Saturday, 08 September 2001 | Paper Andrew Jacksons

I'd put three twenties in the front pocket of my jeans, which is all the money I have to spend on this trip. Somehow, though I still can't figure out how exactly, my 60 dollars—all of it—fell out of my pocket and onto the ground and rolled into a playful ball of tumbleweed into the street, the wind breathing life into my paper Andrew Jacksons. A car horn blew in staccato bursts behind me, and before I knew what was going on, Martin was in the middle of 21st Street grabbing at the twenties, running back to the sidewalk, slapping the twenties into my palm, and thanking the guy in the car for alerting us. Well, for alerting him, because until it was all over, I hadn't figured out what had happened. I was just watching it like a movie in slow motion, words registering in my brain but no meaning connecting them together. I'm glad Martin reacted as quickly as he did, because otherwise I would've missed all of it—the movie, the friendly man, and my money.

Yesterday we walked around Portland, downtown and by the river. Last night we went out in Portland, and afterwards Martin redyed my streaks while we both had the hiccups. Today five of us are taking tents to the San Juan Islands.