We’re in Portland. Our apartment is lovely — hardwood floors and nice big rooms. There are even roses growing outside our windows. Not just any old roses either — big, fat, luscious ones. So far we’ve spent more time at Ikea than we have really hanging out in Portland, but we did go to our neighborhood patisserie this morning and it is absolutely delicious.
So far no Ursula Le Guin sightings despite my time walking down Thurman St. I’m suspicious of pretty much every woman in her age range, but I’ve seen her picture and I’m pretty sure they aren’t her. Unless she’s one of those people who look nothing like her photo or is going around disguised. If I don’t run into her soon, I’ll just have to start chatting up every woman I meet on the street.