We've learned a valuable lesson in regards to food consumption on this trip. As in other admirable life pursuits, one must be sure to pace oneself and practice moderation in all things. Ask marathon runners how they train and they will tell you that pace is a key to endurance. This ironman mentality serves not only runners, but also glutton pilgrims like ourselves. It's all too easy to overindulge at the first stop and destroy your zeal for further food exploration. It's vital to the mission that we eat to enjoy, but not to gorge. This is a practice, discipline and exercise that requires oneness of mind, body and...yeah, mind and body.
We arrived in Portland two nights ago, and after finding a socially acceptable place to relieve our weary bladders, headed straight for the carts. Never mind the fact that it was midnight and we were exhausted, food carts beckoned.
Many of the carts were closed because of the late hour, but we managed to locate a Mexican food stall still open for business and attracting drunk patrons by its delicious aroma and bumping latin beats.
Our first taste of Portland really made me happy, but it also saddened my heart. I'll tell you why. The tortilla wrapped around that quesadilla was divine. It tasted crispy in places, soft and warm with perfect saltiness. That tortilla was what a tortilla could be; it represented tortillas at their best. It made me glad for all those reasons, but it also saddened me by revealing the inequality, and even lack of quality, that tortillas worldwide possess. Why aren't all tortillas made to be great? That's a question I'll be asking God when I get to heaven. Por que, Dios? Por que?
Linda housed us on our first night here. She was a real host. We parked illegally in a random lot and weren't bothered the entire night. In fact, we slept in until 8:30am.
For more on our first full day of food cart experiences, encounters with native Alaskans and sleeping with Catahoula Leopard dogs, stay tuned.