I arrived in Portland still fragile from the wretched illness. Sara K had arranged a a Super Bowl party (she claimed in my honor, though that might have been “irony”). The queasiness I felt was largely due to a bad batch of gumbo, but was partly also emotional. The Chicken House: another lost refuge, more people I love and never see.
Marisa picked us up at the train station and as we drove through the NE quadrant of the city I marveled once again at how my old neighborhood has changed. All the houses (except mine) have been painted! There are condominiums, boutiques, cafes, even upscale taquerias!
The only thing I recognize about the place is the street names, and I’ve been gone so long that is no longer a useful method of navigation.
Marisa wondered if I would like to stop at my house, but I don’t know the people living there now. This is peculiar; I’ve owned it since 1997, and Gabriel lived there from 2002 until last summer. I think of it as my home, even eight years after moving away.
Another obscurity – if Portland is home, why don’t I live there?
I don’t know the answer. I just know that my desire to go back is equal to my inclination to run away.
Enough with the tormented philosophizing! It is just good to be with my friends. I miss them:
