Portland, Oregon is a walking city. On our day trip last week, we parked in an astronomically priced garage and set out on foot. Since the art museum is in the park blocks near my alma mater at PSU, I thought I’d take the kids to see my old dorm and apartment.
What kind of mom would I be if I didn’t drag my kids to see completely meaningless landmarks from my ill-advised youth?
Can you call it your alma mater if you didn’t graduate?
Why wasn’t there a Starbucks across the courtyard when I lived there?
That damn ivy was home to hundreds of birds that kept me from my beauty sleep.
My apartment window was right by the front door. Every time someone forgot their keys I’d get a knock on the glass. Thank god they finally put bars on them.
After lunch, we headed to Powell’s City of Books. I can’t believe my kids are in second and fourth grade and have never been there. Admittedly, they have just recently decided not to act like howler monkeys in public, but still. My son was thrilled with an entire section devoted to baseball books. He decided on one called Beisbol: Latin Americans and the Grand Old Game.
I tell you, I like my Kindle well enough, but I will never ever stop buying “real” books.
Sadly, the kids couldn’t resist the novelty of public transportation. Personally, I’ve spent many a stuffy afternoon on a bus. The kids insisted. I relented.
The first few blocks were fine, but the return trip – in the heat of the day – proved less appealing. My daughter summed it up, saying she liked riding the trolley “except when people stand near you, bump you, or smell like cigarettes.”