A journey to quench my thirst

Portland, Oregon is a walker’s city. Lovely neighborhoods, like Mississippi, Hawthorne, the Alphabet District, and Division/Clinton dot the city and make Portland feel like a collective of small towns, each representing a kaleidoscope of businesses and residences. 

I recently visited Portland in June. June is when roses are in full bloom releasing their sweet perfume, skies are robin egg blue, and temperatures are a comfortable 70 degrees. It is no coincidence that the annual Rose Festival takes place this month to commemorate the proliferation of these flowers. June is also the time of my annual visit to see family, eat local food, and do yoga.

Growing up in SW Portland, the eastside of Portland seemed as far away as Australia. But, after living in Portland as an adult, I lived in NE Portland and got to know it intimately. So, now when I visit Portland, I find myself gravitating east. The abundance of locally-sourced restaurants, eclectic boutiques, coffee shops, and yoga studios excite my senses. So, on this particular day, I have selected to do yoga at People’s Yoga on NE Killingsworth. With two locations in NE and SE Portland, this yoga studio offers yoga classes for the frugal yogi. Their approach to yoga is that it should be available to everyone. I like to take yoga classes at People’s Yoga as much as my wallet will allow.

Today, after an invigorating class of forward bends and hip openers, I feel a thirst coming on. New Seasons Market on NE 33rd Avenue isn’t too far away, so my noodle legs and I take a nine block walk to the market for some fresh juice. I decided to take a side road so that I can notice the everyday existence of the NE Portland neighborhood. As I walk, I notice that each house has a personality like that of its inhabitants. Sidewalks become extensions of the yard. Pea shoots grow from a garden box built into the curb, as well as broccoli, lettuce, chard, and cabbage as big as my head. A lady pedals by on her squeaky bike. Lanterns are strung across a back porch; red, green, and yellow. From all four sides of the street, mothers and grandmothers stroll by with their baby carriages. I wonder is this a sign, am I next? The thought fades as I hear a gleeful chirp. I look up to see birds flying high in the blue bird sky. My legs keep moving and I see pink roses, red roses, white roses. City of Roses. As I start to approach my destination, I see a parking attendant with a reflective vest and people pushing their grocery carts. As I cross 38th street, the Trimet bus driver wearing hologram glasses waves at me to cross. I think to myself how friendly Portland is.

As I enter New Seasons Market, my senses become alive with the scent of fresh fruit and baking bread. I take a lap around the store until I settle on my juice. I chose a Green Juice from Columbia Gorge Juices, an “honest to goodness” juice packed with fruits and nutrients to make my cells sing. 

On the way back to the yoga studio, a man with a black shirt and pot belly leaves the store right after me. We walk in unison across the busy intersection. As soon as he gets out into the fresh air, he lights up a cigarette, outweighing the effort of his healthy deed. I look down and see grass that grows wild and untamed by its urban surroundings. The breeze hits my face and feels warm and soft. The sound of skateboard wheels gets my attention and I look to see a man and a woman struggling to stay upright on their boards. Orange buckets leaning against fledging trees that are straining to touch the sky. There are more birds on telephone wires. I think that there is truth in the “put a bird on it” from the IFC Portlandia show that mocks Portland and its idiosyncrasies. I look to the left and see a house built with stones or river rock. It looks out of place amongst the wood shingled houses. A car is parked in the driveway with a sticker that reads 26.2 miles. Running a marathon is something to feel proud of. I see another car, a red Subaru with a Thule rack. It looks like the owners like to play outdoors. I think, “I would like to get to know them,” as the sun shines through the clouds creating a light mosaic. Another mosaic catches my eye, a post with pieces of glass shards. There is a poem attached to it by Billy Collins, called simply, “Nostalgia”. In the poem, he writes of longing for the past when life was simpler. Collins writes, 

Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.

I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees

and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light

flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse

and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.

As I read Collins’ poem, I realize that his words and my walk have a secret understanding: when one distills time into its most basic parts, it becomes alive. My walk becomes more than just a journey to quench my thirst; it becomes a journey of the present moment and watching what happens when life slows down. 

America's Shangri-La

 Sun Valley, Idaho. 

The name alone denotes vacation. While it is true that Sun Valley is where people come to play, relax, and get away, it is also home to an outdoorsy, eclectic, and passionate group of people. Many of whom aren’t originally from the area, including myself. I am what people call a “transplant”-seeds that are planted indoors that eventually need to get moved outdoors to thrive. There are many “transplants” in Sun Valley, some who come for the winter and stay for the summer or some who come for the summer and stay for the winter. Those seasons turn into years and before people know it, they have planted roots.

In the 1930’s, Averell Harriman, chairman of Union Pacific Railroad, sent Count Felix Schaffgotsch to scour the countryside for America’s first destination ski resort. After almost giving up, the Count overheard locals talking about “America’s Shangri-La '' called Ketchum, an old mining town in the mountains of Central Idaho. When he went to see for himself, he was immediately spellbound by the magestic mountains, clear, blue skies, and friendly locals. He wrote to the Chairman about Ketchum and said, “This combines more delightful features than any place I have ever seen in Switzerland, Austria or the U.S. for a winter resort." Soon after the land was purchased, the resort was built, and flocks of people started arriving to ski, hike, fish, and play in the mountains of Central Idaho. 

This same sense of awe greets me every time I take a left at the “blinking light” onto Highway 75. Driving the thirty or so miles to Sun Valley takes me past Bellevue, Hailey, and Ketchum. Each town has its own flavor and mixture of amenities. Some people prefer the down-home, rancher life of Bellevue or the quirky, residential life of Hailey, while others prefer the glamor and resort life of Sun Valley. Ketchum rests somewhere in the middle of this continuum. The alluvial layout of the Valley creates a community that is separated geographically, but joined spiritually by the mountains, rivers, and forests. 

Whatever your pleasure and whatever the season, Sun Valley has it all. After living here for 22 years, I have distilled my perfect day into a few elements: coffee at my new favorite cafe/wine bar, Velocio, mountain biking with friends on the myriad of single track around the Valley, jumping in the Big Wood swimming hole, followed by a picnic dinner and drinks on the Sun Valley Pavillion Lawn listening to the sweet sounds of violins and violas played by the Sun Valley Summer Symphony. Laying on my back, I look up at the blue sky and smile to myself; happy to be alive and happy to be thriving in the place that I love.