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Our condo peeks through a flowering cherry foreground

That’s our balcony with the cathedral ceiling. The TV antennas are actually a half-mile away. We share real estate with them on top of Portland’s West Hills.

Yes, we’re back in Portland. No, there have been no medical emergencies. Yes, we’ve been busy. It’s that time of the year again. We’re moving.

Let’s see: In April of 2009 we moved to downtown Portland. In April of 2011 we moved to the Northwest District of Portland. In April of 2013 we sold everything and moved to Spain (and Greece, and Italy, and Mexico…). In April of 2014 we moved back to Portland, to a ritzy apartment in the Pearl District. Now it’s April of 2015 and … well … here we go again.

Ritzy apartments are fun, but ritzy apartments are expensive. Rent in the Pearl District trumps travel. So we tell ourselves that having lived in the rarefied atmosphere of a glass-walled, high-rise apartment in the city was just another adventure—another roadside attraction on the path of life (like Greece, and Italy, and Mexico…), but now we need a home base. One where we can hang our hats and leave them there.

(This is all an echo of a post from our traveling mentors, James and Terri Vance, who made the same discovery three years ago. They established their basecamp back then, and are traveling again today.)

Fortunately Louise owns a condo, which she has rented out for the past eight years. Since she owns it outright, association dues, county taxes, and utilities are the only monthly expenses. We booted the tenant, and on the sixth of May, we move in.

(Remodeling the condo. For captions and enlargements, click the images.)

Masking the kitchen
New paint in downstairs bath.
Why we’re not doing the painting ourselves.
The sauna. I have a heart condition. The sauna may become storage.
Overlooking the living room from the loft.
The upstairs bath.
Superproductive Russian floor guys.
Living room floor refinished, paint done, fireplace rebuilt.
French doors lead to the office.

The condo was a bit funky. Paint, floors, appliances—they were all twenty-five years old. For the past month I’ve been a general contractor, overseeing a legion of subcontractors and doing minor jobs myself. The last contractor—the carpet cleaner—visits tomorrow. As I said, on Wednesday we’ll move again, into yet another home. A permanent home.

“A permanent home.” There may come a day when I deny having said that.

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