Wave goodbye to living alone, I think we've found our home - Patrick Wolf - The Railway House.
Three groins in a fountain...and one girl smirking on a street corner.
I came to Portland with three indispensable guides - the Frommer's Guide to Portland, generously donated by Astha, Chuck Palahniuk's Fugitives & Refugees (my favourite author's guided tour of the place he calls home) and Katherine Dunne's Geek Love, which isn't really a guide but is an essential read as a couple of the characters call the city home. I only had three and a half days to spend here, which didn't seem like enough time when I first left Seattle. By the time I had climbed aboard the bus to leave Portland, I knew for sure that I needed to stay longer and halfway into my week in San Francisco, I had half a mind to board the next bus, forget the rest of the trip and spend two months in The City of Roses.
You know why they call it the City of Roses? It's to cover up the smell of sex, drugs, booze, sweat and other illicit indiscretions that occur in this most interesting of cities. How do I know this? Because I witnessed it. Mum, if you're reading this...you might want to go back and read my Utah entry because we all know how wholesome Utah is and well...this one ain't gonna be pretty.
Portland isn't a pretty city by any stretch of the imagination. For a major city, it's really small (two million people in the entire metropolitan area) The tallest building is big, pink and fabulous and the residents of Portland, a city which has given the world plenty of writers (Chuck, Katherine and Ursula K. LeGuin among others), musicians (The Shins, Dandy Warhols etc.) and other assorted brilliant minds, naturally they all call it The Big Pink. There are tons of bridges of all different shapes and sizes crossing the Willamette River, which divides the city in half. It has beautiful parts (The Pearl District, The International Test Rose Garden, Washington Park) but it has a lot of not-so-beautiful bits as well. Skidmore immediately springs to mind and well, whatever immediately springs to your mind when pondering over a word like Skidmore, that's probably what you'll find in that part of Portland.
So why did the place have such a profound effect on me? Buggered if I know.
Whilst in Portland, I stayed at two hotels, The Benson & The Paramount. One of these hotels still has one of my precious black and white heeled shoes. I don't like to play favourites with my shoes but these were particularly special, however if Portland needs a tithe from each visitor then I suppose a shoe is the least I could be giving up (for the record, the other one is in San Francisco, as there was no point in me carrying around one shoe, was there?). The Benson was classy. What happened because of the Benson was um...possibly ever so slightly less classy. During my first night in Portland I heard they had free live jazz down at the bar. I also didn't want to pay for my internet (damn cheapskate classy hotels), and (reasons to move to Portland: #1) the city has free wi-fi covering the whole of the Downtown area. Free. Hell yes, quoth I, so I put on my glad rags and wandered down to the bar area to hear some jazz and maybe gather up some inspiration for that entry about Utah that I was planning. Yeah, that was the plan...
When I get to the bar there's an assortment of middle-aged folks clustered around and most of them turned to see what the hell this young whippersnapper thinks she's doing with her laptop and that crazy flower adorning her head. Cripes. There's a young guy behind the bar who pours me a glass of Viognier which, surprisingly, I don't hate. A few gulps of wine later, I'm still not able to think of an opening line but at least the jazz is kickin'. A younger woman with a Southern accent wanders over to the bar, sits next to me and strikes up a conversation with the young bartender. Then, she spots me, the only other person in the area who isn't nearing the blue-rinse decade and comments: "Well, that looks like a lotta fun there, honey."
I've given up trying to think at this point, so I chat to the Texan woman for a while. Her name is Denelle, she's in Portland for a high school teachers' conference, her favourite word is ‘groty’ (pronounced ‘grow-ty, a synonym for ‘gross’ and yes, Texans are hilarious) and she's thinking of hitting up a strip club as soon as her friend comes down. She's got no idea where my accent originates from, so it's a good thing that she doesn't teach geography. Her friend, Ron, who I initially think is her boyfriend, arrives shortly thereafter and they depart for the club around the corner and I'm stuck being bored and surrounded by baby boomers once again. Cut to two drinks and about an hour later...
So by this stage I'm still at the bar, talking to a guy named Cliff who's in Portland on business and another guy named Mike about my trip and their work and, you know, just shootin' the breeze. Both are around the 40 something mark but they're kind of cool, I'm kind of smashed, they're kind of smashed and Cliff's from San Francisco so at least I'm getting some decent travel advice. Also, I'm no longer paying for my own drinks. My head is yelling at me. Denelle and Ron arrive once again, fresh from their adventures in the strip club and they ask the bartender, who I've discovered is a Jonah from Hawaii where he plans to go once his shift ends. Somehow, we all end up talking and before I know it, all of us bar Cliff who has retired by this stage, are wandering drunkenly around the streets of Portland, with NFI where we're headed. It's around this point in time that I realise Mike is tagging along because he's drunk enough to have developed the idea that he has a shot at me however it would take a wide variety of simultaneous intoxicants before I lose both my equilibrium AND my dignity, so we all know nothing's going to happen there (you can breathe out now Mum, why are you still reading this?). Denelle is frightened when she discovers my age (I'm the baby of the group at 22), I'm shocked when I learn hers (no way does she look 30) and the fact that she only met Ron about a week ago, he’s married with kids, she’s also married but with without the kids, and when the shocks subside, we resume our drinking. Mike is the next to retire when he realises he's out of his depth, I'm also considering retiring however, somehow time leaps forward, it's 3:00 in the morning, we've all left the bar which closed an hour ago and are sitting around Jonah's studio apartment eating Doritos and I've been tagged as the wild one because these guys have assumed that since I don't talk much, I must have a lot to hide (I don’t). I become acquainted with my bed at around 3:45 a.m and for the record, there's no one else in it but me.
Did I mention that was my first night?
I wake up the next noon expecting a bitch of a hangover but I'm proud to say that I'm still every inch the hangover virgin. Muahaha. A long history of alcoholism in the bloodline certainly does have its uses, doesn’t it?
I dedicated my second day to wandering around aimlessly around the local area and I discover the joys of The Pearl (and its many galleries and excellent Peruvian restaurants…for such a small blue-collared city, Portland sure produces a lot of artists), the cleanest Chinatown I’ve ever seen (which is not many mind you, but the number is steadily growing and Portland is still winning), and the smells of Skidmore (ick) which to its detriment is kinda dodgy but to its credit, they’ve got a pretty cool Saturday street market there and Portland still has less homeless people than Seattle. Portland is a mecca for vintage clothing and Magpie is easily the pick of the bunch, two blocks from The Benson and as I would discover soon enough, indispensable to my Portland experience. Portland is also to home to the Greatest. Book. Store. Ever. It is called Powell’s, it covers an entire city block and it is so good that people are literally, dying to get in there. On the corner, there’s a sculpture of books containing the ashes of a guy who wanted to be buried in the store. I could have spent my entire travel allowance in a matter of hours, however I restrained myself and simply bought a copy of Geek Love.
Only Portland could provide the inspiration for such a novel. It’s a city filled with freaks: young kids proving punk isn’t dead as long as there is hair gel and various shades of electric blue still present in the colour spectrum, undiscovered prophets covered in rags and dreads, spreading their unique gospel to an audience who can’t be fucked with listening and gorgeous little gay boys running around hand in hand, knowing full well that if there’s ever a place where the marginalised can find their kin, it’s here. Then there’s me. By the time the sun has set, I’m in love with a city all over again.
That night, I’m buggered but not yet beaten. I grab some Thai food and head over to the celebrations at Powell’s, because it’s the 21st, it’s Harry Potter 7 and they’re throwing a block party. It’s the Pacific Northwest which means it’s drizzling with rain (my two and a half weeks of sunshine in Seattle were sheer, dumb luck) but nothing can dampen the spirit of a couple of thousand people of all ages, watching some dudes in purple, red and green ribbons dance around, beating each other with sticks whilst singing traditional English tunes. There are fire-eaters, jugglers, people dressed as Dumbledore and Hagrid standing around for photo opportunities and the biggest sea of black-cloaked Hogwarts students seen since last Halloween. I stick around for a while but since I’m not buying the book (I was spoiled and happy about it, because that ending…ew!), I decide to bugger off and catch a bit of shut-eye after a quick nightcap.
The next morning I move hotels to the Paramount and catch an Asian brunch in the hotel bistro which is meh, average, but I’m seated next to a couple with kids, their daughter takes a shine to me and we chat. They’re Portland natives (also known as lucky bastards) who have previously lived in cities all over the world and chose to raise the ankle biters in The City of Roses because there was no better place. They give me all these brilliant suggestions for places to go and I realise I’ve only got one and a half days and there’s no way I can manage to fit it all in. Sigh.
I spend most of my day hiking up to the International Test Rose Garden (after going the wrong way. Note to self and others – the Rose Garden and the International Test Rose Garden are NOT the same thing. One is a sports area and the other is an actual Rose Garden and they’re on opposite sides of town. I am an idiot, but we already knew that. When I manage to find my way to Washington Park, the first thing I notice are the squirrels (how cute!) and the first thing the squirrels notice is me, and the possibility of food somewhere on my person. After taking a breather on a bench, one springs its way over to me (the way they move is so funny, to me at least), with a curious look. I fake as though I’ve got something nutty and delicious in my hand and the adorable little rodent is brave enough to come all the way over to sniff my hand. It discovers I’m a liar, shoots me a look of squirrelly wrath and runs off, probably so it can plot the destruction of the human species and rant about how shit everything is to a freaky Goth girl.
As for The Test Rose Garden…I’ll let the following photo speak for itself:
Yeah. There's a reason why half of my Portland photos have a distinct floral motif.
The other great part of this side of town is at the foot of the hill, there’s Elephants Deli. It’s bloody huge and full of good looking gourmet food and sweets. Because I’m predictable, I choose the rose flavoured lollies and they’re now responsible for keeping me awake on Greyhound trips. That night I had myself a burger at Virginia’s…one of the oldest cafes in Portland, where you can still smoke inside (a minus, but at least it’s well ventilated), it looks like a dive (quite cool) and they serve up an awesome Cajun burger. This is all so I can mentally prepare myself for this evening’s entertainment.
I’m off to Rocky Horror.
The Rocky Horror Picture Show holds the record for the longest theatrical release in history. Right now as you’re not reading this, somewhere in the world it is midnight and there is a cinema playing the film. It is also the only film in the world which is a comedic, dramatic horror/sci-fi/musical where by the end of the film, all the characters are in drag and know each other in the biblical sense. The Clinton St Theatre has been screening the film since its first release and as a result their shows have become legendary. If you’ve never seen the film before, then you’re not my friend and I don’t want to talk to you. Also, don’t go to a midnight screening, hire the dvd first, be mesmerised and THEN go to a screening. Preferably at the Clinton St. Theatre, a classic cinema on the outside, buggered and worn on the inside. You don’t know what kind of substances make your feet stick to floor. Purely by chance, I’m there on an over-18’s night. Outside of the cinema there’s a girl running around in her underwear, a man who is the spitting image of Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons, a lady wearing more clothing than half the queue who reveals she’s a stripper by trade and a girl clutching a Potter book who, like me, is a Rocky Horror virgin and she becomes my buddy as we’re both not a little terrified. Yes, you’re labelled a virgin if you’ve never gone to a screening at the Clinton and tales of all the horrible things the regulars do to ‘devirginise’ the newbies have become a part of the Portland folklore. I rocked up in a makeshift Magenta costume (it’s a dream of mine to play her at least once in my life) including this perfect white apron I scored from Magpie that afternoon, ten minutes before the store was due to close.
As for the show itself…I’m not breathing a word, at least not in writing. As far as I’m concerned, what happens at Rocky Horror stays at Rocky Horror. What I will say is that I’m going back at least twice before I leave Vancouver, if only so that I can confirm that what happened that night wasn’t all a twisted figment of my imagination. Did I feel violated during my Rocky Horror experience? Oh yes. It was such a relief to find some Americans who have made it their personal mission to be as offensive as possible. What I will tell you is to drive there and park nearby. Do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT rely on cabs, as I spent a frightening half hour waiting around in the deserted streets for my cab to arrive and in my fishnets, apron and somewhat revealing top I had a couple of guys in cars pull over in an attempt to well...you know. I ended up hiding out in a pub for ten minutes to ward off more potential stalkers and gave my cabbie an earful when he finally arrived.
On my final day in Portland, I wandered across the river and into the Hawthorne district, which is full of funky stores, people with dreadlocks and the largest assortment of tools for Wicca that I’ve ever seen. I make it back into the city in time to take some happy snaps of downtown before I go off witness the world record attempt for the worlds longest all drag queen chorus line in Portland’s main square. Only in Portland could such an event happen. A lot of the ladies were professionals but many were volunteers, the oldest in his 60s and the youngest was a mere 11 (get them young, get them forever!). His drag alias for the day? Miss Samantha. Of course. Also in attendance was the legendary Darcelle, who has been doing drag shows for donkey’s years and her club is yet another Portland staple which I didn’t get a chance to check out (next time…). They broke the record, with over 60 people donning a frock and dancing to ‘I’m Coming Out’ (of course!) by Diana Ross. Fantastic. I’m so pleased I was there to witness it.
With four hours to go before I had to head off to the Greyhound station and parts beyond, I grab a coffee, stumble across a craft show four blocks away from the main square (there’s always something going on in this city) and bid a temporary farewell to a place I know I’ll be seeing again very soon (but not soon enough for my liking).
To all the people of Portland, Oregon…thank you. If there’s any hope for the United States of America, it can be found within your city walls.
Discography The Shins – Sea Legs
The Rocky Horror Picture Show Cast – The Time Warp
Diana Ross – I’m Coming Out
Wilco – Impossible Germany
Patrick Wolf – The Magic Position/The Railway House
The Rapture – Get Myself Into It
Outside a Canyon Rd Gallery, Santa Fe.
The adobe buildings even look gorgeous through the lens of my terrible phone camera.
