Jesus man, I'm home, I really am.I think I've managed to make this place home, asking no more than a fair return on what I've put in.
All those places hit running, expertise gained quickly, books and articles written, pictures taken. (Hell man, don't even get me started on Belize, on Singapore). Years spent, camera hanging heavy around neck, angling for the perfect shot, carving paragraphs to craft perfect summaries.
I don't do that here. Here, my job is to tell Portland's stories verbally. It seems somehow cleaner, less contrived. This gives me the right to say ich bin ein Portlander. There is no next book, no update, no constant rush for the next top ten list.
Ah yes, the rush. Sometimes I find myself missing the rush. It was a two-way street. Lots of ego involved in getting it done right. The spoken word is forgiving, the written word far more demanding.
(And this is why I don't blog much anymore, friends. This character I've created on Snarky Tofu... he's best consumed in constant motion, outrunning his expiration date. You can read more of his adventures -- with illustrations -- here).
But not in motion...another matter entirely. Was Henry Miller happier in Paris or Big Sur?
I am getting overly philosophical here, so let's call it a night. If I have any readers left from the travel days, please be advised that an adventure or two might be on the near horizon, as I'll be heading off to Norway (with a stopover in Iceland) at the end of the month to teach a course in travel writing, to visit the Reykjavik's famed penis museum, and to knock an item (eating Lutefisk) off the bucket list.
It's an acquired taste I'm told. Like me, I guess. And I'm OK with that.
Now go buy my book How Not To Avoid Jet Lag & other tales of travel madness from Amazon.