Advice from a small town girl

I went to Portland last week for a machine quilters’ exposition.

For those of you who don’t know, I lived in Portland for over 20 years. I loved it. It was a city of small neighborhoods that gave the feeling of a series of communities linked together. It was easy to cross the line from one community to another and still feel as though you could be a small town girl.

I haven’t lived in Portland for 10 years, and haven’t visited in several. A lot has changed.

On some streets, where rows of older houses once stood in all their dilapidated glory, there are now boxes. They are very linear, with lots of clean straight lines, dark outside walls and glass. They all seem to be between three and five stories tall, and they all look alike to me. That’s not to say they are unattractive, just very modern. There is nothing around them to soften the edges. I miss the untidy plant life that used to make those old houses look like a place I could live.

Every corner seems to have a boutique restaurant now, and they all seem to be busy, full of fashionable young people. Unfortunately, you can’t park anywhere near them; as the population density has increased, the availability of parking has decreased proportionately. The streets seem narrower now, and intrepid bicyclists cheat death moment by moment.

I drove by the house I used to own. My ex-neighbor, Roger, has kept me informed about how many times it has been sold in the ten years I’ve been gone. It looks the same, although I had to wonder if the basement still smells like cat. I loved my house.

My old neighborhood still seemed much the same; even though many of the people have changed the houses have not.

I made a few wrong turns, but for the most part everything was where I remembered it.

The air felt like fall, there were gorgeous leaves stirring and falling and scooting along the sidewalks. It showered off and on. I miss that.

Here’s the weird part. Portland has changed. I have changed. And yet, we have not. The characteristics that made me love Portland still make me love Portland. And the characteristics that led me to not take advantage of being in Portland for 20 years led me to not take advantage of being there for four days.

I didn’t get out to see any old friends. Sure, some were out of town. Another was radioactive. Most have unlisted phone numbers and I came unprepared. I can blame awkward scheduling at the conference I was attending. But the real reason I didn’t get out to visit anyone was that it was easier to go back to my hotel room and veg out. After all, there’s always tomorrow, or next month, or next year.

I miss my friends. I haven’t seen them in a long time. I suppose if I were a competent user of social media I wouldn’t feel the separation as keenly, but I’m not. I don’t want to read about them on a screen. I want face to face time, and I don’t want to have to fit it in between other engagements. I want to have the Monday night small group meetings with my church friends. I want to have a beer at the corner pub with my work friends. I want to just stand around and talk to my dog park friends while our dogs play and we laugh at them. I want to be able to run across the street to visit with the neighbors. Even after ten years, I miss the connections with my Portland people.

In the last ten years, I’ve learned to love living in the desert. I’ve learned to garden in a different climate and larger size. I’ve learned to quilt. I’ve found a job I really enjoy. I’ve found a home.

But there’s a corner of my heart that will always call Portland home. It will always long for a wetter climate and a really big library.

The upshot of all this rambling is this: You can go home again; just don’t expect it to be the same.