Portland: Discovering Hippie & Foodie Heaven
I was still barely finished packing with the big blue Super Shuttle rolled up to my front door. After I shoved my sleeping bag mad into my backpack and strapped the tent onto the outside of my pack I stumbled outside into the hot, dark humidity of the early Houston morning. I tried to make small talk with the driver as we pulled away from my house. His responses to my questions made no sense, and that’s when I realized he was talking to a friend his Blue Tooth headset instead of speaking to me. God, I hate those Blue Tooth earpieces and the people that live with them on every waking moment.
We had to drive all over the Galleria neighborhood of Houston picking people up. My co-passengers included a woman with really tall teased hair heading back to Dallas, a black guy who overslept and made us wait for him, and a couple with strong New York accents that made me a little bit homesick. After all the stop-offs, waiting around, waving goodbye to fluffy white dogs outside the van, and dealing with a shut down section of the highway, I got a little nervous we might not make it there in time.
After almost entering the wrong terminal, an ornery middle-aged ticket checker pointed me in the right direction. “Listen, honey, it’s either a fifteen minute walk this way or a two minute walk that way. You decide.”
I broke into a slow jog to bypass the large high school swim team group that was sure to slow down the process. They waved me towards the full-body scanner but then I hesitated. I naively walked through the scanner last time I flew somewhere and later regretted it. I am still thinking I would like to use my gonads to reproduce one of these days and frankly I do not believe the government’s claims that these x-ray scanners do not expose use to significant radiation. I know some people were up in arms about the modesty issue. The idea of some sketchy fat dudes sitting in a dark booth examining my x-ray “nude” body disturbs me less than the idea of getting a CT scan’s worth of radiation every time I want to go on vacation. I am pretty sure that one day full body scanners will be implicated in causing everything from the increasing Autism rates, to brain cancer and erectile dysfunction.
A large and jolly black woman led me past the scanner to the little yellow marks on the ground where I had to spread ‘em. She warned me that she would have to feel up my whooooole body, even my breasts and inner thigh areas. She then started to describe how she would use her hands in each area. I cut her off and told her just to go for it. “I am a gynecologist, all I do every day is touch people in appropriate places, its all good, just go for it!” She laughed as she proceeded with the rub down. While she groped me, we lamented about the foul odor of the majority of the people we have to examine these days. “Summer’s gotta be the worst,” I said. She corrected me, apparently it’s a year-round problem. She asked me if I ever tell people when they smell bad “down there.” “No,” I said, “It’s futile work. I just try to get in and out as fast as I can.”
After she cleared me through security, I made a much-needed visit to the food court for breakfast. Unfortunately the SuperShuttle driver didn’t like my idea of stopping for breakfast between picking up passengers so I was pretty starving. One thing I appreciate about Texas is the widespread availability of breakfast tacos. One thing I do not appreciate about Texas is the disturbing amount of Christian missionary groups walking around the airport in matching T-shirts. The “Methodists on a Mission” cut in front of me at the Starbucks line. You get no special benefits, in my book, for loving Jesus. Get in the back of the line with the rest of the sinners. The woman in front of me was more forgiving than I’d have been and she let the five smiley missionaries in red shirts cut in front of her.
I felt a wave of relief when I arrived at the Portland gate and saw a group of Patagonia and Birkenstock clad individuals and no noticeable religious symbols. I was home at last. In a matter of four hours, I would be in the crunchy Mecca of Oregon! I couldn’t wait to check into my hipster hotel which, according to their website, has ZipCars parked outside, bikes for rent, Eco-friendly toiletries, and encourages their guests to bring their own reusable coffee mugs to the lobby.
When we finally touched down in Portland it was truly refreshing to breath the cool, dry air and find my way to the efficient public transportation system. The light rail dropped me off less than one mile from my hotel. Hotel Jupiter is located on Burnside Street amongst a bunch of other funky restaurants, bars and boutiques. Clearly the building used to be a ugly motel, but they re-made it into a funky retro hotel. I found my room by walking through an outdoor sitting area lined with bamboo rods. The color scheme was black and white. One wall had a giant picture of Marilyn Monroe’s face. The toiletries were in fact eco-friendly; even the bottles were biodegradable. The door to the room was painted in chalkboard paint and sticks of chalk were provided for your decorating pleasure. There was a blue condom with the hotel’s emblem on it left on the bedside table. There would be no passing of venereal disease at this hotel!
I did not linger long in the hotel because I was starving and wanted to catch the end of the Saturday Farmer’s market. I planned to use my public transportation day pass to travel to the other part of town, but unfortunately that area of road was closed to the buses and light rail. So I walked the two and a half miles, which turned out to be a good decision. There was much to see along the way. When I walked over the Hawthorne Bridge I caught the end of the Brunch on the Bridge festival. The bridge was closed to traffic and Astroturf was laid down on the ground. There were samples of food from many of the well-known local eateries. There was live music and hippies sitting in circles on the turf. There was even a group of people playing croquet while wearing elaborate Alice in Wonderland costumes.
As I crossed over the bridge and into the heart of downtown Portland, the foot traffic was quite a bit heavier. The sun was also coming out and it was getting a little hot although still nothing as stifling as the 110F weather we’d been having in Houston. I walked through Portland past open-air cafes, rose gardens and even a Porsche car show. When I saw the group of guys jumping around doing capoeira in synch with flutes and bongo drums, I knew I was in the right place. I finally arrived at Portland State University where the weekly market is held. It definitely made my Houston farmer’s market look pretty pathetic. There were stalls filled with beautiful produce, freshly foraged mushrooms, grass-fed lamb, homemade pies, brightly colored berries, and tons of hot prepared food.
I was so starving that I immediately bought a pint of raspberries for three dollars and proceeded to inhale it. Then I noticed a portable wood-burning stove and headed in that direction because I think that anything baked in one tastes heavenly. Unfortunately they had already sold out of their wood-fired pizzas, but they still had their home-made whole wheat pita. My pita was filled with lettuce, cabbage, onions, peppers, chickpeas, wheat berries, tahini paste, and chili sauce. I think I got week’s worth of fiber in that one meal. I also got a raspberry soda made with the market’s red and yellow raspberries. I ate this fibrous, healthy, vegetarian, local meal while listening to the live band called Sambafeat. I watched a girl in overalls dance unabashedly on the sidewalk. Instead of tipping the band with cash, she gave them a bunch of kale and a tub of hummus.
After I ate all that I could manage, I composted the rest and separated out the rest of my garbage into the appropriate bins. I stopped by one of the bakers’ booths. She only had a few items left since the market was about to close but I picked up a raspberry-rhubarb crumble square that was light, tart and delicious. The woman who sold it to me excitedly told me that she hoped I loved it and that I had a wonderful and blessed day. I only wished that my stomach could hold about five meals because there was so much food to eat. The homemade pies looked incredible. There were some handmade tortillas stuffed with grilled veggies and covered in mole sauce that also seemed to have quite a following. At the end of the grassy park there was a Persian festival going on and they were selling all of their traditional food and there was another musical performance.
I strolled through downtown Portland to help my large lunch to digest. The weather was absolutely pristine and Portland was bustling. I missed my bicycle as I watched dozens of people using theirs to get around town in the designated bike lanes. Every corner also had a huge bike rack which is a huge novelty in Houston. I also found a few lots that were lined with food trucks. I still need that bigger stomach…it took all willpower for me to avoid those trucks, especially the one specializing in pork sandwiches.
My lack of sleep the night before was catching up to me so I stopped for latte. The shop was called Cacoa and they specialized in “drinking chocolate.” It seemed too heavy after my lunch, but from the looks of what the others were eating, it would have been delicious. One could even get a tasting flight and sample small mugs of all of their different drinking chocolates.
I decided I’d start heading back to the hotel and get changed for an evening run. As I was about to cross over the Burnside Bridge I stumbled along the busy Portland weekend art market. There were three different sections of tents that started under the bridge and lead out to the waterfront. There was every kind of hippie treasure that one could hope to find, from tribal print fabrics & batik tapestries to Buddhist scrolls and even Nag Champa soap. One woman offered Palm reading. Another tent had massage for $1 per hour. There was some beautiful handmade jewelry and pottery as well as clever messages silk-screened on t-shirts. A few booths specialized in tie-dyed items; one could buy pretty much anytime tie-dyed including onesies, thongs, muumuus, sports bras, and men’s briefs. Some guy had made belts out of recycled bicycle tires. There was live music there too; I saw a 70 year old lady rocking out to a bongo drum group. There were some interesting street vendors as well. An elderly woman was dressed in a bright pink belly dancing costume with slits all the way up the thighs that showed her butt cheeks. I don’t think anyone even noticed her, these kinds of sites are common place in Portland.
I went on a five-mile run to get my appetite stoked before dinner. Taking a run in Portland reminded me that yes, I actually do still enjoy running! It has been somewhat painful to run in the blistering Houston heat, even at 9 o’clock at night when I typically go. That evening in Portland it was about 75F and humidity free. I ran across the bridge and followed a path along the Willamette River. Lots of people were out on the beautiful evening, some walking dogs, others sitting outside eating.
After a quick shower I was ready for some more good eats. Right down the street from my hotel is a restaurant called Le Pigeon. I had not only read about this recently in a travel magazine but been told by recent visitors to the city that I must try it. The tiny cozy little restaurant was crowded, but fortunately as I was just one person, I scored a seat immediately. I overheard other people were waiting up to an hour and a half. I settled into my seat at the end of the bar next to a gay couple who both worked in the restaurant industry in New York City. From this vantage point, we had a perfect view of the open kitchen.
It was difficult to choose what to order at Le Pigeon, which was mostly a French-style restaurant. After some tips from the waitress and the guys next to me, I settled on ordering two different appetizers. I started off with grilled eel with corn, watermelon, shitake and cilantro. The eel had a smoky flavor and the corn & watermelon was really refreshing. Next I had the rabbit with salami risotto, gouda and fennel. It was amazingly delicious; so many different flavors that came together well especially with the fennel puree. I washed it all down with some Oregon white wine. I had been told by a friend who had recently visited Portland that I absolutely had to try the foie gras profiteroles for dessert, that the would change my life. She was right; they were incredible. They came with a salted caramel sauce. It was such a unique mix of sweet and savory flavors. I swear I could taste it the rest of the night.
I had wanted to have a beer at the Burnside Brewing Company after dinner, but when I walked over there, it looked pretty quiet with just a dozen or so patrons in the whole place. I figured I’d just take a stroll back over the bridge to the downtown. The homeless folks were out en masse now that the sun was down. There was a shelter of some kind at the end of the Burnside Bridge so they all congregated around there. It was interesting to note that not all of them looked like belligerent drunks. There was a guy texting on his iphone and a couple spooning. There was a girl reading a novel in her “bed” by the light of the street lamp. Some of their sidewalk beds actually looked pretty plush and comfortable. When the catcalls starting coming my way, I realized I’d better stop paying these bums so much attention.
The Old Town was crawling with drunken kids, floozy girls limping around in too-tall high heels at bachelorette parties and more intoxicated bums. The food trucks were open again and the line outside the famous Voodoo Donut was still insanely long. I still had to go there and try the maple bacon bar donut though. The hobos were getting a tad bit feisty outside the bars. One guy asked me to suck his dick. Another guy in punk attire walked up to the group of guys ahead of me and said that if they didn’t get out of his way on the sidewalk, he would beat their asses. There were two girls walking in front of me in cheesy polyester dresses that must have come from the preteen rack. The one girl was a chubby Latina who had somehow squeezed her body into a mini leopard print dress; she was all wrapped up like a fatty sausage in a tight casing. A homeless girl yelled out, “Free…your…inner…thighs!!!” That made more sense than anything I had heard all day. It was time to call it a night.
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