I wrote this in a hurry, and my computer was gonna die right before I posted it, so I put it up, then took it down at the next waypoint of my journey, since I hadn't gotten the chance to edit it. It's been a minute since I've had a chance to write, so the news is a little dated, but hopefully I can catch up before too long. Sorry to all the confuzzled (I know there's at least one) loyal readers that read my post in the 24 hours before I took it down and wondered where it went.
Portlandia
Today I'm sitting in the Marquette, WI Amtrak/Greyhound station. It's 7:30 now, and the bus leaves at 10:00. This station has free wireless, so now seems like the perfect time to update you on my latest goings on.
Last time we spoke, I was stranded in an overpriced coffee shop in Portland. Feeling disheartened and miserly, I exercised my God-given right to bitch about my life. Howsomever, being as far into the Taoist way of life as I am, I don't think I was even as discouraged as I played myself to be. When you really start listening to it, that little voice in the back of your mind that urges you to keep going starts to be pretty reassuring. So here's the rest of the Portland story.
When I left the coffee shop, I started walking. I walked for the next five hours or so. First I went to the post office to (finally) offload the books I had been stupidly toting around. When I arrived at the post office, I was surprised to discover that the mailing office was closed (turns out it was Sunday. I did, however, find some provision for drop-boxing prepayed packages. Eager to be free of my burden, I purchased one by credit card and boxed up my shit. Pleased to dispose of my burden, I tossed it in the mailbox, bidding a not-so-fond sayanora. After the mail chute was closed, I noticed a cryptic label indicating that my package may be too weighty to travel by that means. This was reinforced by the box-contraption's failure to return to a ready position following the deposit- it seemed, in fact, to be locked closed. At this moment I realized that I had (as I am wont to do) forgotten to write a return address. Oh, joy. Go with God, little books... you may well be the second casualty from my poorly packed luggage.
*I will note that the books did indeed arrive at their destination some days before I did. So they weren't the second casualty... but I would gladly trade them for the 3d. The literary folks call this "foreshadowing"*
Increasingly flustered, I left the post office and repacked my knapsack. I decided my laptop bag was another unnecessarily bulky accoutrement, it's sole purpose to protect my laptop in an environ already reinforced. Left leaning against a tree in hopes that some hungry-hungry-hobo might find a use for it (that seemed more reasonable at the time), my laptop case became another companion fallen by the wayside. Load lightened, guided by a (poorly conceived) tourist map of Portland, I set off in search of the free streetcar I had heard so much about.
Brain... somewhere else, I promptly overshot the mark by a good 10 blocks. I walked back and hopped the streetcar, intending to ride it as far as I could for free, then proceed for what seemed a hop, skip and a jump to the southernmost bridge, which I would walk across. From there it would be, according to the map's heretofore unchallenged scale, another hop, etc., to Hawthorne Hostel at 30th and Hawthorne on the East side. Anyone who's actually been to Portland might be able to find a couple flaws in this.
According to plan, I disembarked and marched merrily down Moody, peepers peeled for the river. Suffice it to say, my map failed me. The bridge I intended to cross turned out to be a hundred or so feet over my head, and I had to return from whence I came- a 3 + mile detour, with (still heavy) backpack on, and guitar in hand. Oddly unperturbed, and in true bluesman fashion, I hiked along- footsore, guitar in hand, all my worldly possessions (for the moment) on my back. Setting out for the promised land of Southeast Portland.
Crossing the bridge (Hawthorne bridge-the only one that actually has a path across), I discovered the map (apparently intended only as a map of downtown) was not to scale. Pretty much the entirety of East Portland had been crammed into the sidelines. Somehow, I had suspected as much.
So, I hiked some more. Although tiring (did I mention I was wearing engineer boots?), this unexpected hike (it turned out to be about 6 miles and change from the streetcar) was rather a blessing. After a few sort of ghetto blocks (random Sunday-evening-shift stripper sitting on the sidewalk, entirely bottomless, smoking a cigarette, was rather a startling east-side greeting), I started to see what Sweete was talking about. Food carts, cute cafes, organic produce stores started popping up. The town began to show a sort of green indie charm. After being hailed by a random group of street musicians inquiring as to my wellbeing from across the street, my hope for the town was well on the rise.
I arrived at Hawthorne Hostel as the sun was setting. I was immediately greeted as a friend by four people standing in the kitchen. After dropping my things, I returned and a conversation started. Shortly thereafter, we were friends. A well-traveled feller who volunteered at the hostel instantly guided me and a fellow traveler to a good local restaurant, and proceeded to buy me a tasty venison burger and a delicious beer. These were greedily consumed over a discussion of hatch chile and posole- culinary affinities I never expected to discuss with anyone north of Arizona. The rest of the evening at the hostel was spent jamming (3 of the 4 people I fell in with are musicians) and talking about spiritual stuff. This interaction also brought me further into a newly discovered and embraced life role of mine- Spiritual Teacher. Definitely not a hat I was expecting to wear at the age of 21.
The next day was pretty mellow. Hanging out with new friends and returning to the West side in time to catch my train, where I grabbed some fucking delicious food cart food and arrived at the station, guided by Paul (the volunteer), who made the trip over just to see me off safe.
Overall, I would say the trip to Portland was indeed as important as I had projected. It's almost as difficult to explain why it mattered as it is to explain the whole Charlie Brown dynamic of mine and Sweete's relationship. But the proof, as they say, is in the pudding. Suffice it to say that (particularly in light of other people's attempts to help me that also mysteriously fell through-there were several) Sweete is still family, and Portland is still high on my list of potential new homes.
I had hoped to update you entirely on my travels, but my battery is in danger of dying, and I can't find an outlet. The Portland segment will have to do for now. The next update will fill in the rest of what I lost on the way to WA, just as soon as I'm nestled safely in MI tomorrow. I can't really think of a very original musical selection to leave you, so I will just give you a couple goodies I've been listening to on my 3-day trip to MI.
Jack Neilson was a late-great musician friend of my family. More on him some other time...
CCR!
Peace out!
-Mojoe
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