The Wild West End
Life goes on, but my old Portland neighborhood defies progress.
By Elizabeth Peavey
The first time I saw the West End was in 1978, when I was no more than a blushing college coed. I had driven to Portland from my parents' house in Bath on Christmas break to see a boy -- a bass player I had met at a concert -- for a date. As we walked around his Victorian neighborhood, I was at once struck by the thickening, almost viscous afternoon light. It was as though an alarm was going off in my brain, a wake-up call to see, I mean, to really see. At one point we came around a corner and were confronted with a gothic monstrosity -- all brick and tower and iron latticework -- bathed in that orange afternoon light.
