I must say Alaska Airlines always startles me whenever they serve me food. Oh, the food's fine. It's just that at the bottom of every tray, underneath the banana and cookie and salad oil, is a little paper with a Psalm on it. I always feel like I'm flying Air Christianity. A false assumption, perhaps, since the Psalms occur in the Old Testament, but there it is.

As I drove across the Columbia River towards Vancouver a Great Blue Heron sailed majestically across my line of sight. "A good omen," I said automatically, and then wondered why I said it. I don't believe in omens. At least, I don't think I can believe only in the good ones, and it doesn't suit me to believe in the bad ones, and you can't have one without the other, so I've tried to train myself out of superstition. But the truth is I like symbols and signs, and I like a little heightened drama from time to time, so I was happy to see the heron at the start of the trip.

Dad's directions were terrific, except for the part where he left off the name of a crucial street, and I admired the neighborhood as I drove around, and around, and around. After finally arriving, I was tremendously relieved to note my dad looked wonderfully well at last. He has all his hair back, has good muscle tone, and plenty of energy. The house was especially impressive considering they had only moved in a couple of weeks earlier. It looked like they'd been there for months. Quelle contrast to me and John, I'm sorry to say! We talked about gardening, and travel, and Dad fixed his yummy French onion soup for dinner, and we watched the Mariners stomp the Devil Rays, and talked some more, and suddenly I was yawning my head off. When I go on vacation, I totally relax right away. That's why these little weekend getaways work so well for me. Of course, it helps to stay at Chez Huntzinger which is much like staying in one of those exquisite little B&Bs that travel magazines are always writing up. Staying at my house is more akin to staying at a Dude Ranch what with all the animal hair and mismatched furniture.

Sunday I trundled off at an ungodly hour of the morning (single digits are just wrong) to meet Miriam Arachne and VJ Beauchamp. The directions I got from VJ were terrific, except for the part where she didn't mention how many stoplights I was supposed to go through, and I admired the neighborhood as I drove around, and around, and around. I had a look at Miriam's beautiful old house and charming new garden before picking up VJ and dashing over to the Japanese Garden. The garden was really lovely and very, very Japanese with its torii and fishponds and rock gardens. I took photos and said, "Oh, how pretty" far too many times. Why does nature's astonishing complexity elicit such insipid phrases from me? I don't know how to talk sensibly or usefully about profound beauty.

After a wonderful breakfast downtown (gossiping about online journalists, of course) we parted and I drove back to my folks' place, getting lost along the way. Portland has a lot of fascinating neighborhoods, and I found quite a few of them. The rest of the day was spent with Dad's sister Katherine, my cousin (her daughter) Nancy, my other cousin Chris, and Chris' husband Danny. Aunt Katherine, famous in our family for her ready tears, didn't cry even once during my visit so I guess we weren't sentimental enough in our reunion.

Chris is in charge of the actual family reunion next August in Portland, so I handed over my cash to commit John and myself to the event. Poor John. He dreads reunions with my family. "They always hug me," he complains mournfully. "All these women just come up and hug all over me. Even the guys hug me. Your family is hideously nice." I always assure him I escaped this family trait, being naturally cranky, but I know what he means. My entire set of relatives on both sides of the family are just ridiculously happy, stable, warm, and huggy people.

For the most part. I listened, with jaw hanging open, to Cousin Nancy's description of her fourth husband (who was also her second husband) complaining bitterly about spending money on their honeymoon. After which, apparently, he moved down to Napa and left her in Portland. "I've offered him a hundred dollar bill if he'll come home by November," she said. There was some complex business about a lawsuit and a trailer park; I lost track of the labyrinthine motives, feints, and confrontations after a while. Danny and I talked about action movies, debating the merits of Steven Seagal (boo! hiss!) and Jet Li (yay! yay!). When everyone left we all hugged each other, of course. Good thing John wasn't there.

Monday morning I took more photos, helped the folks sort out some computer questions, promised to see if we had a copy of Microsoft Word (we don't, and at $389 we aren't going to, either), made plans for seeing them later in the year, and took off for the Portland Zoo. I only got lost twice this time. I ought to give in and get a map of the city. I obviously don't really know my way around even though I spent what seemed like hundreds of hours every year visiting my relatives when I was a kid. Portland has always been the Land O' Antique Aunts And Scary Uncles to me, not a hip, happening city full of cute men in wispy goatees serving strong coffee. I'm happy to revise my impression of it, especially since I am now old enough to take advantage of the local fondness for microbreweries.

At the zoo I met up with newlyweds Doug Hanke and Kari Smith. They're friends from the Digiverse days. We zoomed around looking at the animals, and dodging the construction. Someday the Portland Zoo is going to be really nifty but right now it has too many old-fashioned cement enclosures and not enough mixed-species habitats. I particularly admired the bat house. Bats are really cool. Especially fruit bats. But I didn't have much time before my plane so we dashed around taking in all the sights, chattering constantly, and feeling the burn from the aerobic workout of touring a zoo placed on a steep hillside. Soon enough I was on my way back to the airport, and queues for boarding, and the prayerful snacks of Alaska Airlines.

I'll be back in November, long after my folks have headed south for the winter, to attend Orycon. Maybe then I'll have time to visit Powell's. You just can't do everything in one little holiday weekend. Darn it.

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