Sunday, June 19, 2005

Sohia Antipolis, R.F., rootlessness, and what we miss

Sophia Antipolis, France: There is no place like the Cote d'Azur in the United States- that much is true. The terrain is rocky, mountainous, the colors bright, but the feeling you get is a sense of history that, to the visitor, eludes him.

You know this place is millenia old; there were ancient peoples making olive oil and feasting on fine wine while most people's ancestors were living in the mud. You wonder where the ruins are, but cannot find them. One can see the attraction for the Hemingways, Millers and Fitzgeralds for this place; even the junk food is a festival of genuine flavor.

So it is with Portland, OR. On the way over, when I was not fitfully attempting blessed rest in a stress position called economy class, I was reading "Portland Confidential," a trashy tale of prostitution and gambling rackets back before Portland became a European city. Many people moving in to the area do not know if its past, who Ron Tonkin knew who was connected, how much employees of the Oregonian were payed off to keep things quiet, that Sammy Davis Jr. played Portland just before he became famous, and things of the like. There is an untold story everywhere, and if you are rootless and moving about you may be fortunate enough to become aware that there is an untold story, but the absence of knowledge of its full scope will gnaw somewhere in a part of your brain that was long ago lost to the supporteres of "Terri," as well as Terri herself.

Still, there are the things of real work with which to attend.

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