The Columbia River delta
Was shining like the back end of a deer
I am following the river down the highway
To the cradle of microbeer
I’m going to Portland, Portland, northern Oregon, I’m going to Portland
Powells and poly kids have families and we are going to Portland.
My travelling companion is two years old
She’s the child of my first marriage.
I’ve reason to believe we both will be received in Portland.

How much Portland can you pack into one 36-hour trip? We had breakfast at Old Wives’ Tale, visited Shannon and Heather in the south-east, rode Cricket the appaloosa and Dinah the paint horse at Penny’s farm, oohed and ahed at Multnomah Falls in the Columbia Gorge, lunched at Burgerville and splashed in the water fountain in the Pearl District. I passed out in front of Princess Mononoke before Quinn could drag me off to a fiftieth birthday party for a Flying Karamazov Brother. I did make it to Powells, though only on a technicality: there’s a branch in the airport mall, where I bought stickers for the flight home.

Portland was clean and green and beautiful and even sunshiney, exactly the sort of city we bleeding-heart liberals would plan and build if we could; perversely, and no doubt to Quinn’s chagrin, it’s made me love dirty old Fogtown better than ever.

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