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Coffee Wednesday: Arbor Lodge

Arbor Lodge

The wrapper of my chocolate bar casts shadows in the murky rain-light, geometric shapes on the scarred blond grain of my table. Wood grain is all around me; on the walls in cedar paneling, in the burl-y tables, in the rough-edged wooden shelves that house a small selection of merchandise. Pleasant chatter and the hiss and tamp of the espresso bar fill the air.

Arbor Lodge, in Northeast Portland, has captured me with its homey appeal since we first walked in the door a year and a couple lifetimes ago. Owner Scott, he of the vast sideburns and the gleaming earring, welcomes all to his space full of coffee and community with the expansive air of a village blacksmith. The barista’s smile is a cheery herald of her skill with a cappuccino, and I depart with contentment.

Portland, Oregon / morning / The Arbor Lodge

That Endless Sky Has Captured Me

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My head is filled with crowds, milling and claustrophobic. Everywhere I look today I see humanity revealed with embarrassing clarity in all its jealousy, wrinkles, and farts. There is dust, color, and danger in the streets of Albuquerque’s downtown. The public transport creaks down the street and the strange beauty of the city presses on my soul.

I come around a corner and emerge in the shadow of a church and look up, up, up. Up to a sky so blue, so translucent, that it has no end and I can suddenly see myself within the Medieval layers of world, air, heaven. I am an ant in the universe. I am one in thousands and, suddenly and breathtakingly, alone.

Albuquerque, NM / afternoon / Immaculate Conception Church

Convivial Fridays: Chris Milligan, the Santa Fe Barman

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The bitters, on my pale hand, are dark like blackberry juice and sorghum molasses. I rub my sticky palms together and smell them. Cinnamon, willowbark, coffee. For an instant I step into another world. Flashing back to the present, I race after my bartender as he beckons me to his dim-lit kingdom filled with hiss and foam, fruit and flame.

My cocktail, when it comes, is a flashy deep purple. Chris muddles plump local blackberries with fresh lime juice and tequila, Licor 43, and a couple dashes of homemade bitters. I stand for a moment with my first sip, giving it the reverence it deserves.

This cocktail newbie’s getting hooked.

Santa Fe, NM / night / with Chris Milligan, The Santa Fe Barman

Tongues Tangle in Arcata

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Too often I’m focused internally when traveling, instead of externally. When a portly woman with waist-length silver and black hair crowned with paste jewels crosses my path, I’m focused on my aching feet. Or when I drive past a drum circle swaying in the lawn, I’m feeling my sun-dazzled headache.

Which is why it was a small miracle that as we drove through central Arcata today, we… stopped! I pulled my camera out and snapped while each brilliant sidewalk square dazzled me. Turns out, we’d happened upon one of the largest art events in Northern Cali, a yearly fundraiser called Pastels on the Plaza. The air thrummed with energy. A tanned itinerant with a djembe argued with a policeman. Children skipped past or drew their own designs with sidewalk chalk, pale against the intense pigment of the pastels.

Serendipity was kind to us today.

Arcata, CA / early afternoon / Pastels on the Plaza