I feel it all

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I was recently conversing with a professor who told me that all great writers struggle to go home. He said that these writers spend their careers writing pieces of the Utopian home that doesn’t exist anywhere else but on paper. All of the great writers, he said, write about escaping from their homes and the impossibility of returning to it.

This is for my home, my city, the place that my green heart belongs to.

Portland, Oregon
The trees here climb up the hills and cover every inch of visible land as if they were protecting the soil from some threatening prey. Above, the sky remains a dull shade of grey that remains constant from October through April until one fine day when grey fades to blue and the sky is illuminated with remarkable color. Those first blue days in spring, the days when the sun looks down on us making our skin smile from the abundance of vitamin D, illicit a child like behavior as city dwellers, cyclists and indie kids marvel at the strange and unfamiliar sight they had almost forgotten. Main features of the city lie within its distinct sectors all of which exude unique characteristics and strike different emotions depending on who you’re talking to. The buildings, unlike most major cities, do not reach for the clouds here, but rather they lay low to protect the distant view of the snow-capped Mt. Hood. Connecting downtown to its uber cool counterparts are a multitude of bridges that lie parallel to one another and grow in size as you move down the river towards Vancouver. These bridges, almost as peculiar as the cities inhabitants, are themselves works of art featuring brilliant arches and frames of muscular steel. To any stranger of this city it would appear as if cyclists rule the land as they weave in and out of traffic, some brave and bold riding their ‘fixies’ and some serious and determined to race with the real boys. Coffee shops line every corner and drench the air with a caffeinated aroma that give you the jitters just by inhaling. Litter on the streets is almost as rare as a sunny day in winter and green virtually covers the city from its streets to its hills to its people’s thumbs. Everywhere you look, even in the downpour, you see smiling faces and not once a sign of an umbrella. The people here are weird, but friendly. The streets in some parts freshly paved and in others still the old brick from the days of shanghaiing. Hippies, homeless and habitual drinkers can be found mingling the streets at almost any hour adding to a perplexing personality that can’t quite be matched. Both dark and dreary as well as hopeful and beautiful, this is the city I love.

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Tags: bike, green, grey, home, Portland, writing