Cities and Wilderness

Airports are little puddles of misery. Before me sat a mother sending her young child away to visit her father in Seattle. She talked to her softly, kindly, like a woman does, but the little girl kept on asking questions: If her father was expecting her. If he would pick her up from the airport. About her dad's new girlfriend. The mother answered each methodically, not getting annoyed, just taking them as they came. Behind me another woman burst out crying. She hugged an older man and held on for a long time, it seemed. My mind started putting together these people's various stories--who they were, why they were traveling out of Montana, if they were good or bad people. Sometimes I worry that everyone is happy all the time but me--airports prove that that is not the case, at least during people's brief sojourn in the terminal. If you want drama, there is no better place to go. You see ruptured lives, departures, sad stories, happy ones too. On the plane itself (the first time I had been on one since I was very young) I met a nice school teacher from Bozeman. She told me how excited she was to see "Hunger Games", about her coming trip to Mexico, and how she loved to travel. I did not realize that my friend from high school, Alex Brinkman, would be accompanying me all the way to Portland, however. I think it would have eased my nerves if I had known a familiar person was on the aircraft with me.

Portland is a gorgeous city. The buildings are varying styles and ages and there are nice pedestrian areas around downtown. It rains a lot, and "The City of Bridges" has a massive (by my standards anyway) river running through it called the Willamette. Being from Montana, even the greenery fascinated me. This isn't evergreen, this is "Troll in Central Park" green. I could almost admire the grass sprouting along the roots of a tree as much as I could the skyline, and that's saying something--you forget how unique the place you live is the longer you stay there. As I stare out my window now I have a great view of the mountains. However, if I am not careful, i forget ... forget how wonderful Montana can be too. In Portland, I ate at Voodoo Donuts, a Chinese restaurant, Pho and Toast, and many other interesting and tasty eateries. I stayed mostly around Chinatown and the Pearl District; however, I also walked along the waterfront and the more business-orientated areas. Another tourist destination is Ground Kontrol--basically an arcade that is also a bar, filled to the brim with cool looking hipsters. On my third day in the Pacific Northwest, I visited Seattle, which is my favorite of the two cities. It's so amazing that it was built on hills, with steep roads and awesome views of Puget Sound. In a city, I prefer the secluded spots, the little nooks, more than the typical tourist hot pots. Cities fascinate me. The character built up on years of life, of blood, sweat, and tears. Little alleys and tucked in areas that only certain people can access. They are mazes. Great big mazes constructed over years and years and from different minds. The city is like a bazaar, or even a social computer structure like Linux--they are put together, made beautiful, because of the different architects who decided to place their mark on it.

Cities are where the doers do, and the country is where the passive stay passive. Nothing changes in Montana, but things change in the city all the time. They transform with each foot pushing into mud or a dime thrown in a bum's cup. In the southern district, people chuckle dismissively in a comedy club, a woman asks a man for a smoke outside a 30 story building, and a drunk pees on a red brick wall as a train passes by. Somewhere in the north, an ill college student writes his passions on the blank pages of his journal, on the floor under him two people make love, and under them is an older woman watching Starz. Nothing that interests her is on tonight so she decides to go to bed early. Down below, far below, in an alley with a thrown over garbage can, someone is getting mugged. A man of great wisdom or terrible pride can render a city raw with the bite of his words or the tip of his pen. Revolutions can happen in the country, but they are always a result of a person inspired by vitriolic ideas from the urban world. In Montana, the entanglement of branches, leaves, and bark with the high peaks in the West and the empty plains of the East have a sort of order to them as well, but what they lack is the energy and spirit of man's will. His desire to transform perceived chaos into order (blocks, ovals, window panes, side walks, cement). Both are necessary. Both realms of delight. But a city is where a man goes to construct his ego; the wilderness the place to dissolve it. It reminds him that nature is all-consuming, endless, and that man's world is a strict illusion. The city grows from the gifts of the earth and orders it to understand it, the earth is the foundation of man's world--they complete each other and are the masculine and feminine energies of the cosmos.

Returning home is always an interesting experience, especially for one who doesn't travel often. You see things differently, appreciate things more. It changes you.