At the time all this happened, I was waking up, and still lingering in the warmth of a warm dream. (Someone pretty and redheaded figured in it. I'll say no more. Heh.)
On the tram to the hill, people were looking east (towards a lovely sunrise above the fog bank above east Portland), and noticing contrails. Talk about seeing what you want to see: they thought the contrails were from more meteors ("from the comet that went by this morning"; um, no, that wasn't it; a comet passing that close to Earth would've made the news, big time, even more so than Fidel Castro resigning). I finally saw the contrails and they were from airplanes, flying north-to-south in a stretched-out row. I resisted rolling my eyes.
I'm glad I've seen a meteor before, when I was a kid (about age 6) in Rancho Bernardo, California. I've missed others since then, but I have the memory of that one. And it was a big one, big and flaming and multi-colored and (the most surreal touch) completely silent. Maybe that one was a falling satellite.
At least this meteor wasn't that satellite...