The reasons I love Portland are not the most obvious. The big tourist attractions touted by store fronts and the government soon lose their appeal. What holds my attention and brings me the greatest joy and love for the city where I live are the places that spark emotion in me. These are fond memories of the past, hardly appreciated scenery and small changes to a place I grew up in. The little things not noticed by your average visitor to the city, hidden by the trash, bright lights and big names.
The view of Mount Hood and Mount Saint Helens from the top of any of the bridges just before dusk or after dawn in the winter. The way the light seams orange bouncing off the snow. The mountain, framed by clouds.
The same people at my bus stop: the familiar strangers, the same bus driver who always looks at me like I am going to cause trouble, the tall hippie who screams at his phone, the reader with a scooter and the wish version of Ed Sheeran. People I don’t even greet with a nod but see twice a day.
The flocks of crows at night just above Pioneer Courthouse adorning the empty trees like Christmas lights. A thousand silent birds gathered to silently watch the streets. One wrong move or one loud noise and the sky is filled with the flapping of wings.
The swifts climb out of the smokestack and into the sky far above while the setting sun acts as a background. Kids sliding down the hill on makeshift sleds of cardboard that pay no attention to the smoke like a pillar of birds.
The squirrels in Lone Fir Cemetery who have no fear as long as you give them enough sunflower seeds. Reddish brown with a full fur coat, creeping closer to your leg. The nagging fear that they will bite more than the seed.
The view from the Pittock Mansion just before sunrise: fresh cut grass under your hands, people all around you with dead silence except for the shuffle of dancing. The occasional applause stirred the nearby birds to let off a chorus of complaints. The final hurrah at the end of the dance.
The ability to predict what is behind every tree under every rock and above each blade of grass in every park in 150 miles of Portland. Walking the same trail a hundred times, knowing with certainty that something will change yet the feeling will be the same.
Sasquatch, adorning stickers on road signs, political ads and bus benches. The giant in size and legend unaware of his widespread fame. Portland’s very own fairy tale that looks like many of its residents.
The forest across from a house I lived in for four months, now three condos. The jungle my young mind thought it was, scared of snakes and bandits making shelter with branches and vines. The seemingly endless wild is really just forty square feet hemmed in by two roads and a warehouse.
The river at midday on the second hottest day of the year when the light hits it and you can feel it bounce right into your skin. The small ripples make light dance across your face like it’s trying to send you an encrypted message or make you fall in.
Voodoo Donuts, more loved by tourists than residents. 100 flavors that all taste the same. The bright pink signs blending in next to the graffiti around every store front. The bars on the windows take away from the cheery colors.
The safety of knowing where you are and how to get where you want to go. The familiarity of each street, the memories from every corner and alley. The friend you meet in the grocery store, the coworker you see at the bus stop. Aware of just how small the city is.
The constant gray in the sky as if it is about to fall bulging like cotton candy, trying to reach out towards the top of Big Pink. Less somber and more a comforting backdrop to day to day life.
