Today, after a week of running up and down the coast, the Ant and I decided to head inland to the city of Potenza.  Potenza isn’t in our guidebook, and we didn’t find a ton of information on it, other than it’s the highest regional capitol in the country, and that it has a lot of historic churches.  Oh, and its name means, “Power.”

We spent yesterday afternoon examining bus and train schedules, and planning our trip.  It seemed best for us to catch the 9:35 high-speed train from Salerno.  Because the station is an hour and a half walk, we hopped a bus to downtown.  After a week, we’ve got the busses pretty well figured out (knock on wood), so we ended up at the station with tickets in hand about an hour before the train left.  We congratulated ourselves and decided a cappuccino was in order.

It took about a week for us to have a favorite cappu place.  It’s our favorite gelato place, too.  Just up from the train station, on a corner by the sea, it’s also our favorite bathroom stop.  They’ve started recognizing us.  This morning after ordering in Italian, I heard the girl who has helped us 3 or 4 times tell one of the other baristas something that sounded a lot like “these don’t understand anything.”  Funny how I understood that.  It wasn’t said with malice, just an acknowledgment that we reach for our money to pay too early, or that we struggle a little with the size of the coins, pulling a 50 cent piece out instead of a 20.  But we made it through today, and our girl said, “thank you” when we paid.

Even after our cappunation, there was still about half an hour before our train left, so we went to the tabacchi to buy stamps.  Another successful exchange.  I think.  Not sure if we put too much on the postcards, but we got them posted and the right slot on the big-red box.  We were feeling pretty confident.

Back in the train station, we located the right platform, and after letting several other trains come and go, we boarded the right train, and even found our seats, where we informed a gentleman that he was sitting in them.  Success.

The ride out of the city and to the interior of the country was magnificent.  As the train rumbled along, I got an intense, soul-filling feeling.  I realized I’m more of a hill town girl, than a costal town girl.  The beaches are nice, but the rivers flow a milky turquoise, dancing atop the rugged, bleached shale and bedrock.  It’s otherworldly to me.  It feels deeply and powerfully like home.   Like time could stop and I could plant myself in one of the little caves that flank the rugged riverbeds.

But the train rolled on, and I watched the locals watching us through my sunglasses.  I even watched as the woman across from me took a covert picture with her phone.  I could hear the little camera “click” and watched her close the cover.  So I took a picture of her.  I think that’s super-fair, don’t you?  She probably thought I’m an American celebrity.  Understandable, really.

As we rolled into the station, it was clear we had our work cut out for us.  “Seems pretty spread out.”  The Ant was looking around at the non-city that surrounded the train station.  The night before, when we’d considered the train schedule, we noted that there were a couple of different stations to choose from.  Without a guide, we opted for “centrale,” hoping it would get us closest to the city center.  We were good with busses, but would we be able to navigate when we didn’t know where we were going?  “Nah.”  I was confident we could walk this one out.  “Let’s start walking.”

After a short debate about which way we should go, we started up the hill.  After all, we knew the city sat at the top of a hill.

“I think maybe we should ask someone.”  My Ant did have a point.  It was already about 80 degrees, and there didn’t appear to be any shade ahead.  We’d tried the lady in the tobacco shop, but, without a destination she wasn’t able to give us much.  Not even a map.

There was a guy walking ahead of us, but I wasn’t too excited by the way he felt, so I turned and looked behind us.  A middle-aged, dark-haired man with a jovial walk and newspapers tucked under his arm was moving toward us.  I waited until he was in earshot.

“Prego.”  He looked up.  “Dové il centro?”  He looked quizzically at us.

I find it takes a minute for folks to understand my accent.  I don’t really speak that much Italian – enough to eat and get around – and I mumble to boot.

“Il centro?”

“Si, della città.”

He rocked back on his heels.  “English?”  Awesome.  I prefer it when I can get through a conversation in Italian, but it’s kind of nice to get directions in English, when you’re going to walk in the sun for an extended period of time.  “It’s a long way,” he said, looking from one of us to the other.

“We walk a lot,” the Ant assured him.  He continued to look at us.

“How far?  Venti minuti?”  I tried.

“Si, si, about twenty.”  The Ant and I looked triumphantly at each other.  We could do twenty.  Twenty was nothing, even if it was hot and uphill.

“Bene.  Molto grazie!”

We all smiled and nodded, and headed up the street, our new friend in the lead.  The Ant and I chatted and wondered if there had been a better station for us to use.  Our friend stayed close, but not too close.  After about a minute, he turned.  “I am going to the center.  I will take you.  You can ride with me if you like.”

“Vero?”  The Ant and I exchanged a grin.  “Grazie mille! Thank you so much.  That would be wonderful.  Are you sure?”

We walked on just a bit, exchanging pleasantries.  Yes, we’re from America.

“New York?”  He asked eagerly.  Usually people wanted to know if we were from California.  “My parents worked in New Jersey.  Patterson, New Jersey.  You know it?”  We shook our heads.  “I was there in 1980.  Thirty years agao.”  He shook his head in disbelief.  He was walking toward a small, white, 2-door car.  He opened the door for us and we climbed in.  Something I would probably never do in the US, but something that seemed completely natural here.

During the 5 minute switchback ride to the city center, we exchanged names.  He was Paulo.  He worked for PostaItalia.  I noticed he had a wedding ring, and wondered what his parents had done in Patterson, New Jersey.  He asked how long we would be staying and how many times we had come before.

When he dropped us off, it was across from a very tall building.  “Inside that big door you will find, how do you say, ascensore…”

“Lift.  Elevator,” I supplied.

“Si, brava.  Elevator.  It will take you up to the next street.  Via Pretoria.  That is the main street.”

We climbed out and waved as he drove away.

So we needed an elevator to get to the main street.  This city really was on a hill.  We climbed in with the lines of locals and took the quick ride up.  At the top, we looked down, taking in the excellent view.

And the stairs that we could have climbed.

We were grateful for Paulo.  We prepared ourselves for the walk back.

The top level of the city was before us, maze-like and strange.  The streets had been paved over with new blocks, giving the city a clean, new feel.  We took a look at a map posted in the first piazza we came to.  I even took a picture so that we could take it with us.  Unfortunately, the map was posted facing the wrong way, rendering the “you are here” icon pretty unhelpful.  After an hour of wandering through the streets in a big circle, we realized something wasn’t quite right.  Thankfully, though, the hilltop felt something like an island.  I didn’t think we could get too lost on this side of the elevator.

We took in the architecture.  The Napoleonic city wall, the painted buildings, the hitching posts.

Starting from the map, we headed right, in the other direction, toward a group of people that seemed to be window-shopping.  I was fairly certain I knew where we were, but that didn’t help us fill our stomachs, which were rapidly becoming demanding.  We saw alarmingly few eateries as we walked, and only one pizzeria, which was closed, though the smell wafting from the kitchen was fantastic.

We decided it was time to take Paolo’s advice and find Via Pretoria.  Perhaps we’d have more luck finding a pizzeria there.  The side street we chose had nothing that looked like food on it.  “Maybe we should ask someone.”

I’d already started feeling around for someone who could point us in the right direction.  I could see the Ant was melting a little, and marveled at the feeling of openness I’d been experiencing since I arrived in Italy this time.  It was not at all like the pressed feeling I had come to know during my last visit.  The discomfort with being unable to communicate.  The paralysis of feeling out of control of my surroundings.  The feeling of being in a bell jar.  Being able to see out, but not to move in the world the way I wanted to.  I could feel the Ant going through a small grief cycle as she experienced this feeling of loss now, in a strange city, with no guidebook, no guide, and little language to help us along.

A young woman stepped out of a shop into the street in front of us. “ Prego!”  She turned.  “Via Pretoria?”  I wasn’t really up for conjugation.  She smiled.

“Diritto,” she motioned ahead.  “Sempre.”  Okay, go straight ahead, always straight ahead.  We could do that.

“Grazie.”  She turned off, and we walked ahead, following a red line painted on the cobblestones.  We followed it to its end.

Then we went on some more.  Until we saw a sign for a restaurant and pizzeria.

“I think we should go there.”  The Ant and I travel well together.  We’re pretty easy going, until we’re not.  And then we’re direct.  She was done.  Enough wandering.  It was time to eat.

I paused at the top of the steep stairway leading down to the restaurant.  Vines hung down, and I wasn’t sure whether we were going into a café, or a piazza.  Walking down it became clear.  This was a nice place.  We were in for a treat.

“Aperto?”  It wasn’t entirely clear whether they were open.  We were a little early for the lunch crowd.  There was nobody else there, but we were welcomed in and seated near the middle of the restaurant by an older gentleman with a bald head, baggy jacket and designer glasses.  He looked like he was probably the owner.

He took our drink order and explained where to find the daily specials.  Then he left us to look over the menu.

“We should go all out.”  This place reminded me of the restaurants in Venice, and I was eager to have a real pranzo.  “What do you think?  Primi, secondi, the whole thing.”  We rarely do this, opting for the less expensive pizza route, often disappointing our wait staff.

The Ant agreed, and we started translating the menu, my little dictionary at the ready.  There was spaghetti with tomato sauce, fettuccini with artichoke, and other things I couldn’t even translate.  The Ant settled on maccheroni  al forno – baked maccheroni – and a timballetti of lamb and eggplant.  I chose pasta with lentils and a plate of vegetables.

When I asked for a plate of mixed vegetables, our friendly waiter/probable owner, was accommodating, considering what he’d bring me, and making notes on his tablet.  Then I tried for a cheese plate.  He did me one better.  He would put cheese on top of the grilled vegetables.

Wow.

Seeing his face light up, I celebrated for a moment when I realized that I’d understood the description well enough to respond with a genuinely excited face.  This was a good day.

The pasta comes first at a meal like this, and this pasta was fantastic.

The Ant’s maccheroni was beautify and crunchy.

My lentils were amazing.  Delicate and savory, they were prepared with olive oil, and a small bit of tomato sauce.  We swirled the bowl around trying to identify ingredients.

With alarming speed, our plates were empty, and we were soaking up the remains with bread.  Any concern that we wouldn’t be able to eat everything shoved aside.

I wasn’t sure exactly what a timballetti was, but we got an approving look when we ordered it.

The little patties of lamb and eggplant sat on a bed of roasted red pepper and olive oil.

I grinned at my plate of cheesy veggies and dug in.  I’ll be grilling my greens much more when I return.  I forget about how earthy and sensual this can be.  Arugula and hearts of romaine, as well as zucchini, eggplant, tomato and potato were covered in slivers of pecorino and parmesan.

We marveled at the flavors and the perfect serving of each.  Again, the food disappeared.

The restaurant was now starting to fill.  Locals, including carbinieri filed in.  Other than us, there was one other woman in the place.  I started to notice looks coming from the table next to us.  Quick glances and mimed photographs told me I was being watched.  Not in a comfortable way.  I try to be respectful and not too obvious with my photographs of the food, but I’m not always successful.  Regardless, I was enjoying the meal, and our service was lovely, so I put it aside.

We ordered dessert, one of each of the torte brought to the table for us to choose from, and a couple of coffees.

The waiters were all now bustling about.  Several more had appeared, and those who had earlier been in shirtsleeves with visible chest hair now had on ties and vests.

The guys at the table next to us were quiet.  Very, very quiet.  Not even really talking.  I’m sure I was projecting, but I felt like they were agitated with our intrusion into their routine.  I tried to let it go.

We paid the bill and took turns in the bathroom.  The Ant first and then I headed in.  “I’ll meet you outside,” she said as she gathered her purse.  I thought about the great meal, but my mind wandered back to the guys at the table.

I walked out, looking for the owner.  He’d been so helpful, I wanted to give him a wave and a “grazie, arrivederci,” but he was in the back.  I paused, and smiled, but wanted to get out of the gaze of the quiet table, so I hurried out, not sure he’d seen me.  I greeted and thanked another of the waiters on the way out, and then walked up the stairs to find the Ant.

When I saw her face, I froze.  She looked shaken.

“You alright?”

She looked at me with big eyes, and nodded just a little.

“What happened.”  My mama bear was coming out.

She opened her mouth and looked like she was going to lose it.  “Did he say goodbye to you?”

“What?  Who?”  My mind was still on the table.  “I smiled, but I’m not sure he saw.  Why?”

“Well, he came over and asked if everything was good, and then he shook my hand and grabbed me and kissed both cheeks.”  She was on the verge.

My tension melted.  I felt sheepish.  “That’s awesome.  He was great.”  I walked over to the little stairs and peered down, hoping to see his grinning face.  If the owner was pleased with our effort, delighted with our enjoyment of his food, I didn’t care much what anyone else thought.

We hugged, and headed up the street back to the piazza and the map, finding it easily.  It was 1:30.  Stores were closing, and we’d seen a lot of the hilltop, so we decided to head back to the station to catch the 2:20 back to Salerno.

Down the elevator we went.  Then we tried to reach a lower level by escalator.  But that just took us under the street and through an interesting art display.

This left us with the option of walking down the street, way around the downtown area, switching back to the lower levels, or taking the stairs, and hoping we could find the right street to the station.

We opted for the stairs.  Which went on.  And on.  And on.  Not steeply, just in flights, switching back and forth, crossing streets, working us further down into a gully.  At one of the street crossings, we saw a guy cut down the stairs in front of us.  He looked like the trek was a familiar, jolly one, and disappeared quickly.

We looked around, trying to assess if we’d gone far enough down to be at the level of the train station.  Despite our best efforts, neither of us had paid very good attention while in the car with Paulo.  We continued down the last flight.

When we reached the bottom, the guy from the stairs was there, talking animatedly with two women: , one wiry, with long dark hair pulled up on the top on her head and a tattoo of Asian characters on her neck, the other smaller, in pink with bleach-blond, short hair.  They moved as a pack, lovingly jostling each other as they crossed the street toward a car.  I’d been watching them with curiosity.  In this comfortable town I hadn’t felt anyone quite like them.  “We’ll ask them.”  It was clear to me they were our next step.

“Prego?”  The dark-haired woman stopped and looked at me.

“Di mi.”  They were all looking at us now.  And they were curious.

I’d tried to work out a way to ask how to get to the station.  “Come andare alla stazione centrale?”

They all gathered around and began the deliberation.  The dark-haired woman wanted to send us the long, direct route, while the short-haired blonde thought the short route was better, but more confusing.  They all agreed it’d be too hard to tell us how to get there.  They looked up at us and motioned, saying something quickly.

“No parlo bene.”  My hands coming up in a plaintiff gesture.

“English?”  Really?  Wow, they were good.

“Si.”

“Okay, you’re coming with us.  We’ll take you.”  Well of course they would.  Truthfully, I had been waiting for the offer.

“Where are you from?”

“America.”

“AHhh.  America!”  They were super-excited.  This was the best reception we’d had.  The women looked at me with what seemed to be a new understanding.  Yes, short-haired women were more common in America.  I’ve honestly seen 3 since I’ve been here.

We turned to their car, a four-door, blue one, perhaps a Panda.  I pulled at the handle and the blonde, who was climbing into the driver’s seat said, “baby, wait a minute.”  Baby.  Okay.  The other woman smiled.

The door clicked and we climbed in, moving aside whatever random backseat items were on the seat.

“Grazie mille,” I started.

“Niente.”

“No really, for something,” I laughed at the hand she’d put up, trying to stop a stranger from thanking her for interrupting her day for a ride to the train station.

Their other friend had disappeared, walking over to his car.  As we fired the engine and drove past, the Ant and I joined in waving goodbye.  The ladies slowed, and motioned him over, yelling out the window that they didn’t want him to feel abandoned.  He came around and climbed in, the three of us pressed into the back seat.  What a riot!

The ladies told us that they were dangerous, cackling wildly.

“Oh good, “ declared the Ant, joining in the laughter.

“Ciaro,” I added, realizing I was using the term “clear” incorrectly as I said it.

We drove and talked, the usual questions about where we lived in America, where we were staying in Italy, for how long, whether we liked Potenza.

“We like the people very much.”

“Oh, well thank you.”  They all seemed disillusioned with the little town, but happy we were enjoying ourselves.

“Yes, you’re all very nice.”

“Well, except for him, eh Vicenzo?”  The ladies were laughing.

“Si, il unico.”  He was the only grumpy one.  Not likely.  His warm, scruffy face was beaming.

“So, Vicenzo?”  I said motioning toward the man, “and what are your names?”

A hand came over the driver-side headrest.  I missed the dark-haired woman’s name, as I shook her hand, amused by the other hand in my face, the driver impatient for me to shake it.

“Mary.”  Not Marie, not Mari.  Mary.  Interesting.

“Kistin.”  They all said it, “Christin.”  Better than the usual Christina.

“Leslie.”  They all let out little joyous sounds at the name.  Something unusual.  “Lezli.”

There was much shaking of hands and laughter.

And then we were at the station.  Just like that.

Mary unbuckled and hopped out of the car.  I pushed the backseat clothing onto the floor and climbed out to thank her.  She positioned herself stoutly in front of us, her tiny frame looking resolute.  Her pink hoodie and piercings distracting from her serious face.

She started speaking, then stopped herself.  “No.  Francais, um…”

“En Italiano,” I encouraged.  Maybe I could work it out.  It seemed important to her to say whatever it was.

“Ok.  Il mundo,”  She was making a circle in the air.

“Yes, the world.”

“Si, il mundo e rotondo.  The world is round.  And you and I,” she had removed her sunglasses – something I always do when I’m wanting to make a connection.  Realizing that I was looking into her clear, beautiful, amber eyes, I took mine off, too.

“You and I siamo interconnessi, mmm….”

“We are interconnected, si.”  I knew this.  We’re all connected.  Even the guys at the restaurant.  But sometimes it’s more clear than others.  And right now it was clear.

“This is my philosophy.”  She dropped her hands form the air where she had been making connections between the three of us.

“It’s ours too.”  We smiled at each other.  I moved toward her, kissing her cheeks, embracing fully.

“Molto grazie.”  “Grazie mille.”  The thanks flowed heavy as she moved to the Ant for another round of kisses and hugs.

Then we stood and looked at each other, appreciating the connection that was so obviously there, unexpected and welcome.  She and I moved together at the same time, one last kiss on the cheek and a hard embrace.  And then the Ant and I were walking into the station, and the blue car was pulling away.

I looked over my shoulder about a dozen times, wishing they would come back, wondering why we hadn’t thought to exchange contact information and wondering if we’d be able to find them if we walked back up into the city, or returned on another day.

In the station, we bought tickets for the 2:40 ride back to Salerno, and then I ran to find the bathroom.  When I came out, the Ant looked worried.  “You sure you didn’t buy bus tickets?”  Crap, she was right.  The 4:20 was a bus.  We’d decided not to try taking the long-distance bus, as we didn’t know how to purchase tickets, or where to pick it up.  And now we had tickets, but 4 minutes to work out where to board.

Walking out the front door, we stopped a couple of guys in suits.  One was on the phone.  “Prego,” I tried with the other.  “Autobus?”  I handed him my ticket.  I didn’t have time for grammar (don’t tell anyone).

“English?” came the question from the man on the phone.  I nodded.  He finished his call and took my ticket.  “Wait a moment.”  He headed into the station while we waited with the other man.

“I’m not a train agent.  He is.”  Wow, good luck for us today.

The agent reemerged with my ticket.  “Yes, this is a ticket for the bus.  You catch it just over there.  It will arrive at 2:20.  It is a green bus.”

“Grazzie mille!”  We crossed the street and waited for the green bus that would take us down from the hill, back to Salerno.  The Ant and I thought back to another day in Italy without a guidebook, in another hill town, and the connections we’d made there.

Yes.  I’m a hill town kind of girl.

I think Salem has one of the strangest, and perhaps ugliest, perhaps prettiest Capitol buildings ever.  The outside is strange, the inside is strange.   It’s just strange.  And totally Oregon.

I’m sitting in the House chambers right now, where the floor is covered in carpet adorned with images of the White Pine, Oregon’s state tree, and the wall behind the podium is covered in a mural showing the state’s organizational meeting – the first “Wolf Meeting” at Champoeg.  When they recarpeted the building, people bought sections of the old stuff to hang on their walls.  But it’s the doornobs I love.

I’m here for one of my favorite events:  Tribal Government Day.  It’s one of the big three food days that happen at the Capitol.  The other two are chicken day (poultry lobby) and beef day (beef lobby).  As a state worker, you become plugged in to what is going on in “the building,” especially when it involves free stuff.  And when it comes to free stuff, Tribal Day is the pinnacle.

Here’s how it works:  the tribes and confederated tribes of Oregon come to the Capitol for the day.  They set up information booths and give away things.  Info pamphlets, pencils, brightly colored shopping bags emblazoned with tribe insignia, playing cards, etc.  Most of these booths have upright displays, whether it’s poster board with pictures of tribe members walking, and hand-lettered captions like, “exercise!”  Or an enlargement of an 1855 unratified treaty.  The tribes may be sovereign, but they’re not missing out on the commercialism that plagues the nation as a whole.

At the same time, the Casinos set up spectacular food displays, usually including ice or butter sculptures, and great trees of chocolate-covered fruit kebobs.  White-jacketed catering staff replace plates of melon, while ice cream scoopers work the line of hungry state employees, doling out tastes of the huckleberry/hazelnut ice cream that Umpqua  dairy makes exclusively for the casinos.

The food is great, but my favorite part has always been the performance in the house chambers.  With the entire legislature seated in the chambers, and the galleries packed with visitors, the morning session is opened with the drumming and chanting of tribe members.   Seated around a large drum, beautiful people bless the proceedings.  I cry every time.  With the legislators sitting at their desks, their seats of power, little American flags standing sentinel over their day’s agendas, the tribes bless the chamber, bless the state, and bless the working relationship of those who make the decisions for the state.

The tribes and confederations are recognized as sovereigns.  They have the right to govern their lands – the ones covered by treaties – for the most part, and to protect the health and welfare of their people.  (I know this is a super-simplified statement.)  Once a year the tribal leaders are invited to stand at the head of the legislature, symbolic equals.

In years past I’ve heard the governor and the senate president speak eloquently about the tribes and the relationship between the Oregon government and the Tribal Councils.  I’ve seen beautiful performances by high-school students proud of their heritage.  I’ve heard tribal elders speak about the tragedy of high-school drop-out rates.  I’ve watched as people queue up to get their free bag and pack of cards, and wait for an hour to walk past the butter sculpture.

It used to be called Tribal Information Day.  Now it’s Tribal Government Day.  I wonder if next it will be called Casino Food Day.

This year is an off-year.  The legislature isn’t in session.  I’ve never been here for Tribal Day in an off-session year.  I came for breakfast, walked through the smaller than ever information area, and came into the House chamber to sit and think about the years when I’ve been inspired by the spirit of cooperation demonstrated here.

The truth is, I’m here for the food, and the speeches, and the performances.  I’m here to feel hope that all peoples can come together and work toward the good of all members of all societies.  I’m here to feel a little better, knowing cultures as beautiful as those on display today aren’t completely erased.  But I don’t know how to do more than watch.  How do I talk with a woman about tribal health centers?  How do I start a conversation about unratified treaties?  How do I acknowledge my privileged guilt without letting it hobble me?  There are no pretty speeches to distract me this year from this question.

Now I’m off to listen to this year’s performance, and to seek out  my other favorite part of Tribal Day.  It’s a tad cliché.  I’m a little embarrassed to admit it.  It’s the fry bread.  If you keep your eyes open, there’s usually a spot in the corner of a table of casino food where authentic fry bread hides.  Sometimes it’s paired with fresh marionberry preserves.  This isn’t from the casino.  It’s from members of the tribes.  It’s made by families and shared lovingly.  If it’s an extra lucky year, someone will have brought smoked salmon.  The real deal.  Caught in our rivers and smoked by hand.  You have to look carefully, or it’ll slip by.  A mess of fish and bread out of character from the polish of the ice sculpture.  But for those who know, it makes the hour-long line worth every second.

Portland is my home base.  In between travels, I find myself back here, staying with or housesitting for friends.  This return trip to Portland has been a string of housesitting gigs, punctuated by forays out into the exciting and quirky spots that Portland has to offer.

Last night I had a free night in between gigs, so I decided to get a room at one of Portland’s landmarks, the Kennedy School.  Part of the venerable McMenamins family, the Kennedy School is housed in a 1915 schoolhouse that was once part of the Portland school system.  In addition to 23 classroom/guest rooms, the property includes a soaking pool, 5 bars, a huge, interesting restaurant and a theater pub.

If you haven’t experienced McMenamins, here’s the skinny:  many of the bars, restaurants and hotels are located on historic properties in the Northwest.  The properties are restored and revitalized, filled with artwork based on the history of the properties.  The feel of the locations is one of history and carnival all in one.  Reality alert:  the restaurants are notoriously understaffed, making for an often challenging service experience, but the overall atmosphere almost always makes up for this.

Yesterday, I checked in to my room – Originally “classroom 4” and now the “Mirror Mirror” room, and headed to the theater for some dinner and a movie.  Along with lodging, the room rate includes free movies in the old auditorium and unlimited soaking in the soaking pool.

The theater is located in the school’s auditorium.

Movie-goers can order pizza, calzones, and a variety of other pub food – as well as beer and wine – to be delivered to the sofas and tables that serve as theater seats.

Yesterday was Wednesday, the day that the Kennedy School holds “Mommy Matinees,” movies for parents to bring their kids without concern for the running, talking and screaming discouraged in other theaters.  I ordered a veggie calzone, staked out a velvet sofa, and turned on my computer to check email while I waited for “The Princess and the Frog” to start.

The movie was completely enjoyable and the surroundings delightful.  And it was great to walk down the hall to my classroom bedroom when it was over.

The room itself was pretty darn cool.  The walls were lined with the original chalkboards, some of which were sliding panels enclosing old-school  coat racks doubling as a closet.  Too cool.

The room was decorated with phrases from the fairy tale “Snowdrop” (you might know it better as Snow White and the Seven Dwarves).  The “Mirror, mirror on the wall” sequence was cleverly written backward on the bathroom wall.

The thing I was most looking forward to was the soaking pool.  Located where the teacher’s lounge used to be, the soaking pool is a beautiful, tiled courtyard area.  The water is the right level of hot, with bubbles running down one length of the pool.  Last night it was a good mix of Portland-style, tri-athlete-looking folks, Rastafarians, steam rising from their hats and dreads, and young families sporting matching racing goggles (kids are allowed in the pool until 8PM, so plan to go later if you aren’t willing to move aside for them).

One of the great things about the Kennedy School is that it feels like one big living room.  It’s almost like visiting a friend’s big, old house.  There’s a lot of room to kick back and relax.  Like when I decided I wanted a brownie and ice cream at 10:00 at night.  I grabbed my computer and trotted down to the Courtyard Restaurant to eat and write.

I sat and listened to a few other people who were chatting and snacking.  And I wrote about meeting a new friend in the soaking pool.  When I’d mopped up the last bit of ice cream I packed up and walked the 50 yards back to my room – where I passed out in a brownie-induced stupor.

My time at the Kennedy school was fantastic.  The property is amazing; the room was original, roomy, comfortable and spotless.  The movie was entertaining and the soaking pool was ultra-relaxing, even with kids walking the perimeters of both.  And the food was good.  I’d say I had one of the best service experiences I’ve ever had with a McMenamins property.  It was so enjoyable that I’ll be recommending the place to my parents next time they’re in town.  It really does offer a genuinely Portland experience.

It’s nice to find new places to have adventures, and nice to be reminded that adventures are in my back yard – wherever I am.

After spending some time with my family in Idaho, I’m back in Portland for a bit.  You know Portland – the land of the super-yummy specialty restaurants.

Today, I had lunch with my friend Leo, who I hadn’t seen in months.  We planned to go to a deli for some grub and gab, but when we drove up to it, it was closed.  Fighting through the momentary fluster, Leo regrouped.  “How about the Red Bike?  You like fried egg sandwiches?”

Now, I’d never heard of the Little Red Bike Café but, as it so happens, I do enjoy fried egg sandwiches.  So, we made a course-correction and headed toward the smell of butter (always a safe option).

The café is cute.  Disguised as an unsophisticated walk-up counter kind of place, the café is anything but.

The first clue to this was the tea menu.  If a place has more than 10 types of tea on a special menu, it’s not unsophisticated.  If the tea comes in a tea press, it’s bordering on fancy.

We ordered a couple of sandwiches and sat down to talk about life.  (Leo and I always have a good time conspiring to find fantastic business ideas and meaningful spiritual journeys.)  But when they food arrived, I found myself totally distracted by the first bite.

I got something called the “flat tire”.  It had scrambled egg, cheese, aoli and veggie-bacon on a sesame bagel.  Super-yum.  When I ordered, I asked them to leave the bacon off.  Forgetting I was back in Portland, I was surprised when the guy behind the counter offered me veggie-bacon.  Yup, veggie-bacon.  That just about made my day, not because I like bacon, but because I was reminded of the coolness of Portland.  And, as the sandwich sat there, the aoli melted and coated the bread and egg.

Leo got something else – something with real bacon.

This bad-boy was serious.  It had a fried egg, thick bacon and was on a ciabatta roll.  I didn’t even ask how it was, I was so consumed with mine, but it looked tasty and disappeared quickly.

The staff was extra-helpful and Portland-funky.  As I walked out, I looked back on the place and mused.

Every-so-often I forget how cool Portland is.  You don’t even have to look for incredible places to eat here.  I’ve never even heard of a restaurant that specializes in fried-egg sandwiches, but now I know where to go next time I’m craving one.

The Nines is a five-star hotel in Portland. In fact, it’s the only five-star hotel in the city. That’s an important point.

On my return trip to Portland, I booked a room at The Nines for a few nights. It’s in the old Meier & Frank building in downtown Portland, overlooking the Pioneer Courthouse.

It’s a pretty cool place. They hollowed out the building from the 8^th floor up, to create an atrium that houses a fancy restaurant and several common areas, including a wood-paneled library/billiards room.

Before I get too far, I’d like to share the secret of how I was able to afford a room at The Nines: because it’s the only five-star hotel, you can use filters on Hotwire.com to make sure you get the best deal. Here’s how it works: usually you tell Hotwire what city and star-rating you want for a hotel, along with other things like how far it is form the city center. Hotwire comes back with a low price for the type of hotel, but doesn’t give you a name. That means you might get one of several different hotels in the area. It’s a bit of a gamble, but allows you to get a good deal on a room. However, if you plug in “Portland” and “five-stars”, the only option is The Nines, even though it won’t show you the name of the hotel. Excellent. What that meant for me is I paid the same for The Nines as any other big, downtown hotel, and a good bit less than if I’d booked direct.

Now that I’ve got that out of the way, here’s the skinny on The Nines. It’s beautiful. The rooms are decorated in white, turquoise and silver. My king room had a huge flat-screen tv, a desk, minibar, marble bathroom and velvet chaise lounge.

It’s the kind of place where they have a turn-down service every evening. When I returned from gallivanting around Portland, I found my bed turned-down, my terrycloth Nines robe arranged artfully on the bed, the tv remote and room service menu out, jazz playing on the clock radio/ipod speaker, ice in the bucket, and little chocolate cakes on the nightstand.

The hotel is a fairly quiet one, despite its downtown location. Atrium view rooms are available at a premium, and cut down on the street noise, if you’re really looking for a quiet retreat. The hotel houses two restaurants, one in the 8^th floor atrium, and one higher up. It has a nice business center with faxing and copying services, as well as printers, computers, and an Ethernet hookup for your laptop. It also has free wireless internet if you’re feeling anti-social.

The only thing it doesn’t have is cheap parking. The only hotel parking is valet parking, an expensive indulgence in a city that prides itself on its mass-transit and pedestrian-friendly streets. I took the Max light-rail from the airport to my hotel for a few dollars. No transfers and it dropped me off a half a block from the hotel entrance. Portland is a great place to explore on foot, but there is on-street parking that is free at night, and a “smart park” city-owned garage a few blocks away if you insist on having a car.

My nights at The Nines were a welcome retreat. I found myself thinking that a decompression period in the hotel might be a nice post-leap ritual.