Worlds apart are PDX and NYC. It's a 5.5 hour plane flight, for Chrissakes, which should be enough to get you to another country if not another continent. But in many ways, New York City is another continent, isn't it?
My stance is that Portland tenders more stunning natural beauty on a moment to moment basis, but then there's Highline Park, which, on a blustery, devastatingly crisp fall day, is magnificent in a zen sort of way.
After hell traffic in from JFK, I met Trish and her mister in Tribecca for drinks—house red at a brasserie—and then the next morning amidst a cotton-heady hangover, for goat cheese omelets at the Kitchenette. These two events are like bookends for an exhausting big city night that left me with blisters on my feet and a wad of receipts crumpled up like a bird's nest on the nightstand.
And just like that, back to JFK, back to PDX, back to bed.