Portland represents my childhood–going to the zoo, petting the baby chicks at OMSI (an exhibit they know longer offer probably due to chick labor laws), eating at the Fujin on Hawthorne, meeting up with my dad after work and then eating out downtown.

As I grew older, Portland represented an aspect of my newfound freedom. I was a nervous child, an anxiety-ridden adolescent, but when I relaxed into my mid-teens I discovered a taste for adventure. Portland provided this in the form of a nurturing, small city that was perfect for exploration. I was allowed to drive ‘over the bridge’ as long as I had long time best friend, Courtney, at my side. She was practical and responsible–a real catch for a best friend. She was my key to my parent’s permission–with her at my side I could drive at night and, later, she was crucial in getting my curfew extended from 12am to 1am. Together we explored the Saturday Market (later landing me a job at the horribly sketchy export booth selling hemp, incense, and tapestries), late night concerts featuring everyone from Collective Soul to the Circle Jerks, and the occasional visit to the beautiful sites: the Rose Garden, the Japanese Garden, and the infamous Burnside skate park.

Portland is also where I went on some of my first dates; it’s where I met and courted my husband. The excitement generated from that city is youthful, young, and in deep desperate love. Looking at the vibrant packs of hipsters cycling across the bridge, the beautiful mothers with their dreadlocks wrapped on top of their heads while babies lay swaddled in beautiful patterned fabric, and the almost dreamy look of even the homeless…well, it’s no surprise that Portland is identified as the innocent, sometimes naive, little sister of Seattle. I can see why people thought I was a hippie when I moved up to Seattle–all peasant shirts, battered jeans, long hair and birkenstocks. Sure this was in the mid-90s, but I see this outfit still traipsing around Portland almost as a uniform for the care-free, vintage clothing loving, Portland teenager. Wearing hemp, painting your toenails blue, and tying your hair with string is perfectly natural!

Seattle has, let’s face it, more opportunity. The theaters are more established, better funded, and frequent. Lack of jobs keeps many people out of Portland. It’s dreamy quality attracts people in droves–everyone is an artist, a writer of some sorts, working at New Seasons to make ends meet. The most beautiful people you will ever see in your life are handing folks their espressos in the oddly gentrified Pearl District (once the abandoned, social service ridden, neighborhood buffering Chinatown). Traffic rivals Seattle in its unpredictability and time wasting.

Still, my long term love affair with Portland continued on Tuesday when the rain finally lifted and the sun came shining down on all that is northwest. I spent a full day walking the streets with my brand new Powershot Cannon (12 years ago it would have been my very heavy, extra long lens, camera loaded with black and white film). No tax! What should I buy? I found a pair of sporty gold flats for more then half off. I broke down and bought a pair of expensive black pants at the Rack–no more shitty Gap slacks that shrink at the first washing for me! I had a horrible slice of vegetable pie from Whole Foods–I should have warmed it up instead of choking down large chunks of congealed cheese once melted now cold. I bought three mini-desserts: two tiny mousse cups and a baby meringue. I peeked into the Chinese Garden but decided against paying the $8.50 admission fee. I rode the street car and the Max–for free.

“Could we move to Portland?” I asked my husband. I was sitting on a north bound train to Seattle. The train had stopped and would remain motionless for two hours due to a horrific accident north of Centralia (a woman drove her car into a northbound freight train, was dragged across the tracks and subsequently hit by a southbound Amtrak train…the mess was extensive). Josh reminded me about what a great job he has in Seattle, how it affords us a lot, and that, while he could keep an eye out, the chances of finding something comparable in Portland was slim. I was uncomfortable, sad, and oddly nervous about returning to the unattractive neighborhood our house is located in. It only takes a few beautiful neighborhoods for me to suddenly feel inadequate about my own hood. Portland’s sparkling beauty and lingering petiteness sometimes makes it a hard transition back into Seattle. Sure, we have lakes, trees, and a great theater scene…but sometimes I want something smaller, safer, and more delicate.