Chronicles Continued

Portland, is composed of counties, and one of those counties is Multnomah County.  This county is a leader when it comes to rules and regulations relating to the environment.  In Multnomah County plastic bags – the grocery store variety – are illegal.  So I have discovered, there is an underground market in these bags. They are saved, coveted, swapped, talked about and hoarded.  It appears that a certain group of folk have decided they are necessary in their every day life in ways unimaginable before and so they collect these bags as if they are a precious alloy; the bags have become priceless.  “Yes”, she said, “We have friends in Washington County who get them for us.”   The conversation alone, about the bags is worth the listening.

The new banner, of a Portland bridge is now visible to those of you who receive this by email.  Thank you Ann deWT for the photo.  It is such an iconic picture, yet it isn’t.  Thank you Brian B for making it all happen.

 

Simply priceless.  This was Sunday morning on the way to Church.  That in itself is an event, one upon which I will not be commenting.  

It is more apparent here.  It is gray.grey.overcast.misty. Am staying in a residential area, in the city, and it is so quiet!  I mean quiet!

…  The City has been replaced by the city…I am cast in a play in a theatre in this new city. and will be here for a few months, so decided to treat you all to what life is like for the folks out here.  Much less public transportation; lots of driving!  Stay tuned!

When the water in the saucer for the pots on the fire escape is frozen solid,  that is a signal that it’s too cold to stand along the route for the Macy’s parade.  You can enjoy it on television like most everyone else.

 

This man is composing poems on an old typewriter.  His sign says, take a picture, leave a tip.  Thought that was a fair exchange.  I did wonder, however, where he managed to find ribbons for the machine.

With the holidays come ingenious ways to earn money.  This man, painted all in copper color, never moved, in fact appeared to be asleep.  I was somewhat concerned about what the paint was doing to his body as it seeped through his skin.  But he deserved the monies he collected, for keeping the broom in place.

In my life span I have seen four persons die.  Today was another.  I was one block from my apartment when I happened upon the scene.  I knew he had just fallen by the stunned group gathered around him.  And I knew he was dead by the way his body was planted on the sidewalk.   He was a beautifully dressed, late 30’s, full head of hair and he lay as he had fallen.  When the arms are by the side of the body, not outstretched to break the fall and the face is flat into the cement…. by the time I got there, someone was leaving to the police station a block away and another person had opened his bespoke leather briefcase and was looking at his phone.  A good reason not to lock your phone and to have an ICE address in your contacts.  As I walked by and paused a bit farther along, trying to catch my breath, I thought about how his day was so altered and those that knew him were going to have an entirely different Thanksgiving than was planned.  We never know when our number is up.  All the more reason to have our ‘house’ in order.

After theatre, was standing at a bus stop, with a friend, waiting for her bus to arrive.  As we chatted, she noted how often women stepped in front of us, to hail a cab.  Made sense, I said, wide open space, no parked cars.  Three young girls, possibly foreign, suddenly stepped off the sidewalk beside us and opened the door of a ‘gray car’ that had pulled up in front of the five of us.  [They are ‘illegal trollers’.  They drive around and if there is a dearth of cabs, as is often the case after theatre, they troll for rides.  They roll down the ‘shot-gun window’, ask where you are going and say they can take you there.  If you are not local, you don’t know they are illegal, not regulated and ….]  As the three were getting into the car, they asked a question of the driver, as they slid three across the back seat.  Friend said, ‘Don’t do it. Do you know what you are doing?’  But she was not within earshot and not connected to their process, so they didn’t hear her.  As they shut the door and the car drove off, I said ‘it’s possible that is how trafficking happens!’    What should we have done?