This Is Your Oregon on Tired

I am Californian. Fan of the Romans, I morph fairly easily to my surroundings. But I was born, raised, conditioned, and teenage-tanned in California.

California is not necessarily super fast paced anywhere. Even San Francisco lopes along behind New York's exhaust. But Cali's no slow-poke joke neither.

Oregon. It's slow here. It's calm. The speed limit is 30mph. People go home from work at 5pm, and as a general population, are more wont to eat blackberries than be chained to them.

I got here and loved it. Love it, but I'm telling you a story, so it's past tense. Loved it.
"How nice," I thought. "I don't have to rush."
"How nice, I can go slowly enough to see the street signs and don't have to worry about ticking people off behind me."
"How absolutely lovely. The customer service at coffee shops and grocery stores includes the cashier asking you genuinely about your day and taking time to feel the weight and heft of each spaghetti sauce jar, the smoothness of each ripe apple. Isn't that...refreshing?...If you can let go of the fear that the people behind you hate you for every last item in your laden cart?"

It is refreshing. Until you don't sleep but three winks the night before. And you don't nap the following day because...you can't seem to fall asleep no matter how much you try...and you finally give in and go to the grocery store on this sleepy rainy day of no sleep, to buy popcorn because it comforts you, and you stand in a "line" of one person with three items, TOTALLY STOKED because you'll barely have to open your mouth to say hello, and you'll be out the door and into your warm car and sitting on your warm couch eating your favorite, popcorn, in front of Oprah in NO TIME FLAT...

...

Right? ...Please God, RIGHT?????

(cue the sound of God laughing)

I am Roman in Rome. I am Oregonian in Portland. Until I am Californian when tired in Oregon.


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