Portland

Before I start talking Portland, I want to apologize again for accidentally censoring all your comments. Just when you think you've mastered this newfangled technology, it bites you in the ass. Consider me schooled.

On to happier things, like Thanksgiving in Washington and Oregon.

The trip started with a night out in Seattle. Two great old friends were there—one just moved to town for grad school, and the other was spending the holiday with her husband's family. It was dark and pouring, so I have no pictures. But trust me, they're the coolest.

Next up: An epic drive with my bro and his lady friend from Seattle to Dallas, OR, where our stepbrother lives with his wife, their adorable and hilarious kids, and about 900 pets. Dogs and cats and snakes all over the place.

They cooked up a delicious feast on Thanksgiving. We all slept in the next morning, then ate homemade cinnamon rolls on the couch. Life is good in the country.


Their daughter, who's cheeky as they come, was only wearing clothes for about as long as it took to shoot this picture. She came to Thanksgiving dinner buck naked, and we were all jealous. "I just keep telling myself," said her optimistic dad, "that's she's going to be a strong woman."

Later that day, we headed back north to Portland. You know it's Portland because the trees look like fall:


And the vandals are clever, but only minimally disruptive:


I wrote my holiday blog post in this neat little café, which the owner has cleverly disguised as a roadside dive bar:


Albeit a roadside dive bar with croissants.

I stayed with friends who live around the corner from the Waypost. They got married over the summer and moved up from Oakland, and I miss them like crazy. By the way, they're totally in love:


Or, as Nikki would say, IN LOVE!!!!!!!!!

Their place is also near a used stuff emporium. There's no good noun available for this type of store, but it looks like a combination of Berkeley's Urban Ore and the East Bay Depot for Creative Reuse. The building has an open, friendly design and a fantastic fence:



In the afternoon, we drove up a street whose name I can't remember to a lookout point whose name I can't remember. It was only a few minutes from downtown Portland, but the views were clear and beautiful, with mountains all around us.

They had some pay binoculars I didn't use. The manufacturer did a good job naming them, though:


I lost my New England stamina and practicality years ago, so I didn't bring enough warm clothes. Nikki has mastered the northern coastal art of layering:


After mountain-peeping, we made a quick stop at Powell's, then met up with my brother and his crew to see Bobby (so bad, I won't even link it).

Downtown Portland has some groovy public art. For the most part, it's far from ostentatious—you almost have to search for it. But every once in a while, if you happen to look up, it offers itself to you:


Nothing says "Thanksgiving vacation" like a metal fish diving through a brick building. Or so they tell me.