Portland Journal February 2016
Journal, Glenn Feole
2/6/2016 Portland Journey
I am leaving for a medical conference in Portland, Oregon. Seven days! I’ve always wanted to see Portland…yoga, tea shops, a drum circle tonight, music. I am a child of the 70’s and miss the peace-seeking, communal, music loving hippie Woodstock generation. A magical time of love and hope.
Portland Poem on my Birthday
At sixty four I am going
West raised in Westerly
now leaving the East
a pilgrimage to Portland in search of golden elixir
I rise up at 4 a.m. the day dark the room cold
and see wrinkles on my fair skin caught
in the soft light of an elegant shower
ineluctable thick glass encasing me, claw foot bathtub
waiting in silence I let the steaming water
caress me, eyes closed as I go
elsewhere the purple scented shampoo says
‘age defying’ and I am transported
to college days Elysian fields of green
the silent peaceful gaze of young women
golden Kalypsos
the plane now rocking my body gently, lulling me
the horizon visible ahead
a diffuse pink that merges, suffuses gradients of
light blue clouds on the earth’s rim
calling to me
a siren’s call as I unleash myself
from my seat gazing
forward.
2/6/16 8 p.m. I am at “Bunk Bar,” a cool bar in East Portland, to see a three women, one man group called Frog Eyes. The bar is an intimate venue with great atmosphere – on the menu are vegan sandwiches, spicy cucumber and a pickle plate appetizer. It took me perhaps an hour to walk here from my funky hotel on 11th Ave (the “Ace Hotel”). Walking across the long Hawthorne Bridge (yet far from the Hawthorne of Massachusetts) I thought I would be alone in the cold darkness over the black Willamette River below, wine dark but a glittering surface rippling in the cold wind. There was a steady stream of people, all in coats and knit winter hats, most men with beards, all the women attractively scruffy with worn jeans and the ubiquitous hiking boots. Everyone is lean with muscled legs similar to San Francisco. The healthy Portland look strikes a chord in my heart…14 long years in the clinics of South Carolina and I never saw anyone wearing a coat…most people obese, whereas in 7 days in Portland I saw perhaps two or three obese people. Everyone’s hair is disheveled and wind-blown and all the more good-looking for it. Beards everywhere, of all descriptions and lengths; hair knotted in the back or on top of the head, and cheeks with a healthy flush. I feel alive.
The shops are eclectic. One small store had art, good art, everywhere. A 10 x 10 foot collection of small 3x3 inch squares of paper, stapled side by side, with myriad marks from a manual typewriter, resulting in a stately beautiful woman of Grecian antiquity. The neighboring jewelry store had it’s own record label (Loving Empire) with CD’s and records of local Portland bands. I told the young woman that I was here also to experience Portland music, having fallen in love with some of the bands I had heard while at SXSW festival in Austin, Texas. When I mentioned Fleet Foxes (from Seattle), she let out a moan of ecstasy. Sympatico. A young woman came in asking for the latest Typhoon CD…she loves the band, so I bought the CD as well. She told me that the two music venues that I had been to (Bunk Bar and Mississippi Studios) were her favorites in all of Portland. Some of the jewelry in the store has a turquoise stone in the middle. When I complemented it, she said was lapis. On the plane here, 6 ½ hours in the air, I read about 1/3 of The Odyssey, making notes, circling poetic phrases…one of which was a mention of lapis lazuli. So, Homer knew what lapis was 3,000 years before I (and the young girl) did. The circle of life…
Some stores I saw: The Penny Diner with a large rotating copper Penny on the sign. ( I informed the nurses at work that Penny, or Penelope, was the wife of Odysseus, a person of great beauty and strength of character, stubbornness. And Powell’s bookstore…words can barely describe the experience. To say that it covers a huge city block, has several stories, does not do justice to its enormity. It seemed to have dozens of color-coded rooms, each with an extensive collection, be it in literature (a new Moll Flanders for $3.98) to a rambling labyrinth of a children’s section, subdivide into a myriad of division (picture books, young adult, older young adult, pre-school, science, math). Most memorable of all were the scattering, like snow-flakes, of “staff recommendations”…”Powell’s best sellers,” “Powell’s recommends,” “if you liked this author, then…” each with an annotation, in depth, by a staff member. If I hadn’t given up my iphone for the 2nd time in a Luddite-inspired passion, I would have made a rapid stop-action video through all the rooms, I am sure, over a hundred turns, up and down steps. I am sure I will be spending the bulk of my seven days here, reading and collecting books. It was a thrill for me to hear snippets of conversations from readers of all ages, all bibliophiles, especially the children; two young girls, maybe ten or eleven, kneeling on the floor at the base of a huge bookcase devoted to young adult fiction, 100’s of titles and authors, each girl commenting excitedly on various authors and books that she loved, which ones they looked forward to reading. Young aficionados. This scene was replicated by teenagers in the classic literature section, by three year olds, dozens strewn across the floor in the children’s section, the Mother’s conversing with them as they picked out books. Women in deep concentration reading volumes of poetry. One of the most moving things I saw as a very young husband and wife, he with a large beard, his ascetic body lean, wire rim glasses, perhaps 30 years old, his wife with long brown hair, hiking boots, jeans. She was almost struggling as she held a huge cardboard box filled to the brim with books. I spotted James Joyce in there, Updike…) The husband was straining with two large recycling bags, bulging with books. They both had quiet, peaceful, happy smiles for each other. They were content, happy. What did I buy there? I limited myself to just a few paperbacks, Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, Dicken’s Great Expectations, and a collection of my favorite short stories by Chekhov (The Kiss, A Medical Case)… all for 3 or 4 dollars. I coveted an old hard back edition of Don Quixote translated with footnotes by Putnam. Only $12 and never to be seen again I would guess. When I would buy a book, the cashiers were gentle and knowledgeable. One man in his 30’s smiled and said, “Ahhh, Great Expectations…one of his best. My high school teacher said that I had to read this because It was so good. I had resisted but he was right. You are in for a harrowing ride!” The gentleness of what was said was as important and moving as his knowledge.
Leaving the airport, I took the above ground subway called The Tri Met or The MAX. It was spotless and fast; a far cry from New York City subways, although they had an appealing grittiness of their own. Coming into the city, the sky was a soothing overcast gray, the temperature was in the 40’s with a cool breeze. The muted hills, studded with evergreens, rolled by the windows in their Winter dignity, silent. In the distance, I could see Mount Hood, “our mountain” as a passenger told me. It was capped in pure white, a wise Nector honoring its gray hair. The Odyssey is filled with passages of youth, the hope and aggressiveness of the downy-faced young men is as it should be. An Odysseus, turned into a wrinkled, withered, bald old man at the stroke of Athena’s wand is also as it should be. We (meaning “I”) are all in need of smooth tongued, wise Nector’s words to calm the storm of our youth at times.
The band at Bunk Bar sets up…sound checks…they are young, lean, happy. Watched them laugh and share stories at a table for one hour before they played. I recall setting up for gigs with my band in New Jersey, 1975…forty-one years ago. I would love to read their journal forty-one years from now (2057) as they would then watch another young band setting up. It is not exactly bitter sweet to me; and yet it is bitter. Hs the passage of time ever not been so? I join the ranks of the millennia, mourning my lost youth and treasuring my joy. …it is sweet enough.
I had heard on NPR that Maurice White of Earth, Wind and Fire had just died. 74 years old. I was shocked and numb when I heard this, but it wasn’t until today In Portland, land of music, that I wept. He was one of the main reasons I had dropped out of medical school in 1974 – to play the powerful, strong bass lines of EWF and AWB music. But not just the power of the feeling. EWF was spiritual, part of my own spiritual quest. “You Can’t Hide Love.” “Reasons” “September” “Sing a Song” No drugs or alcohol, they meditated before playing . Miraculously, I had never had one drink or any drugs through college and my years of playing music. My journey was too important of a spiritual and philosophical quest for me. I identified with these bands. AWB’s messages were the same, “Got the Love” “Cloudy” “Pick Up the Pieces” (as in ‘pick up the pieces’) A time of love and compassion, a search for community and a better society. My own odyssey. His obit was moving, his last quote saying that it was a joy for him, a time of spiritual growth, of giving people hope.
At the medical conference, I brought The Odyssey with me. An older, white haired doctor in his 70’s noticed it and made a comment. He had a long pony tail and long white beard, and was incongruously muscular like a professional wrestler. He said with a smile, “Oh, you’re reading the Fitzgerald translation of The Odyssey.” He told me how he liked other translations, such as Lattimore. He asked if I had read The Illiad and I said that I had just finished it…the Lattimore translation, which was much more poetically stirring. He agreed as he broke into a long, moving quote. He said that he also “collects Don Quixote’s” and I told him that that was my favorite book. I had wept at the ending. He especially likes to read translations and has over a dozen Don Quixote’s. His favorite translation: by Putnam, with many cross referenced footnotes. He was from California, has four children and 8 grandchildren. He was a retired vascular surgeon from San Francisco.
Today, Wednesday, I sat next to Steve. He is in his late 70’s, a retired doctor from a small town in Washington State, population 4,000. His Father, now in his 90’s, was also a doctor and they had practiced together. Steve had long flowing white hair, a big smile, a raspy, terse John Wayne voice, a white goatee, wire rim glasses, wore a thick brown flannel shirt and jeans. We shared medical stories over lunch, having everyone in town know you, being adulated but having no personal time, being paid with food. He finally told me a long story about his training in Bethesda, Maryland. He was there instead of Children’s Hospital because of an experience he had with a patient who was an Admiral. The Admiral had stage IV metastatic colon cancer and nothing was going to help him. He was in the patient suite reserved for Presidents and dignitaries. President Eisenhower had stayed there. He was a kind man and the women nurses ‘mothered him to death” incessantly. The head nurse, a ‘battle axe,’ loved him Steve said. “She absolutely loved him.” He was craving male company though; he wanted to talk about hunting and fishing…the important things. They grew close. Steve had to start an i.v. once, a difficult but important job since he was on chemotherapy. He got the i.v. and that is when the Admiral, so grateful, asked Steve if he could stay and talk. From then on, the head nurse would bring the Admiral exquisite dinners and she also always just happened to bring an extra dinner of Steve.
The Admiral, despite his prognosis, was put on an aggressive and harsh course of chemotherapy as part of an ongoing research study. The oncology team wanted to keep him on the study no matter what…but Steve had other ideas. One day Steve, a new young resident, came in and asked him, “What keeps you going?” The Admiral was confused. Steve said that some people want a little extra time for a grand-daughter’s birthday, an anniversary. The Admiral said, “I thought they were trying to cure me.” The head nurse had been outside the door secretly listening. She loved the Admiral. She later grabbed Steve and =hugged him, thanking him for having that conversation with him. He needed to know and no one was going to tell him. Before he died, he told Steve that he had written a letter for him, thanking him and instructing the next Admiral and the entire Department of the Navy, to do whatever they could to be of help to Steve. As he told me this, the two of us sitting at the lunch table alone, the other doctor’s having finished and left, his eyes filled up and he could hardly get the words out as he started to cry.
Here are a few more “Steve” stories. We got to spend some time together, having a couple of lunches together and then one Thursday night he asked me “How about getting some dinner and then going to Powell’s book store?” We went to get some dinner at Whole Foods before that and just sat and told stories about our younger medical days and experiences, our successes and, more importantly, our failures. I told him about my mentor, Dr. Glenn Doan, a Family Doctor from Greenfield, Ohio, a small rural town, who was loved and adored there. He was very old, in his 70’s, and yet would make the hour trip into the big city, Cincinnati, to spend time with three naïve first year medical students at a run down clinic in the poor Appalachian part of town by the Ohio River. The image of his joy, laughter, huge smile, outstretched arms hugging the children, contrasted with the bleak surroundings, has stayed with me for 38 years and has molded my own practice and attitude on a daily basis. We would make rounds after the clinic, house calls that is, with a Catholic nun, and they would tease each other about their religious routines, a big black Bible on his dashboard. I saw the worst poverty I have ever seen in those homes, and also the deepest love for Dr. Doan as well. I was expressing my gratitude to Steve, 38 years and 3,000 miles distant from those golden times.
Steve told me that his Father was a general practitioner in his small town in central Washington State, population under a 4,000. Steve was long retired but told me that when he left that town, he never wanted to come back. He went off to study medicine. One day his Father called him and said that he needed a partner, so Steve came back. He spent many years with his Father. His biggest fear coming back to town, he confessed to me with worry on his face, was if he would find out that his Father was not a good doctor. He looked at me with relief and compassion and said that his Father was actually a very good doctor. Steve and his father did it all…tonsillectomies, appendectomies, even hysterectomies. And now, he was relaxing and taking in a very comprehensive medical review at this conference.
Water. To me a symbol of purity , typical of Portland and the Willamette River. I was at Mississippi Studios, an eclectic and yet intimate setting for live music in Portland, probably the best. The bar in the back was dimly lit, cozy, cool. I asked if I could have some water. The young bartender said sure. He pointed over my shoulder to a large wooden bureau. It has a wooden counter, hand hewn wood of course, with two spigots and plastic re-useable glasses, just for water. I had never seen that in a bar before. So natural and understated. Mississippi Studios is probably the best small venue I have ever seen for live music, eclectic, large stage, holding 100 or 200 people with an upstairs balcony with connected wooden folding school chairs. The crowd: young, devoted and very gentle.
Tonight at Mississippi Pizza there is an acoustic band. The room holds ten wooden tables and is warmly lit and intimate. I had pizza and again asked for water…again was pointed behind me to an old kitchen cupboard, the top shelve of which was filled with reusable plastic glasses. A sign saying: “please use the glasses and save a tree.”
Friday night and I had stopped back at the Hostel to shower before going out to see three local bands at Bunk Bar. I never left… There were five people sitting around the dimly lit large, thick wooden table in the bunk room. I sat down and we talked for five hours. Nim, a shy Korean gentleman in his 30’s, was there. I had seen him for two days, smiling at him and saying good night, or hello at bedtime and he gently smiling back. He was very serious and was always at his computer and simultaneously on his iphone…at 9 p.m. when I left to hear music and at 1 a.m. when I returned. We always smiled and said hello. Tonight was different: he talked quietly with all of us, about climate change, the health of the Korean People, the USA, as Jamie, a thoughtful thirty year old environmentalist (solar panels) would calmly explain concepts and mores of the USA to him. We talked about politics, Trump, Bernie Sanders and laughed most of the evening. Cera was in her early twenties, a lean and strikingly beautiful girl form Hawaii. She was in the bunk just a few feet from me. She was very concerned about a new job she had started in Portland and we all spent the week reassuring her. I was going to go to bed late one night when I first met her and she kept poking her head from her bunk and asking me questions conversationally…she wanted to talk. Jamie eventually pulled out his mandolin for me to look at and I played it for 45 minutes, gentle rhythms, chords and melodies quietly filling the background as everyone talked around our beds in the dark, people coming up and congregating. The conversation kept going to 1:30 a.m., another girl came over and leaned up against the bedpost to talk and laugh, sharing stories about Portland and our adventures. Everett added a special East Coast element. He was from New York (Manhattan) and had a steady gaze, almost a stare, at first appearing blase but actually he was very calm and listened intently, really taking in what was being said. He was funny and perceptive in that blunt, matter-of-fact disarming New York way. He was a sculptor who had moved to California and was traveling the country to various galleries that were selling his paintings and sculptures. He looked like Art Garfunkle with long, wild curly hair, a sort of loose Afro, along with the manner of the comic Steven Wright. We all bonded – our stories merging – none of us wanting to break the magic communal spell and go to sleep. I suggested we build a fire between our bunk beds…
As I got ready in the dim light that night to go to bed around 2 a.m., Nim, the gentle, shy Korean, came up to me in the dark and put his hand on my shoulder and said with such sincerity in quiet halting English, “Glenn, I want to thank you so much for spending all this time talking with me. It means so much to me and has made my trip. You are such a nice person.” It was our goodbye since he was leaving the next morning. I know we both felt choked up. Ahhh…I had told all of them about my trip to a pediatric conference in San Francisco and my hostel experience there. My suitcase had been stolen at the airport, including all my clothes and cash. I had wanted to stay in the hostel in any case; it was $25 per night instead of $200. That first night, however, I arrived at 2 a.m. and stayed in the luxurious conference hotel. I had been miserable and lonely…watching TV lying in an extravagantly cushy bed, voluminous pillows, a private elegant bath, immaculate and marbled, the other doctors tucked away in their own private rooms. This reminded me of the obituary of the famous, eccentric physicist in California who at conferences would always stay with the graduate students camping on the beach, playing volley ball. The hostel was a dream – a similar experience to Portland. I recall talking late at night to the bunk mate above me, as he told me of his suffering in Bangladesh. I was so sorry for his experience and he was so kind and thankful for my empathy. The “official” tension between our two nations melted in our minds that night and we left as close friends.
As I left the “High Society” hostel on 3rd Avenue, having gone for coffee and sadly saw for the last time the many homeless people I was beginning to recognize sleeping in the door ways, covered with blankets and sleeping bags on the hard, dirty sidewalks. It was a walking meditation on Mother Teresa for me, walking the streets of Calcutta. I went in to the hostel to say a final goodbye to the friends I had made. Just before that I went to Stumpland Coffee, a local Portland icon, a deep bass booming across the large natural space, the polished concrete floor, art on the ceiling and walls. I shared a table with a young girl in her twenties, my daughter’s age, and we talked. On a whim, she had travelled down from Seattle to attend a ballet and modern dance all-day workshop. She was new to Portland and I shared 2 or 3 of my ‘finds’…Bunk Bar and Mississippi Studios, the best music venues in Portland per several people I had met (I agree). I told her about the incredible “Pina” dance DVD and shared ½ of my enormous pink Voodoo doughnut decorated with a music note. Not the right choice for lent, I had told her initially. A typical gentle Portland conversation. I found that when I told her how much I was going to miss Portland, my voice caught with sadness and tears came to my eyes.
In the hostel, I gave Jamie a hug…a nice young man eager to start working there in the solar industry. A sensitive thinker. The receptionist, Judy, the prototypical Portland woman, cool and funky, tattooed, spangled earrings and bracelets, who had told me that she had been on her way from Seattle to Asheville, NC, on a spiritual journey to find that special place, was there. I had asked her if she had found what she was looking for and she said, yes, in Portland. She had stayed here, she had made friends and found a community. She was in the Hawthorne area across the river. When I said goodbye, she smiled, clasped her hands and said fervently, “Bernie, Bernie, Bernie!”
Evan Miller, the sculptor, greeted me in the dark when I had gotten up that morning. He wanted to make sure we said goodbye before I left. We had spent some time last night around midnight sitting in the dimly lit room around the wooden table in the hostel bunk room. He shared some peppermint tea with me, holding one bag in his hand. “I always travel with this and I have it before I go to bed every night.” It was a nice ritual that added a quiet, reminiscent tone to the evening, a time of sharing. He is an interesting, funny man. He has that quiet, serious stare when you talk to him – he is really listening with authenticity. No fake smile or niceties. He showed me the roof top of the hostel that night…cold and beautiful as it overlooked the city and Willamette river. We looked at it in silence. He had tried to buy Bruce Springsteen concert tickets (he was a deeply devoted fan) but couldn’t get through and was very sad about this. I told him the moving story of when I was playing music in New Jersey in 1974-75 and my friends invited me to see this new, young musician and band playing in a high school basketball court in New Brunswick. I changed my mind at the last minute and just sat outside the door on a folding table. The young musician inside was Bruce Springsteen, probably all of 21 years of age (like myself) at that time and unknown.
Evan showed me a picture of his house in Palm Springs – a mansion with a large crystal clear sparkling pool surrounded by a lush green yard and palm trees. It was beautiful but he was unimpressed. He wanted to live in a more vibrant artistic community. I asked to see some of his artwork (he was a painter as well) and his paintings of nudes were both sensuous and exquisite in their sensitivity. Impressionistic , muted, evocative. I was shocked by his talent. He has enormous long, curly black hair. My first impression was a very oversized Afro, but that is not the right word. His hair was bigger, more expansive, always accompanied by a slightly sardonic grin. He was a cross between Art Garfunkel and Steven Wright. One of the art galleries in Seattle had just called him yesterday. They had sold one of his paintings. He was happy …”that has made my whole trip to Seattle worthwhile.”
I had a late night meal on Friday night from a food truck at 1 a.m. and brought it back to the lobby of the hostel. The receptionist, Edwin from Columbia, joined me by the fire as we watched the parade of partying people go by the window. He had studied psychology and history and he discoursed on the history of the Conquistadors in Columbia, the Spanish domination of South America, and European domination of Africa. I shared some of the recent reading I had done on this subject with him. Like myself, he decried the use of smart phones and said that he could see already how his peers were completely unread and not conversational because of this. He was well educated and had a very inquisitive mind. I encouraged him to go back to get a Masters, which was his goal.
The whole concept of smart phones, this whole trip, was an interesting Thoreau-ish (one of my heroes) experiment on my part since, for the second time, I had given up my smart phone. Riding on the bus and walking the entire city had been an exquisite pleasure this week. Without the smart phone, I would write in my journal which accompanied me everywhere, and observe people and places so acutely. A gift. I had so many kind conversations with the bus drivers I met, usually started because I had to physically “ask” directions rather than mapquest my question to the computer. They would tell me about neighborhoods, their jobs…
I found the Portland people to be of a gentle nature. This came from a myriad of observations. All the bus drivers greeted new passengers with a smile and a “hello” and it was sincere. The passengers, probably many regulars since this clean, efficient public transportation was widely used, would invariable yell out thank you, even though they were leaving by the door in the back. There was something very sweet about every one showing the driver their pass…that is, physically showing it to them, holding up the pre-printed pass. There would be brief eye contact, a smile, a hello, and …thank you. All in a second or two. The first time I got on the Max (above ground subway), the driver asked to see my pass. I got it out of my wallet and tried to hand it to him. He made a fleeting glance at it and said “thank you” and smiled. It took a millisecond. I just stood there. Didn’t he have to scan it electronically? Or look at the date? Did he just trust that I was acting in good faith? He just looked at me with a smile again and said, “OK.” I saw the coin deposit box become jammed a few times. One driver just smiled at a young skate board holding young man with long hair and said “don’t worry about it.” The man seemed to be used to this kindness, dropped some coins on the jammed pile and said, “OK, cool, thanks.” No big deal to be treated this way…in Portland.
One day, as I walked west towards the Oregon State University campus, I saw an elderly well dressed man sitting in a wheel chair, pushing it backwards with his feet up a steep side walk, his arms limp at his side. He was in his 70’s. It was a struggle. Two young men in their 20’s, hair longish and unkempt, probably college students, were walking in our direction. One leaned over the man as he stared straight ahead, looked in his eyes and said, “Mister, if you just go one block down that way to 10th Avenue, the Met has a ramp and it will take you up this hill.” The man looked straight ahead and kept pushing with his feet, advancing maybe a foot with each exertion. The young man repeated himself with concern. The well dressed elderly man may not have been all there as he stared ahead. The young man was still worried and spoke in a louder voice in case he couldn’t hear him. “Man, you don’t have to do this.” They finally walked on. No anger or frustration.
At midnight last night I went to get something to eat at a food truck and, to my horror, I saw a woman in her 50’s fall. She had a suitcase she was rolling, a bag was on top of the suitcase, and she was also carrying a small animal carrying case with a tiny white dog in it. She was well-dressed but had an incongruous, very tall, pink knit hat on her head. She seemed to have just sat down on the suitcase to rest as I saw her fall hard to the side on the sidewalk, her head going into the road. She lay still on the cold asphalt and groaned, eyes closed. I went over to her and, as I did, a driver of a car rolled his window down and called out, “Mam, are you alright?” In most cities there would have been no acknowledgement of this. I pulled her up and could tell that she was intoxicated…probably homeless. I could see the small furry white dog in the cage, not moving. It was a very cold night and she only had only a thin blouse on. I asked her if she had a coat as I held her shoulder and she smiled at my concern. She consoled me and said, “No, the police took it…inappropriately.” I said I was sorry and she kept reassuring me, saying “It’s ok. It’s ok.”
I went to the Oregon State Student Union to observe the students. Again, they all seemed to be wearing jeans and hiking boots or running shoes; not much attention to the state of their hair which was refreshing. I walked by a table and a young man with long brown hair and an engaging smile was sitting beside a very attractive African American woman…students. He handed me a slip of paper , hoping I would support them. It said, “We, the Student Union of OSU, demand the removal of provost ____ for his support of ____ (a business). We ask for the passage of a minimum wage of $15 for student workers. This can be financed by reducing the salaries of the administration.” There was more as well. I told them that their interest and activism was admirable as they pursued change. Hope for the future, regardless of what one may think of their position.
I was on a bus going to Nob Hill on West 23rd Street. I had a 1 ½ hour break from the medical conference and I wanted to revisit the Tai Chai Te shop there. I had no iphone of course and was sitting in the front of the bus. I had left my name tag on from the conference and a gentle 78 year old African-American lady sitting across the aisle from me pointed to it with a smile and asked what it said. I thought and said it was my name, I was at a medical conference and forgot to take it off my fleece…I wanted to wear it so that everyone on the bus knew my name…in case they had any medical questions. We all laughed and several of the women “oohhed" and “aahhed" when I told them I was a pediatrician. I think, again, because we had no electronics on us, we all talked for the next fifteen minutes, discussing the state of the world in general. I asked her how she felt about Obama and, ironically, here in Portland, Oregon, speaking to an African-American woman, she said, “Obama? No, no. His is a shrewd politician. He will sign anything . Too self-centered for me. Too young. No, I’m a Republican.” I glanced around the bus as we all laughed and saw so many smiling faces, bearded men, young and old. They were all enjoying our animated conversation. There was another older woman, in her late sixties, white haired, demure and attractive, who joined in our conversation, helping me with directions. I told her how impressed I was with the MAX and the bus systems. She told me that she never used a car; she didn’t need to. The MAX train and the bus could get her anywhere in Portland. She said this as we all watched the gentle rain drizzling and imbuing the overcast scenes of sidewalks and people and cozy stores outside the windows with sweetness.
I will never forget the people I met in Portland. There are so many more stories. So many experiences as I walked, notebook in my hand, through the cold, through the rain. Taking buses and trains a few times, seeing the precious bus drivers and the working poor, the middle classes, the students in their disarming clothes. And the wealthy, sleek and elegant, stylish and lean in the Pearl District, beautiful women who looked like models, everywhere. The quiet people of Powell’s bookstore, so soft spoken and helpful as they would discuss books and literature, silent readers scattered everywhere like manna. And the young party-goers, music booming, a carnival atmosphere at 2 a.m. most nights, bars with lines of people outside, the music wafting over the homeless on the sidewalks. The ardent, focused young musicians, men and women who believed in their dreams of making music that was meaningful. The devoted young fans. The bars filled with water spigots. The lack of police (I saw three or four police men and women all week. The local Indie paper, with an article about 30 good reasons to live in Portland, mentioned “It is hard to get murdered in Portland.”) And the naïve, pure travelers from around the country and the world as we laughed and talked into the early hours at night at the hostel, not wanting these times to end. Talking with Steve was like this too, deep and emotional, unrushed. My memories and experiences touched the deep veins within that have been there for decades, perhaps waiting to be mined, lifted up and buried again for safe keeping. Maybe we were are all seeking, thirsting for an empathetic soul, someone to just listen to our own truths that seem to emerge like April in this gentle, misty city of Portland.
Glenn Feole
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