I attended a public event in northeasternly Portland today. There I greeted the neighborhood, and I autographed items that the locals brought to me, like game programs, moss clumps, and bicycle frames.
The favorability of the atmospheres made me consider: I have already moved twice since coming to the Trail Blazers, so perhaps I should consider dwelling in this Portland portion? It proved a more interesting necking-in-the-woods than my current home outside the city.
As is known, I derive from España. My nation’s name hails out of the ancient word “Span,” a meaning of which is “a hidden or remote land.” This is to the logic, since España stands alone on its own peninsula, apart from the rest of Europe. (We Spaniards easily ignore Portugal.)
I have been reminded of this during my time here. As the largest city in Oregon, Portland has its own province to itself. And the city also seems to stand apart from the rest of the nation. Upon my arrivings (in previous posting), my mother and I were first struck by the friendliness and egg-white complexions of many denizens here. But over time, other distinctions have emerged.
You see, our fans are most sympatico and raucous in their energies. For instances, in the Rose Garden, their voices reach the volume epidemics found in Spanish soccer stadiums!
And outside the Rose Garden, with the Portlanders’ green mindsets and agreeable bicyclings, being in this urbanity is like visiting a Dutch city where no Dutch is spoken for.
At this time, I dwell in an enclave named Lake Oswego. It is wooded and quiet, for Oregonians are mostly an unassuming people. Even so, El Chacho (Sergio's nickname deriving from El Muchacho) has made the observations that if an Oregonian did possess aristocratic airs, this breed would be found near the Lake Oswego.
Of course, Sergio's prattling leads to so many observations, Channing Frye has suggested putting a telescope up his— oh, I shall discontinue!