la gran ciudad

As I've mentioned many times before on this blog, I never, ever imagined I'd live in Montana. I have always been a city girl and had you asked me throughout my childhood, teenhood and early adulthood where I would end up one day you would have heard London or San Francisco. There were times when I was thinking I could live in the small town of Seattle. Maybe settle in in Venice Beach.

Point being, I adore cities.

I love the energy. The funk. The grit. The quirky style.
Ah, the style. Fleece and chacos just don't cut it for fashion in my world view. Functional, indeed. Intriguing, unique, overstated, outlandish -- most certainly not.

So bringing my chicken to the oh-so-beautiful city of Portland is an absolute treat. Her auntie Kelli is a superb travel guide and points out bridges and buildings and rose gardens and funky eateries along the way. Eliana is enthralled. Last night we met Jack's family at an Italian place for Father's Day dinner. An old, Frank Sinatra style dude was crooning and playing the accordion while we found our places at a long table. I slid down from El's a ways, as eating with her at restaurants is not exactly one of my favorite things to do. She generally won't sit in a high chair for more than a few minutes and loves to cruise around, play with knives, and generally isn't particularly relaxing to dine with. And I love my perfect little bites. Not a good match.

But the lovely Italiain hostess hooked homegirl up with a booster seat. Is this, indeed, the missing link in the eating out conundrum? Eliana sat for almost three full hours at the other end of the table, yammering away to her new friends, eating lots of bread and butter, buffalo mozzarella and romoa tomatoes, while I drank my Chianti and put perfect amounts of freshly grated Parmesan on hot, housemade pasta, chatting it up with Jack's sister. What gives? I'm now totally obsessed with eating out in Portland and could see myself spending a pretty penny on many a culinary adventure in this fine town. I don't want to push too hard, but it's hard not to be adventurous when your girl is doing such a stellar job keeping up.

Today Els and I started our day with lattes (well, me a latte, her a latte cup with ice and a few drops of half and half...) at the coffee shop down the road from Kelli's place. There's this kickin' area in the back with all sorts of kiddo stuff. Els played like a champ and then dutifully headed back into the stroller so we could stop by the market for a few staples. She is so easy going about the stroller which she totally shuns at home. Another unexpected behavioral surprise here in the big city!

When Kelli came home from work, she had an excellent idea about heading to the Portland Zoo. Of course, initially, my anxiety kicked in. She had woken up really early and wouldn't going to the zoo overstimulate her and then she'd have too long of a day and maybe wouldn't be able to get to sleep and shouldn't we plan such a big trip way in advance and...

Enough! Good Lord does my mind have the capacity to go nutty.

What mom would deprive her kiddo of her first trip to the zoo because of some silly notion of a sleep schedule?

Needless to say, Eliana was delighted by every minute of her zoo adventure. She loved the giraffes and tiger, got a little weirded out by petting the baby goats (that's my girl!), and, like her mama, thought the ginormous African elephant was about the coolest thing she'd (I'd) ever seen.

After a four hour recuperation nap (she did insist on walking most of the mileage around the zoo), we opted for an urban hike, my old standby. Stroller shunner loved the hike. Waved at the cars. Smelled the lavendar and roses. Shouted, "Hello!" at hipster bikers. Love that kid.

Tonight it was pomegranate margaritas and superb tacos. I love the combination of enthusiasm (mom) and skepticism (dad) that is my kid. After a longish walk into the hip Belmont hood where Kelli works, I decided to get Els out of he sun by ducking into a rockin' pizza joint. Four fellows jammin' on trumpet, trombone, bass and drums, were playing some jazz standards. I thought the music was such a perfect city moment, such a sparkling gem in our urban adventure. I moved in right in front of the trombone.

First it was her skeptical look.
Then she turned her head and buried it in her stroller seat.
Then she squeezed her eyes shut.
And then she grabbed my arm like it was her life line in this sea of unfamiliarity.


What a sweet thing. She was so anxious and so freaked, but she didn't make a peep, just waited for it to be over. At one point, with her eyes squeezed shut, she said, "Taco place?" as a way to get us moving. The whole walk had been filled with the, "Ice cream?" plea that I would counter with a jovial, "No! Taco place!" It became a sort of running, inside joke between the two of us, both of our immediate desires (mine for tequila and habanero, hers for dairy and sugar), at the helm of our respective arguments. When the shit really got weird (aka, old dudes with big, loud, brassy instruments), Eliana was thoroughly compliant with rice and beans.


Anyway. Homegirl pays attention. She listens and jokes and joins in accordingly. This city adventure offers her nothing but a sensory feast, limitless things to smell and taste and hear and see. I too am soaking it all in, loving the anonymity, the coolness, the choices.

And it's only Monday.