This is a True Story

This is a true story about why I love my city.  It's not a love that came easily or gracefully -- I had to move from here to London, then back, then from here to Boston, then back, then from here to LA to Phoenix, then back, over a period of six years, in order to come to terms with the fact that this is my home.  And like any home, it causes me great distress sometimes.  I'm not one to say: Oh yes, I love the rain/ dark skies/ dreary drizzle/ high unemployment/ overwhelming slacker mentality (okay, I do actually kind of love that one -- but what kind of person openly admits that?)/ overwhelming abundance of people who don't know how to drive over 55, etc.  I'm not one to say any of those things.

I am, of course, a seasonal lover, as all of us are: the sun comes out and this place earns a newfound respect.  The parks are packed and the river front bustles with activity: We love this city during a certain time of year, under a certain set of conditions.  Sun is a Portlander's drug of choice and we get it so sparingly during certain times of the year that when we're finally offered a long-awaited sip, we just can't stop.

But this is not a story about weather and my mood, though anyone who knows me at all knows there's a direct correlation.  Rather, this is a story about how this year, this winter, I finally fell in love -- not just a reluctant acceptance, not gentle resignation, but full-fledged head over heels in love -- with this city of mine.  This is the city I've escaped not once, not twice, but four times, always to come crawling back for lack of a better idea; this is the city I first moved to nine years ago and  just this winter fell in love with it.

And this is why.  It's a simple reason, so simple it doesn't seem real.  But it's so real, and it's a reality that has changed everything.

Portland, Oregon and the greater Pacific Northwest are home to the best authors in the universe.  There, I've said it.  Doubt my words?  Try this on for size: Chelsea Cain.  Marc Acito.  Cheryl Strayed.  Willy Vlautin.  Sherman Alexie.  Karen Karbo.  Bart King.  Garth Stein.  Jon Raymond.  Courtenay Hameister.  Chuck Palahniuk.  And if you want to throw a director and musician into the mix to boot, Gus Van Sant and Storm Large. 

 Let me clarify what I'm talking about here.  I don't mean good authors and I don't mean great authors -- I mean the best authors that I'm reading right now.   And they're all right around here, drinking up this same liquid sunshine as me.  And I've seen most of them in person and  they're hilarious, insightful, electrifying, passionate, inspirational and kind-hearted.

I attended two literary events this week: Homeword Bound, a fundraiser for Community Partners for Affordable Housing that brings together some of the best authors from the area, and True Stories, a memoir and music series that brings authors and songwriters onto a live stage to read their -- you guessed it -- true stories.  Last night's True Stories was hilarious in an epic way, with an unexpected dose of painful realism and beautiful grit tossed in by the routinely hilarious Marc Acito.

There have been times when I've felt so listless and lost in this place, and it's always been the result of not knowing my place, not knowing my community.  Everyone needs his own place, his own people he can relate to, bounce ideas off of and ask questions to.  Everyone needs to see those who have made it, those who are struggling to make it, those whose lives have been transformed by the success they've achieved, and those who still have to duke it out with each passing day.

The literary community is alive and well in Portland and because of that, after all these years, I've found my home.

And now that I'm home, I'm realizing how amazing this place is in other regards.  I always held Boston and Cambridge with the absolute highest esteem when I lived there; it was a place that touched my core and oozed into my soul.  I always felt like I was meant to be there, except that there was a tiny piece that was slightly off.  As I walked along the Willamette in the glow of the sunshine today -- much like I used to walk by the Charles in the glow of the sunshine in Boston -- I realized how similar the two cities are, and why I feel such a kinship to both.  

The only difference is that when I was in Boston, I was madly in love and terribly homesick.

And here, I'm just madly in love.  And I always have a good, signed book to read.