Portland

There is something about this town. Not just the cobblestone streets and copper encrusted tippy top windows of brick buildings, not just the cherry blossoms in cheery bloom and tulips poking their buttery yellow heads out of wispy green grass in the center divide, not just the hipsters in tight jeans and striped sailor shirts who actually smile back, not just the back bay with running paths and ducks in the briny gray water.
It is also the salty air and promise of artfully (heartfully) strummed acoustic music through large wooden doors, it is the sculptures and beer, the beards and handmade knitted scarves. It is the drifting scent of boiled hops from sturdy copper kettles and brick chimneys. It is walking into a coffee shop and ordering a medium or simply a ceramic mug full of strong black tea, sitting and sipping for hours, no skinnys or grandes or disgruntled baristas in sight.

It is food. Food! Local, green (and bright orange and deep red and pale cream), lovingly prepared and delicious. Wandering through Rosemont Market and Public Market and the farmers market not wanting to leave for wanting to cook. Instead I pick at Porter cheese and gluten free pumpkin muffins, eye local moo cow beef and sip raw milk.
I am stuffed.
I am happy stumbling down streets, full of Allagash White and dreams of the sea surrounding this city.

It is Portland, full of edgy optimism and silkscreened triumphs.

It's like coming home to a home I haven't yet fully embraced, an old life I haven't yet lived.

It is spring and it is beautiful and it is exactly where I need to be in this moment.

But when am I not?