Knowing Your Place

Are we perhaps fitted with an internal GPS at birth which guides us, sometimes via unexpected detours, to our geographical destiny? As a young person, I longed to leave the familiar. I didn't know where I was headed but was certain I wasn't there yet. My map was small, primarily defined by my native state. Before my teen-age years lapsed, I'd relocated thousands of miles away and yet my journey wasn't complete.

At an even younger age, my husband saw beyond his small New York town and recognized an unrelenting quest for the west. The Air Force kindly deposited him twice in the region and the third time he made the move permanent.

With such parents as examples, we should have realized that our daughter would inherit wandering genes. While remaining in the same time zone, she's deserted the desert and claimed a wet, woodsy zip code as her own. Thus Portland is an annual destination for us with the specific time period chosen to fit within her busy schedule and coincide with the area's warmer months.

We're acutely aware that our visits need to be contained and that they sometimes twist her bustling calendar uncomfortably. We haven't forgotten where we belong.

As this September's visit fades to memory, these are my favorite Portland impressions:

A brewpub meal followed by a visit to Pix for a pastry called 'Amelie,' a chocolate bombe confection with hazelnut creme.



The Way Out West music festival souvenir tendered from daughter to dad.



Meeting Caitlin's new work colleagues inside an impressive National Historic Site registered building.



A moment of silliness as Henry and I, resplendent in orange, pose during an Oregon State event in a city park.



The staircase moment with mom and daughter.



Our favorite couple's exhilerating agenda.



Feeling like family at the Lilly gathering.



Admiring PDX Jackie's garden, tended with obvious love.



Dangling an old shoelace and then watching a dancing laser beam intrigue the grandcats, Georgia and Enid.



Repeated visits to multiple Burgerville locations for healthy turkey burgers and delectable smoothies.

An Italian evening featuring four young people being carded as we get to know the charming and delightful Portland friends, Conor and Jonathan.

Wandering the labyrinth at IKEA, hunting for new shelving to accommodate Caitlin's escalating book collection.

Rediscovering Kettleman's Bagels, the best export from Long Island.

Snuggling under an umbrella as unpredicted rain drenches sidewalks and streets.

Blissfully flitting from one Nordstrom's to another in shopping abandon.

Admiring newly purchased clothes for the young professional and wryly realizing that the Junior Department may be part of her past, not her future.

Hearing about a possum encounter in the front yard and the plucky dash inside sans animal.

Pondering menu selections at the Thai restaurant nestled among the food trucks in downtown.

And finally, listening intently to that 'Disneyland' voice, observing repeated smiles as life slices are detailed and knowing that she's found her place and her person with whom to share it.

Clothing Optional

Whenever I think I don't know how to dress, I go to the airport. It is in that setting that I am able to get straight about fashion. That is, I can quickly see that few people know how to dress. Even when about to board a plane, perhaps to visit a loved one, see an exciting new town/country, walk into an interview, or comfort someone who has experienced great loss, clothing thoughtlessness is rampant.

I look around at those assembled near the departure gate and I am stunned. What happened to these people when they got up this morning and looked in their closets? Were they still asleep? It is not possible that all of them are color blind, stripes and checks impaired. Do I spy pajamas? Is that underwear posing as outerwear? Does that young woman know how cold it gets on a plane and that her postage stamp sized shorts won't lengthen automatically?

There's a little girl, perhaps three years old, who hasn't quite reached the liberating age of dressing herself. I bet she has opinions that are strong and maybe not worth fighting. She's wearing a tutu. With leggings. Very festive but it may be uncomfortable when sitting on a plane for hours. A good mom brings a change of clothes. Make that several.

Within this mostly motley assemblage, there are a few people who must subscribe to "Vogue" or "Gentleman's Quarterly." Obviously they're going somewhere important. They must be important or believe themselves to be so. Smartly attired in au courant fashions, I wonder if they are so clothed at the grocery store. What am I thinking? They don't go to the grocery store. Much too mundane for their lifestyle.

My dear husband responds to my dress lament with these kind words, "But you never think that." Only all the time. I'm insecure about my choices, too staid to be sensational (not that I seek that sobriquet) and committed to colors that are anything but bright. I am wearing khaki, the all purpose traveling hue.

I've had plenty of advice. Mostly from my fashionista daughter. She moans when she peeks in my closet and only occasionally sees a garment that is appealing. With this reputation it is a wonder that I'm often successful choosing clothes for her. In fact, one of my great joys is seeing her wear something I saw first and couldn't resist buying for her.

One of my daughter's friends, a most special person in both our lives, has written that she enjoys seeing photos of vintage Jackie clothing. I look at some of the photos from the '50's, 60's and '70's and can't help but smile. Maybe fashion sense fades away, like parts of one's memory. Maybe ordinary replaces awesome as practicality becomes more important than style.

My fashion-indifferent husband continued to comment on my dressing dilemma with these words, "Somebody who comes to me for clothing advice must be pretty desperate." He's wrong. Really wrong. Frequently I tote several possible wardrobe selections into his office and ask which one he thinks I should choose for the day. He's good. Really good. A talent vastly underutilized.

I figure that seeking his advice on clothing is somewhat like asking what he wants for dinner. Sometimes daily decisions become too burdensome. A fresh approach revitalizes an otherwise mundane task. After all, he's the one who sees me the most.

We've been talking about apparel intermittently and last night he asked a question for which I had no informed answer. Discussing the 60's, he pondered when women stopped wearing girdles. I just don't remember but suspect it may have coincided with the incorporation of pantyhose into ladies' lives.

As a young lady, I owned multiple girdles. No extra padding was required. I was amply supplied by nature. My girdles tortured my physique in shades of yellow, white and black. They held up hose and held in skin. Living in the hot and humid South, girdles also inhibited breathing and were gladly shucked as soon as possible.

People watching as I wait for my flight to be announced, I reminisce about earlier days. I first flew in 1964 from Phoenix to the old Dallas Love Field. On that hot August day, I was appropriately encased in a navy pencil skirt (hem falling just below the knee), a sleeveless navy shell, a white jacket (long-sleeved for heaven's sake) with navy piping, and navy three inch pointy-toed heels. And that girdle anchoring my hose. The gloves were in my purse. I would have worn the matching hat but it was back home. Somehow the flight seemed more stylish. I know I was.

Once Upon A Quarry

Looking around, we see no evidence of the limestone which provided the impetus for such staggering beauty. Yet it must be hidden beneath the verdant greenery and ceaseless flowers. Intent on banishing the bleakness of a colorless pit, one very determined woman spent the early years of last century creating a Japanese Garden. While her husband's cement-production business flourished, the plantings multiplied and eventually 55 lush acres nearly consumed the original site.



Almost instantly, I know that mere words cannot convey the breath-taking beauty of Butchart Gardens, about half an hour north of Victoria, B.C. No description is grandiose enough. The walkways must be wandered, the blossoms inhaled, a lifetime of adjectives consumed in an awkward attempt to relate what is being seen. With over a million visitors a year and a Canadian National Historic Site designation, the gardens always mesmerize regardless of the season.



Many incredible gardens are sprinkled throughout this world. We've seen quite a few of them and are especially fond of Kew Gardens outside London. However, Butchart Gardens belongs in an emeritus status. For us, it has no peer. When I mentioned this assessment to a staff member, the lady smiled sweetly. She intimately understood the difference.



Traveling with camera in tow, I'm accustomed to capturing scenes that are wondrous, inspiring, unique. However, I don't recall another location where it is necessary to wait your turn for nearly every single shot. Each camera-wielding (or smart phone equipped) visitor perceives the exquisite beauty all around and is determined not to leave without it.

There are no dead flowers or faded petals. Grass looks as if it were painted, not planted, it's so perfect. Whimsical topiary animals peek from hidden places. The bumblebees must be on nectar steroids as they are huge and abundant. Wood and rock has been woven into nature alongside the perfect juxtaposition of flowering and non-flowering plants. Even the wooden trash containers are topped with plant bouquets.



With ample signage, we're initially directed to the Sunken Garden with its syncopated fountain. Pausing momentarily to absorb the view, we sit on a perfectly placed bench. Arising, I catch one foot on the metal leg of the bench and quickly fall onto the gravel pathway. It's just another jaccident. (I have so many of them that I've coined a new word. It's a combination of my name and 'accident.') A cut palm begins bleeding but is quickly repaired with an ancient Band-Aid plucked from my purse. My jeans probably prevent any significant damage to either knee. I'll check for bruises later. I'm up, revived by Nurse Henry, and ready to continue the tour.



Turning toward the Rose Garden, we realize that blooms are fading but enough remain to provide a sense of their earlier florescence. Through a Torii gate, we enter the original Japanese Garden. That these plants can survive a Canadian winter is amazing. Lily pads crowd water features, conical hats hide lights. We walk to Butchart Cove where the founding family once kept a houseboat and entertained regularly. Float plane trips and sightseeing boats are available today for visitors to enjoy.



In front of the stunning Star Pond, we ask a tall, thin, possibly Scandinavian, young man to take our photo. He obliges with three views. They'll not appear in this format as one will likely be our Christmas card choice.



Next we enter the Italian Garden. It is stately, precision designed, very different from the surrounding versions.

In the Plant Identification building, the experts are asked what background they've acquired for their assignment. One responds, "A passion for plants." That's more than enough.



With multiple dining choices, we are torn. The Blue Poppy Restaurant offers spaghetti and meatballs plus a whole wheat pita with wild salmon salad. Desserts are totally deserved after all that walking. Chocolate mousse and an airy raspberry lemon chiffon slice of pie with a crust that contains Kirsch looks terrific and tastes even better. Sublime actually. Our server is a young man who's embarking upon a 'gap year' before attending college. He tells us that he hopes to join 'the forces' and thus save his parents the cost of his education. He plans to be a nurse. We learn the 'the forces' refers to the Canadian military.



One expects a colossal gift shop to match the grandeur of the grounds. There's no disappointment as aisles are trolled for parting gifts. Seeds that attract butterflies, 'can't fail' seeds for the girls to plant (marigold variety), flower postcards, and a tea bag holder adorned with a single musical note for the Portland resident will leave with us.



Reluctantly, we must leave this pastoral paradise. Infused with such splendor, we're immensely grateful that the third generation of Butcharts proudly preserves the family's botanical heritage.

Ferry Land

We love England, even when it's located in Canada. Victoria is a favored destination for many travelers, deftly combining the infectious pride of our northern neighbors with the enduring charm and heritage of Great Britain.

Concerns about driving GPS-less have been mitigated by the extremely useful and amazingly accurate On Star feature of our rented 2012 Buick La Crosse. Getting lost on Vancouver Island may be impossible, at least for very long.

Situated near the center of Victoria with its captivating Inner Harbor, stately Empress Hotel, and imposing Parliament buildings, the Marriott is an excellent choice for our three day stay. Immediately, we are impressed with the consummate professionalism of each hotel employee. Our fifteenth floor room is spacious, cocooned away from any city noise.


A walking city replete with shops, restaurants, and neighborhoods to explore, Victoria easily enchants voyagers. High rise buildings co-exist with historical landmarks. Flowers bloom in profusion as if this is the last chance to allure admirers before seasonal weather destroys their bounty.



The Empress continues to command the waterfront and though it may be a bit tired, maybe even bordering on tacky in some areas, the storied grandeur can be imagined easily. Famous for its High Tea, dress codes have been relaxed to encourage more participants. Money rules and modifies fashion, even to include jeans which aren't torn or too low-slung.



Accents crowd conversations. Countless people from Europe and Asia have discovered the delights of this island city. Irish transplants abound, their voices distinct even after years away from the homeland. There's a palpable energy exuded by the residents who thrive in a flourishing economy, appreciate home prices that are anything but deflated, and utilize a health care system that includes all, regardless of economic condition or employment.

We're seduced by a candy store that bulges with sweet treats. Taffy will go home with us to be delivered to the neighbors. Gelato in myriad flavors cannot be ignored. I succumb to Mango Vanilla and Butter Pecan. Henry's savoring German Chocolate. The scoops were dainty. I promise. Also luscious and memorable.



On the hunt for Grower's Cider, Pomegranate flavor, we are directed to the rear section of a liquor store. The Quebec-born, French-speaking clerk accommodatingly checks U.S. customs rules relative to liquor imports. We purchase a six-pack well aware that it exceeds the allowed liters. Our Portland daughter hankers for this libation and we'll do our best to satisfy that thirst without incurring any dire consequences.



The hotel concierge recommends a nearby pub for dinner. The Sticky Wicket is a find. There's rooftop dining on a warm September night but we're shown a table on the first floor. Soon we realize that we are simply not in the rooftop demographic. No matter, we're content where we're placed. Henry orders a cheese pizza, special for the day. I'm nearly enraptured by Potted Salmon. This luscious concoction consists of puff pastry, a wedge of fresh wild salmon and a broth underneath laden with leeks, a white sauce, and bits of potato. The entree arrives in an earthenware bowl. I consume every single bit of this unusual dish.



On another day, we tour the Parliament buildings and are introduced to Canadian governmental practices. With lingering ties to Great Britain, the system differs from our own in significant ways. Truly, many of their concepts have great merit and might work well in this country. Not the part about having a royal family, but the dignity that is afforded civil service and elected officials. The people's expectations of their government are lofty and very often exceeded.



The architect for the grand Parliament buildings was a twenty-five year old immigrant from Leeds, England whose life story would make a compelling movie. His vision still resonates more than a hundred years after the buildings were first occupied. Since 1969, thousands of lights have illuminated the structures each evening.


Queen Elizabeth appoints a Lt. Governor to act as head of government for each of the Canadian provinces. As the first tribal member (referred to as 'First Nations') to serve as Lt. Governor in British Columbia, the current office holder opens Parliament and serves as the Queen's representative for many other functions. He is the head of government. The Queen retains the title 'head of state.'

Seeking a state-owned casino in order to add to Henry's burgeoning collection of player's cards, we venture outside of town briefly. The casino is small but the visit is very profitable. With that largesse, we return to the Empress and decide to eat at The Veranda, a restaurant set on the hotel's porch with a stunning view of the waterfront. Though an extremely informal setting, the prices are haute cuisine. An Angus beef burger is tasty but spendy. So too is my meal of fish and chips. Next to us is a table with four Southern California ladies in town for a golfing vacation. They're elegant, sophisticated, well traveled, definitely Empress quality.



Warm days dwindle into cloudy, jacket required hours. We're wearing our winter clothes. A very nice change for me.

Arriving too early to tour an historical castle, we serendipitously find the Lt. Governor's house and visit his garden instead. With beautiful grounds to maintain, volunteers are at work removing dead plants, adding topsoil, cutting back limbs. Members of the group may be of retirement age but are certainly agile, energized by their tasks. There's a sense of landscape tranquility all around and I have difficulty imagining such easy access to a governmental official's garden in this country.



The Royal BC Museum consumes most of an afternoon. Though impressive totem poles predominate inside and out, there's a curious display in the lobby. It is John Lennon's 1965 yellow Rolls Royce. Far from home, it looks rather lonely but still spirited.





We're saturated with local history as we stroll from room to room. Stunning artifacts include a miniature 1890's village, multiple masks as well as intricately carved recorders, pipes, and knives. The First Nations people are amply represented with dignity and reverence.



Famished from all this learning, we stop at Willie's Bakery and Cafe tucked in the corner of the museum. The cream of chicken soup, laced with slivers of carrot medallions, reminds us of similar soup enjoyed in 1980 while we toured Bath.

Drawn to a store called Out of Ireland, I search for Junkin heraldry. A nearby shopper overhears me and makes a few suggestions. She's on a day trip from Tacoma with her daughter. A Texas resident, her maiden name is O'Brien. Her family originally came from Mississippi. Natchez to be exact. (Are the planets colliding?) She's visited that city for a family reunion. This is getting weird. As we continue to talk, she says that she turned 65 last winter. I'm almost afraid to ask, "What month and day?" She's two days my elder. Another traveling story worth repeating.

Tuesday evening the suitcases are stuffed and taken down to the Parkade where our car is stored.



We'll face the customs officers in the morning and watch Victoria fade into the background as the ferry extracts us from this captivating land.