One day, in the late spring or early summer of 2005, I wasn't happy. I hadn't been happy for quite some time, but sometimes it can take a while to realize when something is amiss. I had a job that I loved, but I'd come home and stare at the TV or the internet all afternoon in my tiny, overpriced shoebox of an apartment. Once night hit, I'd visit one of the many bars that lined Pacific Avenue, the main drag of Santa Cruz, California. It was the same routine day in and day out: work, TV, bar. Work, TV, bar. Most of my friends had moved out of town after graduation, and the few that remained were crafting escape plans too. One cannot live in one's college town forever, and I never liked living in Santa Cruz all that much in the first place. I drove down to my parents' house to collect my thoughts.
I'm not sure when or why the idea struck, but I decided I was going to move to Portland - a city I'd barely visited. In fact, the one time I'd been here, we hardly went into the actual city at all. I was staying with friends who lived in Gresham, and they're not exactly the urban type. They briefly took me to Powell's and to Lloyd Center, but the rest of my visit involved hiking to the top of Multnomah Falls, picking blueberries at a nearby farm, and doing more hiking at Mount Hood. Here's a 2003 photo of one of them, Ross (or Rusifee, if you will), looking at the aforementioned outdoorsey nature.
Something about that visit must have stuck, though, because I called those two friends to see what they thought of my idea. They all but insisted I move here, so I started hatching my plan. I packed everything I owned into boxes.
I went to see my favorite cashier, Eduardo, at Planet Fresh, where I'd been ordering the same tostada several times a week since moving to Santa Cruz in 2001 (bean and rice tostada with black beans, brown rice, jack cheese, and guacamole, and doused in the "too friggin hot" salsa).
One late July morning, I loaded my vital belongings in the car, placed my copilot, Leaky, in her carrier in the front seat, and hit the road (with a brief detour to Cafe Chill Out for a final breakfast burrito). Driving across Highway 17 for the last time, and listening to Landslide (as is customary when one is in the middle of a major life change), I started to get a little emotional. Fortunately, that didn't last. Once I cleared the Bay Area, I knew I'd made a good decision. That changed when I stopped for gas in Medford, Oregon, though. Everything I drove past was either a 24-hour strip club, or some terrifying place called G.I. Joe's (which I later learned was a harmless sporting goods store). What had I done? It was too late to turn back, and I didn't really want to. I knew what I'd left in California, and I decided to take my chances with G.I. Joe.
Unfortunately, my limited understanding of the area caused me to rent a place in Tualatin for the first year. In the Bay Area, a 20 minute drive is no big deal. Sometimes it took that long to travel the four miles from my apartment to campus. Usually that drive took 45 minutes, and the bus took even longer. I was used to being in the car. In Oregon, this is not the case. Tualatin was OMG SO FAR from everything. That's another story, though. The apartment in question was twice the size of the place I'd left, and less than half the price. I felt like I'd moved into a mansion.
All of this seems like it happened decades ago. My life shifted so profoundly the minute I got here. The second half of 2005 was pretty eventful. That was also the year I joined roller derby and met Bobby (both things happened within two or three days of each other), and the year I met some of my other favorite people as well. It baffles me that I built the foundation for my entire adult life within a six month period, based on a series of impulsive and possibly irrational decisions. Clearly, though, those decisions were spot-on. Score one for impulsiveness.
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