The land of milk and honey

..... That's what the pilot called Portland as the plane landed.

I headed back to Oregon for a very quick and hectic trip for my younger sister's wedding. The ceremony was actually in Astoria which is a couple hours west of Portland at the mouth of the Columbia river.

I was in Portland for only a few hours and spent it running to Powell's Books, getting french macarons at Pix Patisserie, and hitting the infamous Albina Press for a dreamy cappuccino breve and a couple pounds of Stumptown coffee beans to take back to Taos. Portland was in its usual gray and dreary state. But, see, the 8 months of rain per year has made for a great city life..... fabulous restaurants, the buzziest of all coffees, more bars than even a 19th century french poet could tackle, bookstores, and an incredible contemporary art scene (everyone is either an artist, musician, writer, or a bike builder..... and they all work in the service industry for an actual living).

I have lived in and then left Portland twice, and I can say it was because of the weather or the uber-hipdom... but, admittedly, it may have had more to do with certain boys. I would like to think I'm the wiser for it.

OK, I love Toas... the sunny yet volatile weather and the friendly yet volatile people... but somehow I must figure out how to get back to Portland regularly.

For those that have never been there, I highly recommend visiting. On a drizzly night, go have a couple cocktails in the Low Brow lounge then walk over the steel bridge into Northeast. Be sure to stop half way over the bridge, look down at the river and wait for the mallet of sentimental existentialism to smack you square in the back of the head. You will find yourself compelled to smoke Nate Sherman's, wear pants that are slightly too short, and live like you will forever be 23.