Discover what an Octicorn eats plus five more reasons to visit Portland

December 17, 2015 by Beth Shepherd

Last year, around Christmas, I discovered Portland, Oregon’s elusive Santasquatch. And this year? The Octicorn–plus five more reasons to visit Portland.

Drink some beer. Did you know that Portland has more breweries than any other city in the world? Widmer. Hopworks. McMenamins. Laurelwood. Hair of the Dog. Base Camp. If beer isn’t your thing, Portland distilleries are popping up all over town. I recently tried The Bitter Housewife aromatic bitters. I swear–I’m not bitter. And if you’re not the designated driver, there are always plenty of wineries to check out.

Chow down. If ever there was an indie foodie mecca, Portland is it. You’ve got your restaurants, your markets and your food trucks. Over 600 food trucks! Latin, Asian, French, Pacific Northwest fusion, vegan. Coffee–some of the best bean you can sip. Like ice cream? Portland’s got it in spades. If you hit up Salt & Straw, you might even find yourself with a cone full of Pear & Blue cheese ice cream topped with bug brittle on top. For real. Doughnuts? Ditto. You can even get hitched at Voodoo Doughnut. Yep.

DIY (Do It Yourself). Museums, galleries, music, theater, publishing, crafts. Portland is art. Art is Portland. You can visit a hat museum, a puppet museum and a bathtub art museum. Yes, you read that right. You can see art, buy art and make art. Portland is big on DIY. If all else fails, “Put a bird on it.”

Go outdoors. Get yourself a pair of red-laced Danner boots and walk the Pacific Crest Trail just like Cheryl Strayed. Run in the rain? Lace your Nikes up and ‘Just do it.’ Portland is loaded with parks and trails. Biking, hiking or skateboarding. Cycle around a dormant volcano? Take a hike in the largest urban forest in the U.S.? Kayak the Willamette River? It’s all there for the taking.

Get your quirk on. All references to Portlandia aside, Portland is quirky. And proud of it! Facial hair, tattoos, “lumberjack couture.” In Portland you are ‘free to be’ pretty much whatever you want to be.

Which brings me back to the Octicorn. What’s an Ocitcorn you ask? The offspring of a unicorn dad and an octopus mom, of course. And what does an Octicorn eat? Well, from what I gather, Octicorns are partial to plankton, fresh clover and cupcakes. Because everyone likes cupcakes.

What are you waiting for? Portland is Happening. Now.

Take the road less traveled, Beth

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Well-heeled in Paris

September 24, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

The reasons to visit Paris are endless… amazing architecture, world-class art, fascinating history, divine food. And then there’s fashion.

Coco Chanel, Christian Dior, Louis Vuitton, Lanvin, Hermes, Yves Saint Laurent and Christian Louboutin, historically some of the world’s top designers and fashion houses have been French. So I fully expected, on our three-day visit, to be launched into a non-stop episode of ‘Sex and the City’ when Carrie goes to Paris, minus the face-first nose dive at the House of Dior.

Friends had suggested that I wear dresses during the day and Big Papa bring a suit coat for dining out. I fretted over finding a fashionable backpack (landed a great black leather Hobo bag at a consignment store) so I didn’t look like an REI advertisement on the road. My hair which, left to its own devices is a halo of curls, was blown straight and swanky before departure.

Shoes. I confess to having a weakness for shoes. My closet is filled with more pairs of boots, sandals, espadrilles and ballet flats than any one girl really needs. Though my days trying to wobble around the steep hills of Seattle in heels have passed, I’m a sucker for a cute pair of shoes.

That said, I’d promised Big Papa I wouldn’t repeat the error of my ways from one or two trips where a few miles of walking in shoes inappropriate to the occasion, left my feet blistered and sore. I selected a comfy but stylish pair of Privo patent leather sandals.

Please note I am not a fashion maven. I want to look nice and presentable, but no one is going to call me cutting edge. Truth be told, I expected to feel more Mademoiselle Frumpy than Miss Couture Hottie. Still, knowing we were strangers in a strange land, I hoped not to stick out like an American sore thumb.

Off we went. Twelve hours of flying and nine time zones later, voila, there we were.

As our three-day stay passed, I revised my view of ‘haute’ in the city of lights. I did spot a few gams sporting red-soled Louboutins and spied plenty of gals teetering over cobblestones and on bicycles with sky-high heels, but overall Parisian fashion appeared decidedly down-to-earth. Wisps of hair floating this way and that, a scarf thrown ‘round their necks in that insouciant way only French girls can manage. I admit to feeling quite surprised to even discover a sizable number of Birkenstock–clad women sitting in sidewalk cafes.

While I’d be willing to wager that on closer inspection looking oh-so-undone and casual was more contrived than accidental, I have to say the majority of women looked as though they were heading for espresso and the neighborhood flea market rather than cocktails and the opera. Not a single soul to be found donning Carrie Bradshaw-sized ball gowns.

Big Papa never did put on his suit coat. Not that we didn’t see natty looking men zipping around on their scooters, suited up with a ciggie hanging from their mouths. For the most part we felt a part of it all in our relatively casual attire.

On the final day of our trip, we stopped for one last night in Paris on our way back from Yerevan. We headed out for a self-guided walking tour of the streets around St. Germain. Stopping to read the menu at Café Procope, touted as the oldest café in the world, I looked down to see two pairs of comfortable yet fashionable patent leather sandals standing side by side. I smiled at the women standing next to me. “Nice shoes,” I said with a wink. She looked down and laughed. “We should be in a picture together,” I suggested. “Where are you traveling from?” she asked. “Seattle,” I told her. “No kidding, we’re from Vancouver and our travel companions are from Portland.”

Isn’t that the way it goes. An ocean away from home, here stood two gals practically from the same zip code, just trying to blend in, ala Parisienne.

Strap-on Baby

May 11, 2009 by Beth Shepherd

He had a cute little body, an upturned nose, half-sleepy eyes and light brown skin. I knew he was ours from the moment I laid eyes on him. We picked him up, put on his diaper, dressed him in a cute Onesie, plopped him into a snug carrier and strapped him closely to my chest. He was everything I imagined our baby might be. Except that he was plastic.

Big Papa and I drove to Portland this past weekend, to attend a Northwest Adoptive Families (NAFA) class on baby and toddler care. As instructed, we arrived promptly at 8:00 a.m. to “pick out our baby” before class began. Oh, if only adoption was that simple.

Our first challenge was to select a baby who would tag along with us for the remainder of the class, lunch and bathroom breaks included. All the guys and gals bellied up to the bevy of babies, diapers, outfits and baby carriers. This was where the rubber meets the road. Gender bias was clearly influencing our choices and I’m not referring to what kind of ‘bits’ our baby was sporting. My selections for baby carriers were decidedly hip earth mama, sarong stylin’, Ikat print how-does-my-baby carrier-look-with-my-outfit accessories. Big Papa was tried and true REI meets Techno Geek, preferring the messenger-bag style baby carriers with buckles and rain-proof Gore-Tex.

The day proved to be a fascinating experience that we shared with roughly a dozen couples. Most were first-time adoptive parents, like us. A few had several birth children and one couple had adopted a baby girl just a week prior to the class. Little ‘Zoeylee’ sat just a few feet in front of us with her proud mom and dad, a hopeful reminder of what we all dreamed we might become one day…parents.

Eight hours later, Big Papa and I knew a lot more about infant development, feeding, bathing and the culture of adoption. During our day-long class, we bonded well with our plastic baby, who we adoringly nicknamed, Bubba. Of course, Bubba didn’t squirm, scream or poop.

We really enjoyed the break-out session on baby massage and were amused by the live baby bath demo (let’s just say that one 5-week old baby boy was decidedly not pleased with his fifteen minutes of fame), but the moments that really took our breath away had little to do with how-to and need-to-know.

Lani, a Korean adoptee, shared a moving story. Her story. She told us of being welcomed into a family of four as a two-and-a-half year old, and recalled what it was like being the only person of color in rural small town Oregon nearly forty years ago. Lani gave a loving portrayal of her adoptive parents and siblings, along with the traditions they created as a family.

One other moment is seared forever in my memory. John, a single adoptive dad, who was helping with the class, talked about his journey to find and parent his daughter. He described the challenges he faced as he made this brave and somewhat unique decision that would shape the rest of his life. As his eyes welled up with tears and his voice choked, he told us, “Adopting her was the best decision I ever made.”