strike that

let it

Today at seven thirty I opened my front door and all of Portland was white, and I stood there silently trying to make sense of what I was seeing. It was all covered in snow – the steps and the trees and the cars and every surface, covered in powdery snow that was still falling from the dim morning sky. That doesn’t really happen here.

I walked toward the bus stop in confusion and wonder, stopping to roll up the legs of my new work pants. My footprints were the only marks on the whole street.

At the bus stop people were bundled and anxious, and everyone wanted to talk. Do you think the buses are running? I’ve heard that classes are on. How long do you think it will stay? Cell phones rang all around. Have you made it in yet? I’m still at the bus stop.

Last week a predicted storm never came. School was cancelled and city offices closed, and then the day was clear and sunny. So no one expected anything today, a day following a string of welcome blue-sky days. At seven thirty this morning the bus tires had no chains on yet. No one had cancelled anything.

It took sixty minutes for my bus to come and take me downtown – a trip that usually takes ten. Other less lucky buses spun their tires at the sides of the road; passengers poured optimistically out of stranded ones and onto those still rolling until the aisles filled and the windows fogged over. Once we were over the Ross Island Bridge the driver announced Sherman looks all backed up, so if I take Naito Parkway will that be terribly inconvenient for anyone? We cheered a collective and enthusiastic No.

Portland has two snow plows. That’s one of the many rumors that was circulating. It might be true. I’d also venture to guess that Portland has zero salt trucks. When it snows like this, which it doesn’t, the snow stays, and the unwise drivers slide back and forth on the highways, and the children go sledding down the smallest hills. Even Portland’s hard core bikers cross the bridges by foot.

At lunchtime the city blocks were nearly empty, just a few office workers with suddenly inappropriate raincoats and stupid smiles on their faces, walking down the sidewalks gingerly with arms out to the sides. Portland in the snow feels like a village, all the villagers uncertain but hopeful, and all the streets perfect and still.

posted by tortaluga @ 8:29 PM