Dear Diary,
Okay, so Owen finally got his dearest wish. He convinced me to go with him to the Portland Jazz Festival (actually, he has some pictures of me sleeping, mouth hanging open and drooling and he threatened to post them online—I had no choice). I mean, jazz isn’t really my thing. I’m ashamed to say pop is. And techno—guilty pleasure. Really guilty. But anyway, we drove to Portland (note: drive from Monmouth to Portland isn’t bad so long as the traffic doesn’t suck) and it took forever to find a parking space.
Car parked, we quickly made our way to the festival itself. Owen managed to get his hands on tickets to some evening show. Kind of expected it all to take place outside, because that’s what you think of when someone says ‘festival,’ but it was inside a ballroom. Which was good, because it was raining outside. Typical Portland.
Now, this is where it gets interesting. I didn’t fall asleep. Kind of expected to, because Oregon jazz totally not my thing. But the music was good. Some people famous in the musical world were playing (in other words, Owen knew exactly who they were and I had no idea). But they had saxophones and drums and a lot of other instruments I’m not really familiar with and, wow, did they know how to use them. Didn’t have to fake my interest for Owen, which was a relief. Genuinely interesting.
Not that I’ll ever admit that to Owen. He’s smug enough as it is.
Drive back to Monmouth consisted of Owen raving about how awesome it was and me pleading with him to keep his eyes on the road. Think I’ll drive next time. I think there will be a next time.
Mostly because Owen is already looking into tickets for next year.
