As we loitered that day on the Morrison Bridge, passing a tiny can of Francis Ford Coppola’s Sofia Mini Blanc de Blancs, she shrieked like an owl and marveled at her city as I marveled at her. There she stood, back to the wind and eyes to the sky; I like to think we both knew how lucky we were to be alive in that moment.
‘Puddle Town’ was everything but that weekend. The rainy city had finally abandoned its clouds to the sun, a four-day reprieve we couldn’t have been hungrier for. Perhaps the sun gods were bestowing upon us tender sun kisses. After all, the month of February was upon us and Valentine’s Day had just passed us by.
She marveled at her city
as I marveled at her.
Whatever the mood of the heavens, this trip was filled with a kind of magic made of the best pixie dust imaginable: intrinsic pixie dust if you will. That kind only felt when you know for whatever reason, everything is going to be okay. Or maybe it was just my first time in Portland. Who really knows? In the end, I just wanted to be lost in a forest forever and leave it all behind...