Bitchin

For the last five years or so, I've lived in Astoria, Oregon, the oldest settlement of out-of-towners west of the Mississippi.
At the mouth of the Columbia River, it's where Lewis & Clark bitched and moaned through a rainy winter, just feet from their final destination. "Dismal Nitch" is just up the road, as is "Cape Disappointment." A beautiful, but whiney place.
There's no economy here to speak of. Fisherman have fished the fish and loggers have logged the logs. They are probably the last generation of many who have done the same job as their father's, and now they populate the many local bars and carry on the proud heritage of bitching and moaning.
We live in a huge Queen Anne Victorian, with a Japanese mediation garden where the house next door burned to the ground. Both the house and garden had been sadly neglected when we bought it, and I spent the last five years renovating them close to their former glory. Sounds admirable, but it was work by default. The only other job I could find here was a bartender, and I was never the type that could stand listening to my patrons bitch. Plus, I made friends with the local DA, and I just couldn't put him in the position to prosecute me for smashing a cranky Finn over the head with a bottle of cheap wine.
So the former "Inn Chanted" Bed and Breakfast is for sale, and I prepare my farewell to the grouchy blonde inhabitants of Astoria - the red Finns (commies), the white Finns (not commies), the Norwegiens, the Scandavians, the Danes - and Chinese who canned all the fish caught by the blondes. People say that the "somber" quality of these folks is genetically based, rainy climate and a hard life.
I say bullshit. I'm Irish. I blame my ridiculously high cholesterol on my ancestors who survived the potato famine. Irish knits have family designs in order to identify the unrecognizable fisherman that bob to shore. Rain is a constant in Ireland. And, for no apparent reason, they're happy. They're funny. They're witty and charming. They are great story tellers.
Drinkers, yes. Grouchy, no. At their very worst, profoundly sentimental.
60 Minutes did a segment a few years past, showing a perkly young blonde reporter prowling around Finnland. On a bus to Helsinki, the camera showed scowling men and women who frowned when this girl smiled at them. Throughout the city, she approached Finns who mumbled and snarled suspiciously when she, more and more tenatively, asked about their lives.
Finally, she found their passion - the Tango. At giant dance halls, the men would swig enough vodka to work up the courage to ask a girl to dance, then stride passionately across the floor. My favorite quote was from a man who advised carrying mints to disguise the admittedly unpleasant smell of vomit before asking a girl to dance.
The last segment was a woman, not so much grouchy as grim, who said that her husband had told her he loved her once, and that was enough for her.
Astoria is a beautiful place. The girls are natural blondes, and there are more blondes here than anyplace I've ever seen - and I've lived in Hollywood.
But, we're moving to Portland.
I never learned to Tango.