Whine Country

Portland, Oregon has a secret. Tucked away in this part of the Pacific Northwest are valleys and plateaus that are the granola version of wine country. But pinot noirs, aside, I've found the rain-drenched city of proud non-conformists to be the perfect backdrop for the general malaise that's overtaken my own spirits these days.

I'm so broken up about being away from my beloved New York during one of my favorite months of the year- due to both weather and the proximity to my birthday- that my crew in Portland has accused me of being the Queen of my own "Whine" Country.

What I find particularly perturbing during my sentence- ahem, assignment- in Portland is the repeated claims by everyone I complain to that they love this part of the country. The lush trees, lakes, gorges, waterfalls and mountains that make up the landscape of God's Country is something I have yet to appreciate because work and weather hasn't exactly paved the way. I thought fellow East Coasters would get it. They don't. My gmail chat says "In Portland" to which I have received a slew of responses like, "Portland Rocks!" and "I love that part of the country!" WHAT?! WHY?

In its defense, let me illuminate the circumstances that brought me here and which surround me. I'm working on a federal initiative. That's all I can say other than it's supposed to make our country safer. OK, that's really all I can say. I'm staying at a major hotel at THE AIRPORT. Did I mention I'm here for three freaking weeks? And the airport, as it is in many other large cities, is far removed from the hustle bustle of the city. But that hustle is confined to coffee runs. And the only bustle I've seen is a barista bristling when my friend, a native New Yorker, attempted to order a decaf latte. You're a coffee shop- decaf isn't a tall- or vente- order. Oh, and I don't have a rental car. Actually, I have one starting tonight but that's after a week of "carpooling"- a term that I've come to equate with piling into the subway during rush hour. So I've been forced to essentially bum rides and rely on a lot of room service for dinner. At one point, I started getting creative with the room service menu but were I to elaborate, you'd get bored. And then you would feel like this city makes me feel. BORED.

Last weekend, when another reporter said he was driving home to Seattle, I leaped at the chance to get out of Dodge. Big mistake. HUGE. (yes, I loved Pretty Woman, too) It rained nonstop. I know it's Seattle! But even by local standards it was a bit much and extraordinary. I got to see glimpses between the showers and clouds but neither myself nor my lovely host were particularly inspired or motivated to site see. He's lived there for 15 years. Schlepping around Seattle with Thermos (his real nickname) is like walking into Cheers with Norm. Everywhere we went he knew someone. We'd be walking into a coffee shop (what else) and someone would stop dead in their tracks and stare. "What's up, man?!" and a stream of updates would ensue while I smiled and pretended the weather hadn't soured my already surly disposition.

But I will say I had some of the best Oaxacan food of my life. Granted, it was the only food from Oaxaca I've ever had but that's not the point. That was in Ballard- I think. So if you're ever in Seattle and you end up in that hood, brave the wait because it's worth it. Look at me. I'm actually ending on a positive note.