The flight from Portland to San Francisco is perfect. It’s just the right amount of time for you to admire the romance of flight and the wonder that is unaccosted flight through American airspace without coming to the conclusion that you’re stuck in a floating metal sky prison.
I have a lot of fondness for this trip for many reasons.
Heathrow through LA and up to Portland marked my first trip through the west coast of America back in 2015 for XOXO. I still remember the striking blue and the beaches of southern California that soon merge into Oregon’s vast expanse of treelined forests. And for the whole trip my nose was squished up against the window – I found, for the first time in my life, to be falling for a place. I knew no-one in this giant country, and yet oddly enough I had the feeling I was returning to somewhere familiar. It’s weird and I can’t quite explain it.
Three years later and I’m on a similar flight (this time I’m in Portland for My Brother My Brother And Me) and it’s fun to think about how much has changed. I’m no longer alone in this great expanse, a small band of horrifyingly smart and funny friends are meeting me there. My home in San Francisco feels like home for the first time.
And now I’m perched above a cloud, listening to Out of Nothing, Everything by Dan Romer and I’m smiling a big, dumb smile.
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