northwest is a buzzword that strongly hits the hippest of nerves. the birthplace of coffee, hacky sacks, and platonian philosophizing, they’ve had us believe. hell i think they invented the pine tree, right? it’s with such questions heavy in my heart that i bought a plane ticket just two days prior to my excursion. i’d be like a modern louis and clark cultural expedition, except i’d transfer planes in denver.
the greatest thing about last minute airfare is it forces you to spend the rest of your trip frugally. i’m talking about foraging for berries, frugal, which was the case not long into a long beautiful hike. i’m talking about walking the streets and seeing where they took me, and who would take me in. i was lucky to have three semi-random hosts willing to free up some floor space and a wealth of comfortable park benches during the day.
rachel was generous enough to pick vicki, mark, and i up from the airport, drop me off to explore, and save me from cold and starvation the first night when i hadn’t set up a home yet. my first full day in portland was spent with rachel and vicki mostly outside of portland, driving across the beautiful countryside in search of hot springs. a locked gate and closed sign only encouraged the determined women to delve deeper into a village of naked men. upon their discovery, the gay men’s retreat politely asked us to leave and call ahead next time. gladly they didn’t ask us to leave the boy. the path home afforded the rare american work of alvar aalto and a chance at sneaking into a countryside wedding.
farhad drives an orange 1978 mercedes van complete with built in kitchen/bathroom and friendly pitbull/ridgeback. living behind an old house in the newest gentrified neighborhood of the NE, he had turned a garage into an apartment, the diesel van into biodiesel, and my preconceptions about portland on its end. it’s deeper than cool graphic tees and fixed gear bikes. it’s about, if i may, people doing it yourself. sure, that leads to a sampling of clichéd urban burritos stands, but it’s all individuals deciding they want something and in turn making it. these are not your father’s lazy hippies, but the most entrepreneurial of the gen-y. there’s a certain energy in the air i felt biking through hordes of artisan market shoppers. farhad himself, was making a living my buying and selling cars month by month, and retrofitting the rest of the diesels in portland to biofuel for an ambitious fee. thusly, he has a web of former and future clients spread around the various neighborhoods all involved in their own like minded projects. that said, i’m still not convinced the entire city can keep up. for every well meaning light bulb shop, there’s yet another hip baroque children’s boutique, and yet one less black family. one more pizza place, street car stop, and displaced family. the crime has moved away, so that the white people can safely talk about darfur. somewhere between, around true genuine intention and positive outcome, i found the rebuilding center. it provided the pot belly stove to farhad and thousands of other reclaimed pieces of portland’s past. if they are going to change, grow, move at this rate, the people at least know where they’re coming from.
After spending a Saturday night with a hundred interrelated Persians in the suburbs and wishing farhad good luck with his newly purchased boat, I was back to nomading Sunday claiming park bench space for my busted backpack and weary legs. a scrap of paper and half charged cell phone held whatever chances i had for shelter. couchsurfer sarah, like an angel, pulled me into her already overbooked home by downtown. I’d be staying with three other random travelers that night so i dumped what i could and left her to what ever quiet time she had. she left me with a new scrap of paper detailing the hiking trail that would lead to the aforementioned berries and beauty. hours later and still shy of my planned return i wandered out of the woods into yet another great neighborhood and its local movie theater. for two hours, i was there, living in portland, not visiting, not urban exploring. i just sat and laughed. meanwhile sarah worried for my return and left me vibrating voicemails telling me it was safe to come home. and there was home, warmly lit with three and a half total strangers who i’d all be sharing stories with into the night. rose, dan, shir, and marc all staying with sarah on NW 18th, fourth floor, examining the fantastic social project we’d undertaken. by the next day, i’d have critiqued rose’s vintage clothes shopping, listened to shir’s israeli military experience, and been woken up by the news of dan’s late night bike accident. we again left each to their own adventure and i headed out for one more full day of getting my fill of portland. by bike, trolly, and tramway i covered the largest areas yet and collapsed in the architectural section of the book store that had by then become my most steady address. i called sarah, she mostly asleep from the emergency room night before, didn’t really remember who i was, but simply asked “do you want to come home?”
tired, and better off because of it, i was ready to go home.
