cynthia

You know you're in Oregon when you walk into a dockside pancake shack and the sign on the wall says, "Gluten-free pancakes with organic chai tea." I'm down in Coos Bay this weekend, about five hours south of Portland, working through a casting problem with Hugh McKay of Cast Glass Forms. Hugh's in Port Orford; Gigi the iPhone led me a merry GPS dance through cow pastures and abandoned farmland to get there. "Geeeez, that's hours out of the way," said Hugh, "Don't you computer people ever look at a map?"

Yesterday a girl ran headlong down the aisle at the Container Store, skidding to a halt about five inches from my belly. She was maybe 17, a blue-eyed brunette dressed like a tree. (Typical glasslander costume: Nondescript fabric in grey, brown and moss, none too clean, shaggy so you're not quite sure there's a girl in there and a couple of holes thrown in for spice.) She took a deep breath and opened her mouth all the way back to her tonsils.

"I just need $14.50," the woman said anxiously, "And I'll have enough for a room for the night. That's all, and I'm not lying! It's only so I have a place to sleep." I'd had a rare hour to spare before my next appointment in Portland's Pearl District and so I did my favorite thing: I drifted through the streets and watched.