It was only my second day in Portland when I realized that I was experiencing a mild case of culture shock. I have internalized so much of New York City after 6 years of living there. My instincts as a pedestrian have been developed to either follow the crosswalks or make a run for it.
Impatient people are both behind the wheel and on foot in New York. Cars zip through red lights at the last second like the mother with 2 kids in the backseat who hit a friend and I at an intersection on my first day scouting for an apartment. Meanwhile, people scamper across the street long after the orange hand has stopped blinking. It’s a game of Frogger, but with real lives and driver's licenses on the brink of ending.
"Wait, today is what day?" I found myself asking this question on several occasions during my 2-week trip to Portland at the end of June. Perhaps this is the meaning behind "summertime." Summertime is when school lets out and, for most young people, time loses all relevance or meaning. Unfortunately, the freedom summer affords usually changes when you reach adulthood. For most adults, it's business as usual working a 9-5. As a graduate student, it's the same deal: "Summer? What summer?" I'd often say to my family when they asked if they would see me more now that it was May or June. "HAAH!" I would laugh, and they would learn rather quickly that I no longer had summers off like I had in the past.
What I love about Portland is that actually knowing the day of the week in the summer means something fun is planned. In fact, if you're not paying attention to the time--you just might miss out on the most fun ever.
It scares me. It scares me like nothing before in my life. Which makes it all the more important to set out and do it.
Recall Bilbo after the dwarves invited him on a journey to kill a dragon and then left him alone in his hobbit hole to ponder it all. He sighed to himself and surveyed his home thinking how nice it was they had finally departed. All was quiet and back to normal. Except now something was stirring inside of him. Bilbo had felt this stirring before—a spark that had been burning from within since he was a boy was suddenly set ablaze by the dwarves' proposal. It was growing, growing like a wildfire that sent him fleeing out his door, willingly leaving his mother's doilies and his valued 'kerchief behind.
