In Spite of Robert Frost

"A poet never takes notes.  You never take notes in a love affair."1

     I crest the hill at a cool 59 mph with the windows down.  I'm going north on Interstate 5, and the city climbs into view.  
     It's alive. 
     9:45 on a friday night.  I had a glass of wine with dinner; not enough to make the yellow line swerve left and right, but enough to make everything marvelous.  As the lights of the city fill up the windshield, DJ Oh So Fresh puts on some Katy Perry.

So you wanna play with magic?  Boy you should know what your fallin' for.

      I ride onto the top of the Marquam Bridge and am swallowed by color.  The sun has descended below the ridges, but still shoots a sharp spectrum of yellow then orange then purple from behind the earth like a child in protest of a premature bedtime.  The road is lit before and behind me in little spotlights from the lamps of the other cars.  The buildings are lit up in every color.  Greens and purples and yellows and whites and reds and it all blends together in the calm waters of the Willamette River. 

Baby do you dare to do this?  Cause I'm coming at you like a dark horse.

     Dark horse: an little known contender that makes an unusually good showing.  Thanks Merriam-Webster.  What a good way to describe this city.  I didn't expect to like it.  Honestly, I expected to hate it.  Hippies and overthetop Granolas.  Yuck.  
     "It's a seductive city," Phillip said to me this morning as I stared out listlessly over the Willamette.  
     I guess he was right. 
     Back to the bridge.  I slow down to 50 mph so I can properly enjoy this spectacular moment.  The warm evening breeze finds its way in through the windows.  The scent of roses is dense in the air.  I look to my left and see the Rose Festival on the opposite bank.  A massive ferris wheel throws lights up and down its cross sections.  The light tickles my eyes while the scent tickles my nose. 

Are you ready for a perfect storm?  Cause once you're mine...

     At that moment, it happened.  I fell in love with the city.  This has only happened twice before.  Once in London, and once in Charleston.  Both overtook my guard and drew me into a wild love affair of twisting streets and historical markers and late-night lights reflecting off peaceful waters.  And it's happened again: Portland has seduced me, and in that moment, on the bridge, I succumbed to her advances.  
     I am in love with Portland now, and...

...there's no going back.  



1.  Robert Frost, BBC Interview with Cecil Day Lewis.  I usually like Robert Frost, but this post is a reckless attempt to spite him.