Twenty-five years ago this month, a yellow Volkswagen with Jersey plates rolled up I-5, cut over on 217, and took U.S. 26 west a couple of exits to Rock Creek. It was yours truly, fresh out of law school, everything I owned in the car, California Bar Exam under my belt, skinny, with a long, scraggly beard, and moving to the Rose City for a one-year stint as a law clerk to a federal appeals judge in the Pioneer Courthouse.

Just a temporary stay, you understand, and then it was supposed to be back down the road, all the way to L.A., there to gain fame and fortune as a big-time corporate lawyer. And a part-time beach bum, if I could manage it.

Well, the VW never made it further south than Eugene, ever again. I fell in love with Portland and never left.

It was a heady time. Salaries were lousy, and the state was in a bad recession, but homes were dirt cheap, the commute was easy, the women were the friendliest I had ever met, the local music scene was good, the public schools were of the highest quality, and there was a wonderful, content, optimistic spirit among the people who lived here. It was just a not-so-small version of a nice small town.

The place has changed a great deal since then, mostly not for the better. But I still can't identify a better place to live. Although I've looked at some opportunities elsewhere, I haven't picked up on any of them. And now this is the place where I married (I even did that twice), where my daughter was born, where I've spent most of my life.

So here's to another 25. At least.