According to Wikipedia, Portland, Oregon has at least sixty breweries within the city limits, more than any city in the world. Many attribute this to our natural resources (hops, barley, and our remarkable Bull-Run water), but I’m convinced it’s because I live there. When it comes to beer, I am the industry’s greatest asset.
It’s a breathy, guttural roar, echoing above the tree canopy like something from Jurassic Park. When it awakens you in the darkness before dawn, your eyes fly open, the hair stands up on the back of your neck, and the flight or fight response kicks in, leaning decidedly toward flight. Run!
Trouble is, there’s a jungle outside your door. Things with teeth live out there, and one of them is looking for breakfast.
Dedicated readers will remember the SNAFU with a real estate agent in Puerto Vallarta that left us without a place to live for the first two months of this year. We adjusted, but were left holding two plane tickets, which Alaska Airlines graciously agreed to let us use in any way we liked—as long as we flew Alaska.