Portland’s waterfront park is fairly well known. Just across the water, on the east bank there is an equally inviting, but less trafficked destination, the Eastbank Esplanade.
To visit it, I start at the Rose Quarter Transit Center near the base of the Steel Bridge. Â Walkways and bike paths go through contortions making their way towards the water. Â As I follow them down, I’m tempted to continue across the Willamette on the familiar lower span of Steel Bridge. Â Instead, I keepÂ to the left, and make my way south down the Eastbank Esplanade towards Morrison Bridge and the unknown.
I am walking on water. It keeps on flowing beneath me. It swirls away like grains of marble, rippling and twirling, carrying with it sticks and twigs, mats of leaves, and blades of grass. Forgotten banks shed their burdens. I do not know where the river takes them, except that these burdens are gone from me. I feel lighter.
Ghost Ship Bridge
I am floating in the air. It seems as if nothing sustains me, but I am safe, stationary. From here I can see the world below, stones and concrete, trees and water. They are familiar but none are my own. All I can feel is the air around me, the wind in my hair and small beads of water condensing on my skin.
My feet are on the ground. Standing on stone, encased in steel and concrete, the world roars around me. I am secure and dry. I barely hear my own voice amid the roar of the world. But I know it is here, safe in stone. The river will not stop flowing, and people too pass frequently. Where are they going? Surely they must hear the world racing around them.
A small black bird has chosen to join me. It cries out across the path. Clearly: “I have found my voice. Listen your own.” I cannot stay in this moment forever. My vision crystalizes and the city is clear beyond the concrete and steel. I must go back out into the world.
I go up the spiral ramp to Morrison Bridge and end up on SE Water Ave. It’s a small slice of post-industrial warehouses that have been retooled to craft Northwestern cuisine. Bunk Bar, Hair of the Dog, Water Ave Coffee, Boke Bowl, and of course, Clark Lewis await. I reflect on my walk over a latte, and then take transit back to the Rose Garden. I am back where I started, but I’m not at the same place.
this rules. i’m reminded of the little prince’s wanderings… the train rushing east and west, the small fox. nicely spoked.
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