Episode 13:  ”Here I dreamt I was an architect”—The Decemberists.

I chose the Decemberists for this episode, not just because they are a Portland band, but because their music is emblematic of my Portland experience.  Not that I was sitting around listening to sad music all day (mostly true), but then again, I did experience a drawn-out love affair with Castaways and Cutouts.  After I moved to Philly, I spent a lot of time listening to the Decemberists, because I found comfort in my homesickness.  It’s funny how sadness and longing can sometimes be downright “comfortable.” 

The red eye flight landed in Newark at 5:30 am.  I shuffled off the plane in search of a bathroom.  I washed my face and gingerly inserted my contact lenses into my dry, bleary eyes before finding my way to the Amtrak platform.

Since my oh-so-mod sixties trenchcoat was no match for the chilly October morning, I found a seat in the semi-heated train waiting room.  I was dying of thirst, but there was a soda machine conveniently located in the corner.  I combed the bottom depths of my bag for change.  10, 15, 25, 50, 75, and then, mission accomplished: one dollar!

A voice said to me, “Good morning.” 

I returned the greeting—the origin was a man on the opposite end of the my bench—because well, that’s what good Pacific Northwest citizens do.

But instantly I realized the error of my ways, as he slid a few feet closer and asked me for some money.  There was a sad story involved.  After giving him my last bit of change (and therefore, giving up my chance at hydration), I escaped to the cold, windy platform.  The bright early morning sun seared my eyes as I counted down the remaining minutes until the train’s arrival.

“Fuck…I’m definitely on the east coast again!”  I kicked myself for forgetting the number one rule of Eastern Time Zone survival:  Don’t talk to strangers.

The next day, as I raced to the subway from my corporate apartment, I tripped on pizza box.  I caught myself on a filthy newspaper box.  As far as the eye could see, the sidewalk was covered with cigarette butts, Starbuck’s cups, and cellophane danish wrappers.   

This city had defeated me once before, during a brutal summer.  My nineteen-year old mind had fallen into a deep, dark well of despair.  Mistakes had been made.  Professional intervention had been required. This would not happen again.  I was tougher, older, stronger…and other adjectives of that ilk.

Two women laughed at my hat as they passed me. “What do you call that kind of thing?”  Followed by mean-spirited tittering.  

In Portland, strangers stopped me in the street to compliment my choice of headwear.  ”Where did you get that?  It’s awesome!”

I was spoiled.  I reminded myself of this as I slid into an orange seat on the subway train.

How had I gotten here, thousands of miles away?

First, there was the chance meeting with “important” executives.  They thought I was brilliant.  ”How would you like a job in Philadelphia?”  I laughed dismissively.  Sure, it seemed like a good idea.  But really, why would I ever leave the sweet bohemian bubble of Portland, Oregon?

Then they flew me here.  I stayed in a tres fancy hotel in Center City.  I was interviewed by no less than six people.  I wore a Boy Scout uniform and cowboy boots.  At the end of the day, I was told, “We just wanted to see if you lived up to the hype.  And you did.  But we don’t have  a job for you right now.”

I was relieved as I caught the direct flight back to the Great Northwest.  I wasn’t ready to leave my idyllic life.  I sighed with delight as Mt. Hood appeared on the horizon.  ”I’m never leaving,” I declared.

But then something traumatic happened.  The sort of situation one frequently finds in Lifetime movies/cautionary tales.  And 24 hours later, I was offered this alleged dream job in Philadelphia.  I accepted.

My friends declared “You’ve really done it!  You have a dream job now!”

The truth was, my dream job was “veterinarian with a heart of gold.”  When I told my boyfriend this, he laughed.  ”Then why didn’t you go to vet school or something?”

I shrugged my shoulders.  ”I’m afraid of commitment, I guess.”

Boxes were packed.  They were arranged on a pallet at the Amtrak station in Portland.  I kissed my bicycle goodbye as a kind employee on the freight dock slid it into a huge cardboard box.  ”See you on the east side.”

There were goodbye parties and goodbye happy hours and a few quietly sad goodbye brunches.   My best friend gave me a tear-inducing card that included the sentiment, “Don’t forget that you will always be the cutest girl in Portland.”

My boyfriend drove me to the airport.  We pretended everything was fine.  ”See you tomorrow,” I choked as I walked away.  

Three thousand miles later.  I had a dream job.  A desk.  A computer.  A stapler of my own.  

I was going to do this.  I was going to be the best ever.  And I would prove that I could conquer this dirty eastern city, all while wearing my totally awesome hat.