By the following morning, the smoke has reached Portland. The sky is the color of pale charcoal and while the sun is out, its light is so weak you can stare right at it. A breeze intermittently all afternoon; when it stops, the air is stifling. The smell of smoke grows stronger as the day progresses.
Despite this, I venture outside for a jaunt. When I started taking public transit to the outskirts of the Portland Metropolitan Area, one of the places I kept returning to was downtown Tigard. It's a seemingly endless bus ride down the mad rush of the Pacific Coast Highway, and at the end you are rewarded with a strange little strip filled with odd shops, half of which were shuttered even before the pandemic. It’s a pleasant area to stroll along once in a while, with a Value Village at one end and an antiques mall at the other, and in between a good little family run burger place.
I usually find something good at the Value Village but today I find myself picking up a lot of things only to put them down once I think of the clutter of my apartment. Maybe my hoarding days are finally starting to wane. Part of my indecisiveness could be because I’m very hungry, so I head towards the burger place, only to find that there is a street fair taking up most of the strip.
I saunter along between the corridor formed by the tents. I am quickly overwhelmed by all the people and colors and sounds. There are tents for pet food, tie dye shirts, woodworking, Jazzercize, realtors, and two different people running for mayor. You can get freeze dried candy or an estimate on hiring a professional de-clutterer. A troupe of kids dressed in karate gis with leis around their necks runs by, kicking and chopping. A dance instruction company turns on a boom box and begins to mamba in the middle of the street. It’s bright and festive and lively and I can't really handle it.
After some lunch and an iced coffee I feel up for another attempt. I look at the paintings of the local artists, think back on the street fairs I went to with Jasmine. We had talked about getting a booth and being like these hopeful schmoes sitting in their folding chairs.
There’s also a local author selling copies of his novels The Time Traveler’s Tale and Ghosts From the Mountains of Madness. He stands eagerly at a table unprotected by a tent and I walk past without making eye contact. I’m also trying not to look too closely at the girls walking around in their shorts. I'm get worn out quickly; avoiding things is more exhausting than paying attention to them.
A group of three elderly woman walk in front of me as I leave the main strip. One of them holds up a white balloon dog to show her friends. A sudden gust of wind snatches it from her hand and sends it flying across the street. It spins and bounces over the asphalt without popping. The women shriek and then start to laugh as the dog skitters away, dodging everyone’s attempts to grab it as it makes its escape and is finally lost from sight.
No comments:
Post a Comment