Hello Again, Portland

That's my house, on the left.

Everybody takes the place they live for granted. Maybe it's the amazing pizza place down the street, the sunsets on clear nights or the mountain vistas. Everyone, everywhere, falls into the trap of not noticing.
The Portland Art Museum. Still
have never been inside.

Guilty as charged. There is a house – a mansion, open to tourists – about 200 yards from my house. The mansion was built in 1860. In the fall, when our stock of senior citizen tourists is particularly lush, tour buses pull up to the curb in front of the mansion and gray-haired leaf-peepers take stock of, essentially, a house that's a half a block from my bedroom. I've never bothered to even take a picture of the exterior.

Then Flat Stella came in the mail. Stella was visiting us from Minnesota. Born of our lovely niece Holly, who I spend far too little time with in person, Stella came to take in the sights of Portland. I'm always a sucker for a photo assignment.

We had just the place to start our adventure: Victoria Mansion. Holly is a fan of Laura Ingalls Wilder, who was born seven years after the mansion was put into use by its first owner. The Civil War hadn't started yet when people were living there.

Stella got to drive a fire truck.
Stella and I made our way up to the fire museum. Portland went through three or four destructive fires back in the 1800s. At one point, 75 percent of the population was left without a place to live. I knew that, but somewhere between craft beer bar openings I had lost track of that particular fact. There were kids crawling all over the newer fire engines parked in front of the museum. A horse-drawn carriage wheeled by out front. One of the kids let Stella pretend to drive the truck.

We stopped by the Portland Museum of Art, a sprawling mish-mash of a complex. They often have exhibits that sound fabulously interesting. I have never been. There are at least another three art museums I've never visited in this town.

To cap off her visit that day, we visited the giant Roman monument to Civil War soldiers. It sits directly in front of my office at work. It's about 50 feet tall. I'd never read the inscription before Stella came to town.

I don't like that about myself. If I could, I would take a week to visit all the art museums and restaurants in town that I've always wanted to check out. Instead, I go to Shaw's to get a salad four days a week and I go to the same five restaurants the other three days. That's what taking your town for granted looks like for me.

The other day I had a fit of inspiration. There's a sandwich place a half mile from the house that everybody raves about. Nacho Man was up for a late-morning brunch. I had a sweet maple-cheese-Tobasco sandwich on a croissant. It was eggcellent and I plan to go back. But not soon, necessarily. Portland has hundreds of restaurants I've never eaten Tobasco in. We'll give some of those a try.

And then there are the museums. I need friends to visit. That sounds crazy since, counting Stella, we've had 37 groups of visitors since May of 2013. That's an average of two groups a month. Nobody has wanted to go to a museum yet. Blondie's parents will be here in two weeks for Thanksgiving. They won't want to go. 38.

I'd start dating as a means to check out various nooks and crannies in town, but The Wife might not be understanding of that exploration. Which is a shame, because there's a bar/restaurant in an old Catholic church called Grace. It would be a great date spot. I think.

I might just have to find out. I might just have to find out sans date, which is fine, too. Stella's single and she's ready to mingle.
Gratuitous dog shot.


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