Getting Around in Portland
Over the past year, I've experienced a strange progression from being entirely reliant on the public transportation system and generous friends with cars to being relatively self-sufficient on my bicycle with the occasional relapse. Things should be interesting now that I have a zipcar subscription as well.
When I first got here, I took the bus almost everywhere, even to the Safeway that was just about 10 blocks away, paying about $60 for the monthly all-zone pass. I soon got a job through a temp agency at the Fred Meyer corporate office and became familiar with the early 10 Harold line along with the interesting characters who turn up at the bus stop in front of the Burgerville at 12th and Hawthorne. Sometimes when I'd get off the bus in the morning, I could see the pink sunrise finally reach the West hills across the way. Eventually I figured out that I could just take the bus to work and walk home since I got off so early (due to having to be there as early as 6:00 a.m. at times) that I didn't really need to be in that much of a hurry to go home.
I grew to love strolling down Clinton Street, sometimes dropping by the New Seasons on Division to pick up things I couldn't get at the other stores like the really awesome crusty, chewy bread with the cloves of garlic baked in or pungent cheeses with names I couldn't pronounce. Then I would pass through Ladd's Addition, cutting through the circle and crossing the turnabouts. On occasion, I would drop by the Videorama to say hi to my friend Will or just duck in there if it was raining particularly hard and I just happened to forget my umbrella. I would then cut through one of the rose garden diamonds and walk down 16th to my studio apartment.
By November of that year, I still didn't really know anyone in town and I ended up quitting the Fred Meyer payroll gig mainly because I couldn't take the hours anymore and it was boring as all hell even when they weren't having me remove staples from paperwork and file them for imaging. To think, they were offering me a permanent position too. I accepted with great hesitation due to the hours and due to the fact we had a meeting about how potentially our department may be moved to Kansas. Still, I had made a "smoking buddy" with another temp from the agency named Liese who had just graduated from University of Oregon with a degree in political science. We'd usually grab coffee, lunch and smokes together.
I certainly did not make a hasty escape from one Midwestern state only to end up sent to another one.
So after a month of drifting, sleeping in and finally making friends through a writing group, I ended up in another temp gig. This time, it was for an insurance company taking and making calls. Prior to that, while I was waiting for my drug test to go through, I worked for a week or so packing shipments at the Lloyd Center Nordstrom's. This meant having to get up at 6:00 a.m., taking the bus downtown and then take the MAX to the Lloyd Center. Granted, there was probably a more direct bus line that got there. Still, I like taking the MAX when I get the chance.
This also meant half hour lunches and picking up food court food since there really wasn't a place for me to leave a lunch in the rather hot stuffy basement level. Still, I got to hang out with another girl from the temp agency like me, named Katie who had driven up from Kansas with her roommate. I recall at one point, she had ordered flowers over the phone for her mother since she had been going through a rough patch.
Now that I think about it, I probably could have made more friends if I had actually called the numbers I had been given. The other temps I worked with in the various jobs seemed to have the unspoken bond of people who do what they need to do to survive, to not have to go back where we came from in defeat. Even if it means mindless, repetitive tasks that would otherwise drive the college-educated (or otherwise non-robotic) completely barmy, like removing staples, stuffing envelopes or packing boxes.
And as Troy joked to me, all else failed, I could try stripping. After all, Portland has the most strip clubs per capita in the country due to interesting, lax zoning laws.
Anyway, I digress. It was almost Christmas. My parents were asking if I was coming home or if I was going to the big shindig in Las Vegas at my Uncle Rene's new place. I hesitated, not wanting to go home lest I guilt myself into admitting that I had managed to lose a job within the first three months of living in Portland. I ended up compromising by going to visit the family in Vegas on New Year's weekend. Since I was working as a temp, I did not have any paid time off available, so I ended up leaving Friday night after work, taking the Red Line MAX to the airport, Northwest Airlines to Las Vegas and then coming back late Sunday night, New Year's Day.
At this point, I was working at Aetna Disability taking calls from the injured, the sick, the depressed, the injured/sick and depressed. As a temp, I was put in what was known as "temp row" which was almost across the floor from the rest of the mixed business intake team. After I accepted a permanent assignment there, I got moved into their row and then when we moved upstairs from the fifth to the ninth floor, I was pretty much in the center of everything... which made it hard to concentrate sometimes.
As far as transportation was concerned, I usually caught the 14 Hawthorne downtown in the mornings on 16th, across the street from my studio apartment. I ended up moving in with my friend Emily a block over around 17th and Madison, which didn't change my commute much. After work, I would just walk, crossing Hawthorne bridge, hearing the bikes whiz by, watch the boats pass under the bridge, wait as the larger boats crossed the bridge as it was raised.
On Fridays I would take leftover bread from my almond butter sandwiches and feed the Canadian geese. Sometimes I tricked myself into thinking I had managed to tame them. Then one would bite my fingers to let me know otherwise.
Sometime in March I got a bicycle. It was a beautiful TARDIS-blue (yes, I'm a Doctor Who nerd, deal with it) mixte Concorso frame with Campagnolo brakes, wheels and derailleur. Damned if I know what all that means. I just know that my current coworkers pointed out that some of the parts on the bike were older than me.
At first it sort of sucked, having to get used to being sweaty and cold at the same time since all I had that was weather-appropriate was a waist-length leather jacket. My other coats were too long and would get caught in the gears. Then I got used to it, glad that I didn't have to worry about waiting for a bus, missing a bus, or having a bus pass me by because it was too full of passengers to take any more.
I love crossing Hawthorne Bridge to get home after work. While car traffic is jamming, I just cruise by. If I were brave enough and there weren't as many pedestrians or other bicycles on the bridge, I'd try to ride no-handed, pretending I was flying across the Willamette. Even going uphill here isn't that bad (except for a few spots which are easy to go around). Sometimes I'd go on night rides on my bike up to the Mt. Tabor area, although I haven't developed the fortitude to go all the way up yet. Going downhill is like flying, but a bit scary once you hit Hawthorne Boulevard again due to car traffic. Although it isn't as heavy as it is during the day, it's still a bit unnerving to have to grind the brakes once a light turns red or if a car comes seemingly out of nowhere.
It's sort of odd how many times I've walked down Hawthorne, either to go home, go pick up groceries, go shopping, go to a coffeeshop like Chance of Rain or the Fresh Pot or go to a movie at the Bagdad or Cinemagic. If I was a territorial beast, I would pick this street and the surrounding residential streets as my patrol. That's pretty much what I do anyway. Like clockwork, I pick up produce at Uncle Paul's tented produce stand and other groceries from the Safeway just down the road on weekends. I've watched shops close and open, a church get razed to the ground (heaven knows what they're building there now), all from the comfort of the sidewalk.
On the other side of my neighborhood is Belmont, a sort of sweet little sister to Hawthorne. Home of Opposable Thumb, Paradox Cafe, Saint Cupcake, the Avalon Nickel Arcade, Pine Street Biscuits and various other cafes, pubs and shops. There's also a cemetery I like to stroll in on misty weekends to indulge my former pseudo-goth proclivities.
Granted, I could get most places on foot, but I do love my bicycle.
I currently work at SurveyMonkey.com in the Pearl District. My commute has not changed much except I get to go down the West Bank Esplanade on my bicycle every morning and watch the sun rise over the East side and the Willamette River. I like looking at the bridges, especially Burnside since it reminds me of a mix between castle turrets and a lighthouse. I turn after Burnside Bridge, where quite a few people take shelter for the night in sleeping bags and piles of cardboard. I usually pass the Japanese American and Bill of Rights Memorial before reaching the stoplight. It's an austere setting with large craggy rock sculptures with names (and the Bill of Rights) hewn into the rock.
Is it just me, or is it a bit disturbing to have a "Bill of Rights Memorial?" I wasn't aware that our first ten amendments of the Constitution were dead... Ok, maybe I was aware, but I wasn't aware that it had been made "official."
Sometimes my bike jars a bit as I ride over the MAX line tracks. My second wreck and repair was on account of my rear tire getting caught in a streetcar railing. Seriously, when my bike's hurting, I feel it too.
As I cruise through the Pearl District, I see (and narrowly avoid at times) trucks delivering their goods to the various retailers and restaurants here. I pass by the Powell's Technical Bookstore as well as the City of Books. There's also a smell of freshly baking bread wafting through the air as I ride by since the Pearl Bakery is gearing up for another busy day right across from the technical bookstore. I have to admit that the smell of freshly baking bread is a more welcome one to wake up to than that of raw sewage (which occasionally emanates from vented manholes in the street as well as along the riverfront).
It's always a bit of a harsh reminder to bike from Old Town to the Pearl, just because they bleed into each other, but starkly contrast each other. For one thing, Old Town has a good crowd of homeless people sleeping in doorways, pushing shopping carts full of their earthly possessions and cans and bottles to recycle for cash, as well as people lined up with food stamps in front of stores. Then there's the Pearl District, full of specialty shops I can't afford, the large bookstore and the Whole Foods down the block on Burnside. Also what's interesting is that Old Town includes Chinatown, but it just seems like sort of a ghost town. I recall someone mentioning that most of the Chinese population sort of migrated to 84th street. Just like I know there's a predominantly Eastern-European population on the Southeast side near Foster.
I just wonder how far the polishing, "pretty up Portland" machine will go. There are always glossy new towers of glass and steel going up. I'm not quite sure how I feel about that since I do like the older buildings. Still, I hate how decrepit they seem to be getting. There has to be a way to preserve the older historical buildings and still appease the condo-developer, urban hipster crowd. I guess the New York Times is right about how there's a new flight from the suburbs to the city. Part of me can't help cringing whenever I see a young, attractive couple with what I like to refer to the "SUV of Strollers," one of those large monstrosities with huge tires and enough storage capacity to go grocery shopping and fit at least two kids. Then again, I'm not a breeder. I just hope that I don't get priced out of my apartment in the next few years.
Once again, I've digressed. The conclusion for now is that I enjoy my morning commute, crossing the bridge, cruising along the riverfront and navigating through the alphanumerically-ordered streets.
I also recently purchased a subscription to Zipcar, so when I have friends visit from out of town, I have a way to shuttle them or go to the coast should we choose. I'm quite amused that they have hybrid options. The new hybrid Honda Civic is pretty damn sexy. Still, I sort of miss the loud rumble of a full fuel-combustion engine.
At any rate, the conclusion, if there's one to be taken from all this, is that there are a whole lot of ways to get around in Portland... and I haven't even referenced the "slutty" ways of getting around in Portland either!
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Fireworks: Jane's Take
"Fireworks"
In this age of isolating information gleaned from the internet, I found at least three locations for viewing fireworks in the Portland area on the 4th of July. At least two of these were not in biking distance (at least by the time the sun was supposed to be down around 10:05 p.m.), so I ended up going down to the eastbank esplanade to watch the fireworks for the Blues Festival.
I recall that my first visit to Portland was around this time last year. My experience at the Blues Festival was that of sunburn and calling it an early night before seeing the fireworks. I could certainly at least hear the booms all the way on 30th and Hawthorne from the hostel porch.
This year was surprisingly cloudy, at least during the day. Then again, it's almost tradition to have it rain on the 4th of July. Filled with a barbecue pulled-pork sandwich made in my crock pot and a slice of pizza I had while hanging out with Heather, I biked along my usual route to work. Traffic, both pedestrian and motor, had become a bit more crowded and chaotic than I was used to.
A faint sliver of moon stapled the black of night and the fading blue light of day together, almost distracting me from the road and out of the bike lane. I also couldn't help but see the groups of smiling people lining the sidewalk.
My first obstacle was the police blockade on Hawthorne bridge. The bridge was up, but I had no idea that they wouldn't let people on the bridge at all. So, I got off my bike and pushed it alongside a bunch of pedestrians migrating under the overpass to the eastbank esplanade.
I don't know what it is about fireworks. Even if I don't really "celebrate" the 4th of July and what it supposedly stands for, I always try to watch the fireworks. Even on non-4th festivities, fireworks just make an otherwise mundane event into something magic.
Most of the people around me were families with children and amorous couples. I recall my parents dragging me out to Lincolnfest every year in Springfield (before they stopped having it due to budget issues or something), eating our fill in elephant ears, funnel cake, and other fried goodies, then watching the fireworks from the parking lot of our church. Then was the band trip to Disney World, where my freshman self ached for someone to give my first kiss to under the Millennium Festival fireworks.
Sophomore and Junior year summers were the summers of hanging out with Ian and loitering anywhere they wouldn't kick us out. Junior year, we had tried to sneak into the party at the lake without paying, but got caught by the rent-a-cop security, resulting in us having to pay the $3 like everyone else. Then we had to find a good spot, considering the crowd, but some asshole Eagle Scout kid (Do they have "Rent-a-Cop Security" badges in Boy Scouts?) told us we couldn't go any further around the lake since there was "danger of falling debris or something ridiculous like that.
We were able to sneak over to this large piece of construction machinery (I think it was a backhoe or a bulldozer) and lay on top of a flat piece overlooking the lake right where the pyrotechnics floated on a barge. Our spot was unobstructed and far enough away from the crowd where we wouldn't have to listen to really bad music.
It was also completely secluded. I remember teasing Ian about it a couple years after he moved back to New Mexico where if he had wanted to make a move on me, he should have done it then. For one thing, we were so close to the fireworks, I had the rather disorienting feeling of being pulled up to the sky as opposed to watching something falling on me from the sky.
No. We were not on drugs that night. The view was just that awesome.
Senior year was a different story. I had my first actual boyfriend, one who met my parents and friends. I still don't think I'm at liberty to talk about what exactly happened under the fireworks that 4th of July. Maybe some things are best kept secrets, even if thinly veiled.
The college years seemed too busy, so I don't remember if I had taken time out of my summer job schedule and general malaise to allow myself to be dazzled again. The year I graduated though was the year I finally cut loose. My friend Carly took me with her to her current boyfriend's house for beer and firework-watching from the roof. The view was partially blocked by trees, but it was still a very nice night.
Of course, I've digressed again.
However, I always try to think of things currently or recently happening to me in terms of other events in my past. I don't really think of my life as a straight line but a series of loops, like a coil, where parts of the line run parallel with each other.
The time around when Ian and I were sneaking around the lake, or when Dan and I were spreading a blanket under a willow tree was right around the time I was looking for a place to park my bike. I briefly considered a lamppost, except it was a wide post with an even wider concrete base.
A couple of guys reassured me, "Don't worry, no one's gonna steal your bike." For some reason, that did not put me at ease. One of the guys suggested hoisting the bike up onto the concrete platform, which I ended up doing. For one thing, it was under a lamppost and the occasional glance behind me from the esplanade would let me know if it was still there.
The spot I picked to stand was some sort of metal sculpture, like a pillar, but more like a skinny pyramid. I leaned back against it and recalled all the times I wished a boyfriend-type figure would be there for me to lean on. Glancing around, I could see couples already starting to make out despite the presence of little kids running around.
I looked at my cell phone, 10:07 p.m.. It was still faintly light in the sky over the West Hills. They would probably give it a couple more minutes before starting.
The building in front of me had an oddly-pitched roof and "PFD" on the side. I figured having a fire department right next to the river was a strange place, but then I remembered every historical movie I saw where people were running from a great fire into the nearest body of water. For some reason, the location of the fire department made sense to me after that, so I didn't bother considering it again. Now that I think about it again, nothing about my stream of thought made any sense at all last night.
After a few klaxons and foghorns, the show began. We could hear the crowd at Riverside Park on the west bank of the river cheering. The blasts started off slowly, but built up in a wild staccato frenzy of pops, crackles and other things you won't find in your morning cereal, like heart-pounding booms. The air filled with smoke, creating a haze which made the fading points of colored light seem even larger.
There were the usual chrysanthemum blooms of red, green, orange, blue. Bright yellow-white rockets shot up in the air only to arc and fade as they fell. My favorite had to be the yellow lights that spread like the usual circular bloom, but without such symmetry. There would be a series of explosions, setting off another set of lights to fly out, not quite like a Fibonacci sequence. It looked more like a battle seen from a great distance in space.
Or, for the more pacifistic, fireflies chasing each other.
I idly wondered if the blind could enjoy fireworks. Even if there's just the ability to tell the difference between light and dark, that combined with the percussive sounds, the rich smell of smoke and feeling a warm glow against one's face might be enough to entertain. Either that, or would be enough to be a bother to someone with heightened senses.
Children screamed, not in fear, but in delight. The couples were all leaning against each other. I occasionally turned from my spot on the pillar to glimpse the show that the West Bankers had a better view of, sometimes wondering if they purposely gave the paying crowd a better show. Still, from where I stood, it was wonderful.
I considered what fireworks are. First and foremost, they are explosives. Not a year goes by you don't hear about some horrific accident where a barge explodes too early and kills the operator, or some kid who blows off his hand with an M-80. I'm not sure what to think of something usually used to destroy to create art. Sometimes I like it and think that this is the only reason explosions should be used. Other times, it scares me to consider that somewhere on the other side of the world, children hear booms like this, see the sky light up and feel not a sense of wonder, but terror. Then I think that it's not fair for me to be standing in awe, to be enjoying myself when others are potentially suffering.
Despite my usual melancholic reflections, I still enjoyed myself. I figure my thoughts were certainly better than my teenage angstings about wishing someone was there with me. Come to think of it, I think this was the first time I went to watch the fireworks alone. Well, of course, I wasn't really alone, being surrounded by a good deal of Southeast-side Portland.
I started biking out of there to avoid the crazy traffic of cars trying to maneuver their way out of peculiar spots beneath the overpass. I almost wiped out when my tire caught on a bit of uncovered and unused streetcar railing. The save was so smooth (despite my keys falling out of my pocket and me shouting "HOLY CRAP!"), I wish someone had seen it. I recall passing under another overpass to hear a bunch of guys singing "America" followed by on the way home, hearing of all things, "Coming to America" by Neil Diamond. Most likely, it was a hipster party. I think I could smell PBR and vintage clothing all the way from the street.
My digs at hipsterdom aside, I couldn't help but be infected by the overall sense of good feelings that surrounded me last night. I had an IBC Root Beer per Midwestern tradition and called it a night not too long after.
To my surprise, I wasn't kept up all night by neighbors shooting off bottle rockets, m-80s, black cats or anything else. It seems that the Portland politeness extends to holidays as well. I think the last explosion I heard was around 1:00 a.m.
In this age of isolating information gleaned from the internet, I found at least three locations for viewing fireworks in the Portland area on the 4th of July. At least two of these were not in biking distance (at least by the time the sun was supposed to be down around 10:05 p.m.), so I ended up going down to the eastbank esplanade to watch the fireworks for the Blues Festival.
I recall that my first visit to Portland was around this time last year. My experience at the Blues Festival was that of sunburn and calling it an early night before seeing the fireworks. I could certainly at least hear the booms all the way on 30th and Hawthorne from the hostel porch.
This year was surprisingly cloudy, at least during the day. Then again, it's almost tradition to have it rain on the 4th of July. Filled with a barbecue pulled-pork sandwich made in my crock pot and a slice of pizza I had while hanging out with Heather, I biked along my usual route to work. Traffic, both pedestrian and motor, had become a bit more crowded and chaotic than I was used to.
A faint sliver of moon stapled the black of night and the fading blue light of day together, almost distracting me from the road and out of the bike lane. I also couldn't help but see the groups of smiling people lining the sidewalk.
My first obstacle was the police blockade on Hawthorne bridge. The bridge was up, but I had no idea that they wouldn't let people on the bridge at all. So, I got off my bike and pushed it alongside a bunch of pedestrians migrating under the overpass to the eastbank esplanade.
I don't know what it is about fireworks. Even if I don't really "celebrate" the 4th of July and what it supposedly stands for, I always try to watch the fireworks. Even on non-4th festivities, fireworks just make an otherwise mundane event into something magic.
Most of the people around me were families with children and amorous couples. I recall my parents dragging me out to Lincolnfest every year in Springfield (before they stopped having it due to budget issues or something), eating our fill in elephant ears, funnel cake, and other fried goodies, then watching the fireworks from the parking lot of our church. Then was the band trip to Disney World, where my freshman self ached for someone to give my first kiss to under the Millennium Festival fireworks.
Sophomore and Junior year summers were the summers of hanging out with Ian and loitering anywhere they wouldn't kick us out. Junior year, we had tried to sneak into the party at the lake without paying, but got caught by the rent-a-cop security, resulting in us having to pay the $3 like everyone else. Then we had to find a good spot, considering the crowd, but some asshole Eagle Scout kid (Do they have "Rent-a-Cop Security" badges in Boy Scouts?) told us we couldn't go any further around the lake since there was "danger of falling debris or something ridiculous like that.
We were able to sneak over to this large piece of construction machinery (I think it was a backhoe or a bulldozer) and lay on top of a flat piece overlooking the lake right where the pyrotechnics floated on a barge. Our spot was unobstructed and far enough away from the crowd where we wouldn't have to listen to really bad music.
It was also completely secluded. I remember teasing Ian about it a couple years after he moved back to New Mexico where if he had wanted to make a move on me, he should have done it then. For one thing, we were so close to the fireworks, I had the rather disorienting feeling of being pulled up to the sky as opposed to watching something falling on me from the sky.
No. We were not on drugs that night. The view was just that awesome.
Senior year was a different story. I had my first actual boyfriend, one who met my parents and friends. I still don't think I'm at liberty to talk about what exactly happened under the fireworks that 4th of July. Maybe some things are best kept secrets, even if thinly veiled.
The college years seemed too busy, so I don't remember if I had taken time out of my summer job schedule and general malaise to allow myself to be dazzled again. The year I graduated though was the year I finally cut loose. My friend Carly took me with her to her current boyfriend's house for beer and firework-watching from the roof. The view was partially blocked by trees, but it was still a very nice night.
Of course, I've digressed again.
However, I always try to think of things currently or recently happening to me in terms of other events in my past. I don't really think of my life as a straight line but a series of loops, like a coil, where parts of the line run parallel with each other.
The time around when Ian and I were sneaking around the lake, or when Dan and I were spreading a blanket under a willow tree was right around the time I was looking for a place to park my bike. I briefly considered a lamppost, except it was a wide post with an even wider concrete base.
A couple of guys reassured me, "Don't worry, no one's gonna steal your bike." For some reason, that did not put me at ease. One of the guys suggested hoisting the bike up onto the concrete platform, which I ended up doing. For one thing, it was under a lamppost and the occasional glance behind me from the esplanade would let me know if it was still there.
The spot I picked to stand was some sort of metal sculpture, like a pillar, but more like a skinny pyramid. I leaned back against it and recalled all the times I wished a boyfriend-type figure would be there for me to lean on. Glancing around, I could see couples already starting to make out despite the presence of little kids running around.
I looked at my cell phone, 10:07 p.m.. It was still faintly light in the sky over the West Hills. They would probably give it a couple more minutes before starting.
The building in front of me had an oddly-pitched roof and "PFD" on the side. I figured having a fire department right next to the river was a strange place, but then I remembered every historical movie I saw where people were running from a great fire into the nearest body of water. For some reason, the location of the fire department made sense to me after that, so I didn't bother considering it again. Now that I think about it again, nothing about my stream of thought made any sense at all last night.
After a few klaxons and foghorns, the show began. We could hear the crowd at Riverside Park on the west bank of the river cheering. The blasts started off slowly, but built up in a wild staccato frenzy of pops, crackles and other things you won't find in your morning cereal, like heart-pounding booms. The air filled with smoke, creating a haze which made the fading points of colored light seem even larger.
There were the usual chrysanthemum blooms of red, green, orange, blue. Bright yellow-white rockets shot up in the air only to arc and fade as they fell. My favorite had to be the yellow lights that spread like the usual circular bloom, but without such symmetry. There would be a series of explosions, setting off another set of lights to fly out, not quite like a Fibonacci sequence. It looked more like a battle seen from a great distance in space.
Or, for the more pacifistic, fireflies chasing each other.
I idly wondered if the blind could enjoy fireworks. Even if there's just the ability to tell the difference between light and dark, that combined with the percussive sounds, the rich smell of smoke and feeling a warm glow against one's face might be enough to entertain. Either that, or would be enough to be a bother to someone with heightened senses.
Children screamed, not in fear, but in delight. The couples were all leaning against each other. I occasionally turned from my spot on the pillar to glimpse the show that the West Bankers had a better view of, sometimes wondering if they purposely gave the paying crowd a better show. Still, from where I stood, it was wonderful.
I considered what fireworks are. First and foremost, they are explosives. Not a year goes by you don't hear about some horrific accident where a barge explodes too early and kills the operator, or some kid who blows off his hand with an M-80. I'm not sure what to think of something usually used to destroy to create art. Sometimes I like it and think that this is the only reason explosions should be used. Other times, it scares me to consider that somewhere on the other side of the world, children hear booms like this, see the sky light up and feel not a sense of wonder, but terror. Then I think that it's not fair for me to be standing in awe, to be enjoying myself when others are potentially suffering.
Despite my usual melancholic reflections, I still enjoyed myself. I figure my thoughts were certainly better than my teenage angstings about wishing someone was there with me. Come to think of it, I think this was the first time I went to watch the fireworks alone. Well, of course, I wasn't really alone, being surrounded by a good deal of Southeast-side Portland.
I started biking out of there to avoid the crazy traffic of cars trying to maneuver their way out of peculiar spots beneath the overpass. I almost wiped out when my tire caught on a bit of uncovered and unused streetcar railing. The save was so smooth (despite my keys falling out of my pocket and me shouting "HOLY CRAP!"), I wish someone had seen it. I recall passing under another overpass to hear a bunch of guys singing "America" followed by on the way home, hearing of all things, "Coming to America" by Neil Diamond. Most likely, it was a hipster party. I think I could smell PBR and vintage clothing all the way from the street.
My digs at hipsterdom aside, I couldn't help but be infected by the overall sense of good feelings that surrounded me last night. I had an IBC Root Beer per Midwestern tradition and called it a night not too long after.
To my surprise, I wasn't kept up all night by neighbors shooting off bottle rockets, m-80s, black cats or anything else. It seems that the Portland politeness extends to holidays as well. I think the last explosion I heard was around 1:00 a.m.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Home: Jake's Take (9/23/07)
Okay, the tour:
The house we live in -- which we share with one girl in an apartment upstairs, and a vacated apartment downstairs -- has no doorknob. It recently broke, refusing to turn, and the landlord's solution was to remove it completely. Now there's a hole where it used to be, about the size of a baseball. This does not fill us with fear.
This door takes you to a stairwell, which takes you to the second-storey door to our apartment, which, if you're me, takes you directly to the couch in our living room. We found it on a sidewalk. Most of the furniture in our apartment, in fact, came from sidewalks. Somebody should do a study on this, but we spend too much time sitting on that furniture to get involved in such a delicate venture. There's a lot of not-doing to be done.
Now, you may be under the impression that this means we're lazy, but you couldn't be more wrong, fake rhetorical person. My three roommates -- Jon (my best friend since high school), Travis (one of the few good friends I acquired during my dorm days), and Aaron (another good friend who just happened to grow up with Travis) -- all work at a local pizza place and go to school. I work in a warehouse and go to school as well. These activities take up the majority of our time, and they're all done out of the apartment. When we're back at home, sitting is the name of the game, and it is a game that we play very well and with great aplomb.
The next room, a smaller second living room attached to the kitchen, is where you'll usually find our other roommate, Dave. Dave doesn't pay rent, spends a good 23 hours a day sitting, and pees on our things. He is a cat, but these are still starting to become Problems. It's only fair that he pull some of the weight, but he has somehow tricked us into feeding him, cleaning up after him, and petting him while we're stoned. Suffice to say, he's the smartest of the lot of us.
Our kitchen was the real selling point for the apartment. We've got a double basin sink, an electric stove, a big refrigerator, and an island counter. There's also a dishwasher, but we don't use that for fear of spending too much on water and losing our highly advanced motor skills. Unfortunately, the kitchen as a whole is just too much power for us to wield, and it is always covered with dishes, food, and half-finished cans of Pabst. It is a war zone mixed with a supermarket explosion, dipped in Pig Pen from peanuts. The food, however, is stashed away in our dozens of cabinets, where it stays relatively clean.
Beyond the kitchen are the rooms: Aaron, Travis, Jon, bathroom, and me. They're all about the same size, the only difference being that Jon's room is carpeted where Aaron, Travis, and I have hardwood floors. This was Jon's one condition, granted because he did most of the legwork in securing us the apartment.
My room is my home. The rest of the guys spend most of their time in the living room and the kitchen and only really go to their rooms to sleep. They are Social People, who like interacting with others rather than being hidden away in a corner. Also, Aaron doesn't have a bed, so his room on the whole is kind of depressing. Me, I like to have time and space to myself, and I have a very comfortable mattress on a box-spring and rolling rack. Every room I've had since I lived with my parents is covered with junk. The walls are my autobiography. Printed pictures, posters, movie stubs, funny fliers, and amusing scraps of whatever get tacked, taped, and otherwise stuck to every surface. I'm still working on the room in the apartment because we've only been there a couple of months, but already I have a big poster for Sean Penn's film adaptation of Into the Wild and a printout of the cover for Amazing Fantasy #15, the first appearance of Spider-Man. There's also some psychedelic artwork and a photo looking over my city of Portland, Maine, from the top of a parking garage.
Parking garages, strangely enough, were the home of the four of us last year. Travis and I lived in Portland Hall, the only dormitory in Portland; Jon lived in a run-down building on Cumberland Ave.; and Aaron lived on St. John with a couple of roommates who he never really hung out with. Despite the distances between us, we all hung out nearly every day, drinking beer and finding stuff to do. We invariably made our way to the top of the garage on the Eastland Park Hotel, where we could look over the back bay; the garage at Monument Square, where we could look over the Old Port and see to South Portland; the garage at the Customs House, where Casco Bay and the Maine State Pier were practically beneath us; or the garage at the bus station, right in the heart of the city. Walking around in the streets -- which, by the way, is the only way we had to get around -- seemed claustrophobic compared to the roofs of these parking structures. Up above it all, we could look out on the significance and insignificance of everything and realize, if just for a few minutes, how small we all are.
The house we live in -- which we share with one girl in an apartment upstairs, and a vacated apartment downstairs -- has no doorknob. It recently broke, refusing to turn, and the landlord's solution was to remove it completely. Now there's a hole where it used to be, about the size of a baseball. This does not fill us with fear.
This door takes you to a stairwell, which takes you to the second-storey door to our apartment, which, if you're me, takes you directly to the couch in our living room. We found it on a sidewalk. Most of the furniture in our apartment, in fact, came from sidewalks. Somebody should do a study on this, but we spend too much time sitting on that furniture to get involved in such a delicate venture. There's a lot of not-doing to be done.
Now, you may be under the impression that this means we're lazy, but you couldn't be more wrong, fake rhetorical person. My three roommates -- Jon (my best friend since high school), Travis (one of the few good friends I acquired during my dorm days), and Aaron (another good friend who just happened to grow up with Travis) -- all work at a local pizza place and go to school. I work in a warehouse and go to school as well. These activities take up the majority of our time, and they're all done out of the apartment. When we're back at home, sitting is the name of the game, and it is a game that we play very well and with great aplomb.
The next room, a smaller second living room attached to the kitchen, is where you'll usually find our other roommate, Dave. Dave doesn't pay rent, spends a good 23 hours a day sitting, and pees on our things. He is a cat, but these are still starting to become Problems. It's only fair that he pull some of the weight, but he has somehow tricked us into feeding him, cleaning up after him, and petting him while we're stoned. Suffice to say, he's the smartest of the lot of us.
Our kitchen was the real selling point for the apartment. We've got a double basin sink, an electric stove, a big refrigerator, and an island counter. There's also a dishwasher, but we don't use that for fear of spending too much on water and losing our highly advanced motor skills. Unfortunately, the kitchen as a whole is just too much power for us to wield, and it is always covered with dishes, food, and half-finished cans of Pabst. It is a war zone mixed with a supermarket explosion, dipped in Pig Pen from peanuts. The food, however, is stashed away in our dozens of cabinets, where it stays relatively clean.
Beyond the kitchen are the rooms: Aaron, Travis, Jon, bathroom, and me. They're all about the same size, the only difference being that Jon's room is carpeted where Aaron, Travis, and I have hardwood floors. This was Jon's one condition, granted because he did most of the legwork in securing us the apartment.
My room is my home. The rest of the guys spend most of their time in the living room and the kitchen and only really go to their rooms to sleep. They are Social People, who like interacting with others rather than being hidden away in a corner. Also, Aaron doesn't have a bed, so his room on the whole is kind of depressing. Me, I like to have time and space to myself, and I have a very comfortable mattress on a box-spring and rolling rack. Every room I've had since I lived with my parents is covered with junk. The walls are my autobiography. Printed pictures, posters, movie stubs, funny fliers, and amusing scraps of whatever get tacked, taped, and otherwise stuck to every surface. I'm still working on the room in the apartment because we've only been there a couple of months, but already I have a big poster for Sean Penn's film adaptation of Into the Wild and a printout of the cover for Amazing Fantasy #15, the first appearance of Spider-Man. There's also some psychedelic artwork and a photo looking over my city of Portland, Maine, from the top of a parking garage.
Parking garages, strangely enough, were the home of the four of us last year. Travis and I lived in Portland Hall, the only dormitory in Portland; Jon lived in a run-down building on Cumberland Ave.; and Aaron lived on St. John with a couple of roommates who he never really hung out with. Despite the distances between us, we all hung out nearly every day, drinking beer and finding stuff to do. We invariably made our way to the top of the garage on the Eastland Park Hotel, where we could look over the back bay; the garage at Monument Square, where we could look over the Old Port and see to South Portland; the garage at the Customs House, where Casco Bay and the Maine State Pier were practically beneath us; or the garage at the bus station, right in the heart of the city. Walking around in the streets -- which, by the way, is the only way we had to get around -- seemed claustrophobic compared to the roofs of these parking structures. Up above it all, we could look out on the significance and insignificance of everything and realize, if just for a few minutes, how small we all are.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Home: Jane's Take (8/14/2007)
I have always been fascinated by the idea of home. Still, I always used to think of it in terms of where I slept, where I kept my stuff. After awhile, especially after living in Champaign-Urbana for four years–three of which, I was enrolled as a student at UIUC. After working at the college bookstore for a year, I concluded, or just solidified my conclusion that home is a group of people, not so much a space.
Still, each place is memorable in its own right, even if I spent most of my time surrounded by four white walls. There were some variations. My childhood home in Jerome had a gray mottled ceiling fan which terrified me since I could make out demonic faces in the Rorschach-like blobs of gray and black. What can I say? I was a strange little girl.
The room I slept in from fifth grade onward in Springfield used to be an old lady's office. I could swear that the old lady's ghost still turned up in the house just out of the corner of my eye as I practiced the piano at night. Instead of the shelves being lined with her mystery novel, the shelves were (and are still) filled with various stuffed animals and dolls I had collected, covered in dust from neglect.
My first dorm room was covered in movie posters by my roommate, Sarah. I didn't really start caring until the second semester when I attached the same loathing to all of her things as I did to her nasty personal habits like leaving her used Kleenexes all over the place (one of which had inexplicably wound up in a shoe inside of my closet).
My sophomore year dorm room was split more or less down the middle between me and my friend Liz from high school, who had often been sympathetic to my plight the year earlier. On my side, I put up printed-off internet pictures of James Dean, Spike Spiegel from "Cowboy Bebop" and Gogo from "Kill Bill." On the wall above my bed, I switched posters from "The Lost Boys" to "Say Anything" and at some point my "experimental" phase of having a rather gratuitous poster of Jessica Alba from "Sin City."
My first apartment was with a mutual friend of my sophomore year roommate, who actually helped me move into my current place on Hawthorne when she came visiting from her internship in Corvallis. Having a room to myself made having male guests over a lot more convenient, even if still mildly awkward the next morning.
On those walls, the same "Say Anything" poster (even now I'm a hopeless romantic, even without the poster) and an 8x11 ad for the Red Herring, a local vegetarian restaurant run out of the Universalist Unitarian church's basement. I sort of reverted to my Spartan method of interior design.
My last year in Chambana was mostly spent at the campus bookstore, but my room was a bit more cozy. To cover the tack marks and scratches our leasing company failed to repair, I put up a hand-woven, tapis-style cloth my mom had gotten in the Philippines when she had gone back for (one of myriad) cousins' wedding. It was made for a king-size bed, but adorned my wall nicely.
Now I use that "wall-hanging" as a blanket on top of an inflate-a-bed (update: it's covering my futon now, which I got for about $120, originally $100, but I insisted on giving the guy $20 for delivering it and helping get it up the stairs to my apartment). As a temporary arrangement, it beats Mike's papa-san chair+bean bag improvisation. Still, he has a bed now and I still haven't found a futon in my price range (once again, I found it).
My first place in Portland, my current place is a studio on Hawthorne. The building is called "The Lynnwood" and dates back to the 1920's. My room has the original cabinets, which still sticks slightly and don't close all the way due to recently being painted over. There is also an antique phone I can use to buzz in visitors.
The tile of the kitchenette stops after a step to meet a nice creaky hardwood floor which I don't think I'll bother covering with a rug since after I put the futon in, there wasn't a lot of space between it and the fridge or the radiator (about two steps). Two walls have great windows that let in light and air, which is awesome due to the lack of A/C (although I haven't noticed due to the amazing weather) and the fact that I sometimes burn my cooking and cook spicy things or fish a lot...That is, when I even bother cooking.
I plan on setting up a coffee table or something where my inflate-a-bed once sat in the middle (now relegated to the closet between the main room and the bathroom) along with some nice pillows for sitting Japanese style in case I should ever have company for dinner (not to mention buying more plates/cups for serving). One thing I loved about the Red Herring was how nothing matched. It always seemed more like home than how most suburbanites attempt to "create" a home with overpriced designer, color-coordinated flatware and dishes.
Once I get a futon, I'll probably stick it in the "closet" between the main room and the bathroom (update, yeah, that totally didn't happen since it didn't fit and I had to put my clothes somewhere). I'm relieved that the bathroom has a bathtub. I've missed taking proper bubble baths (update: I've taken one, and it was lovely). In the "closet," I've set up some plastic drawers to store my "everyday" wear (which has turned into my weekend wear after I got a job). I still haven't figured out what to do with my "professional/nice" clothes arrive (update: yeah, still haven't figured it out, and so they remain folded :cringe: on top of the plastic thing).
Still, I think I'll only worry about details like furnishings only after I find a job and can thus afford to buy things. Jenna was mildly saddened by my Spartan outlook on interior decorating/life in general, since she wants to make money, have nice things and settle down someplace. Me, well, I'm still very much up in the air. She admitted my place does have potential, so her dismay was most likely from my lack of interest in doing more with the space.
I can't help but laugh at the free "Urban Living Guide" to Portland. It recommended all manner of clothing boutiques, spas, furniture stores, and restaurants I could never hope to afford. I'm so glad I live on Hawthorne as opposed to the Pearl District (which has condos about the same size as or just slightly larger than my studio, but for probably about twice what I'm paying for now).
Besides, it's not so much about where I live, but where I can get to from here. Downtown is a ten-minute bus ride over Hawthorne Bridge. I can take nice strolls in Ladd's Addition right behind my building (update: I do often, and it almost makes me wish I could afford a house in this "Bermuda Triangle of urban planning." If I hop on the bus at the stop on the corner, I can go as far as Mt. Tabor Park or get off in the main Hawthorne shopping drag where there are some restaurants, bars, coffeehouses, window-shopping places, vintage clothing stores and a Powell's Bookstore. The coffeehouses are nice for people-watching and writing when I don't feel like being cooped up in my apartment.
Right now I'm at a nice European grocery store called "Taste of Europe," run by a nice old Bosnian (?) man. I'm sitting outside with the remnants of a Flake chocolate bar (the NY Times was right, the British do know their sweets) and a white chocolate mocha (which isn't sickeningly sweet like Starbuck's, the nice man knows that a good coffee drink should taste like it actually has good coffee in it). I am alone, but the act of randomly scribbling in a notebook makes me feel more comfortable, more at home, I guess.
If I walk a couple more blocks, there's a movie theater (closer than the Bagdad, although they probably don't serve beer and pizza), a bike shop and a cafe across the street from a cafe/bakery. Next to that (the Grand Central Baking Co.) is a tented produce market with the biggest peaches I've ever seen. Everything there is ridiculously gorgeous and doesn't look like it's been on a truck for days (unlike sad Illinois supermarket produce). It almost reminds me of Christina Rosetti's "Goblin's Market." I'm only pretentious enough to reference it, you'll have to google it on your own.
A bit further down is a Safeway where I can buy non-produce things (or produce if I'm feeling cheap) and surprisingly carries three kinds of sake and plum wine. Still, I'm more of a social drinker, so I'll probably be at the Barley Mill Pub across from my building where me and the other tenants steal internet (from across the street in the lobby or right on the sidewalk, no less).
According to Ali, my neighbor who lives downstairs in apartment C with her girlfriend Ana (?), with the "Declare Yourself" sign posted on the door, the wireless signal is lost if a car parks in front of our building. She was sitting outside with her apple notebook when I met her. I guess I can be glad of faulty wireless if I can be sociable because of it. I check my email on my laptop every morning in the lobby, but since my battery is terrible, I can't go too far from an outlet (like going outside). I hope I can get it to work with the Ruckus wireless modem I ordered, otherwise my "convenient" internships won't be so convenient anymore. (Update: it works, hooray for internet privacy...but boo to being antisocial.)
Right now, the family sitting behind me at the European place is eating something that smells amazing. I think the owner wasn't exaggerating when he told the little girl that it will be "The best food you've ever tasted." (Update: I ate dinner there once, a bit pricey, but he wasn't kidding. The lamb/beef patties were juicy and flavored well so as not to be overwhelmed by the herbs, but very complimented, sort of like if someone nods a hello to you on the street as opposed to tackle-hugging you).
I'm talking to Dad on the phone now, so I feel a bit more at home (especially considering he calls me multiple times a day). He calls about every night, so I think I'll humor him until I have things sorted out so he won't worry so much. (Update: yeah, I'm a bad daughter, I've hit the "ignore call" button more times than I'm willing to admit).
Everywhere I go, I see a good mix of people, but a lot of people my age. Most of them are attractive and dress in that sort of scruffy/bohemian-trendy way. I love that I see almost as many bicyclists as cars sometimes. It's a lot like Urbana here. I've even noticed the same Hot Lips pizza delivery mini-car drive by a few times. They like to use organic produce and donate some of their profits to help build houses for the homeless.
Once again, I seem to have completely strayed from the original writing prompt. I guess no matter where I go, some things won't change. Either that, or it just reflects on my surroundings. There's always something going on here. This weekend will be the Hawthorne Festival to celebrate the completion of construction.
Who knows? I may actually be social. (Update: I wasn't, not really).
But anyway, home really is a group of people. I haven't exactly fallen in with any group in particular here, but I figure it's just my first week here. (Update: I've been here three weeks, and I still haven't insinuated myself in any social group yet).
For now, I think I'll quit hogging valuable real estate, hand in my used cup and go "home" for the night. The conversation with Pop put me in a bit of a mood. Maybe Ben's right and I really am just running away from myself. Either way, that doesn't change the fact that Springfield stopped being home for me years ago and it was only a matter of time before I wore out my welcome in Chambana.
Still, each place is memorable in its own right, even if I spent most of my time surrounded by four white walls. There were some variations. My childhood home in Jerome had a gray mottled ceiling fan which terrified me since I could make out demonic faces in the Rorschach-like blobs of gray and black. What can I say? I was a strange little girl.
The room I slept in from fifth grade onward in Springfield used to be an old lady's office. I could swear that the old lady's ghost still turned up in the house just out of the corner of my eye as I practiced the piano at night. Instead of the shelves being lined with her mystery novel, the shelves were (and are still) filled with various stuffed animals and dolls I had collected, covered in dust from neglect.
My first dorm room was covered in movie posters by my roommate, Sarah. I didn't really start caring until the second semester when I attached the same loathing to all of her things as I did to her nasty personal habits like leaving her used Kleenexes all over the place (one of which had inexplicably wound up in a shoe inside of my closet).
My sophomore year dorm room was split more or less down the middle between me and my friend Liz from high school, who had often been sympathetic to my plight the year earlier. On my side, I put up printed-off internet pictures of James Dean, Spike Spiegel from "Cowboy Bebop" and Gogo from "Kill Bill." On the wall above my bed, I switched posters from "The Lost Boys" to "Say Anything" and at some point my "experimental" phase of having a rather gratuitous poster of Jessica Alba from "Sin City."
My first apartment was with a mutual friend of my sophomore year roommate, who actually helped me move into my current place on Hawthorne when she came visiting from her internship in Corvallis. Having a room to myself made having male guests over a lot more convenient, even if still mildly awkward the next morning.
On those walls, the same "Say Anything" poster (even now I'm a hopeless romantic, even without the poster) and an 8x11 ad for the Red Herring, a local vegetarian restaurant run out of the Universalist Unitarian church's basement. I sort of reverted to my Spartan method of interior design.
My last year in Chambana was mostly spent at the campus bookstore, but my room was a bit more cozy. To cover the tack marks and scratches our leasing company failed to repair, I put up a hand-woven, tapis-style cloth my mom had gotten in the Philippines when she had gone back for (one of myriad) cousins' wedding. It was made for a king-size bed, but adorned my wall nicely.
Now I use that "wall-hanging" as a blanket on top of an inflate-a-bed (update: it's covering my futon now, which I got for about $120, originally $100, but I insisted on giving the guy $20 for delivering it and helping get it up the stairs to my apartment). As a temporary arrangement, it beats Mike's papa-san chair+bean bag improvisation. Still, he has a bed now and I still haven't found a futon in my price range (once again, I found it).
My first place in Portland, my current place is a studio on Hawthorne. The building is called "The Lynnwood" and dates back to the 1920's. My room has the original cabinets, which still sticks slightly and don't close all the way due to recently being painted over. There is also an antique phone I can use to buzz in visitors.
The tile of the kitchenette stops after a step to meet a nice creaky hardwood floor which I don't think I'll bother covering with a rug since after I put the futon in, there wasn't a lot of space between it and the fridge or the radiator (about two steps). Two walls have great windows that let in light and air, which is awesome due to the lack of A/C (although I haven't noticed due to the amazing weather) and the fact that I sometimes burn my cooking and cook spicy things or fish a lot...That is, when I even bother cooking.
I plan on setting up a coffee table or something where my inflate-a-bed once sat in the middle (now relegated to the closet between the main room and the bathroom) along with some nice pillows for sitting Japanese style in case I should ever have company for dinner (not to mention buying more plates/cups for serving). One thing I loved about the Red Herring was how nothing matched. It always seemed more like home than how most suburbanites attempt to "create" a home with overpriced designer, color-coordinated flatware and dishes.
Once I get a futon, I'll probably stick it in the "closet" between the main room and the bathroom (update, yeah, that totally didn't happen since it didn't fit and I had to put my clothes somewhere). I'm relieved that the bathroom has a bathtub. I've missed taking proper bubble baths (update: I've taken one, and it was lovely). In the "closet," I've set up some plastic drawers to store my "everyday" wear (which has turned into my weekend wear after I got a job). I still haven't figured out what to do with my "professional/nice" clothes arrive (update: yeah, still haven't figured it out, and so they remain folded :cringe: on top of the plastic thing).
Still, I think I'll only worry about details like furnishings only after I find a job and can thus afford to buy things. Jenna was mildly saddened by my Spartan outlook on interior decorating/life in general, since she wants to make money, have nice things and settle down someplace. Me, well, I'm still very much up in the air. She admitted my place does have potential, so her dismay was most likely from my lack of interest in doing more with the space.
I can't help but laugh at the free "Urban Living Guide" to Portland. It recommended all manner of clothing boutiques, spas, furniture stores, and restaurants I could never hope to afford. I'm so glad I live on Hawthorne as opposed to the Pearl District (which has condos about the same size as or just slightly larger than my studio, but for probably about twice what I'm paying for now).
Besides, it's not so much about where I live, but where I can get to from here. Downtown is a ten-minute bus ride over Hawthorne Bridge. I can take nice strolls in Ladd's Addition right behind my building (update: I do often, and it almost makes me wish I could afford a house in this "Bermuda Triangle of urban planning." If I hop on the bus at the stop on the corner, I can go as far as Mt. Tabor Park or get off in the main Hawthorne shopping drag where there are some restaurants, bars, coffeehouses, window-shopping places, vintage clothing stores and a Powell's Bookstore. The coffeehouses are nice for people-watching and writing when I don't feel like being cooped up in my apartment.
Right now I'm at a nice European grocery store called "Taste of Europe," run by a nice old Bosnian (?) man. I'm sitting outside with the remnants of a Flake chocolate bar (the NY Times was right, the British do know their sweets) and a white chocolate mocha (which isn't sickeningly sweet like Starbuck's, the nice man knows that a good coffee drink should taste like it actually has good coffee in it). I am alone, but the act of randomly scribbling in a notebook makes me feel more comfortable, more at home, I guess.
If I walk a couple more blocks, there's a movie theater (closer than the Bagdad, although they probably don't serve beer and pizza), a bike shop and a cafe across the street from a cafe/bakery. Next to that (the Grand Central Baking Co.) is a tented produce market with the biggest peaches I've ever seen. Everything there is ridiculously gorgeous and doesn't look like it's been on a truck for days (unlike sad Illinois supermarket produce). It almost reminds me of Christina Rosetti's "Goblin's Market." I'm only pretentious enough to reference it, you'll have to google it on your own.
A bit further down is a Safeway where I can buy non-produce things (or produce if I'm feeling cheap) and surprisingly carries three kinds of sake and plum wine. Still, I'm more of a social drinker, so I'll probably be at the Barley Mill Pub across from my building where me and the other tenants steal internet (from across the street in the lobby or right on the sidewalk, no less).
According to Ali, my neighbor who lives downstairs in apartment C with her girlfriend Ana (?), with the "Declare Yourself" sign posted on the door, the wireless signal is lost if a car parks in front of our building. She was sitting outside with her apple notebook when I met her. I guess I can be glad of faulty wireless if I can be sociable because of it. I check my email on my laptop every morning in the lobby, but since my battery is terrible, I can't go too far from an outlet (like going outside). I hope I can get it to work with the Ruckus wireless modem I ordered, otherwise my "convenient" internships won't be so convenient anymore. (Update: it works, hooray for internet privacy...but boo to being antisocial.)
Right now, the family sitting behind me at the European place is eating something that smells amazing. I think the owner wasn't exaggerating when he told the little girl that it will be "The best food you've ever tasted." (Update: I ate dinner there once, a bit pricey, but he wasn't kidding. The lamb/beef patties were juicy and flavored well so as not to be overwhelmed by the herbs, but very complimented, sort of like if someone nods a hello to you on the street as opposed to tackle-hugging you).
I'm talking to Dad on the phone now, so I feel a bit more at home (especially considering he calls me multiple times a day). He calls about every night, so I think I'll humor him until I have things sorted out so he won't worry so much. (Update: yeah, I'm a bad daughter, I've hit the "ignore call" button more times than I'm willing to admit).
Everywhere I go, I see a good mix of people, but a lot of people my age. Most of them are attractive and dress in that sort of scruffy/bohemian-trendy way. I love that I see almost as many bicyclists as cars sometimes. It's a lot like Urbana here. I've even noticed the same Hot Lips pizza delivery mini-car drive by a few times. They like to use organic produce and donate some of their profits to help build houses for the homeless.
Once again, I seem to have completely strayed from the original writing prompt. I guess no matter where I go, some things won't change. Either that, or it just reflects on my surroundings. There's always something going on here. This weekend will be the Hawthorne Festival to celebrate the completion of construction.
Who knows? I may actually be social. (Update: I wasn't, not really).
But anyway, home really is a group of people. I haven't exactly fallen in with any group in particular here, but I figure it's just my first week here. (Update: I've been here three weeks, and I still haven't insinuated myself in any social group yet).
For now, I think I'll quit hogging valuable real estate, hand in my used cup and go "home" for the night. The conversation with Pop put me in a bit of a mood. Maybe Ben's right and I really am just running away from myself. Either way, that doesn't change the fact that Springfield stopped being home for me years ago and it was only a matter of time before I wore out my welcome in Chambana.
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