I fantasize about retiring here. Yes, retire.
Since retirement age looms far closer than I care to acknowledge, I think about this all the time.
Still, the pace, the people, and the price make Portland a place I could see living out my golden years.
Filling out 401K forms in the ’80s was so abstract, retirement such a “whatever”. On good days, the idea of retirement sets me daydreaming of life post-advertising, where I paint and play with cats in the middle of a Thursday in Irvington, Stumptown coffee on the table, Carrie Brownstein’s text about to be returned. It is not raining.
On bad days, the dream is a nightmare because crap, I can’t ever to afford to retire, really, and double-crap, I’m old and tired and riddled with ailments. No one returns my texts. It is pouring.
San Francisco, my home for like forever, has always been a place young people come to pursue their dreams as they begin adult life, whether it was the hippies (like my husband), the beats, and now the techies.
Will Portland become a place people like me go to pursue their dreams as we begin older-adult life? Will it be a place where we go to die?
I’m sure this notion will send young Nike execs and baristas to seek refuge in the breakfast nook at the Ace, but be forewarned: we’re coming, without irony and just a hint of hipness.