The Best Dates Are Simple; the Best Lives Seldom Are

The best dates are simple. Friday night Marie picked me up after work, and we took the Max train from Gateway station to Pioneer Courthouse Square for the Christmas tree lighting ceremony, arriving just as the countdown reached twelve. The timing was kind of magical, and it made me consider that our timing might be better this time. We walked around and looked at shop windows, admired the wedding dresses and Christmas finery, watched the people and babies passing by. We wondered how anyone could spend so much money on expensive purses or luggage, merely for the supposed status associated with Coach or Louis Vuitton. Hundreds of dollars to wear a particular logo, to be "it" by association, for an item that's purely functional, lugging your stuff from one place to another. Image is everything, they say, but why do they say that?

We walked over to Old Town trying to find a Chinese Restaurant Marie said she'd visited last summer, somewhere near the lions guarding the Chinese gate, on a corner just off Burnside. We passed bums and drug addicts and prostitutes, the late stage alcoholics and homeless insane wanderers. Around every corner and doorway loomed a dark lurking figure or a lost soul huddled in a filthy blanket. We like to think of ourselves as far above such desperation and emptiness, but there's a thin line of blessing and circumstance that shapes our ends, and in a few quick disasters our lives can be rough-hewn in directions we never imagined.

Panhandlers of uncertain gender approached us for a dollar or a cigarette. I rarely carry cash and had none, but Marie lent out a smoke to one rougish-looking young man in a grey coat, a scarf wrapped around his neck and a small flower on his lapel. He gave us a sideways smile. "It's a nasty habit, I know, I'm trying to quit." Sometimes it's just easier to be a sucker.

We walked several blocks back and forth, not finding the place that looked familiar, until we went a little further down fourth avenue and there it was, the Golden Horse Restaurant. Some of the others had unappetizing-looking animals hanging in the windows, a roast duck with the bill still on, a pig crackled snout and all. Marie couldn't bear to look. I'll never understand the custom of displaying food that way; it couldn't be more unappetizing. But the Golden Horse looked more promising; inside the restaurant was simple and cluttered and they gave us a quiet table in the corner. We had chicken with black bean sauce and chicken with seasonal vegetables, with hot tea and egg flower soup, enough food for four people, delicious, just 18.95, cheaper than Burgerville and quite a bit less than Chang's Mongolian. We talked easily, the hot tea warding off the winter chill and cold germs, and made promises and plans the way lovers do. I want to be with her. I don't want to be anywhere else.

We walked back uptown to the boarding platform across from Sak's Fifth avenue holding hands, passing again by the windows of bridal dresses and snazzy Christmas outfits. On the train ride home at the Lloyd Center station Amber and Geoffrey got on, Marie's eldest daughter and her husband. They are two of the most intelligent and enjoyable people you will ever meet, particularly because of how much they enjoy each other. It turns out they had gone to the tree lighting and couldn't have been more than 50 feet away from us, arriving just as we did in the last numbers of the countdown. They had met Ashley and the granddaughters, Makenzie and Bryce. Makenzie hadn't had a nap today and she melted down when the tree was lit. She wanted to be in the center of the square when it happened, the magical princess place. They tried to explain that would have been impossible in the crowd, but reason had no place in this argument, a distressed and over-tired child in full wail.

We talked about Thanksgiving and Christmas shopping and tomorrow's Duck game. Geoffrey was in his Oregon sweatshirt. "Nice sweatshirt," I said. Amber asked if they had a chance tomorrow. "To be honest, I don't know. I hope so." I said, and went on to recite some of the storylines of the game, that Quizz Rodgers was out and the Beavs had a Rose Bowl berth on the line, the Ducks were coming off a bye and were a three-point dog. Most fans without a strong allegiance will be rooting for Oregon State I suppose. That's a lot of psychic energy in the wrong direction for a team with a history of disappointments and foulups in the clutch. The outcome might be a seminal moment in the history of the two programs, determining preeminence in the Northwest for the next several years. It feels like from this point they go one direction or the other. It feels like that for the whole country, and for Marie and I as well.

She drove me home and we kissed good-bye. She's coming today to join me for a workout and to watch the game at the Civil War party at A Taste of Wine. At the actual Civil War the Union supporters expected a quick victory and at the first battles there were picnics spread and outdoor bands, an atmosphere of festivity and anticipation. How we invite ourselves to a fool's party, thinking things will be pleasant and won without struggle.