Happy Independence Day

To my fellow Americans, happy Independence Day! United States, you're almost 240 years old, but darling, you don't look a day over 225.

M. and I heard that Ashland, a little offbeat city a few miles to the south, was holding a festival for the holiday, so we decided to take a peek.  Despite the 100+ degree temperature, we hit the road and drove down the 5. Within a half hour, our car was parked in a public lot--five hours for only $2--and we were trekking toward Lithia Park and the blocked-off city streets that were the hub of all the action.




Ashland had staged a parade earlier in the morning; M. and I missed it, because we were still in our jammies, nursing our coffee. That didn't mean, however, that the streets were tranquil. Almost immediately, we passed a group of bohemian 20-somethings playing fiddles and loudly singing. A few steps down, a man sat on a folding chair, strumming a guitar. I turned to M. and said, "This is what people think all of Oregon is," and he nodded, adding, "...Everywhere in the state, all the time."

We walked past a long line of booths and tents, doing our best to stay in the shade whenever possible. I'm still adjusting to summer, period, let alone a sunnier, hotter summer than I'm used to; I was dripping like a leaky faucet and my face looked like a blooming rose. Even M., who is much more heat-tolerant than I am, was warm. "I am going to need to hydrate soon," he mumbled, before adding a few seconds later, "I should've worn a hat." Eventually we found ourselves in a grove of trees that offered much-needed shade, where M. and I leaned against a trunk and took in our surroundings.

A jam band played on an outdoor stage just a few yards away. They appeared to be teenagers, but who knows? "They're not my bag," M. said, "but it's pretty cool they're playing." All around us, people sprawled on beach towels and blankets. I was pleased with the wide spectrum of ages I saw: Couples younger than us with toddlers, elders wearing hippie dresses, fifty-somethings with their teenagers, and middle schoolers running around, trying to seem older than they actually were. It was nice to see a community all together.

Eventually we walked a short trail through Lithia Park, where we giggled at people wading in Ashland Creek. More musicians sat on folding chairs along the path, playing guitars, cellos, and drums. Rows of tables were set up in one field for some sort of chicken dinner, and it was a funny juxtaposition to see the plastic card tables next to VIP-type cordons. At one point, I was drawn to a small pond we were passing. It was surrounded by picturesque landscaping and a few shady wooden benches. M. picked up on the sound of flowing water and asked aloud, "Is that a waterfall?"  Turns out, it was. (It was probably man-made, but so what? It was pretty.)

Waterfall and trees in the park

Eventually, we wound our way through the park and ended up back near the main drag. We were on top of a hilly street that looked out onto the hillside, and I thought the view was rather nice.

View of the hills and downtown Ashland, Oregon

We took a moment to find a corner store. We bought bottles of water and took to the curb outside to rehydrate and people-watch.  It was during this respite that we witnessed a meter maid have a friendly, relaxed conversation with two punk-looking passersby. As she was writing parking tickets, the punks seemed to be advocating on behalf of the not-present drivers, explaining how the parking situation had changed since earlier in the day. It was pretty interesting--and foreign--to see a meter maid so relaxed and friendly, and to see some punk rock kids give a crap about random drivers they didn't know.

There were a few moments in Ashland that made my heart full, when I felt like I was in a familiar place, a place like home. The first was as we emerged from the parking structure and were met with a few different routes. We decided to descend a concrete staircase into an alley that ran between two slender buildings and poured out onto the main street. "This looks like Pittsburgh," M. said, and I agreed. We were quickly met with the stench of dumpsters, which only reinforced how eastern city-like it seemed.

Another moment involved the bustling shops, each with its own large square of a front window, that reminded me of east coast, urban neighborhoods. The full sidewalks, the people dodging in and out of shop doors, causing chimes to jingle each time, the slow-moving traffic impatiently stopped at crosswalks -- it all felt like home. I wished I was less hot, less sweaty, more hydrated, and more energized to enjoy it more.

My one major beef with the area--which is actually a beef about most of Oregon--was the lack of ethnic and racial diversity. I saw about eighteen dozen white people with dreadlocks, but maybe only half a dozen black people (with or without dreadlocks -- which made the white people dreads all that more conspicuous). There were earth-mother white women wearing flowy dresses in Native American-inspired prints, but I didn't see anyone who appeared to be Native. I saw one Asian woman, who was walking arm-in-arm with one of the six African American people: a man who, interestingly enough, had tied his shirt up and into his collar so he was wearing a makeshift tube top. "You do you, mister," I thought as we passed him. Lord knew he was tolerating the heat better than I was in my full-coverage t-shirt.

This was our second visit to Ashland, and I liked it even more this time. It has a reputation for being very expensive, so I doubt we'll be moving there any time soon. Still, I think we can visit more often. Unlike Medford, Ashland feels like a real town, with a real sense of community. A bonus is that it offers me some whiffs of the familiar, which I need every now and again.

And now, we go watch fireworks.  Happy Fourth of July.