A memory of the Hmong refugees that we knew in the 80s: Their English was sketchy at best, and we all had to struggle to communicate. Once, someone asked them about their relatives, and where they had ended up after the exodus of their people. They shook their heads sadly and pointed up, and said, "po-land". We figured this meant that the family had died and gone to heaven. Much later, it was revealed that the extended family was living in Portland! And that is where they ended up moving, as well.

We went to Po-land this last weekend, not to visit the family but to shop for a duplex. It was actually a lot of fun, madly driving around neighborhoods with our realtor and "doing the math". We also ate Peruvian tapas, visited Powells, and had breakfast at the Bijou Cafe (best breakfast 'in the world', according to the reviews on the wall).

Up there, fall colors were ablaze, and in nearly every neighborhood, the Kerry yard signs were still loud and proud.

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