Splice of life

Well Portland, Oregon and slow gin fizz,
If that ain't love then tell me what is.
-Loretta Lynn

If you can, picture Mardi Gras. Only take away the wanton drinking in the streets. And the shocking, hilarious costumes. And the parades. And the bitching music. And the New Orleans setting. Pretty much, just imagine ridiculous crowds super concentrated in one area, all watching the same thing. You have Seattle's SeaFair. I used to live in Pensacola, FL (home of the Blue Angels) so stunt flying isn't exactly a novelty for me. Also, Kev & I don't know anyone with a boat or $3 million lakefront property, so attending SeaFair this year would have meant squeezing onto about 6 square inches of public waterfront parks with the other million people with the same idea and lack of tangible wealth. So, instead of dealing with massive crowds and the first really rainy weekend since the Fourth of July, we decided to go hang out in Portland for the weekend. It's only about a 2.5 hour drive from Seattle, and both Kev and I have friends living there. Who are also big fans of beer. Beers with friends. Friends with beers. Friends friends friends. Beers beers beers.

While walking around Portland, I realized exactly what I miss so much about New Orleans. I've only lived in Seattle for just over 2 months now, but I've tried to make an effort to check out a lot of neighborhoods and different parts of town. Seattle has a lot going for it. Whether I'm exploring the the Puget Sound waterfront during my lunch break, stuck in traffic for an hour on my way to an evening soccer game or scoping the net for weekend activities, I find myself thinking "Jesus. I live in a big city". But it wasn't until visiting Portland that I figured out what Portland has that Seattle is missing: a homey street cafe culture. There are so many stretches of Portland with neighborhood bars and cafes with patios and outdoor seating, situated in the middle of funky neighborhoods with people walking about on their way to the grocery store or to hang out with friends after work. New Orleans has it in spades. And I really miss it. Seattle is just so big and the streets are so heavily trafficked and wide and noisy that I haven't found a district that's chill and friendly and funky and full of places to just kick back and have a drink with friends on a patio. Maybe I just haven't found the right neighborhood yet in Seattle. I will definitely keep looking, but that relaxed vibe was something you couldn't miss about Portland...and it will certainly keep me heading back that way in the future.

We drove down to Portland on Saturday morning and spent the afternoon and evening wandering around Portland, trying out four or five different watering holes around town. Naturally, I was impressed with the beer selection and quality in all locales. And the company couldn't have been better. Kev had some lawyery friends from law school that met up with us, and they were hilarious. I met a couple of guys while backpacking through Europe about four years ago who I've stayed in surprisingly good touch with over the years, and they both now live in Portland as well. They, being the avid beer connoisseurs and purveyors of lolz that I know them to be, did not disappoint in bringing the fun, even though we didn't get a lot of hang out time because Kev started feeling old or whatever and wanted to turn in just after midnight (love you, hun). I look forward to finishing our debate on the existence of Sasquatch at some point in the near future.

On Sunday, we got up early and began what can only be described as the longest possible route from Portland to Seattle without heading south. But, the circuitous route was justified because we went to the Elephant Garlic Festival in North Plains, Oregon! I don't know if there are two more beautiful, perfect creations of the almighty Big Bang than the elephant and the garlic. I'm pretty sure I'm going to be an elephant-figurine-collecting old lady in 30 years...my obsession is that permanent. and garlic...who couldn't love it? Forget Flava Flav...garlic is the flavor of love. And, unlike apparently every other woman on the planet, I have no desire to either be a vampire nor fuck one, so I have no problem with the pungent smell of garlic.

Anyway, while there were no ACTUAL elephants at the Elephant Garlic Festival (elephant garlic is actually just a species of garlic that grows in bulbs the size of a baby's head), the idea of splicing two of my favorite nouns was too much to pass up.

Heaven.


In the war against the Twilight phenomenon, it's time to pull out the big guns.


The festival featured garlic ice cream, which I REALLY wanted to try, but we saw a couple of people gag while sampling it, so we decided to focus our appetites on more pleasing to the palate, including: elephant garlic caesar salad, elephant ears, garlic parmesan fries, garlic roasted mashed potatoes, garlic butter greenbeans, garlic sesame chicken, and frozen nutty bars.

Before.


After. Man: 1 - Food: 0


This is my best "trumpeting elephant" impression. I've got the ears down, but I think it's more convincing with the accompanying sound.


The festival also had a hay-seated alcohol area which served surprisingly tasty garlic beer, hosted a charming rock-a-billy band, and offered a cautionary tale about the dangers of crack.


Fat and happy, we drove along the Oregon coast up into Washington on our way back to Seattle, stopping briefly in Astoria, Oregon, where Steven Spielberg's finest film was made: The Goonies.

What, like you didn't think Schindler's List was a fucking downer?


Foreground: Astoria. Background: The Bridge of the Gods.


Astoria was quite pretty, but gloomy even by PacNW standards. It was about another 3-4 hours from Astoria to Seattle, making the trip back about 7.5 hours all together. Checking out the coastline was definitely worth it, though. Oregon is a beautiful state...if they'd only get over that weird "you can't pump your own gas" law, it would be a pretty solid state.

This technically isn't a picture from our weekend in Portland, but i wanted to include it anyway because it made me happy. If I can't have sun when I want it, my boo gets me sunflowers.
Last week was our first anniversary ::awwwwwwwwwwww:: and Kev surprised me with a lovely bistro dinner and a gorgeous late-summer bouquet. Be jealous.


Stay tuned next week for a tirade on house-hunting in lovely metropolitan Seattle!

It rubs the lotion on its skin...

Greetings from the bi-polar Pacific Northwest.

I'd like to begin this post by commenting on how interesting it is that the climate change naysayers who were so annoyingly self-important this winter (the phrase "I had to shovel 3 inches of global warming outta my driveway" may have been thrown around at my last family reunion) are notoriously silent now that it's the hottest year on record...ever.

That said, I have no frame of reference for Seattle summers, but this one seems pretty bizarre. I dress for 2-3 seasons every day, accommodating a daily variance of about 30 degrees. Often the morning will open at a cloudy, gloomy 48-55 degrees, only to progress to the clear and sunny mid-80s by 5:00, which is the hottest part of the day up here. And it's freaking early August. I just don't understand it. I'm not complaining about the heat: far from it. But my metabolism is freaking the hell out. And my wardrobe, already thinly-stretched by the persistent cool weather, looks even less impressive when I have to make the transition from morning weather to afternoon weather, which means my 3 cardigans are on a pretty steady rotation. Considering I usually only busted them out in January and February in New Orleans, I'm concerned about their long term durability in this climate.

All the layers I've been wearing have left their mark: literally. I have an interesting sunburn pattern on the regularly exposed portions of my skin. Which pretty much means upper boobs and lower arms. Normally, summer is the time of year I even out the freakish sunburn patterns my pasty skin develops over the winter. This summer: not so much. Hence the title of this post. All I can do is cover myself in aloe vera and cocoa butter, and try to will away the melanoma. Sunscreen? Yeah, maybe I'll think of that someday. Until then...it rubs the lotion on its skin.

Seattle note: a LOT of people read on their Kindles/iPads on the bus commute. I've always liked the smell and feel of old, heavily used books; in fact, my favorite thing to do in a new city is seek out a used book store and pick out something crusty and weather-worn that I've always wanted to read. I think the greatest description of my own pretentious tendencies is when I look for a Latin American literature section, giving a store bonus points if it has any books in the original Spanish. Yes, I'm really, really white sometimes.

Anyway, with my nose stuck in the outdated paperbacks, I feel a little bit like the kid who brought brown bag lunches to school when everyone else had the bitchin power rangers lunchboxes with matching thermoses.


15 years later, and my heart aches with longing for the lunchtime adventures could have been...

As always, I digress. Aside from tales of nursing my scattered sunburns, my objective for this post was to share my opinions of my recent reads, with the hope of getting some feedback on other books I should check out. Jess, thanks for letting me poach your blog idea, even though I didn't ask you if I could. Friendship <3.

1. Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith by John Krakauer
To be totally upfront, I'm not a religious person. While I respect the right for people to worship whatever they will, whether it be an omniscient deity or Krispy Kreme donuts, I'm generally cool with it. But I've always been put off by extremism. I think it comes from my time living in Pensacola, Florida, home of the longest running revival on the planet. Street preachers used to tell my mom (with her two young daughters in tow) that she was going straight to hell because she was taking us to McGuires Irish Pub for a burger and a boxty or two. Apparently fundamentalists frown on Guinness? Anyway, Krakauer's history of fundamentalist Mormonism (which he tries, somewhat earnestly, to distinguish from mainstream Mormonism) is told in tandem with the cold-blooded murder of a woman and her child by a pair of fundamentalist brothers. It's an unsettling and well written piece on non-fiction, and if nothing else, I think it pushes the point on how we define the line between rationalism and extremism. I'm paraphrasing Krakauer here, but in his opening chapter he asks something like "If one believes he can speak directly to god, when the voice of reason and the voice of god are at odds, the voice of god will always prevail". Take it or leave it, but I liked it...even though I had nightmares about being kidnapped by polygamists for a few weeks. Grade: B+

2. The Silmarillion by JRR Tolkien
I have been a Tolkien fan since my early teens. I bought this book when I was 17, and I've tried to read it about once or twice a year since then. I've never got further than 50 pages in. This time, I buckled down and got through it. The meticulous, detail-oriented side of me was enthralled. Even after reading the Lord of the Rings trilogy once a year since I was 15, and watching the movies almost every time they come on TNT, not to mention my perverse marathons of the Special Edition films (including all 6 discs of special features - which, to be fair, I only delve into when I'm sick and or insomi-addled)...I was still surprised by how fully I got drawn into the story and how much it reads like an authentic mythology. Edith Hamilton, eat your heart out. The themes are eternal: greed for power, lust for wealth, the hope of redemption by faith, the weakness and strength that humanity can exhibit when grappling with its own mortality...it's pretty intriguing stuff, if you can keep the names and kingdoms straight long enough to get at the heart of it. But therein lies the book's weakness: there's a reason a huge nerd like me took 7 years and as many tries to get through it. It's too much. There are too many names, too many places, too many times is the world (or a particular civilization) destroyed and then rebuilt for the reader to connect deeply with many of the characters or their stories. And at times it feels haphazard in a way that posthumously-published books often can. But still a good read if you're a completist (like me). Overall grade: B-

3. Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer
I actually have read this book before. I was a huge fan of Foer's first work, Everything is Illuminated. As his sophomore effort, EL&IC develops Foer's multi-generational narrative style (reminiscent of Zadie Smith), and ties it into a heartbreaking story of a national tragedy felt on a personal level. It's the story of a precocious young boy whose father dies in the attacks on the World Trade Center. It's not told in a campy way that feels like it's capitalizing on tragedy or carries a political subtext of whatever variety. The primary characters seem off-putting at first. But Foer has this ability to develop empathy between the character and the reader through his descriptions of the most seemingly mundane of things, like watching birds fly past a window. I'm always dazzled by Foer's ability to make me care about the story, even when the story itself doesn't seem that exciting at first glance. I'd recommend it if you don't mind taking highway 1/highway 101 up the California coast instead of I-5. If you have ADD and like to blaze through stories to find out the ending as fast as possible, you probably won't like this book. If you like the slow, windy ride and don't mind taking the time to appreciate the little details, this book is probably more your style. Overall grade: A-

Based on my pretentious reviews, if you have any suggestions you'd think I'd like, they would be much appreciated. I'm anxious to try out Third Place bookstore. So holler at me. Hope all is well out there. Until next time,
-A-bear