Sunday hike

When I lived in Manhattan, going for a hike wasn't exactly an easy endeavor. It involved a few steps.

1. Determine Metro-North train schedules. 

2. Ride subway uptown, transfer to Metro-North.

3. Take Metro-North for an hour to Breakneck Ridge stop.

4. Walk to trailhead.

5. Enjoy truly spectacular hike at Breakneck Ridge with breathtaking views.

6. Run to catch train at Cold Spring (otherwise wait an hour for next one).

7. Head home on train and subway.

We were never disappointed with our few Hudson River Valley hikes. On the train heading back to the city, however, I often thought of how our lives might be different if we had easier access to the outdoors.

There is something remarkable about the simple act of walking in the woods on a crisp winter day. Whatever is trivial in my life seems to fade, disappear. I tend to gain clarity. Situations or conflicts that had previously confounded me somehow seem to make more sense. I've always viewed nature with a great sense of appreciation. It's humbling. Grounding. 

Sunday morning, we decided to go for a hike in Forest Park, which we can enter about a mile from our apartment. Yesterday's forecast called for showers, so we threw on our rain jackets. (To our delight, the showers never came.) I laced up my hiking boots, filled Lindsay's camelback with plenty of water. We were off.

We started our hike at the Lower MacLeay Trail, which runs alongside the rushing Balch Creek. The trail was muddy, but I was altogether surprised at its upkeep. We passed a number of other hikers, runners, and families. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the dry day, even the small children, now covered in mud.

At the Stone House (above) we continued onto the Wildwood Trail. A little over a mile and a bunch of switchbacks and 800 ft of elevation later, we were in the Pittock Mansion parking lot. We continued on the trail another few miles to the Hoyt Arboretum. 

The 187-acre arboretum is home to about 10,000 individual trees and shrubs of over 1,000 different species grown from seeds collected throughout the world. We wandered through a section of Sequoias and, soon after, Redwoods, and I immediately felt as if we were in the Redwood National Forest in Northern California, not the city of Portland.

We walked out of the arboretum, through Washington Park, back to the city. When we got to our apartment, Lindsay checked her pedometer, which estimated we had walked close to 10 miles (including a trip to the grocery store on our way home, of course). 

I am thankful to be surrounded--quite literally--by natural beauty here. And I don't think I'll ever take that for granted.

Our first East Coast visitor

Almost five months after we left the Upper East Side and Harlem for the Pacific Northwest, we welcomed our first East Coast visitor, my college roommate, Ultimate teammate, and close friend, Krista.

(In the coming days and months, we’re expecting three more visitors from the opposite coast—Lindsay’s friend from grad school in a week, Kristin in April, and Myles in May. We are very much looking forward to showing our loved ones our new city.)

Krista arrived Saturday morning—wide-awake and cheerful (but really, when is she not?)—after a long trip from Philadelphia, where she is an oncology nurse at UPenn. After about an hour of hanging out and catching up, we decided to take on the day. And oh, did we take on the day!

Lindsay’s brother, DJ, joined us, and we walked over to NW 23^rd street to Lela’s Bistro to enjoy Bánh mi, or Vietnamese sandwiches, for lunch. I ordered the Grilled Portobello sandwich. The Portobello is cooked with a delicious ginger-garlic sesame-soy sauce and served on a super fresh baguette with a bunch of carrot and cilantro and some aioli. When we want a fresh, light, and delectable lunch, we always opt for Lela’s. I’ve never been disappointed!

After filling up, we walked down 23^rd Ave. to show Krista its renowned “cuteness.” Cafes, an array of restaurants, high-end boutiques, bars, most of which inhabit gorgeous Victorian homes. We wove through our neighborhood heading east to the Pearl district, which is far more urban, upscale, and city-like than our immediate neighborhood. After a few miles of wandering, we decided we had earned a delicious beverage, so we parked for a few hours at Bailey’s Taproom. (A truly great place to spend a few hours on a Saturday afternoon!)

Lindsay and I discovered this place only a few weeks ago, which is dangerous, because now we want to go all the time. Draft Magazine deemed Bailey’s as one of the 100 best beer bars in the country. And, if you ask me, I concur! The exposed brick, high ceilings, timber pillars, huge windows give the bar a much-welcomed coziness. It offers 20 constantly rotating taps, with a huge emphasis on Oregon breweries and a range of eclectic brews. (I’ve learned to always check the alcohol content of beers out here. Otherwise I could be seriously in for it.)

Over the next few hours, I enjoyed the cozy ambience, catching up, incessant laughing, and, of course, my two vastly different IPAs—one floral and hoppy, the other delightfully smooth and refreshing.

Giddy and giggly, we made our way to Whole Foods to pick up ingredients to make pizzas—a mango and asparagus pizza and a fresh mozzarella, goat cheese, tomato and basil pizza. Both were excellent! Krista's friend from childhood and her boyfriend joined us. While Krista dozed in and out of naps, we played darts and chatted.

Sunday morning, the four of us woke up bright and early (OK, not so early), to embark on a snowshoeing adventure on Mt. Hood. Before making the hour-long trek, however, we stopped at the Lovejoy Bakers for overpriced, yet delicious, breakfast sandwiches and Stumptown coffee.

On we went to take in the splendor of Mt. Hood. We couldn't have had a more perfect day for snowshoeing. Mid-30s. Blue sky. Light wind. Packed base of about 2-3 feet. Neither Krista nor DJ had ever snowshoed, but really, snowshoeing is pretty fool-proof. In my mind, if you can walk, you can snowshoe. We took on White River Canyon because we knew we'd face the mountain square on the entire time.

I've never felt so overpowered by the mountain's grandeur. There we were, the four of us and a lone backcountry skiier, seemingly alone on the snowy mountain, as if it were completely ours to explore and cherish.

A day of snowshoeing meant we were hungry and thirsty, so before we could think twice about the extra 45 minute drive, we were off to Double Mountain Brewery & Taproom in Hood River. Just thinking about their margarita pizza and refreshing India Red Ale had my mouth watering! Warm and full, we headed back to Portland, perfectly satisfied by a day of magnificent views, fresh mountain air, and delicious food and drink.

Overall, Krista's visit was outstanding. We explored some new breakfast places with her friend from Lancaster, wandered through the Japanese Garden and International Test Rose Garden, went for a muddy trail run in Forest Park, chuckled our way through the Blazer's loss to the Wizards.

We are very much looking forward to hosting future visitors. But seriously, how could you not want to visit after reading about what a ball we had--the entire time?

Coming out

I’m sitting in one of my favorite Portland coffee houses. It’s a beautiful “winter” day here. A marvelous blue sky. A shining sun. The glass-empty side of me is certain Mother Nature and the meteorologists are deceiving us into thinking spring is on the way, but I’m not complaining. I’ll take all the sunshine I can get.

A few minutes ago, the early 40s-something man across from me was on the phone with a friend or relative. I like to think I wasn’t intentionally eavesdropping, but you could say I was half listening. My ears perked up when he started talking about his 15-year-old daughter who had recently been outed at school. (Perhaps this drew my attention because I immediately had flashbacks to middle and high school. The thought of being publicly outed at that age—or, really, any age—horrifies me.)

Aside from being appalled that her classmates could do that, he went on to have a nonchalant conversation with his friend. He shared relief that society is changing, albeit slowly, toward more acceptance of gays and lesbians. He articulated concern, almost sadness that his daughter would likely face more challenges and bigotry than her straight counterparts because of who she is moved to love. (Please read Frank Bruni’s brilliant, poignant piece in Sunday's Times.) He expressed his unconditional love for her. He was relieved she had the courage to be honest with herself and their family about her identity, rather than coming out well into adulthood after hiding her true self for decades. He said he had lost a friend over it, but now recognized who his true friends were. (The friend said he needed to "reform" his daughter.) After a few minutes, that was that. Back to work.

I imagined what their conversation could have been like. For some reason, I picture her telling him in the car. (Wait a minute. This is Portland. They’re decked out in rain gear riding bikes.)

     She looks up. “Dad, I’m gay.”

     “You’re gay?”

     “Yea, I like girls.”

     “OK, I’m cool with that. Thanks for telling me. I love you no matter what. You know that right?”

     “Cool. Thanks, Dad. What’s for dinner later?”

He hadn’t crashed the car. (Or his bike.) The world hadn’t fallen apart. His daughter was still just that—his daughter.

While half-listening to him for those few minutes, I realized a few things. I’m proud of this 15-year-old girl, even though I know next to nothing about her. I’m proud of her Dad for being a rational, reasonable person. His daughter will be more likely to be stronger and surer and more confident of who she is because of his support and love, even if she faces backlash from others.

I realized I couldn’t imagine being outed—ever—but even worse, in high school. I know that things haven’t changed a whole lot since I was a timid freshman at Binghamton High School. Kids can be truly ruthless to each other. (See this excellent New Yorker piece on Tyler Clementi’s suicide.) Kids can also, however, surprise you by their empathy, understanding, compassion. (Thanks for helping me understand that, 17-year-old version of Myles.)

For me, coming out, saying those three words I was so terrified to say, even whisper—“I am gay”—, was the hardest journey I’ve ever gone through. I say journey because it took me around 14 years to fully accept and embrace not just a part of me, but all of me. (I think I was about 7-years-old when my first girl crush developed, even though I didn't know that's what it was then.) And in many ways, that journey continues today.

Growing up, I knew there was something different about me. Something inherent. Something I could never pinpoint as a kid. I looked normal. (Except for that oh-so-awkward-braces-and-pimples phase.) I tried my best in school and always held myself to high expectations. I didn’t act out. I developed good friendships. I was, generally, a “normal” kid.

But I felt different. And I didn’t know why or what that difference was.

I struggled to articulate my feelings. I remember feeling anger build up inside of me, sometimes for no real reason. A bad grade, perhaps. A poorly played basketball game. A disagreement with a sibling or parent. Sadness, frustration, helplessness all swirling together within. And the result was often a complete meltdown.

I feared others would see what made me different, even though I didn’t fully know what that was myself. I feared they would ridicule me. I worried they would think I was no longer ME, even though I was still ME. I worried they’d see me only as that difference, not me in my entirety.

My girl friends in middle school had crushes on handsome male teachers. I had a crush on our substitute math teacher. She was blond, pretty, and so sweet. She must have been about 23. While others acted out or messed around, she had my 100 percent attention.

Ten years and a bumpy rollercoaster ride later (similar to the time I rode the Comet at Hershey Park and almost fell out), I finally uttered those three words. Not out loud, but to myself in my dorm room in Australia, a world away from my reality. My world both fell apart and came together at the same time. Those same fears I had as a kid still resonated loudly. But now it was real. I had finally accepted this huge part of my identity and wanted to gradually tell my parents and loved ones.

Hearing the father across from me express his sincere support of his daughter sparked a reliving, a remembering of each moment I came out to my family and friends.

He didn’t support her, but not really support her, by saying “Well, I love her, but I’d prefer she’d end up with a guy.” He said unconditionally, emphatically, “I love her regardless of who she loves.” Without the outpouring of love (and, often, welcomed humor) from family and friends, I wouldn’t be who I am right now. It has certainly never been easy, but expressions of support and understanding built my courage. To tell others. To face the world. To take risks. To deal with others' intolerance.

I’m not sure I’ve personally thanked all of my family, cousins, aunts and uncles, and friends for their emails, hand-written notes, phone calls, or conversations, but I think about them often. They gave me strength to truly be myself.

As I reflect on my years post-coming out, sure I’ve made mistakes. I’m not perfect. But, I’m convinced I never would have had the courage to join TFA, move to New York City, and teach in the Bronx. And I certainly wouldn’t be here, sitting in my favorite café in Portland.

I can’t imagine a life where I am still hiding from myself and others. But, I understand why it takes others years or decades to accept and embrace who they are. Maybe it’s blatant homophobia. Perhaps they hear comments, here or there, subtle or not, that drive them deeper into uncertainty and confusion. 

Coming out is a process, and everyone grapples with it in their own way, in their own time. When I was finally honest with others and myself, I became a happier, kinder, more confident, empathetic and productive person. 

At that moment, I met myself—my whole self—for the first time. And I liked that person, even though I knew I had a lot of work to do.