It was a good day. The whole weekend was shaping up nicely. It took a three page write up in Bon Appetit with them listing this place as one of the top ten best new restaurants, but I finally convinced Michael to try Baba’s Pantry. Now we can’t eat anything else for the rest of our lives. I picked up Friday night’s dinner from there and the next day we went back for hummus and cheeses and spicy pickled things. In continuing with the them of lists, we headed out on our scooters for Kitty’s Cafe, who made the list of top 50 restaurants for the New York Times. It was okay. I guess the pork tenderloin is the main reason they made that list. My option was a fish sandwich which was tasty, but it was just a fish sandwich.

After lunch, Michael led us to Mikey’s Military Surplus. The route took us through a part of town that I didn’t even know existed. At one point, Michael stopped so I could pull up next to him. He said “Honk if you want to stop to take pictures.” and then I had some serious regrets for not having my bigger camera. The road we were on ran right along side the railroad tracks that follow the Missouri river. On one side, we had tall grasses, train tracks and the occasional train. The other side of the street was lined with shotgun houses varying in shades of blues, pinks and greens. Then we came to a four way stop and on one corner was a little house with a sign that read “Welcome to East Argentine”. I beeped my horn so Michael would know that I wanted to stop. It was like we had just entered a different country.

We made it to Mikey’s, which is split. Half of it is regular work clothes with brands like Dickies and Carharrt. I found a nice pair of fleece fingerless mittens with grippy pads on the palms. The other side of the shop is devoted to military surplus. I could feel the nudge in the back of my brain as I stepped into that area. It smelled like every single military surplus store I had been into with Chris. My fingers grazed over a rack of coveralls and I thought about pulling one down and putting it on. There was a crate full of com-phone receivers that probably should have been in my basement. I did not spend a lot of time in this area and became inpatient to leave.

We stopped at a large Mercado on our way home with nothing inside labeled in english, bought a large wedge of white crumbly cheese and popsicles. Then we sat outside at a picnic table in the shade, eating our popsicles and watching families come and go. My popsicle was more shredded coconut than ice cream. The tropical taste mixed with the warmth of the day and unfamiliar surroundings, again made think for a moment that I had magically transported myself to South America. As Michael and I rode our scooters back down the road that had brought us to that area, that nudging in the back of my brain became a hard shove.

When Chris and I moved here, we knew very little about this city. So we spent our weekends just driving around with no destination in mind. We’d turn off maps and GPS and go out and get lost. It’s how we discovered so many great little Portland like places. These adventures allowed us to see that even though we hadn’t moved to the city that held our hearts, we had moved to a really cool place that was very much like the city that held our hearts. Michael’s lived here his whole life and I was able to introduce him to places he’s never heard of and all of that was because of mine and Chris’s adventures in getting lost. So while I was riding down this strange little street with railroads on one side and shotgun houses on the other side, I was struck that this, all of it, was something that Chris and I never found. At the very least, how was it that we never stumbled across Mikey’s Surplus? That shit was right up Chris’s alley.

I picked up speed as anger rose up inside me and I stewed in it for most of the ride home. Then I thought about the beauty of the day, the perfection of all the finds and the weather. I marveled at how after all this time I could still let it get to me. The things we didn’t do. Not enough time. The reconciliation of my life now without him. That’s the most difficult part, giving myself permission to have this life without him.