We pass a string of homeless men on Burnside as we trek to Voodoo doughnuts. I’ve never seen quite so many destitute people in one city, but as Hattie reminds me, I’ve never been to San Francisco. We eat the best doughnuts, filled with Bavarian cream and coated in chocolate. There’s a definite smell of autumn to the treelined Portland streets. We walk, stopping occasionally to poke around the odd vintage shop. I don’t really know what to do, apart from people watch and nurture the thought that I could very much live here.
Then it’s back to the airport to meet Taunesha. We first met in Mexico over two years ago and have seen each other twice since. She drives us to her family’s ranch, forty minutes north of Hood River. As the sun stoops over the Columbia River Gorge we stop. There’s the yellow haze of rain in the direction of Washington, and to our left, clouds pile onto the horizon like mountains. It’s eleven by the time we set our bags down by the farmhouse’s wood burning stove
To The Table 