For History's Sake

I’m becoming a runner. Yes, you read that right. Me – running – voluntarily and with joy - after years of scorning those light-footed, vegan-looking folk for their masochistic self-righteousness. No, fanged and famished creatures are not chasing me. I’ll give you a moment to check the temperature in Hades.

My reasons are legion and most are self-evident. I won’t bore you with the ramblings of yet another aspiring middle-aged runner. That said, I should mention that my wife started ahead of me and I can’t let her beat me, nor make her suffer through my early death due to the unmitigated effects of beer and Netflix. That latter point’s just as important I’m also starting to feel the wear and tear of my (ill-spent) 36 years and want to rediscover the immense satisfaction and wonder at knowing the capabilities and limits of one’s own body. Competitive swimming tore up my shoulder, AND requires access to a pool. With running all I need are shoes and a path. As such I’m off and running…and sweating…and learning the intricate details of my local track and surrounding parkland. The various plaques, best spots to stretch or stash a water bottle, and under which bushes I’m likely to see a homeless person emerge from. Fun stuff.

I should also mention that 2010 will be the 2,500th anniversary of the Battle of Marathon, and I just can’t let a good anniversary go uncelebrated. With 26 mile-long street parties all over the world, such an event can’t be ignored!

Do you know what time it is?

I've been absent for a while. There's something about summer in the higher latitudes that makes one want to bathe in every last photon available before the clouds come and the drizzle begins. Some of you will understand, the rest can enjoy your perky little lives in Arizona.

ANYWAY. I'm here to talk about tomorrow's big event. You know, Alban Elfed, Cornucopia, the Feast of Avilon, the Festival of Dionysus, the Harvest Tide, Mabon, Night of the Hunter, the Second Harvest Festival, the Wine Harvest, otherwise known as the Witch's Thanksgiving. What? You still don't know what I'm talking about? It's the Autumnal Equinox, silly.

To be more specific, the Autumnal Equinox hits Oregon on September 22, 2009 at precisely 2:18pm PST. Were YOU aware it was happening, right under your nose even? More importantly, do you even care? For most of us this is simply a curiosity, unless of course you leave at higher latitudes and in a rainy state. (Can you tell I'm starting to miss the sun?)

Historically, such solar events have gone unnoticed in my mind, or noticed only after the event has long since passed. Heck, I wouldn't be surprised if I was the only one at my office who noticed tomorrow's event, largely because we don't have to in our modern age. Yet there was a time when one's livelihood, nay one's soul revolved around these changes in the sun. Ancient monuments like Stonehenge, Newgrange, the Loughcrew Cairn, and the Chaco Sun Dagger continue to mark these transitions in both time and space. I've visited each of these and many more that possess a power to connect me in a very visceral way to the spiritual and scientific experiences of my distant ancestors.

Thankfully my perspective is changing due to a quirk of architecture that prompts me to remember my woad covered forefathers at the cusp of fall and the arrival of summer. For 250 days a year our bedroom can only receive indirect light, and serves as the perfect den for this hibernating bear. Yet on the days surrounding the equinoxes a beam of light is cast directly through the kitchen window, down the hall, and onto my side of the bed where it bathes me in a bright morning light for which there is no description. I'm not just waking but feel reborn! Or just blinded if my sleep quotient is low. I'd like to think that this was an intentional design decision, like the barrow tombs of Ireland or the window placement in the Spanish missions of old California and New Mexico, but that would be romanticizing the builder more than he deserves.

I wonder how this world would look if our modern religions were focused less on an abstract god that everyone fights over, and more on the regular cycles of nature and the planets. A calendar that the spiritual and the atheists could agree on, could engineer into our personal and public architecture, and find common ground on. A world where we argue about how best to celebrate these transitions, instead of asinine textual preferences and the appropriate level of bigotry and oppression to be directed at non-conforming groups or the female gender. Ah well, I can't changer the world, but I can welcome that beam of light.

Then and Now

My present neighborhood is nothing like those I grew up in. This should not be construed as a criticism, just something I’m reminded of every time I encounter urban funkiness that did not exist in the natural(ish) areas of my youth. With a few exceptions, most of my childhood homes were on the suburban edge of whatever city we happened to be living in. Empty lots, half built tract homes, and remnant woodlands became my playground and a stark counterpoint to the brand new houses and manicured lawns that were quickly encroaching on these areas. These neighborhoods were populated by families or retirees, often military and almost always native born Americans, and I never wanted for playmates of my own age.

Fast forward 20 years and my playground is a hip historic district in inner Portland, populated almost entirely by childless 20 and 30-somethings. There are no almond orchards or empty lots, just century old street trees and aged buildings being constantly reinvented and retrofitted to suit its ever changing denizens. Old Churches are now brew-pub/movie theaters and aged industrial buildings are now synagogues or swank tapas joints with bristled boar legs on display. Russian and Japanese tongues are frequently heard, not to mention the bits of Spanish that spill out of restaurant kitchens. As for children, you’ll see none except for those being bused to the adjacent Catholic school or the children’s theater across the street (also located in an old church). Older adults are either attending one of several cathedrals or synagogues within walking distance of our home, or reside in nearby subsidized housing for disabled adults.

I mention this because my parents are visiting this weekend and they have a hard time comprehending this narrow demographic. In previous visits, they're constantly asking "where are the children and old people?" It's funny really, because I see them all the time. Just not in my immediate vicinity....usually at local restaurants, work, or other neighborhoods adjacent to my own. Or so I say, perhaps we're secretly cannibals...

Odessa

Odessa manifests itself in many ways. The biggest is a large port city in the Ukraine. This metropolis of over a million people was founded by the Ottomans in 1240 AD and lies on the balmy shores of the Black Sea. In the last century many of its Jews migrated to Brighton Beach, New York, renamed “Little Odessa” by the locals and memorialized in a Hollywood movie by the same name. It probably sounds more exotic than it is, but I'd still like to explore the black sea by boat and peer into ages past. This seems like a good place to stop along the way.

In quite a different part of the world lies Odessa, Texas. Situated between Pecos and Midland, this dusty town looms large in childhood memories associated with my late paternal grandparents. While they did not live close by, “Midland/Odessa” was the source of all television and radio channels that played in their modest household in Kermit. The entire region reeked of natural gas and horizons peppered with mesquite trees and oil derricks, both awful to see yet strangely comforting and reminiscent of a happy childhood. Even today i get warm fuzzies when I pass by oil fields. That said, I am very much a creature of the urbanized coastal cultures and I’d likely be run out of Odessa, texas for my heretical beliefs and choice of personal vehicles.

All of these cities are exotic and inaccessible in their own way due to language, culture, and geography. Which of course makes me that much more fascinated by them. As in dating, my level of interest is often in inverse proportion to the ease of accessibility and the odds of success in understanding a place (just ask my wife, she still doesn’t understand that common trait in men). But by far the coldest and hardest of all the Odessas I have known is a new employee at our local trading post. It’s not often one meets a person named Odessa, and if asked I bet you would envision an immigrant grandmother rather than a blonde 20-something hipster in Portland. Intrigued by her nametag, both my wife and I complimented her on the uniqueness of her name and attempted to strike up conversation, but all we got was a cold silence after a polite thank you. Not unfriendly, mind you, but there was a clear wall of impermeability and unwillingness to embrace outsiders that one would similarly expect from a West Texan or former cold war enemy. Alas, I (we?) some places and persons are destined to remain exotic outsiders in my life.

Keeping My Powder Dry

Adjusting to the Portland climate is turning out to be very similar to my experience of living in England.  During the winter you simply expect rain at some point during the day, knowing you'll get wet regardless of how the sky looks as you drink that first cup of coffee.  The rest of the year you don't expect rain, but do get used to being wet.  I no longer blink.

Full Service Salon

This is a test

This is a test of the emergency burrito system. This is only a test.
Were this an actual emergency, you would be directed to the nearest
taqueria and provided your choice of red or green sauces.

Now I'm jealous

I used to think that Utilikilts were the hottest functional clothing out there. Pockets and pouches in an un-bifurcated package that makes women ask all sorts of questions.

Well guys, parties over.  Ladies have their own gear now: tactical corsets.   Just watch out for that interrogation package.

The legacies we leave

My grandfather was larger than life. He was a big man with a sharp intellect, a sharper sense of humor, and a loooong memory. Must be those Prussian genes that, fortunately for my wife and friends, were diluted once they reached me. He was the quintessential depression-era farm kid and career navy man who retired to the good life in San Diego, the "land of perfect weather" as he used to say.  

I never knew Charles as a young man, being his grandson and all, but I will forever remember him for two traits that we all had to deal with in his later years. First, he was frugal to the point of ridiculousness and would risk social harmony or good manners to save a penny. Guests were often treated to the famous Costco hot dog special ($1.50 for a dog and a drink) rather than a nice meal out. Though to be fair he was a darn good cook, particularly when grilled meat was involved. Second, he loved tradition and had a long list of favorite sayings that the family still quotes to this day.  

Grandpa's most famous saying was that fish and guests smell after three days. This tied into his sense of propriety, as well as a deep-seated desire to be independent and self-reliant at all times and in all matters.  His second most famous saying was never skimp on shoes, tires, or a mattress.  His logic was that we're always relying on one of those three to get us around or through the next day, and to not pay for quality was to risk the health and productivity of both yourself and your family.  

It was this latter saying that kept popping into my head as I bought new tires today. A solid brand, not too expensive, and recommended by Consumer Reports (the periodical that guided my Grandfather's every purchase).  This is not something you normally spend a lot of time thinking about, but we recently buried my grandfather at Arlington National Cemetery and I'm still processing the loss. Alzheimer's had taken it's toll and it was definitely his time, but I miss him still and he's in my thoughts more often then not. Yesterday, I even had a Costco hot dog in his honor. I'm not a  believer in spirits or the afterlife, but somehow I felt his approval as I pulled out my Costco card.  

Opening the door...

The act of blogging has become quite commonplace these past few years. People blog about everything, from their life on Saville Row to cute animals falling asleep, in the hope that others may read or even comment upon their own personal storyboards.   All of this is part of a larger trend to not only self-publish, but to involve yourself in the content of nearly any website available to you. One not only reads the news, but is invited to comment on the reporter's story, no matter how asinine the comments.  We not only buy an Apple product, we participate in Apple sanctioned discussion boards to self-congratulate and troubleshoot the occasional bug or operator error.   Heck, I wonder what's going to happen when we start publishing the Bible for all to read?  Wait, Herr Gutenburg and Herr Luther have already had a go at it.  I guess we're safe on that one.

This voyeuristic relationship of observer-participant is similar to my own enjoyment of everyday urban living, and with that the inevitable exploration of new places without any set plan or expectation. A leisurely stroll both immersive and anonymous, simultaneously professional and personal, given my life and work as an urbanist.   Hence the name of my blog.

Through this blog I hope to share the overlooked and the largely unknown bits of my life and daily experiences...whatever they may be, and wherever I may find them.  I also invite you to post your reactions and own stories.  This is particularly targeted to those of you too far away to regularly crack open a bottle with, and I hope that this helps us keep in closer touch.  This assumes, of course, that you can continue to endure my strange and ongoing obsessions with obscure libations and mess-inducing endeavors in the kitchen.  After all, this is not just about the city, but includes that which I gather and drag back into my cave.

One last thing. I should say that the concept of Flaneur has no equivalent translation in the English language.  Wikipedia has a good entry should you want to know more.