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  • When I think about Stumptown, there’s an image impressed on my brain, like a photograph. I see a black and tan typewriter on a little table near the window. There is a door close by, communing with the white wooden front porch.

    This is the same porch where people often sang and played guitar, drinking beer under a sunset lit sky and talking about travels and life.

    Maps were all over the place and I could smell something old in the air. That house was all about antiques; it was about an old time lost and found again in these days.

    When you visit Portland is like going back and live in a forgotten time and it’s about a lifestyle abandoned by the rest of the country.

    Back then, in 2006, I was looking at this map and dreaming about the rest of the road out there ready to be covered and how I had yet to explore and discover life in a time of a summer. Stumptown was one of my first stops; it was hard to leave.
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