Yesterday around noon I found myself walking north on 18th Street on my way home.  The day hadn’t gotten dark or breezy yet, and so people were everywhere, draped over all available Rittenhouse Square real estate and occupying every outdoor table at Devon and Rouge.  As I approached those two restaurants, a thought flashed through my head, which was, “I wonder if I’ll run into Sabrina.”  Sabrina is married to my cousin Dan and is the mother of the adorable and easy-going Derek (who is now three and a half months old).

I hadn’t walked more than another four or five steps when I looked up and realized that Sabrina was in fact sitting at one of those outdoor tables, having lunch with a couple of her girlfriends.  Derek was parked along side, peacefully watching people walk by from under the shade of his stroller.   I stopped and chatted for a couple of minutes, gently rocking the stroller back and forth when Derek started fussing a little.

After a little while I continued on, not wanting to interfere with their lunch too much.  For the rest of my walk home, I was a little giddy from the glee of having been in the right place and time to experience a moment of synchronicity.

One of my favorite things about flying in and out of Portland during the daylight hours is the amazing views you get of the Cascade Mountains. When my parents were first looking for a place to live that wasn’t Southern California, my mom had a dream about living someplace with a view of a mountain.  Soon after we found ourselves in Portland.

On clear days, Portlanders don’t say comment on the cloudless sky, they simply say, “the mountain is out.” Growing up, whenever my sister and I would be in the car with our mom and she caught a glimpse of Mt. Hood, she’s say, “there’s my mountain.” It was as if it had called to her and she was lovingly bound to it.

After spending the last week looking at every object that crossed my path with the thought, “Is this something worth keeping or can I live without it?” I’m finding that I can’t shake that view.  Since returning home I’ve already filled two grocery bags with books I don’t feel the urge to keep anymore (I do have to make room for the seven boxes that I deemed worth retaining from the Portland purge) and I’m turning a similarly calculating eye on my clothes and kitchen goods.

While I have had some flashbacks to those moments when I watched someone walk off with items I had once loved or appreciated, I’m finding that I don’t regret anything that I let go last week.  It’s amazing how items that I once felt were vital to my personal happiness are now so unimportant.

I am back in Philadelphia, it’s my 28th birthday and I’m going to see Waitress tonight.  These are good things.

Yesterday was a very long day of travel, including a four hour flight next to a vomiting (four barf bags passed through his hands) seven year old, an already-long 3 hour layover in Detroit stretching into an improbable 4 & a half and an interminable wait for luggage.  Just when I thought I was in the clear and was finally going to get home, this happened.

The week in Portland flew by, culminating on Saturday with a six-hour garage sale in which I sold hundreds of books, about a quarter of the contents of my parents’ house and garage (believe me, it still doesn’t look empty) and watched many of the relics of my childhood walk away into other peoples’ lives.

The TSA people took away the Toby’s Tofu Pate that I had intended to eat for lunch at security yesterday morning.  I guess vegan egg salad is more subversive than I initally realized.  This event struck me in an emotionally tender place and the ridiculousness of it made me start to cry.  The man who had been in front of me in the security line waited for me just outside of the metal detectors, to make sure I was okay.  I stood there, half laughing and half crying at the insanity of confiscated tofu pate while he smiled supportively and patted my arm.  When he was sure I was going to be okay, he gave me a one-armed hug and wished me a safe flight.  It was one of the kindest encounters I’ve ever had with a stranger.

Each one of these things could have been their own post, but I’m still feeling a little scattered from cross-country travel and highway collisions, so this is about all I can manage at the moment.  I think that more thoughts will trickle out about the week I just spent in Portland and the freedom I feel at having gotten rid of so many things.

1. Any Day Woman – Bonnie Raitt (Bonnie Raitt)

2. I Like It – Dixie Chicks (Taking the Long Way)

3. Some Days You Gotta Dance – Dixie Chicks (Fly)

4. Little Comfort – Beth Amsel (A Thousand Miles)

5. A Higher Place – Tom Petty (Wildflowers)

6. Not a Pretty Girl – Ani DiFranco (Live at Falcom Ridge 99)

7. Six O’Clock News – John Prine (Souvenirs)

8. Playin’ It Safe – Tracy Nelson (Move On)

9. From  a Balance Beam – Bright Eyes (Lifted or the Story is in the Soil)

10. Blue Orchid – The White Strips (Get Behind Me Satan)

Seen Live: The Dixie Chicks, John Prine, and Ani DiFranco.

Wish to see live: Bonnie Raitt (because I heart her) and Tracy Nelson (because her voice seems to soar effortlessly from her body.  I do hear that she’s a bit of a strange one, though).

Best song to run along Kelly Drive to: Blue Orchid by The White Strips.  This was the first song on my running mix when I was training for the Broad Street Run a couple of years ago.

The rest of the Random Players:

Ben
Brian
Howard
Jeff

Something happened today that firmly confirmed that I’m more Philadelphian than Portlander.  I was driving down West Burnside, the street that marks the divide between the north and south sides of the city.  I had just sold a bunch of books at Powell’s and was feeling pretty good about it.  Heading back to the east side of the river, I was enjoying the beautiful day and driving along.  All of the sudden, a man stepped out and started to cross the street.

It took me a second to realize what was going on, and I couldn’t believe that he would be bold enough to cross without a light.  I came to a screeching halt, sending the books in the back of the car flying.  He looked at me like I was a crazy person, which was when I realized that he was actually crossing at a crosswalk.  However, it was a crosswalk without a light or a flashing light or even a “Yield to Pedestrians” sign.  Just white painted strips on the street.

I have never seen a crosswalk in Philadelphia that was just white strips on asphalt.  It would be a death trap, because there’s no way anyone would actually stop.  But here, all you need to stop traffic is indicators painted on the street that it is a safe place for people to cross.  Because I haven’t seen anything like it in so long, it was momentarily unrecognizable to me.

I’ve had other moments this week when I’ve realized that my style of driving has gotten markedly more agressive since I moved to Philly, but this was the confirmation I needed that I have turned into an east coaster.   I’m afraid it might be irreversible.

I’m in Portland, OR right now, on the week off between the end of the spring semester and the start of my summer class.  However, it isn’t really a vacation.  I’m here to go through the stuff that’s mine in my parents’ house and do something with it.  For the last two days I’ve been pulling boxes out from underneath the eaves (and often banging my head repeatedly in the process), sorting through old letters, pictures and school papers and deciding what toys from my childhood I want to keep for the future.

The hardest part of it all has been the books.  In my lifetime I have acquired and read a huge number of books, and apparently I hardly ever got rid of any of them.  Some of the letting go has been easy, because a while back my parents’ garage developed a leak, right where a stack of boxes were placed.  They sat there, peacefully mildewing for at least three years.  So into the garbage they went.  Other choices haven’t been as easy.  Every book takes me back to a moment in time, either sitting on the floor of the book section of my favorite thrift store, or tucked into bed with a flashlight, trying to fool my parents into thinking that I was actually asleep.

And yet, there’s also a high that comes from getting rid of things and so I am constantly fluxuating between excited to be free of all the stuff, totally overwhelmed by the amount of work still to be done and a little weepy at the thought of releasing so much of my childhood.

Scott sent an email out to the group of us who work on Fork You today, with a link to an article in the Spokesman Review, the Spokane, WA newspaper.  The article was titled “Video bloggers serve offbeat food TV” and features Fork You fairly prominantly, which is pretty darn cool.

For an appetizer along those lines, sample the amusing Fork You. Billed as “Food with Philadelphia Charm,” this vlog scores, thanks to the delightful duo of Scott and Marisa. She’s a graduate of Whitman College in Walla Walla who really knows how to cook. He’s a lovable hipster doofus who’s described on the site as “very idiotic.”

I was particularly amused that they stressed the fact that I went to college in Walla Walla, I guess they needed to give our show some Eastern Washington connection.  Hey, it works for me.

From the airplane yesterday, as I flew into Portland. I sometimes forget when I’m away why people live here, but then I remember. It’s because it is beautiful here. As we were flying over Eastern Oregon, the low foothills looked like crushed velvet, as the green of new growth started to peek out from the red dirt.

My sister was in town and stopped by to be a special Fork You guest, as well as write out brand new theme song. I promise you’ll be entertained by this one, and learn how to make some really spectacular roasted root vegetables.