Oregon's state motto is we "We Love Dreamers". Myself and my wife Eileen dreamt of a new life, so in 2011 we moved from Ireland to Portland. The plane descended upon a million sparkling lights, each one potentially ready to shine into our lives. All was new and unfamiliar as we stepped forth into the great Pacific north-west.
“KEEP PORTLAND WEIRD” is proudly displayed on the side of a downtown building and on every second bumper sticker, and the population endeavours to oblige. The annual naked bike race entices 9,000 hardy souls to disrobe and pedal across one of the bridges spanning the city’s river. “Less gas, more ass,” they say.
Beervana is home to 58 craft beer breweries, all competing for my Guinness-reared taste buds. Beards, tattoos, musicians, and freaky fashions abound. The fanatic support for the Timbers soccer team makes Hill 16 resemble a teetotal debating society’s outing.
Gourmet food carts selling every possible ethnic cuisine are plonked on every street corner. Portland’s governor is bisexual, the neighbouring town’s mayor is a transvestite. Marijuana clinics were recently legalised. Churches are as common as palm trees in Connacht.
Pacific coastline
Within an hour’s drive are 400 wineries, 360 miles of unspoilt Pacific coastline, 86 miles of the glacier-carved Columbia Gorge, which is laden with rivers, waterfalls and mountains offering endless hiking and camping options.
The summers are long, sunny and guaranteed; a blessing for an Irishman.
The northwest is a haven for outdoor enthusiasts. To celebrate my 60th birthday, I climbed to the top of the 8,300ft Mount Saint Helens. This volcanic monster exploded in 1980, and huge lava boulders and volcanic ash make the ascent more challenging. From the crater’s edge I glanced east, imagining Inisbofin island and the Skelligs. Emigrating will always create a “win some, lose some” scenario.
I emigrated to San Francisco in 1982, relocated to Ballyknockan near Blessington in Co Wicklow in 2000, and packed my bags again five years ago. My life has been blessed with acts of spontaneity and steps beyond the comfort zone, always accompanied by the itchy feet syndrome.
Moving halfway across the world is always difficult. The uniqueness of my native Dublin is a treasure I'll always relish. Walkinstown in the 1950s was indeed "a rare auld time". One too many whispers from the likes of Steinbeck, Kerouac, Jack London and Hemingway got my wheels rolling. Destiny was always going to fling me beyond the motherland.
Home from home
My life has swerved to this place I’m happy and excited to call a home from home. Readjusting has been relatively easy. I’ll always miss the swift-witted warmth from the land that fed me the stepping stones. Last September, I had a book of poetry published titled
Swaggerin’ Beneath the Dublin Skies
. A Dublin friend in Portland suggested maybe the word should be Staggerin’ . Swift-witted warmth indeed.
Does Oregon remind me of home? Perhaps more than anywhere else in the US. The temperature of the heart is more prevalent than the elements that fall from the skies. Ireland is a special place with special people. Its flaws can sometimes be self- destructive and unwise. Comparing Ireland with Oregon is like comparing Monet with Renoir.
At 63, I’ve found a corner of the world that begs my footprints to tread softly into the wonders of its God-sent beauty. My life’s journey has been wild and kind. Hopefully at the beckoning hour I may regret some things I did and not the things I failed to do.
