I’m back, having spent ten gloriously summer-hot days on the East Coast, serene by New Jersey ponds, relaxed on blanket with book on hot summer beach sands, swimming in an ocean that was warmer than the air, drinking beers with peers on piers in Philly, doing the backstroke in a suburban pool, enjoying a slice of pizza by the side of the highway, and falling deeper and deeper in love. Back in Portland, summer has finally decided to show up. Things are feeling Pretty Damn Good.
Most life-affirming moment so far: outside of Jilly’s Arcade, Ocean City boardwalk, in line getting ice cream for the kids, I take my first sip of an ice-cold bottle of Coke, the glass dotted with beads of perspiration, and to no one in particular — to the sun, to the blue sky — I say “Damn that’s good”, because dammit it just is. A woman standing next to me is smiling, a perfect stranger, who perfectly says “I know, right?”
It’s summer in America. Not a bad place to be at all.