10,000 Years of Peace
Portland is considered a sister city to Seattle, less than three hours away and kindred in spirit. It’s modern, hip, progressive, up-and-coming. It’s just a cool place. One thing that makes it distinctive from most other cities I’ve visited is that its neighborhoods can really veer into suburban territory. Unique homes with considerable front and backyards in rather quiet areas that are surrounded by trees.
I went for a run through Alameda early on our first morning in town. It was a warm and friendly place, each lovely house a different shade and style; red bricks or any-colored shingles, tudors and bungalows and townhouses. Smiling older folks out walking their dogs; packs of moms pushing strollers; twenty-somethings with headphones on; laughing children waiting on street corners for yellow school buses; all of them surrounded by falling autumn leaves. It brought me a powerful feeling of nostalgia in a place I’d never been.
I ran my way into a large forested park and onto my headphones came “Ame’ Cherie” by Jr. Walker & the All Stars, an absolutely smokin’ tune with some of the finest horn-blowing this boy has ever laid ears on.
The song is pure jubilance, and running can be a jubilant act, so that’s just how I felt as I traversed over mulch and gravel beneath the towering evergreens and multi-colored maples: jubilant and totally present, like a Burnside Yogi.
There aren’t necessarily any obvious tourist spots in Portland, as far as common pop culture knowledge goes, at least. No Central Park or Hollywood or Bourbon Street, but it’s filled with many awesome little spots that can feel like a personal revelation because of the lack of national street cred.
There’s the Portland Food Trucks, a full block of all the different street foods you could possibly pine for. Gabby and I wandered all the way around it on our second day, splitting several different dishes in order to get the most of our short time there. Wisconsin bratwurst, hipster grilled cheese, Korean bibimbap, all of it fantastic.
Then there’s Washington Park with its elegant rose garden:
And the wonderful Japanese garden:
We came briefly across a tour in progress in the Japanese garden and I was enraptured by the guide’s knowledge and articulation. I admire any person who can speak with eloquence on things they deeply understand, no matter the subject. She explained to us the Zen tradition in which a tortoise stone is always kept in gardens to bring about 10,000 years of peace.
That’s an awesome blog title, I thought to myself.
Then, there’s Powell’s City of Books. Good gracious, Powell’s City of Books. If Yellowstone is my holy land, this is my church. The center of secret information and sacred prayer. It’s an entire city block of literature. Row upon wonderful row, sky high shelf after sky high shelf of beautiful, beautiful books. We entered her glorious confines late one evening (after a few adult beverages) because they’re open late and the human spirit does not sleep. It was a special experience.
Image via Powells.com
There she stands, glowing in the night.
I sought out some of my favorite authors simply to enjoy the pleasure of their company. Stacks of Kerouac, vaults of Vonnegut, bundles of Bradbury. I’m sure the alcohol contributed to the reverie, but the place is undoubtedly magical and what happened next seemed to prove this beyond any reasonable doubt.
I decided I should make a purchase, if not to snag a clever souvenir, then simply to support this newfound sanctuary of mine. I wandered off to a large shelf titled “Featured Used Books.” Used books are a beautiful thing: they count as a form of recycling, they’re less expensive, and they’re imbued with the special essence of the previous knowledge-seeker to have held them in their curious hands. I began scanning the many volumes on display when my eyes stuck on a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Michael Persig.
My eyes widened.
Earlier that very day, my cousin, Jack, had messaged me on Facebook to tell me he’d been reading and enjoying these journals. He told me a bit about his own post-college journey all over the west and we had a brief discussion about Jack Kerouac. He suggested another book to me that he thought I’d enjoy. What other book would that be but Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. The very book that stood before me.
You can call it fate, serendipity, dumb luck, random chance, or even a relatively probable turn of events. Doesn’t matter to me. When the universe throws you a pitch like that, you swing. You buy the book. I bought the book.
I love moments like that. Funny little coincidences that give you the odd feeling that someone is watching; someone with a sense of humor. They never seem as incredible to anyone else when you explain them, kind of like dreams, but to you they can be completely confounding and almost life-affirming.
Well, that wasn’t the only strange affirmation I received that night in Portland, Oregon.
I’d had this thought in my mind the whole trip that I wanted to try and do something charitable for someone in need along my way. I had an image in my head of Gabby and I getting cold cuts, bread, and cheese from a super market and handing out sandwiches to the homeless on one of our city excursions. To be totally honest though, I have some trust issues with vigilante altruism. It’s easy to get burned.
Case in point: On the first night in Portland, Gabby and I sat outside Voodoo Doughnut munching on a Homer when some dizzy-looking fellow approached us looking for change to buy a donut. I offered him one of our donuts and he told me he liked a different type. I apologized and he moved on. A bit after that, he approached another group of people who actually handed him the money. He walked up to the front door of the store, stood for a moment, pocketed the cash, and wandered off.
The following night, Gabby and I were passing Voodoo Doughnut again…
Image via VoodooDoughnut.com
…when we saw a somewhat shabbily dressed young girl and her big black pitbull sitting outside with a sign that read, “Any Kindness Helps.” She was writing in a notebook. Full, clean, handwritten pages.
Hm.
Cool dog, humble sign, a passion for the written word.
I said hello and asked her what she was writing. She looked up and told us, “Well, I don’t know, my grandfather just died so I’m kind of writing down some memories...”
You can call it fate, serendipity, dumb luck, random chance, or even a common empathy tactic employed by beggars worldwide. Doesn’t matter to me. We asked her if she wanted help feeding the dog. His name was Deuce and he had a bandaged foot. She showed us that she had plenty of food for him, but admitted she was pretty hungry herself. We asked her what kind of donuts she liked. Cap’n Crunch. We ran in and got her a two and a bottle of water.
Her name was Sam. She told us about how she moved down there last year and lost her job, and about her sick mom up in Washington, while we played with Deuce. They were both pretty sweet.
Hey, not the most nutritious meal and we could easily have been duped, but I’m pretty sure charity is more about bringing a little positivity to the world than anything else. I don’t know, it all just seemed to add up. And when the Universe rattles that change jar, you drop what you got in the cup.
