TheBanyanTree: I See Stories

[Monique Colver]

Last night we had dinner at a posh downtown Portland restaurant, a small
Italian place, so small it looks like it used to be a small deli, and it
has the deli cases, full of Italian meats. It's the kind of place where you
better make a reservation if it's a Saturday night and the weather is good,
because otherwise you may be waiting for a very long time. It's in the
Pearl District, the home of the up and coming, the trendy, the men in suits
and the women in high heels. I am none of these things, but I go anywhere I
can find good food. There's no maitre' stand, and the best chance for
getting seated during the busy times is to hang out in the doorway and hope
the owner can get to you.


There are tables outside, on the sidewalk, offering optimum viewpoints, and
when the weather is nice, as it was yesterday, these are coveted spots,
especially as the inside is packed full and the inside gets warm.


Naturally, since we're so good at deciding things at the last  minute, we
did not have reservations. After seeing a totally fun movie and getting the
car washed, I decided I wanted pasta, and Andrew decided he wanted this
particular Italian restaurant's lasagna. We're sort of like that -- spur of
the moment and all.

We arrived in the Pearl District at prime dinner, and I could tell by all
the people standing outside the restaurant that there would be a wait. But
we found a parking spot right across the street, and Andrew went to put our
name down and find out how long.


He came back, and told me he had good news and bad news.


"What's the bad news?" I asked.


"First the good news!" he said, "He's going to call us when there's a table
open!"


"And the bad news?" I said, persistent.


"It'll be an hour."


He had his Kindle, I had my iPad, so we decided to wait, with the sunroof
open, the windows down, and enjoy the evening. Besides, I had some emails
to answer.

An hour later there were still crowds across the street, and Andrew went to
check and then came back with the news that the guy didn't know how long it
would be. After a bit he went  back across the street to wait, and I told
him I'd be along shortly.


Shortly, after a bit, I went across the street to join me, and he gave me
his seat, a chair on the curb. And we waited. Fortunately he's very
patient. I am not. And I was getting hungry.


And I get grouchy when I'm hungry and have to wait. My poor husband suffers
so. The outside tables were filled, the inside tables were filled, and the
smart people had reservations. I suppose that should teach us something.
People waiting were standing around with glasses of wine, and every so
often the owner would pass by and tell us he hadn't forgotten us. Any of
us. It had started getting dark, and the waiters were lighting the candles
on the outside tables . . .


And then it happened. An outside table for 4 opened up, and all of us
waiting looked at it in anticipation. The older couple next to us said that
was for them and their newfound friends on the other side of them, and I
thought, "Why you? Why not US?" Fortunately for them the newfound friends
were called inside, and then the older couple (not that I was contemplating
doing them physical harm, but should it come to it . . . ) and then the
table for four was separated into two table, the one next to the restaurant
turned to make it into a table for four, and the owner picked up the other
table and brought it to me.


That's right. The table came to me. Because, you see, I already had a
chair, sitting there on the curbside of the sidewalk. The table had the red
tablecloth, and the cloth napkins, and it appeared next to me as if by
magic. If you can call an Italian man a magician.


Bread came, wine was served, and it was as if we'd never had to wait. We
ate, we drank, we talked, we laughed. The waiter apologized for the wait,
and the owner apologized, but it wasn't a big deal. It's not as if they can
control all these people showing up without reservations. They can't help
being wildly successful, can they? We typically shrug off inconveniences,
at least once they're out of the way.


I see stories when we're out. Even when I'm grumbly and impatient, I see
stories instead of people, and I wish I could write them all down. The
older couple standing next to us, drinking wine, and occasionally kissing
each other weren't just an older couple. They were content retired
Portlanders, with a son, Peter, who lives in San Francisco and visits now
and then, but not often enough for Lisa, his mom, though his dad, David,
doesn't mind so much. Peter is still debating his own sexuality, and while
there's no rush, because he's only 34, Lisa wishes he'd make up his mind
and settle down with a nice . . . boy or girl, she doesn't really care. She
was never really into children all that much, so she doesn't care if she
has a grandchild or not, but she would really like a son or
daughter-in-law, someone she can go shopping with who will give Peter a
good home to return to at night. He works hard, Peter does, doing something
or other in design, and she knows he's had his ups and downs, and was even
unemployed for a bit, but he got through that, didn't he? David is hoping
the nice weather holds up, he hasn't been on a golf course since last year
. . . no, wait, that's not right. David doesn't golf. He never has, though
his brother, Martin, always tried to talk him into it. But Martin died last
year, just days after he retired from his job with the city, and it was so
sudden. David tries not to think about him too often, but sometimes he
does, and he can't help it.


Anyway, see what I mean? It's like a sickness.


It was such a lovely evening, and I returned home with chocolate mousse
cake to eat later, because I really couldn’t eat another thing after my
lasagna.

Today we decided we wanted tacos -- it was another bright blue warm day,
and Andrew spent the morning taking care of the lawn, front and back while
I slept. Or tried to, though once the weed whacker started up there wasn't
much chance of that.


So I put on shorts for the first time this year, and we headed back to
Portland. Sometimes I think it'd be easier if we just lived in Portland,
what with all the driving back and forth we do. But this time we went to
the other side of town, where the neighborhood is filled with people with
tattoos and older cars, if they're into cars, which they might not be,
since they're such polluters and all. Fashion is not so high as it is in
the Pearl District, and even the dogs are bit more . . . doggish instead of
designer-ish.


All the sidewalk benches at our restaurant of choice were filled. No cloth
covered tables here, oh no, just picnic benches. So we sat inside, next to
the open door, with the window between us and the people at the picnic
bench on the other side of the glass. It was comfortable and felt like
being outside. Almost, anyway.

There's a small bar in there, and there was a guy at the bar. Ronald, and
he was showing a woman at a table, the only other two occupants of that
section of the little restaurant, his tattoos, and talking about how he was
really a country boy, though he made it look as if he were from the city.


I tuned Ronald out because I was busy having lunch with my amazing person,
but after awhile Ronald left, his buttoned up shirt covering up some of his
tattoos, but not all. The woman had been a disappointment to him, and now
he'd return to the room he rented from a guy he'd met on Craigslist. "Two
years I've been here," Ronald thought, as he strode away, "and still I'm
alone. I hate it here." His roommate, Alfredo, was hardly ever at home, he
traveled frequently for his job or he stayed over at his girlfriend's,
Ronald never really knew for sure, but it wasn't any of his business. All
Alfredo asked of him was that he lock up when he wasn't home, and that by
the first of each month he deposit his rent into Alfredo's checking
account. It was like living with a stranger. For that matter, it was living
with a stranger, but the few people Ronald knew in Portland were busy with
their own lives, and he still hadn't found his place.


We had the best tacos. Mine were halibut, while Andrew had a chicken lime
and a halibut.


I saw some more stories while we there. A crowd down at the tattoo parlor,
and when I suggested to Andrew that we get matching tattoos, he said it
would have to be dragons, and I said they'd have to be on our butts. We
didn't mean any of it. We never do.


M