with iced Capri Suns, for at least half of the way. Just sayin’.

No… I kid, I kid. There was something undeniably enlivening about being so far away from the daily hustle and bustle. Our time at the falls made me so much more aware of how much our generation is missing out. As I sit here typing away behind a computer screen, I sigh. We miss so much, these lives behind screens. Yesterday, I heard stories of my grandpa night-diving for abalone, a food that he caught and cooked for his family, which is now so rare we can’t even order it in restaurants anymore. He told me about all the magnificent colors and shapes he discovered in the underworld, and suddenly I feel parched for the adventures he knew so well. I begin to understand, these moments at Multnomah Falls, and our exploring the streets of an unknown city with a REAL map are going to be stories paid forward to my grandchildren. And although they don’t seem like much in comparison to what I’ve gleaned from my grandfather, they may be much more exciting than the virtual world that may take over in time.

Wow. That was a bit of an unplanned tangent. Forgive me. Anyways- next came quite literally, the best breakfast I’ve ever tasted. I mean it. I had cornbeef hash at this place called Jam in Hawthorne. We ate outside, at a table on the curb, and traded bites, with few words, and stuffed mouths. I highly recommend grabbing breakfast at that joint, if you ever get the lucky chance.

And then, with full bellies, came walking. Miles of walking. But the sort of walking where you don’t count the blocks, or minutes left from here until we get there. There is so much to see and feel, that you don’t even pay attention to the fact you just burned off the whole first 300 calorie bite from breakfast. That’s my favorite type of exercise. The kind you aren’t aware of.

We ended up making a pit stop at a place called Diorio’s for a beer and a round of Crazy 8’s. I bring a deck of cards everywhere, because a game of War, or whatever you prefer, can settle more than you think. Including the tab, if you play your cards right, like me.

Next stop, souvenirs! Not cheesy Portland key-chains, which I kind of regret not purchasing now that I think of it. Nor a Portland mug. But, if any readers want to send me one, I’ll surely reimburse you.  I’m serious. Holler at me if you can help me with that. Corny Portland mug, please!

Instead, Drew and I went into a place called Let It Bead, and we handmade a necklace for me. It’s a long gold chain, with a beautiful gold leaf, with a turquoise little bead hanging next to it. Of course, symbolizing the sweet rain.

For him, I got an English pipe and Virginia somethin’ tobacco. Forget what it’s called, but I remember how it tastes. DELICIOUS! I’ve taken to buying Andrew pipes when I visit new places. So far he has two. One from Costa Rica, and now Oregon. One day, someone will inherit a wonderful collection with rich history. I have a feeling this tradition will continue for several years to come. Hopefully the handmade jewelry tradition will continue, too. Ahem. Take notes, (Andrew).

An interesting experience on the way to Portland City Grill, which happened to include happy hour, on the 30th floor, on Sunday nights. Conveniently awesome? Yeah, I know. We were making our way down town, when a woman hollered, “SEXXXYY,” as she walked past us. A few seconds later, to break the silence, she said, “Hunny, I’m talkin to you, not your man.” Stunned, to say the least. I politely responded, “Thank you,” smiled, and clenched my guy’s hand a bit tighter. We exchanged glances, laughed, and agreed we weren’t sure if that was flattering for either one of us.

At the Portland City Grill, we watched over the lit up city that had stolen our hearts. Thousands of little yellow squares symmetrically assembled on the sides of tall buildings, turning off and on, as the people left their offices, and entered their apartments. Over drinks and avocado/mango/cucumber concoctions, we travelled through a vortex of even forgettable moments, knowing that we may never remember the little details again.

Andrew, I hope these posts help us remember a fraction of the excitement we felt in Oregon. I hope we think of your late night Taco Bell run AFTER we ate sushi, I hope we think of you singing Bon Jovi in the car, and me curled up in a ball, grimacing and laughing, all at once. I hope we remember my blistered feet, me wearing your sockets with sandals, and our realization that we walked three miles to a Barcade. I hope we remember the comforting hum of the city, the not knowing if were supposed to tip taxi cab drivers, the aimless driving through neighborhoods, dreaming about our future, your passion for woodwork, my hopes for picture taking, and our plans to go on night walks, wherever we end up.

I hope these posts help us remember our small role in keeping Portland weird.