Rediscovering the greatest moments of my visit to the US, I came upon this week’s photo challenge: serene. Not only was my entire trip a soul-satisfying experience, but it was also full of positive energy that revitalised me from within. Every day that I set out to explore the city on my own, I found calm all around me. Although it was an official trip, my weekend getaways were worthy of a holiday.
This photo was at the National AIDS Memorial Grove inside the Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. This grove sat hidden in plain sight, a tribute to all lives lost aid-less, because of AIDS. As soon as I entered, an aura of serene beauty and supreme sadness engulfed me. I couldn’t identify the reason or the source, but seeing the memorial, the flowers, and the words of love left me overwhelmed.
How long does it take to fall in love? For me it took less than a day to fall in love with Portland, and about 30 minutes to miss being in Portland.
After a wonderful last day in the city, I woke up early to catch a train that would take me away from Portland until I return—if I return. Excited though I was to disembark in Seattle later that day, as I walked from my bus stop to the Union Station, I felt myself reflecting the gloom in the air. Just as I headed towards the looming building, raindrops began to fall, and Portland flaunted its typical self to me—one last time.
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Mild warmth hit me inside the station. It was a chilly morning, and as I hugged my sweater a little closer to myself, my instinct swung around for coffee. What I saw, instead, was a newsstand full of brochures and “Welcome to Portland” kits. Looking at all the tourist information I’d missed during my visit, I moved closer looking at each brochure. Although I hate standard tourism and typical sightseeing, some of the guide maps interested me. At that moment I realised I hadn’t spent enough time in Portland. Part of me was happy to leave wanting more because, that way, I’d cherish what I did experience. But the other part of me—the part that my heart rules—yearned for me to stay back.
I couldn’t, for Seattle, with its rich reputation and sea line, awaited my presence.
Turning away from the newsstand, I saw what I’d been looking for in the first place. A small shop inside the station run by an Asian couple. Grabbing a cup of their strongest coffee, I sat on a bench. I’d arrived an hour early. About ten other people were in the station at that time, and as the clock overhead ticked on, more drifted in, most of whom walked straight towards coffee. Almost all had eyes for none but their phones, but some of them clustered, discussing their Seattle itineraries. A general hum filled the air around me as stories mingled with fresh brews and the swishing of someone turning over a newspaper. Everyone minded their own business, focussing on their own lives and their own Facebook feeds. When they caught the eye of another person, however, they spread a warm smile. It was the last scene of the city I saw, and it only proved what I’d already learnt about Portland: no matter who you are, where you’re from, or how you present yourself, you’re welcome with assurance of respect and safety.
As the station master checked our boarding passes, and let us board the train, new thrill spread through my veins. I had booked on Amtrak Cascades, the national railway service of Washington and Oregon. I rekindled my love for a train travel as I approached the gigantic stretch of coaches facing me. Perhaps it’s because I was a foreigner, but everything about the train to me seemed quaint and well-thought of. The little stools at every door of every coach was a simple empathetic gesture towards people who’d need additional effort to climb.
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When I found my seat, I was ecstatic. Not only did I have a place by the window, but I also had the one next to me, as well as the ones in front of me for myself. For someone accustomed to travelling in full-booked trains back at home, those vacant seats felt like a throne. It was as if I deserved all the space around me.
Relaxing in my seat, I took one last look at the city that had given me the true taste of freedom. As the train pulled out of the station, and the mountains and the valleys flew past me, I knew I’d chosen a great place for my first solo trip.
Oh, Portland! Haven’t been away for more than 30 minutes and I miss you already.
I stayed four days in Portland, seeing stunning scenery and meeting wonderful people. By the end of it all, I’d fallen in love with the city, wishing I could stay longer. Although part of my interest is due to the vibe of the city, another, much important aspect of the city was the food. I’d heard Portland is famous for its breweries, but I had to choose between getting high on beer and getting high on nature—and I picked nature every single time.
Despite not drinking or eating out much, I did sample Portland’s vegan food spots. Although it piqued my curiosity, veganism was always out of my reach. Not only was veganism still new to me when I visited Portland, but being vegan where I come from is expensive bordering on ridiculousness. Dairy alternatives are rare in my hometown so every time you buy a bottle of almond milk, you get eye rolls as if you’re pretentious and narcissistic.
Coming from such a judgemental background, Portland’s food scene seemed drastic and open to me. On my first day, I tried vegan nachos at a place called Blossoming Lotus. Not much of a fan of fried foods, I’d never had regular nachos before. Having thrown all uneasiness out of the window, I returned to my host’s house clutching a takeout container of nacho dip and a bag full of vegan crackers. Brown and sesame coated, the crackers had a mild sweet crunch between my teeth. The moment I took the first bite, I knew there was no putting it down. It wasn’t anything over the top fancy—it was, instead, a simple mix of all things that satiated my palate. Unsure of what to expect, I opened the dip container and found within, the ingredients layer upon layer, for me to devour. On the top sliced avocados nested beneath a layer of cilantro, beside a slice of lemon. Smiling to myself, I tossed a slice of avocado into my mouth and squeezed the lemon onto the dip. It was the perfect combination of cracker and dip. It started to rain outside, and I sat on the bed snuggled under a blanket, enjoying my first taste of vegan while shivering a little from the unfamiliar cold.
Not my order, but it was so beautiful I had to take a picture.
I’d tried vegan biscuits once before in Pondicherry, but those nachos were my first real vegan meal. For once, I hadn’t shelled out a fortune for such a wholesome meal—as I would’ve at home—and that made me visit the same restaurant twice again.
The giant snickredoodle.
The second time, however, I chose desert over main course. I bought a snickerdoodle cookie, not sure what snickerdoodle even meant. I was more interested to find out how cookies without butter or milk would taste. My first shock was cultural. I hadn’t expected the cookie to be bigger than my palm, or thicker. As I unwrapped the plastic that clung to the cookie’s cinnamon sugar coating, I gulped at its appearance. Warming it up in the microwave, I wondered if I’d finish it at all. I did. The third time, they’d run out of oatmeal raisin cookies, and offered me a chocolate chip cookie instead. Oh, well, I thought back at home as I prodded the centre of the cookie to see if it had warmed up well enough, who could say no to chocolate?
Again, I thought I’d eat little by little, saving it up and savouring it. But as I took a tiny bite, I knew there was no wrapping up and leaving it for later.
Hot and tangy: sriracha and tempeh
On the last day, my friend recommended Papa G’s. There I had my first taste of tempeh. I’d never heard of it before, and had no idea how it would taste or how my digestive system would react to it. Without thinking, I ordered a tempeh sandwich—just because that’s my friend’s favourite. When I asked the restauranteur about tempeh preparation, “it’s a vegetarian protein, pressed like a patty,” he told me before I handed him my card. That day, for the first time in my life, I made a bold choice based on someone else’s word, and it turned out the best meal I’d ever had. The sandwich was so large, and so filling that I spent a good forty-five minutes munching on it. With every bite took, the favour of fermented soy seeped through my teeth and I enjoyed pairing it with sriracha sauce. As I sat outside the restaurant, a chilly breeze grazing my face and the bright rays of sunshine spreading warmth on my arms, the heat from the sauce and the tanginess from the sandwich coupled to fulfil my afternoon. I heaved a great sigh walking out of the restaurant, happy and quenched yet craving more.
On my last day in Portland, I’d walked around Ladd’s Addition all morning. Ready for more adventure, I prepared for another long hike—uphill this time—towards Mount Tabor.
I’d already heard a little bit about the mountain from various conversations. The day before, I’d mused about the cleanliness of the tap water to my host, and she’d nodded in pride. She told me it came from the Mt. Tabor reservoir. Huh, I’d thought without even expecting to visit it, interesting. Portland’s nature is so luscious that I couldn’t help but feel envious. As I began walking towards it, however, I realised one step at a time that Portland deserved all the love it got from nature lovers. Not only was the mountain and the surrounding park adding beauty to existing grandeur, but the path leading to the mountain was also full of feasts for the eyes.
Hawthorne Blvd. was a lengthy street with trees and quirky buildings flanking the sidewalks. For a hike lover like myself, the journey was more thrilling than exerting. I felt as if I’d walk all day without tiring or boring myself. Characteristic to Portland, I came across coloured heads and clothing rebels everywhere I turned. And catering to such a preference-diverse population are stores that made me stop and stare.
From coffee shops with a twist to clothing lines worthy of a movie star, retails in Hawthorne Blvd are nothing short of awe-inducing. Detouring multiple times, I stopped at various stores taking in the feverish atmosphere of people being unapologetic to show off their tastes. Unlike most other places I’ve been to, the people of Portland don’t care what others think of them. Everyone represented themselves as they wanted. And that gave a beautiful hue to the city. That’s what makes Portland so welcoming and cheery—no one judges another because no one is perfect. And they’re happy to flaunt their imperfect bodies and habits. As a solo traveller from a judgemental society, Portland seemed to me the epitome of freedom.
Aside from the enthusiastic folks of the city, nature itself seemed to reflect the people’s mentality. Or perhaps it’s the other way round. Portland’s nature is unparalleled in abundance, with a tendency of giving I saw in its people, too. Just as people opened their arms and spread their smiles, trees, too, cast wide shadows and cooling views. Although the climb towards Mt. Tabor was big, the trees and the people along the way made my way all the more enjoyable.
Walking along I had to stop at the Portland Cider Company. After an internal debate as to whether I should or shouldn’t get drunk while on such an important hike, I entered nevertheless. Not only did I get to taste some amazing apple cider for free, but I also learnt about cider preparation and pairing—all from a great host and conversationalist. I’d done something I’d never dreamt of doing—a daring act from the perspective of my social circle—and it was the do-your-thing attitude of Portland that influenced me to shed my inhibitions. On the way to a high point, I’d paused for a short moment of self-high. Bravo to me.
Reaching the end of the street, I was at the Portland reservoir number 6. Before me, behind bars sprawled a mass of water. Standing by one of Portland’s major sources of water, I was transfixed by its size. I walked round the reservoir, and past the tennis courts. There, leading up to reservoir number 5 was a rocky staircase. I took to it, my legs aching from all the walking. Even without realising it, I’d traversed over 20 miles in two days, and the stress was beginning to settle.
But the pull of nature was stronger than the pull of my muscles, and I reached the top just to gloat that I’d made it. As soon as I finished congratulating myself on my feat, I turned around and dropped my jaw. Reservoir 5 was bigger, rounder, and far more beautiful. At that moment, I knew it was all worth it. I no longer felt the pain in my legs, for the ecstasy in my heart was more domineering.
The rain started again, plunking on the surface of the water. I remained, breathing deep. When you’re in the presence of the best of nature, you don’t need to force meditation. As I turned away, my heart felt cheery and my steps light. My adventure in Portland had come to its close and I left wishing for more.
On my last day in Portland, I asked my friend what’s the one place I should visit to complete my trip complete. And without hesitation, he wrote back: Hawthorne Blvd, and Ladd’s Addition. It’s got an interesting floor plan and there’s a rose garden I could look around, he’d said. Although I’d grown a little tired of roses, I looked up the place on my map and the structure of the neighbourhood fascinated me at once. It had a diagonal street pattern, unlike any other street I’d seen anywhere else.
With that image to look forward to, I walked down the street leading to the quaint district of Ladd. I was on Hawthorne Blvd which occupied an entire corner of the square, and so from where I stood I could walk right into the neighbourhood and keep walking until I reached the other end. The weird thing about walking within the Addition was there’s no way to get lost. Although every turn looked the same to me, my friend had assured me I’d end up at a clearing if I just kept to the trail.
It felt, at first, as if walking into an unknown jungle. All around me trees loomed overhead and leaves swept the ground. Then from somewhere in the distance, came the screams of ecstatic children. Unnerving though it all was, I soon went past a school somewhere within the district where I caught a glimpse of children playing in the school ground. Their voices rang out throughout the area. After a while, it became less creepy and more welcoming. The roads all looked neat and well-maintained, but there were almost no vehicles to appreciate the vacant traffic.
The houses reminded me of mansion life in the 1800s. They were large with porches and picket fences, attracting my eyes and inducing my jealousy. No one was out. People preferred a quiet afternoon indoors with their dogs or books. The sun shone bright overhead, illuminating the path ahead of me where autumn’s first victims expected my feet to crunch them.
It was a glorious place to take a walk. However within minutes I realised how much of a pain it must be for visitors to find the right house. It’s too easy to get overwhelmed and confused because every house had a similar design. I was addicted the the serenity of the neighbourhood, as I approached the nearest rose garden. Excited by the what I’d already seen, I was looking forward to what would come. Perhaps there’d be some interesting design in the way they were planted, too, I hoped. As I got closer, I felt my heart racing. Never before had I felt such a mad urge to see flowers. I felt so unlike myself, speed walking down the street. When I reached the garden, however, the expectation that’d welled up within me burst in a flash. Rows upon rows were remains of roses. The entire area reeked with gloom and not a single flower in bloom. In a devastating moment, I observed dying leaves and rose buds cowering as a mild rain dropped on them.
The barren garden
Despite my disappointment, I still felt optimistic. Perhaps, I just arrived at the wrong season, I consoled myself. Perhaps the roses would bloom in spring, I decided walking away.
The more I roamed, the more happier I felt at being there. Portland’s customary rain had stopped for the a moment, and the sun peeked from behind the clouds. Autumn was just round the corner and as pigeons flew from one tree to another, dried leaves flew in their wake. It was a sight I’d never forget. Within minutes I’d forgotten the dying roses, cheering up and gearing up for the what came next.
As I turned a corner, I stood stunned. Facing me was a huge garden of roses, all in bloom and in glory. Roses I’d seen before, roses I’d never seen before, roses in red, roses in white, in yellow, and even in blue—they were everywhere welcoming me.
The blooming garden
All of a sudden I felt a surge of admiration towards nature. The dead roses I’d seen before wasn’t a work of nature but a work of human negligence. And sure enough I came across a sign that confirmed my theory.
Shaking my head in disbelief, and also shaking with laughter at the same time, I moved on. Ladd’s Addition had added immeasurable value to my trip.
The Chaos Within 