Snow!

Seventeen days in Breckenridge. And it has snowed on nearly every one of those days. Snow. The kind that's big and wet and juicy. The kind that sticks in your hair and melts on your tongue. Snow. The kind that's pellets pinging on your coat and bouncing on the frozen ground. The kind that's fairy feather light, or winter whirling psychedelic into your windshield. The kind that fills the whole world white. Snow!

We wake up in the middle of the night and peek through the blinds, whispering to each other, "it's snowing,"as if it is something mysterious and secret and ours alone. We take out our phones and take pictures and get back in bed smiling. In the morning there is a fresh thick layer over everything, and when we step outside we are the first ones in the untouched universe, making footprints before anyone else is up.

Everything is muffled and magical and I feel like I'm ten years old,

tromping through the snow in the first boots I have owned in thirty years.

We take the dogs to Boreas Pass. We're running and playing and falling into drifts. I'm a kid, and every thought has left my brain. And if ever there is a time when I am in the moment it is now,
frolicking in the snow with the two big labs on this crisp cold Colorado day.
And it feels like Christmas and it feels like life and it feels like everything.

Boreas Pass, Breckenridge, Colorado

Broken Open

Berlioz didn't break me open, but Bach did.  The beauty of the Columbia River Gorge didn't break me open, but 'birds flying upward over the mountain' did.  Maybe I break too easily.  Or maybe the cracks appear to let the good things in.

There were a lot of good things in Portland.  One of them was music.  Gary and I went to the symphony while we were there.  We went to the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall downtown, the one that is on the National Register of Historic Places, the one that is all done up in Italian Rococo style.  A place where you sit there feeling sort of grand and sort of cozy all at the same time.  We went to hear Berlioz's 'Symphonie Fantastique'.  There were other things on the program too, but it was really all about the Berlioz.  It is a symphony that tells a story.  The last movement is supposed to depict a 'Witches' Sabbath' and the percussionists owned it.  Two sets of timpani battering away in the back, crescendoing until there was nowhere else to go and everyone was on their feet.  Gary was on his feet.  I was on my feet.  I wasn't broken open, but the drums had beaten their way into my body and at the end I was cheering with everyone else.

And there was more music.

Jeremy came over to 'our' house and brought his guitar.

He knew his mother was going to ask him to play.  And sing.  And I did.  And he did.  He played every song I asked for.  Even the ones he didn't really know.  We looked up lyrics, and I don't know how he did it, but somehow the right chords were always in the right places, and every song sounded like it was supposed to sound.  And I asked him to play that Iron and Wine song that I love, the one that has some words that go like this:

Mother don't worry, I killed the last snake that lived in the creek bed

Mother don't worry, I've got some money I saved for the weekend

Mother remember being so stern with that girl who was with me

Mother remember the blink of an eye when I breathed through your body

So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten

Sons are like birds flying upwards over the mountain

And as he was singing his voice broke and he stopped.  And he looked at me and laughed and said, 'this is a good song'.  And my eyes filled up.  And I was broken open.

There was music in Portland and there was walking.  Gary and Jeremy and I walked along Waterfront Park down by the Willamette River.  There were giant metal bridges everywhere and the cherry blossom trees were in full bloom, their pink petals falling all around us.

And I don't remember what we were talking about, but it somehow prompted Jeremy to say, 'Novelty is overrated.  What most people want is comfort and familiarity.'  And maybe he was right, because later Gary and I went driving around Portland looking at houses for sale, joking about giving up the adventure and settling down.  We both knew we weren't done wandering yet, but there we were driving around dreaming of homes.  And comfort.  And familiarity.  And thinking about where we might end up one day.

And then one day Jason appeared in Portland.  We went to pick up Jeremy at his apartment and Jason opened the door instead.  He had come to Portland to surprise us, so that the four of us could be together in the same place for the first time in three years.  So for three days Gary and Jeremy and Jason and I were together in Portland.  We went to the farmer's market at PSU, where there were flowers and nuts and apples and chocolate for sale, and I wanted to buy everything I saw because it all looked so good.  We walked downtown and ate at Cheryl's on 12th.  When we left the restaurant I was freezing, because I hadn't worn the right clothes, so we stopped at Ross and Jeremy bought me some socks.  And a sweater that made me look like a mushroom.  We walked down to the river and on our way to the famous  Saturday Market we stopped and smiled for the camera:

Jason, Jeremy, Lisa, Gary

And then Jeremy had to go to work.

And the rest of us wandered around some more taking pictures of famous buildings.

The Portland Building

And azaleas.

I think.

Then we took Jason back to the house where we were house-sitting and ordered pizza.  And it wasn't just a house.  It was our home.  Because when we sold our house on Kauai we told the kids that from now on, home would be wherever we were.  And there we were.  And it was home.

And then it was Jason's last day in Portland and the four of us went looking for a waterfall.  On the way we stopped at the famous lookout, the Vista House, and we looked out.

The Columbia River Gorge

We read about the visionary engineer and landscape architect that had designed the famous highway through the gorge.  And then we found our waterfall and took the little hike to the top.

Latourell Falls

And everything was beautiful, because the Columbia River Gorge is one of the most beautiful places there is.  But somehow that day it didn't get in, because I knew what was coming next.

The four of us ate one more meal together and then we dropped Jason off at the airport.  He walked away reluctantly, his shoulders drooping, and then he turned around and watched us.  And I think he stood there watching until he couldn't see us anymore.  And we didn't know when we would see him next.  And he didn't know when he would see us next.  And my eyes filled up.  And we drove away.

A few days later, Gary and Jeremy and I went to see Bach's 'St. John Passion' at the Trinity Episcopal Cathedral in downtown Portland.  And there was glorious German music echoing everywhere inside that vaulted space.  And when the alto soloist sang Es ist vollbracht - 'It is finished' - the world stood still, and the silence was everywhere inside me and there was nowhere else for it all to go but out my eyes and down my cheeks, leaking into the world.  And in the quiet of the cathedral I was looking for a kleenex.  Jeremy on my left silently turned a page of his book, and I knew that he had missed it.  But Gary on my right had not.  And I was broken open.  And something got in through the cracks.

And soon it was time to say goodbye to Jeremy too.

We fed our hungry child one more time.

India House, downtown Portland

Because it always feels good to feed your hungry children.  And then we dropped him off at his apartment and stood there hugging each other in the parking lot.  And Jeremy wouldn't let me go for a long time.  And we didn't know when we would see him next.  And he didn't know when he would see us next.  And my eyes filled up.  And we drove away.

And everything is messy and you never know if you are doing the right thing.  Or if there even is a right thing.  If leaving your family and wandering around is the right thing.  Or if it is just a thing.  And your grown up children can still break you open, the ones that came through your body, and the ones that did not.  The ones that were with you in Portland, and the ones that are far away across the ocean.  And Bach can break you open.  And books and beauty and this confusing world.  And you never want to stop being broken open, because so much can get in through the cracks.

We went to see the movie Birdman while we were in Portland.  A movie about people trying to love each other.  About the mess we all make of things.  About art and magic.  About people being broken and about people soaring.  And there is that scene at the end where the father is flying (or is he?) and his daughter is left behind, and she is smiling.  She is standing there watching her father soar, and she is smiling.

* * * * * * * * *

Spoiler Alert:  There are probably as many interpretations of the ending of 'Birdman' as there are people that see it.  In my opinion Riggan didn't kill himself, he killed Birdman, and in the process gained everything, including the love and respect of his daughter who can now watch him fly free of his past.

Same Song, Second Verse

You know you are in

when one of the biggest tourist attractions in town is a bookstore.

A bookstore that is home to more than one million books.
A bookstore where they don't just have a section for fiction, they have a whole room.
And where there are all these eloquent and pithy descriptions of books on little pieces of paper attached to the shelves. Descriptions which cause you to start making lists on your phone of all the books you are pretty sure you are probably really going to read someday. And in spite of a small feeling of despair in the pit of your stomach at the sight of all the books you are pretty sure you are probably really never going to read,
you still feel compelled to try.
And so you purchase more of these:

 Even though you really don't have any more room in this:




And later, as you are wandering through the neighborhoods, 
you stumble across several of these:

And you discover that these are a thing.
A tiny neighborhood lending library designed to "nurture literacy and camaraderie."
And you learn that these little boxes have been appearing in neighborhoods around the city
for nearly twenty years.

And you know you are in Portland
when the people you are house-sitting for created this in their backyard:

 An urban co-housing ecovillage,
complete with chickens and vegetable gardens and communal meals.

And when you take sweet Molly the rat terrier

for a walk,



in the Cully neighborhood you are calling home for three weeks, 
a neighborhood located in a city that is home to more than 600,000 people, 
you only have to walk two doors down to see this:



and a few steps later this:



and a little farther down the road this:



Every other house seems to have raised beds in their front yard, 
and piles of black compost in the driveway waiting to be worked into those beds.  
And everyone seems to be out in their yards planting their spring gardens, 
and cleaning up after winter.  
And everywhere you look there are chicken coops and plastic growing tunnels and bamboo trellises.

And even a goat.




And you have to remind yourself that you are only about 40 blocks away from this:



Your son who is walking with you says it feels like somewhere in West Virginia,
even though you are pretty sure he has never even been to West Virginia.

And even though Bea, your temporary cat, is heavily medicated:



You are not.

Although you probably could be.



But you already feel so calm.
Surrounded by all these gardens and books.
And the people that care about them.

You Know You Are In Portland

You know you are in

when you go to get a sweet treat after lunch,

and in response to the question,
Do you make your own ice cream?
the scooper person in the truck says,
Yes.
The milk starts with 600 Holstein cows roaming free on 3000 acres.
...pause... 
In Oregon.

And as you are walking back to your car,
through tidy neighborhoods of cute craftsman bungalows,
you come across this planted next to someone's driveway:

And a little later this:

And then you look down and notice this:

And your son that lives in the city says he thinks there is something going on here with toy horses.
And when you get home you look it up on your computer and find out he is right.
And that something is an artist who wanted to draw attention
to the old horse tethering rings on curbs throughout the city.
An artist who said, I loved the rings, and felt that people just weren't noticing them.
This was an attempt to shake people out of their routines and get them to notice their surroundings.

And somehow you just know you are in Portland.

North on the 101

We leave behind our clippers and our shovels, and our shivering sojourns across the moonlit grass, and drive north on the 101. Open rolling hills with vineyards give way to towering trees, and trucks filled with loads of giant logs. We pass through tiny towns, and trailer encampments tucked among the redwoods, everything dripping and mossy and green. Small sodden shacks are hidden everywhere, smoke trailing out of chimneys, trash melting in yards. I picture shotguns leaning in corners, rabbit pelts dangling from rafters, and butchered deer stockpiled in freezers. I imagine outlaws and survivalists and fugitives from civilization of every make and model. I hear banjos in my head.

We stop in Arcata for the night, home to Humboldt University. A sweetly pungent herbal odor permeates the air. The Howard Johnson's feels like a five star luxury retreat. I take a long hot shower and let the water just run. When I get up in the middle of the night I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the proximity of the modern and miraculous motel plumbing. No outerwear required.

The next day the road climbs up high over rivers and streams. Sunlight filters through dense forests. The highway hugs the coast as we cross into Oregon. Every bend in the road is more beautiful than the last. It's windy and rocky and wild. Campgrounds and parks are everywhere. Chainsaw wood carvings are for sale in the stores.

We arrive at The Itty Bitty Inn in North Bend, and Rik the innkeeper greets us with open arms. He bustles us into our room and makes sure everything is just so. He whisks away the vase with the Oregon flowers and fills it with fresh water. He notices our Oregon chocolate sample is missing and scurries away for a new one. He explains how the coffee in the little glass jar was freshly ground that morning, and that if we prefer a French press to the drip coffee maker that he has one we can use. He calls us by our first names, and talks with his hands. He is passionately exuberantly and genuinely glad that we have come to spend the night at his inn. Gary tells him stories about our work exchange and Rik wraps him in a bear hug and says, "Duuude! Welcome home."

And the next day, as we're checking out, Rik tells Gary, "Duude, you should move here, the real estate's cheap, you could open some kind of eco-tourist place." And his hug is so long and so strong and so real that we tell him we'll be back to visit one day. He says, "Duude, I'm so glad you came." And our waitress at breakfast is so attentive and kind that we write her a note to say thank you. And the light is just right as we drive that day through the ravishing valley of the river named Umpqua.

Rik and Gary

The Pacific Coast Highway

The truth is that I got a little carsick on the Pacific Coast Highway.  Not puking on the side of the road carsick.  Just sitting as still as you can trying not to move your head or look around too much hoping it will go away carsick.  I think I have some inner ear issues.  I used to get seasick bobbing in the water at the edge of the ocean.  And I really can't do boats.  But it was totally worth it.  The Pacific Coast Highway that is.  It is as beautiful as everyone says it is.

We have been up and down this road four times in the last three years.  The first time was after Jason graduated from SciArc in 2012.  Gary, Jason and I took a road trip from Los Angeles to San Francisco.  Then we did the crazy fly to Los Angeles and buy a Jetta and drive it to San Bruno trip in the fall of 2014.  The third time was San Bruno to L.A. in February of this year.  And then this last time, going the opposite way, from L.A. to Napa.  It is starting to feel almost familiar, this winding road on the edge of the ocean.  And it is always stunning, even in the fog.

We seem to have always driven Highway 1 in the off season.  Which is probably good.  I imagine long lines of cars in the summer on the narrow twisty road.  I imagine tailgaters wanting to go fast, when you might want to go slow.  This last trip up the coast we did one night in Pismo Beach, where we practically had the whole town to ourselves.  We did some sleeping and some eating and some walking.  Nothing major to report.  The biggest news of the day was stopping in Cayucos to buy some brown butter cookies.  Brown butter cookies are cookies worth stopping for.

The second night on the road we stayed in a place we have wondered about every time we have driven by.  A place called Lucia Lodge.  The lodge is tiny and sits out on a cliff in Big Sur.  There are only 10 rooms.  Four of them are little cabins perched out there on the edge overlooking the ocean.

We reserved cabin #7 - the fourth one in from the end.  This was going to be our big splurge.  It was 'mid-season' according to their website, and they were charging $255 for one night.  We were hoping the experience would match the price.

Check-in was 3:00 and we wanted to take advantage of all the time we could on the edge of the cliff.  To enjoy the view.  And the peace and quiet.  The lodge has pictures online of people sitting in Adirondack chairs looking serenely out at the ocean.  We wanted to be those people.  We planned our arrival for right around 3 and went to get our key.  Sweet Avalon checked us in, and as we were heading out the door to find our cabin casually remarked, 'Oh, by the way, there is a little construction going on down there.  If you have any problems, please let me know.  I'll be here until 7.'

Now we are nice people, and don't like to make a fuss, but cabins nine and ten were being completely gutted.  There were power saws and hammers and construction guys walking past our door to the parking lot next to our cabin.  It soon became obvious that there would be no serene sitting.  We hiked back up the road and talked to sweet Avalon.  We were polite.  Just disappointed.  We almost packed up and drove on down the road.  But Avalon talked to her boss on the walkie talkie and they decided we could have dinner on the house and that they would comp half the price of the room.  We decided to stay.  We went back to our cabin and listened to the tile-cutting saw they had stationed outside.  We listened to the workmen spitting as they walked by on the way to their trucks.  We listened to all the sounds of a construction site for 3 hours.  And then we walked around the property and up the hill in the back to watch the sunset.  I tried to focus on all the good things around me.  I tried to let the rest go.

The noise stopped a little after 6.  And then we had a lovely dinner in the restaurant overlooking the ocean.  There were 2 other couples eating when we arrived, but after a few minutes they left, and we had the whole dining room to ourselves.  There was a fireplace and a friendly waitress.  After dinner we walked back to the cabin and had a little more wine.  It was quiet and dark and peaceful.  There was a coyote howling in the hills.  There was a flame in the gas fireplace.  We were glad we had stayed.

Next morning sweet Avalon's boss was at the checkout desk.  She was the one with all the power.  We shared our experience with her.  In a nice way of course.  And sweet Avalon's boss decided to comp our entire bill.  Except for the wine we had at dinner.  So the entire cost of our night on the cliff in Big Sur was equal to the cost of a few glasses of wine.  And a few days later, when Gary finally listened to his backlog of phone messages, we realized that the lodge had actually called to tell us about the construction, and ask if we wanted to reschedule our stay.  I felt bad.  But not that bad.

So, if you haven't driven the Pacific Coast Highway, it is definitely worth putting on the list.  Even if you get carsick.  And if you ever need to get hold of Gary, do not call and leave a message.  Text him.  And, most of all, remember to look for the good things in the middle of all the noise.

Big Sur selfie

In Los Angeles

There are a lot of cars in Los Angeles.  And a lot of people.  And there are a lot of people driving cars in Los Angeles.  There are a lot of things to do and see in Los Angeles.  And a lot of people doing and seeing them.  We were in Los Angeles driving our car and doing things and seeing things for nineteen days.  But that is not why we went there.  We didn't go to L.A. to drive around and do things.  We went there to hang out with Jason and Ana and experience what their life was like for a little while.  And we did that.  We felt a little bit of what it is like to live where they live and do what they do.  But we drove around and did stuff too.

We went to the Huntington Botanical Gardens and Art Collection in Pasadena

and saw beautiful famous paintings

and incredible assortments and arrangements of plants. 

There were photo opportunities at every step and so much to see that when closing time came we had to run to find the Blue Boy before we were kicked out.

Afterwards we ate at a build your own pizza place the kids really like called Blaze.

We went to Chinatown and saw things we did not understand.

We went to Olvera Street in the historic El Pueblo district and saw stalls packed with colorful things to buy.  We went to Avila Adobe, the oldest house in L.A., and read about the history of the city.  We drank Mexican juice and sat on the square and listened to the flutes in the band play Simon and Garfunkel.

We walked downtown and ate at the Nickel Diner.

We went into The Last Bookstore and spent a sleepy afternoon reading in the L.A. library.

We went to Los Feliz and ate at Fred 62 and saw Whiplash at Jason and Ana's favorite old teeny tiny movie theater and went into a bookstore with a tree growing in the middle of it.

We went to the recently gentrified Grand Central Market and ate at Eggslut and then went across the street and climbed the stairs next to the Angels Flight up to the little park where they filmed 500 Days of Summer, but you couldn't go sit on the famous bench because there was a fence to keep people out.

We drove to Malibu and went to beautiful Point Dume State Beach.  Ana and I sat on the beach talking while Jason and Gary went in the freezing cold water and surfed.  Jason on a board, Gary not.  Neither one had a wet suit.  Both survived.

And there were a lot of cars.  And a lot of people.  And a lot of people driving cars.  And it seemed like everything took just a little bit longer and was just a little bit harder and just a little bit more tiring because of all the cars.  And all the people.  And because at the back of your mind you knew that when you got home you would have to find a parking spot.  We learned a lot about parking spots.

We learned about red curbs and green curbs and when it was okay to park by the meters and when you had to move your car so they could clean the street.  We learned that the two lane street next to Jason's building was called the 'river' and the four lane street a block away was called the 'ocean'.  We learned that it was okay to park across the river and less okay if you had to park way across the ocean.  We learned about 'forever' spots where you could leave your car for days and about 'sharks' circling the blocks looking for open spaces.  We learned about wives taking out their lawn chairs to sit on the street and save spots for their husbands when they were on their way home from work.  We watched Jason look out his windows checking for spots when his girlfriend was on her way home.  If he saw a good one we saw him go outside and stand in it until she got there.

And all of this was good.  And all of this was interesting and new and different.  And all of this gave us a little better feel for L.A. and what it is.  And there were even better things.

Like the look of pure joy on Jason's face when he got out of the ocean at Point Dume.  Like sitting on the ancient red leather couch in the lobby of Jason's building after too many days of doing too many things and Jason coming to sit by me and both of us sitting quietly next to each other working on our computers.  Like the kids cooking their famous 'taco Tuesday' tacos for us.  Like my new favorite candy that Ana bought for us to try.  A candy that reminded her of her childhood growing up half in Mexico and half in Texas, and reminded me of the caramel frosting on the birthday cakes my mom made for me every year when I was growing up.  A candy called jamoncillo.

Like the night Jason was sad and I started playing his piano and then he joined me and then everyone was singing Hawaiian hymns and he wasn't sad anymore.  Like sitting by the open windows of the apartment every night watching the life of the street three stories below.  Like how it rained in L.A. where it never rains and Jason grabbed his bucket and put on his raincoat and went out in the rain to wash his car parked there on the street.  Like celebrating Jason's birthday with him for the first time in a very long time.  Like standing in the street in front of the apartment building on our last day there saving a prime parking spot while Gary ran to get the car.  How I stood there in the street as if it was something I did all the time and how brave I felt when I saw a shark circling and I stood my ground and how suddenly I felt like I was part of it all.

We didn't come to Los Angeles to go sight-seeing.  We came to Los Angeles to experience it.  We didn't come on the adventure to go sight-seeing.  We came on the adventure to collect experiences.  On one of our first nights in L.A. we parked the car and then found a better spot and reparked the car and everyone got out and then Gary got back in and adjusted the car some more so that it wouldn't be in a red zone or a green zone and we wouldn't get a ticket and everyone was standing on the sidewalk shivering in the dark in Westlake and Jason looked at me and said 'mom, you gave up your house for this', and in my mind I was thinking, strange as it may seem, that this is exactly what we gave up our house for.

The reason we came to Los Angeles

There will probably be some sight-seeing too.