“Perhaps you will gradually,
without even noticing it,
find yourself experiencing the answer,
some distant day.”
– Rainer Maria Rilke
We ride the Coast Starlight up to Portland, up the western edge of the country, through northern California and into Oregon.
Laughing together we admire the view. Rolling hills that hoist up sprawling lumber yards.
Towering trees with late summer leaves rusting in the heat.
Flatlands and long eighteen-wheelers.
Ash-colored water towers and tall piles of dirt.
Diverging estates and secret hideaways separated only by back-bending bridges, both aged and modern, stretched over murky circles of dark water.
Empty coffee stands with bikini baristas stranded in the middle of nowhere.
You size me up from behind the lens of your Nikon. Looking at me with those almond-shaped eyes, goldengreen and gleaming. Smirking but trying not to laugh every time I embarrass myself, which is plenty and often.
Your body feels good in my arms. Your hands feel soft in mine.
I take a picture on my phone of you taking a picture on your phone of the St. John’s Bridge.
Soon, we arrive in Portland.
Our rental is nestled behind a large suburban house in the Pearl District, dubbed as a garden studio in the online listing.
Inside, its quiant and cozy, with a tall wooden ladder leading up to a small wooden shelf of hardcover books.
Shoved in the corner of the room is a fullsize bed with a plushy white comforter beneath a pensive poster of Muhammad Ali and a silly one of The Beatles and theres a quote about endurance from Enzo Ferrari.
In the closet, I find two white bath robes, all shoulders, swaying stiffly in the dark with soft momentum.
We stroll along the streets of downtown, passing the local landmarks, sometimes twice, giddily admiring the scenery—and each other—snapping photos between kisses.
We purchase notebooks at Powell’s. Explore thrift stores along Hawthorne. Play house with the retro furniture at Lounge Lizard.
We wander into the photo booth at the Ace Hotel and pay for two strips of photos.
We stroll through O’Bryant Square and visit the Chinese Garden but we dont go in.
We talk frankly about sex at Waterfront Park, watching the sun slip away over the bluegold waves of the Williamette.
We enjoy tofu rolls together at Sushi Land and vegan tacos at Santaría.
We visit Voodoo Doughnuts and buy enough pastries to make us resent ourselves later.
I order an Italian sub from Charlie’s but dont eat it. You devour a lettuce-wrapped veggie burger and french fries tossed in white truffle oil from Little Big Burger.
We couldnt watch Portlandia since we didnt want to pay for it, so instead we watch Child’s Play and laugh throughout the whole movie while punching holes into an already hole-riddled plot.
You buy me breakfast at Jam and I down two Bloody Marys before you can even order your tofu scramble but you cant finish the hash browns.
On the long ride back to Oakland, somebody was sitting in our assigned seats so we chose new ones on the ocean-side to have a better view of the water.
My stomach hurt and I shifted irritable in my seat.
You were revisiting old memories on Instagram.
Are you done looking through photos from your past?
You performed a swift series of thumb swipes. Im sorry I dont regret my lifes decisions, you said. Then the screen of your phone went black.
I dont, I lied—too quickly. I just leave the past where it is.
Later you’ll fall asleep on my thigh and I’ll run my fingers through your hair, massaging and scratching your scalp just the way you like it.
And a voice will mumble something over the loudspeaker, delivering a low crackling monologue that doesnt wake you.
And I’ll turn to the window, qualifying the long horizon and the dissolving colors slowly fading beyond the tall slate boulders and cold blue water.
And I’ll close my eyes and readjust my seat, turning away from the sunset without really appreciating it.