Macleay Park is two blocks southwest of our place. This verdant scene, typical for the park’s main trail, is about a quarter mile further on.

I live near this.

This is the twilight view from the courtyard of our apartment building. Looking west, that ridge of silhouetted pines is Forest Park. It’s one of the largest urban reserves in the Nation. There’s a trailhead two blocks from here, just beyond the steel truss bridge and the sculpture garden.

Four blocks down our street is a brewery. I can smell its sweet scent carried upon the breeze that rolls up the river valley.

Three blocks up there’s a corner bar, a cafe, an art gallery, and a bike shop. Just your typical Portland neighborhood. I love this place.

“You should move to Portland. It’s great.” I said it because I meant it, but there was still that hint of desperation in the words, like when parent-friends say, “You should have kids. It would be great.”

So I’ve tried to stop talking up our 10-month-old hometown to SoCal friends. But I’m finding it hard to stay quiet. Portland rules, and in coming posts, I’ll explain why. First off:

I rode my bike down to the waterfront last night for the fireworks spectacular that kicked off this year’s Rose Festival. Weather: perfect. Downtown: a river. Show: spectacular indeed. I love this town.

(via realoregonreality.blogspot.com)

As I was going from beard to none, I made a few stops along the way.

Portland’s a beard town. I had grown my own for this year’s holiday greeting, so I decided to keep it through the winter, to blend in with my new northwestern neighbors.  It was mid-January when I felt the need — the scratchy, scruffy, unkempt need — to return to the clean-shaven, close-cropped, beach-volleyball-playing style of my old San Diego home.

(click image to enlarge)

Photo credits: amarine88 (George Bush), Adam P Schweigert/WFIU (Barack Obama). Photos are remixed by permission of their Creative Commons licenses.