It started like any typical horror story should. “Nordstrom.”

I screamed.

Our friend had driven in to the big city from our former hometown for a quick visit. It turned out to be the rainiest weekend since we moved to Portland, Oregon.

“Nordstrom.”

That word is Norwegian, I think, for “mythical beast with huge nords that consumes souls.”

And they wanted to shop at the one that lives in the heart of downtown, by Pioneer Square, where everything happens.

It was a rainy day. I figured at least there was at least a chance the city wouldn’t be nuts.

I was wrong.
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