It's been a year since I was last in Portland, Or. Last April was meant to be a break before being broken: I flew back to New York on Tuesday and went into surgery on Thursday afternoon. So this year's trip marks a year since ligament reconstruction, three months on crutches, and too many percocet to count (like tic-tacs, they became).
I'm excited to go back and revisit a state of mind that is simultaneously therapeutic and highly destructive; I'm far more impulsive on the west coast. It's not a vacation in the strictest sense (I'll be staying with friends so close they're more correctly described as family, they'll be working, I'll be sleeping a lot, it won't be hot, it will be raining), but simply sitting on their generous front porch and reading a novel or four will rejuvenate me. Jenni and I will dance to Squirrel Nut Zippers and Bad Mitten Orchestra while laughing breathlessly. Taylor and I will toke and play Soul Caliber II in the basement. I'll mingle with yet another new roommate who will have been warned months in advance that I'm a New Yorker, and very direct.
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