Epic Journeys

I went wine tasting yesterday.   I went down to Dundee, OR and tasted 11 different pinot noirs, 1 gewurztraminer,  and 1 chardonnay.   I would say that they were all good.   The chardonnay, a 2009 Bergstrom Sigrid, was by far the biggest surprise.   It is really an amazing wine.   I would still have to say that the best I tasted was a 2001 Archery Summit Estate.   At $195 a bottle though, it had better be.  After I got home from Dundee, I had a dinner to go to in Portland.   This dinner would no doubt also involve wine, and so I had a slight transportation problem.    I had already been out wine tasting all day, adding more with dinner would most certainly prohibit driving.   Since I’m still currently living in the hell that is Lake Oswego, walking was out of the question.   I could use a taxi service, but that can get expensive and you all know how frugal I am.   There was only one solution.   I would take the bus.

The bus ride from Lake Oswego to NE 38^th and Sandy is a pretty epic journey.   It starts with the TriMet #35 which takes you downtown where you connect to the #12 which heads out Sandy Blvd.   The clientele on the bus goes through many interesting shifts along the way.   I love it.   It affords so many opportunities for observing people that I’m always excited to be on the bus.   I looked at the whole journey as a small adventure.   I felt like I was Ernest Shackleton embarking on a quest to reach the South Pole.   I have some friends that enjoy going on my adventures with me.   I would have to say though, that yesterday, my wife was not among them.   She was not at all excited about this trip.   It started out okay.   It was just starting to sprinkle, but we caught the bus with less than 30 seconds to spare so there was no waiting.   The #35 wound its way down along the river and into downtown Portland.   It was mostly empty.   A few non-descript riders got on and off.   The bus driver yelled at a bicyclist; nothing could be more normal than that.   What was interesting though was watching the rain change as we traveled north toward our destiny.   It changed from a sprinkle, to a shower, to a storm, to a driving wind fueled torrent.   I smiled at my wife.   She was not amused.  

The connection point from the #35 to the #12 is on West Burnside.   The city of Portland is divided into quadrants.   The Willamette River divides east from west.   Burnside divides north from south.   We made our connection at 6^th and Burnside.   We were very, very close to the exact center of the city.   It’s hard to describe that area of Burnside if you’ve never been there.    If Portland were a human, the first few blocks of W. Burnside would be the colon.   We got off the bus on 6^th and had to cross the street and go about a half block to the #12 bus stop.   We did this quickly as the storm attempted to drown us.  We made it to the tiny shelter where there was barely enough room to stand.   It didn’t much matter though because the wind was driving the rain sideways into the shelter anyway.    The #12 was not due for 10 minutes.   Luckily for me, there was entertainment to be had.

There were 6 people in the shelter.   An obviously homeless woman sat on the single seat in the corner.   A nice, but obviously income challenged woman stood next to her.   My wife and I stood in the center.   An older gentleman was next to us and a nice younger man rounded out the group.   I can say that the woman and younger man were both nice because they both recognized that we were out of place and offered up non-solicited, but helpful information.   As we stood there growing ever wetter, a man walked by on the sidewalk.

He was muttering, “I hate all of you people……you people make me sick….you all suck.”

This is normal for this area of Burnside and I thought nothing of it.   The seated homeless woman in the shelter was having none of it though.   This sent her off into a profanity laced rant that was astounding.

She began screaming at the top of lungs.   Her words were slurred, “Whaaat!  Whahaat! Don’t you f$#king talk to me you bastard!   You call me a witch!  Come back here and tell me I’m a witch!   I’ve been out here since 1963!   I support you people!   I’m going to let all of you starve!   I hate all of you c@#ts!”

                “What”, I thought to myself, “did she just use the c-word?”

                Her rant continued, “You people come out here! You people come out here in the rain and look at me!   You’re all a bunch of c#@ts!   I hate you c#@ts!  Vietnam never should have happened!”

                “Vietnam?”

                She was up and pacing now, “What are you looking at!?  Don’t you f%$king look at me!  I support you bastards!  Oh she’s a loser.   You and your backpack!  You know what, that’s a thing of the past.   Nobody wants to see backpacks!   NOBODY WANTS TO SEE BACKPACKS!  Nobody wants to see sunglasses and backpacks!”

                She wandered off into the night still screaming.  The pounding rain quickly drowned out her voice.   I looked at my wife.   She was seriously not enjoying this.

                “There’s the #12”, said the helpful woman cheerily!   “I guess we’ll all be getting on this one.”

                We rode up Burnside and then Sandy to our destination.   I had a deep sense of satisfaction having completed my journey.   I was wet.  I was cold.   My wife was annoyed.   It wasn’t quite Shackleton’s expedition, but it was as close as I could get on a Saturday in Portland.