Following the successful election, I elected to migrate south to the urban circus of Boston. Until further notice, the granite of my bunniness will be in spirit only. Which means that I will now be trying to prove my own hypothesis that all places are good places, even if there is a much farther distance between the alpine zone and me for the time being.
A few years ago, I moved to Portland, Oregon. These first days in Cambriville feel rather similar to the start of that time—my dog and I run around town, trying on a new life while staying with generous friends and trolling Craig’s List for homes and jobs. Within my first week in Portland my phone died, my bike got stolen, I got pulled over for making an illegal left hand turn, and the family cat who was like a teddy bear died back in New Hampshire. I’m pretty sure that some other almost-amusing-now-but-horrible-then stuff must have happened that same week, but even with those few details, it was a rough start. Thus far, everything this go around of urbanizing has gone smoothly.
And, I often think that I enjoyed living in Portland more than anywhere else I’ve ever lived. It’s not a greener-than-thou-smug-yuppie/hipster-thing, but I really like being able to walk or bike to a grocery store. I don’t know yet how much biking to the grocery store and taking public transportation to cultural stuff equals having snow days from work to go skiing and star gazing from the porch, but all of this walking and living in a smaller footprint feels weirdly satisfying. Alternately, I was never sure how many hours of mind numbing seasonal work equaled how many hours of watching the sunlight and underwater shadows in the river behind the house I used to live in. Like most things, none of this is a clean trade.
We shall see.
 Here’s to poorly/hilariously timed t-shirts and knocking on abandoned homes that look like Silence of the Lambs! That, and, of course, common sense prevailing. Well done, voter-friends!
 I have it on good authority that the majority of the rock of my beloved hills is schist, rather than granite. But no one wants to read about a Schist Bunny. Don’t be absurd.
 Just like a real scientist would…
 The ambient moisture of a Portland January seeped into the charge port and my phone had weird blue mold fungus and would not turn on.
 I maintain that the opposite driver had motioned for me to go. The policeman who pulled me over had not seen this, and the other driver had driven off. In New Hampshire, you do not have to insure your car, let alone carry proof of said whimsical insurance. In Oregon, they present you with a fine and a court summons if you do not have this information on your person at time of ticketing. Also, it was pouring rain, and I was lost en route to a job interview when I made my driving error. I did not get that job, incidentally.
 A sixteen-pound white kitty with black splotches like a Holstein, bonus toes on her front paws, one of the prettiest cat-faces I’ve ever seen, and a purr like a friendly jackhammer. She was a winner.
 Smoothly, of course, aside from looking at one apartment with the pervasive pot odor, a hookah in the living room and a foosball table in another common space. And, further aside from the guy at another posting who turned me and Dog-face down for a room in his apartment, but based entirely on my emailed description of myself as a potential housemate, asked me out. And, of course not counting, the woman who forgot to mention the pet snakes she keeps in tanks in the living room. Smoothly, for Craig’s List, is what I ought say.
 It got better, after that first week. It would be hard for it to get worse.
 I don’t think I’ll ever know.
 Why, yes I do have a graduate degree, read a lot, enjoy movies, theater, music, and bookstores, would happily camp out in museums, and refer to all this culture as “stuff.”
 Sort of like pledging to NPR feels good, actually.