snapshots of a lesser Hilton

I flew 2,228 miles to Portland last week, and took exactly three pictures with my digital camera.Not to say that the lush greenery and mountainous terrain didn't lend itself to being photographed, it's just that I was never so inclined to view the world through a lens finder.I have always lamented being placed in front of famous landmarks and such just to provide photographic evidence that I was there. Somehow, the thought of posing in front of the Eiffel Tower, Taj Mahal, or Mayo Clinic is just about as appealing as a round of chemotherapy.

Looking back, this disdain most likely stems from growing up with a mother who always carried a Kodak Insta-Matic in her purse to document even the drollest events. Forever, a blinding flash will be connected to that split second before blowing out the candles, or waiting to ride the next roller coaster, or hurrying to catch the Grey Line tour bus. Lifus interruptus, as it were; that momentary pause necessary to position subjects just so to create the perfect shot -- with another one taken just for good measure.
Most of these trifles have been replaced by the advent of digital cameras which allow you to compose a perfect photograph after the fact. The Alamo or Sphinx can always be added to the background later on in the comfort of your home office.But back to my original point, and I do have one. On my way to downtown Portland on the Red Line, I passed Mt. Hood. I passed daring and bold architectural statements. I crossed the Willamette River, and exited at the beautiful courthouse in Pioneer Square camera firmly packed in my messenger bag next to the Rolaids, gum and bottled water. I visited the world famous Chinese Garden, and took a tram 500ft. up the side of a mountain overlooking the city, and not one photograph.

So what did I take pictures of you may ask?

Why the fabulous sliding barn door to the bathroom in my hotel room, of course.

cocktails on 95

The room seemed auspicious enough, smelling of gumbo; a jumble of cities and continents imported on the skin and clothing of tourists happy to be illuminated in the glowing half-light of the Chicago skyline at sunset.I inwardly imagined that if one is forced to drink a cocktail before dinner, then it should most definitely be done on the top floor of the Hancock Tower. Here we were entombed in a steel monolith overlooking Lake Michigan and the teeming streets below whose dust still covered the soles of our shoes.My fear of heights -- thankfully dulled by the Sidecar which sat in front of me -- was discarded somewhere between the 75th and 82nd floors as we had been quickly propelled to this very spot by one of the fastest elevators in North America, according to the building's website. Not to take credit from the wonderful company that alternately enveloped and preoccupied me in conversation while volunteering to catch me if I faltered and needed physical support.

Politics, love life, and Lindsay Lohan were all topics du jour, as Julia, Doug and I deftly danced through the minefields of popular culture, failing to detonate anything more explosive than an equal condemnation of the Bush regime. My mind wandered to the spiders who made their webs outside the windows up here on the 95th floor, logically questioning their survival up here among the clouds. Of course, then I started thinking about the window washers, and was transported in my own mind outside the confines of our glass enclosed space, billowing against the high winds only to be blown to my death below.

My vertigo suddenly returned as quickly as it had disappeared, and the brave face that I had put forth crumbled like the pyramids of Giza.

The fastest elevator in the world indeed.