Dia de los Wierdos

Traditionally, November 1st marks the point when most of Anglo-America packs away its paper skeletons, composts its soggy jock-o-lanterns, and gorges itself on stores of candy from the previous evening. We've all snuck a few leftover Peanut Butter cups and fun-size Snickers in between masked callers, and the first of November is high time to pull in those empty calories and poisonous, complex sugars. Also, most of the commercial world has begun to lay Christmas on pretty thick. In the blink of a sugar-shocked eye, automated, motion-detecting skeletons and cackling witch mannequins have vanished from Target shelves and candy relocated to the Clearance bins while self-lighting pine trees and tinseled wreaths sprout up to dominate the shopping landscape. It's a crying shame how quickly we're forced to move into Christmas when our Halloween cavities haven't had a chance to pock the enamel of our molars. Don't rush All Hallow's Eve; it's a holiday with a lot of potential.

Luckily, as Portlanders have made such an effort to keep the city weird, a large cross-section of this liberal Northwestern hamlet have extended Trick-or-Treat time into a sacred, Latino festival; Dia de los Muertos (or Day of the Dead for those of us that missed the bilingual Sesame Street as kids). The festivities often include large banquets held in honor of dead ancestors, processions to cemeteries, and vigils in remembrance of the departed. Since Portland's a beer city, these sacred rituals and practices have morphed into a large party. And we were invited!
Saturday night, we joined several other Muerto observers for the Vagabond Opera, a group of musicians with amazing musical talent and an impressive stage presence. The show, held in the Wonderland Ballroom, began at 9:00 PM with a nameless performer (nameless to us, anyway) who entered the hall, skeleton mask donned, banging a shovel and carrying a sign. It was a poor man's STOMP, an opening with which I was not impressed. In fact, I would rather have most of his opening act erased from my memory and replaced with an hour-long verse of Henry the Eighth, I am, I am. Second verse same as the first... And so on. He performed his little pauper heart out. He had a squeeze-box and an acoustic guitar; he sang unintelligibly; he talked without the aid of a microphone, and he told us a story. The story was stupid, to be frank. It was long and slow and killed any momentum previously gained. The story, about a street performer selling his fingers to improve his play and impress a girl until no fingers were left, seemed like the low point of his set until he immediately followed story-time with a really slow and quiet song, which drove me out of doors, into the rainy November night for a cigarette. I was bored, send in the Marlboro Man. The performer, Jason something, I think, rallied by throwing penny-filled, plastic bottles into the crowd like crappy instruments for a second-grade music class and relying on the audience to imitate violins and trumpets for one of his songs. I did not participate. I attended to be entertained, not to work. His set, so convoluted and disorganized, was at one point interrupted by the headliner's stage crew because they thought he was finished. Trained professionals had no idea what the hell this guy was doing. What hope was there for me? Sadly, the roadies were early and Jason whatever needed to perform his Hymn to the Tomato. Again, he banged his shovel on the stage and repeatedly chanted, "Tomato." The bumper sticker says, "Keep Portland Weird," not, "Make Portland Retarded" jackass.

He left the stage, thankfully, and I sighed with relief. The Vagabond Opera slowly established their stage, hanging a band sign behind the drum set and adding a few microphones. We had been reassured by former attendees that the show would greatly and immediately improve with the musicianship of the Opera, but after Jason who, I was skeptical.I have to admit, I was occasionally mesmerized by the band's skill, especially the cellist, an amazing player. However, in between those moments of sparkly hypnosis, I was confused. The best I can do in describing the Vagabond Opera is LSD-laced, Circus Cabaret. They were a throwback to Swing bands and Rat Pack lounge singers. But there's a reason the swing craze of the early nineties ended in the early nineties and America fed the Rat Rack d-CON. And that coffin should remain shut. The stage show dragged on for over an hour; I say over an hour and not exactly how long because Amber and I left early. Between the stress of her week and my cynicism, we just couldn't stay the entire time. However, celebrating Dia de los Muertos was an enjoyable success and something I've waited for since 10th grade Spanish class.

Sam Adams Couldn't Save Improv

The challenge with introducing culture to one's life is the too often chance that culture can be stupid. High culture, like art museums, high budget plays at established theaters, concerts with musicians in tuxedos, is generally a safe bet, but we've all visited these cocoons of theoretical criticism and snobbery. My concern here is working-class culture, not alternative theater with pierced nubiles dangling from hooks while reciting free-form poetry, but work intended to reach a wider audience, mainstream entertainment as an alternative to TV and movies. Slight culture, but safe.

Portland provides myriad venues for such pseudo-culture, and Amber and I attended one such event on Saturday night. I'm sure there are more exciting things to do in a city on a Saturday night than visit a newborn stage and its sketch/improv cast, but hey, it was free and we are cheap.

We started the night at Old Town Pizza, which oddly, is not in Old Town; The original Old Town Pizza truly is in Old Town, but we were on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard east of the river. This Old Town Pizza, an extension of the original, was merely decked out in faux-old town style: wood beams, copper fixtures with a slight patina, and a dark atmosphere despite the crisp construction of a nearly brand-new building. Dinner was fine, eating at the bar, accidentally stealing lemonade, fearing a drunk woman celebrating her 30th birthday. Oh, we had rosemary chicken and garlic pizza, and I sampled a Caldera Pale Ale with a bit of a bite. Just a few doors down stood the Curious Comedy Theater, our night's main attraction.

The Portland Area Theater Alliance (yes, they have established an alliance fearing they would be booted out of Portland by the Braindead Conglomerate during the highly elaborate voting ceremony) joined forces with other national theater groups for free nights of theater to entice viewers out of their homes and away from their television sets. It worked on us and, judging by the audience, several others, as well. Unknowingly, we attended both the free performance and the pay performance. We didn't know they were having two shows in one night, but I'm glad we attended both. The adage, "You get what you pay for" seems more than applicable in this case.

"Will Work for Change," a minimalist sketch comedy performance with a smidgen of improvisation, made me laugh more than a few times. Most of the sketches were well-written and well-performed. The troupe criticized Portland cyclists, made light of medical marijuana, skirted subtly ironic turns of phrase, and twisted the 700 billion dollar Wall Street bailout into a PTA sketch. Some sketches fell flat, but overall, the show was solid and the performance strong. I especially appreciated the human-size cigarette brandishing its middle-fingers. Once the "Change" troupe left the stage, however, the show fell apart.

The concept seems intriguing, but clearly reveals a number of pitfalls only the strongest performers could avoid and overcome. "Sam Adams, Sam Adams, Mayor Ex Machina" is an entirely improvised musical. Yeah, improvised musical. Combine the challenges of acting, improv, and lyric writing, fold in the fickle, comedic tastes of a mixed audience and BRACE YOURSELF FOR DISASTER. What the hell are you thinking? Short sketch improv is hard enough; making jokes in character without always referring to your screw-ups or retreating to some static character that more-often-than-not draws a chuckle from the audience is hard. I tried improv in high school acting class and sucked; I wasn't funny. I wasn't even interesting. Why make it even harder by incorporating song while trying to develop a story line for a play? Are you starting to see the pitfalls I mentioned earlier?

At the start of the play, an actor asked, "What's the motivating factor in your life?" Some jackass with too much time on his retired hands shouted out, "Anger." Meditate or something, man. Let it go. I'm sure everyone's forgotten about that baseball game you blew back in second grade and your dad really did love you. You're not the reason he drank. I have the number of a good therapist to work through all of this. From here on out, we both feared the worst; this was going to be ugly. Anger shouldn't drive anything but a Tarantino film.

It just so happens, the displaced mayor of Portland finds secret passages throughout the city and tries to exact his revenge by planting explosive charges in his personal, underground sidewalk and sink the town into the open mouth of Hell. Why not? We've had politicians with similar plans. The plot, further thickened by an age reducing facial cream and subsequent addiction to said cream, stumbled around for an hour with poorly constructed songs about pee in a cup, going down, down, down, and selling out to L'Oreal. Someone's face melted off; I thought it was the mayor, but it was one guy playing two roles. Sounds great! This bleeding and flailing raccoon of a play was finally smacked in the head with a shovel by Sam Adams and sent to God's wilderness preserve. The new mayor, Sam Adams, magically had a time machine and liked to eat bombs for breakfast. Way to wrap it up. Bravo! Huh? Even though it was free, I paid with something more precious than money. Part of me died.

I can appreciate improv actors stumbling through lines, or forgetting character names when an entire hour-long performance is made up on the fly, but when songs don't rhyme or follow any beat, that's just too much. Call off the song, shut down the Casio, and write a god-damned script. It can't be any harder than making up this crap.

I actually feel bad writing this. They tried hard; they really did and I appreciate that. I couldn't get up there and prance around, making up lyrics as I go, but neither could they. And that's my point. The entire concept of an improvised musical is absolutely ridiculous. Perhaps, it's the ridiculous to which I cannot relate. Things did not make sense in Monty Python, but John Cleese was funny and everything worked out fine. Maybe the stars weren't aligned on October 25th for the Curious Comedy Theater, or maybe I can't stand poor performances; I don't know, but I wouldn't hire this pack of Whose Line Is It, Anyway hacks for to clean Port-A-Potties.

Hollywood! Hollywood! Come and get me, Hollywood!

Not just another neighborhood, the Hollywood district promises glitz and magic fro its namesake alone. Imagine, a slice of the stars in fashionable Portland. Well, keep imagining. Other than a handful of mildly intriguing shops, with similar fare to our old Northampton, Hollywood is a lack-luster doppelganger to its internationally known overlord in California.


Behold, the grand Hollywood Theater! The roaring 20's era theater inspired the neighborhoods agnomen with its opening on July 17th, 1926 with the silent movie, "More Pay-Less Work". It stands as a still-working theater with close ties to the community, offering programs to students interested in created documentaries. The local theater focuses on low-budget films for the intelligently arrogant socially concerned set, with documentaries and political flicks speaking out against the world's crimes. The costs are low ($6.50 for adults) and the building is honestly striking. The blazing red and white HOLLYWOOD hangs into the street and is visible from several blocks, while the detailed and intricate Art-Nouveau spires draw in your visual interest.

It is gorgeous and anchors the neighborhood with a clear connection to its early 20th century roots, both celebrated and embarrassing.


The Hollywood District, touted as a shopping haven for northern neighborhoods, boasts several antique stores (like the one to the left, an antique mall, if you will). We visited three, and I would argue the 42 Station is the weirdest and has the strongest odor of old people possible outside a retirement home. The entire stock seems to be on consignment, with an awe-strikingly-large collection of periodicals in the basement and some of the strangest crap you can't imagine. They had furniture, records, toys, lunch boxes, and way more garbage than is worth remembering. However, one, note-worthy item was a cookie-jar, a la Tom & Jerry's housemaid, an Aunt Jemima, black-face minstrel in patchwork dress and cotton bonnet. I can't imagine I would have noticed. It seems innocent enough, an insultingly racist cookie jar from the 40's sold in a junk shop by an elderly couple and their lab Harley, but the history of Portland hints at a less-than-open minded past, one at odds with the city's progressive reputation.

As late as the 1950's, a restaurant touted the city's ignorant and latent racism, The Coon Chicken Inn. Popular for twenty years, the Inn offered reportedly good meals, cheap, and drew in most of the city. It's hard to stand here, now, fifty-odd years later and condemn a city for what was socially acceptable. It's not even like I actually care; I'm not the type. I'm just a little surprised, is all.

Hopefully each weekend, Amber and I will explore another section or neighborhood of Portland. We have our eyes set on the Alberta Arts District for next weekend.

Runnin' from the Law

It came from the stalks, lumbering forward, driven by the unseen forces of converging ley lines.

Maybe it wasn't so dramatic. It's really me, walking through a corn maize while Amber takes an out of focus picture. But it was getting dark. Friday night, on Suavie Island, just north of the city, we spent some time bungling around the Pumpkin Patch. This year, the maze's theme was Portland, City of Bridges and stretched into the stalks. The greatest difference we found between this corn toy and the ones in New England was the amount of corn still attached to the towering stems. We could have picked and pickled enough to last a winter.
The maze was fun and we challenged ourselves to go forward and backward through it with and without the trivial directions. We were only lost once or twice and quickly recovered. GPS be damned.The following Saturday, we discovered the Smithsonian magazine was offering a free museum day for select museums. Through some financial revue, we chose to visit the Oregon Historical Society, which cost slightly more than the other available museum. We need to be frugal in these trying, economical times. What? Don't judge us.

The museum featured several exhibits, all focusing on something to do with Oregon. Most memorable of all the exhibits, Puppetry: An Out of Body Experience. The art and puppets were created by Michael Curry (I guess he's from Oregon?) and he has worked on Broadway. The Lion King commissioned Curry to create its award-winning actor-pets, or actor-puppets, or pup-tors.
He also worked on some more ethnic puppetry, as you can see below. He made giant Day of the Dead puppets, and those wires just in front of the figures made them move and dance. I couldn't figure out how to make them jitter-bug, but we sure made them shake it. The entire museum was worth the free coupon and we had an enjoyable time, until I set off the alarm.
We were in the pioneer section, having viewed the Portland hats and geological review, heading toward the Lewis and Clark exhibit. The museum had recreated the tent of a botanist traveling with Meriwether and Willy with fine detail. Drawings and notes littered the wooden table, a foot-locker lay in the corner, a fine lantern lit the canvas from above, and I innocently poked my head in for an inquisitive look. Perhaps I was too close, or too curious, but the overhead alarm sounded with three less than cordial blasts and shocked me backwards. Probably what it meant to do. It was a brief brush with the law, but I'm a changed man, skirting the fringes of acceptable society, staring down the man, loitering. You know the kind, Jimmy Dean like.

No one ever showed up after the alarm sounded; I think I saw a museum employee pacing the floor nearly fifteen minutes later, but nothing ever came of it. It's nothing like the art heist from the Isabella Gardner Museum, but by the time I tell my grandkids, it will be.

What a weekend!

We went to the funniest show on Friday, aptly named Get Mortified (www.getmortified.com). It was so funny/embarrassing/ridiculous. A group of 6 Portlanders (only one was native to the area) shared glimpses of their past through their own memoirs. Yes, they read from their teenage journals and travel logues. They recounted their experiences of love, turmoil, teenage angst, mischief, and their beginning of a religious breakout. Yes. It was embarrassing. I was amazed that people still kept journals at that age. I never really gotten into the journal thing, but could only imagine how awkward and ridiculous reading it 10 years later would be.

I did write a travel logue once on a train trip to Florida. The only thing I can recall from it, since I dont know where it is, was that someone got sick and vomited in the train station. By the time the crew came to mop it up, it was gone, but in a wicked gross way. It was disgusting to see people walk in it and not realize what they had done.

Besides that, we lounged on Saturday. I felt sick and have shown symptoms of something (an allergic reaction?). I have 9 ichy dots on my right side that look hivish, but I am not sure..

Yesterday, we went to the market, the Museum of Contemporary Craft, the toy store and watched about 150 people doing yoga at a park in the middle of the city. AND I ate Thai. YUM.

Remember, always check your shoes,
Amber

One Month In

OK, not exactly one month, but four weeks in close enough. I’d like to start by reviewing some of our favorite activities here in Portland. Since we’ve arrived, we’ve seen much of the city and seem to appreciate it more with each new destination or site. The odd, individual attractions, like the world’s smallest park or the Shanghai Tunnels, endear our new home more deeply but cannot replace our ties to New England and the friends and family we’ve left behind.

As you know, we’ve stopped by and spent some time in many of the outdoor attractions in and around Portland. Our favorite so far must be the Japanese Garden, which beautifully juxtaposes engineered excellence with raw, natural beauty. The gardens provide an impressive meditation space with striking views of the city, a peaceful respite from the busy streets. We’ve sampled some of the local cuisine (pizza and beer) and are less impressed by the pie than the beer. American Dream Pizza came well recommended from the Internet, an entity with which I have lost some trust, and is located just up the street. The sauce was bland, with a slightly bitter after-taste and the dough tasted as if it had been frozen. It was OK, but not worthy of the five or so stars it had received. I’ve also eaten at Old Town Pizza, which was slightly better. The sauce had a more developed, spice rich flavor, but the crust still tasted frozen. It’s time to invest in some dough-training and make it fresh. A freezer has never been a friend to pizza. The beer, on the other hand, has been surprisingly rewarding. Portland is well known for its beer creation and consumption, a well-deserved reputation. Amber limits her flavors to the palest of all ales, while my flavor preference varies to include lager, bitter, cream ale, everything from Corona to Guinness. One standout exists amongst the crowd: Slingshot Extra Pale Ale. It has a light flavor without the bitter after-taste and a slight hint of fruity balance. I really enjoy the research that has gone into Portland cuisine, drinking beer on the patio.

We have also spent some time away from the city. We drove to the coast, which is detailed in a previous post, and enjoyed the inspiring power of a relentless surf driving into the jagged, volcanic rock of an overly active geo-thermal past. The trip was phenomenal and I could describe all over again, but won’t. You lead busy lives and I couldn’t live with myself for stealing away precious moments. Just read the earlier post two or three times in a row which will have the same effect.

Moving away from the review of what you’ve already read, we’ve also kept busy since the beach. I’ve had two job interviews, one with an insurance company and one for an SAT Prep company and am waiting to hear about their decisions. We visited the Hoyt Arboretum, a large forest with a variety of trees from around the world just west of the city, and were amazed at the towering sequoia and timeless ginkgo. If any lovers of the outdoors come to visit, we have a list of several sites worthy of any tree-hugger and Hoyt is near the top. We hiked around the arboretum, following trails named for the dominant trees: Fur, Maple, you get it, and spent a few hours checking out the natural beauty of dedicated tree space. The trees towered above and shaded away the driving sun.

We also toured the Portland Underground, known as the Shanghai Tunnels. History whispers that less than respectable saloons would over serve able-bodied patrons and send them unconscious through a dead fall in the floor. Once subterranean, these forsaken sailors were imprisoned and later sent onto trading ships and forced into labor on the open seas. A terrible fate, to be sure, but with the ever-growing city seeking cosmopolitan status, developers must sacrifice these historical sites for earthquake prevention. The only reason I know any of this is, our tour guides repeatedly reminded us “what earthquake proofing does to history,” and the message was not lost on me. No, sir. I understand that we should forsake the future for the past; that in a geographically turbulent reason, we should ignore the demands of plate-shifting safety and not prepare for the inevitable quake. Come on. Be reasonable, tour guide. If we are to respect the past, we must make it to the future and maintaining the underground, while important, cannot compromise our safety or the progress of a developing people. Sure, there’s a compromise somewhere in there, but the internet is only so big and I don’t have time. Preserve or destroy? This question has troubled the minds of millions, and at some point, we need to get out of the way.

Just this past weekend we got out of our own way and toured the Mt. Hood Fruit Loop; that’s what they call it, and I’m impressed. I wouldn’t have the brazen ignorance to call something a fruit loop, unless I was trying to make the entire project fail. Fruit loop? You don’t call something what it is, if what its name is means something different and amazingly insulting. Enough. The loop is a thirty five mile drive near Mt. Hood lined with orchards, wineries, and county stores. It’s a drive much like the Mohawk trail, with more fruit. Some of the farms were charming, while some of the wineries were stuck-up, elitist assholes. We felt singled out as less than worthy for a sampling. Even though wine sucks, a company shouldn’t presume I think that before I clearly say it. Boycott Cathedral Vineyards! Don’t buy their small-market batches. Stay away from their Chardonnay! Hey, that’s a pretty good battle cry. 3-5-7-9; I will not drink their wine! I’m pretty good at this. But enough outrage, the drive was nice and the views of both Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens were worth the hour drive. But wine still sucks.

Now down to the weather. It has been hot as hell, here. It hasn’t rained all month, so everyone that told us to get used to the rain can eat it. It’s hot. It’s been over ninety degrees for the past few days and dry. I’ve had more boogers from the dry air here than I ever had in New England. This is not the ideal sixty-seven degree weather I had been promised. If I could sue a city for breach of contract, I would sue Portland. Lobo v. Portland, a case to set an earth-rocking precedent for disenfranchised citizens everywhere: I’ll be famous, immortal in the annals of the Library of Congress. Lofty dreams, to be sure.

As you can see, we’re keeping busy as I search for employment and Amber waits for her placement to begin, two weeks to go. We’ve seen the city, eaten the donuts, drank the beer, and sampled the coffee. There are still countless experiences to experience and I’ll keep writing if you keep pretending to read. Below are several pictures of our time in Portland, so far.No wine samples for me

Cookies and pies on the Fruit Loop

In awe at the Arboretum

Gaze ever upward at the towering timbers

On the Hunt

I'm looking for a job in Portland. I've applied to several different employment opportunities and I'm making phone calls and filling out more applications, and I hate it. Each application takes thirty minutes (at minimum) and each phone call ends the same: "Call back in about a week and we should have a better idea of who we'll bring in for an interview." No resolution. It's painstaking and tedious, but that's not all we've been doing in Portland.

We've taken a few breaks to enjoy our new city and see what's around. Below are some of the attractions we've seen, like the Japanese gardens and the Laurelhurst theater, but since then, we've also visited Mt. Tabor Park (just yesterday, in fact), the Chinese garden, and Mill Ends park (the world's smallest park).

Mt. Tabor is a city park encompassing the remains of a dormant volcano and sits just down 60th. It offers some beautiful views of the city as its nestles into the lush deciduous growth of the Pacific Northwest. Walking around the park is not recommended through experience. We spent an hour climbing up and down the deceptively steep terrain and I think I rubbed a few new holes in my jeans. I was out of breath and sweating as we finally assailed the summit to find a tarnished and pigeonshit encrusted statue of Harvey Scott, editor of the Oregonian from the mid-19th century and these impressive views of downtown.The Chinese Gardens were unexpected; we did not think such a peaceful garden could or should be found in the middle of downtown's Chinatown. While it was very nicely groomed, with large leafed plants shooting up from immaculately pebbled walkways, neither amber nor I were as impressed with this garden as with the Japanese garden (described in a previous post). The Rising Sun soars over the Middle Kingdom when it comes to Portland gardens. It was just noisy; being in the middle of downtown, that makes sense, but I prefer a quieter space. Everything was formulaic, and I understand it's a formal garden and this is merely a personal preference. The Japanese garden was simply more natural in both its setting and display. But we took some nice pictures.And finally, one of Portland's most confusing (difficult to find) landmarks: Mill Ends Park. Sanctioned in 1976, the park has a much greater lineage than most. Richard Fagan, a writer for the Oregon Journal, grew tired of a vacant utility pole spoiling his view as he sat working in a nearby office building. He was inspired, by the great muse or psychosis it is not known, to beautify what would become a traffic island. Fagan immortalized the park in his Mill Ends columns, describing the fantastical events occurring in the park. He wrote of leprechauns and fairies and inspired the imagination of Portland. The city holds St. Patrick's Day events near the park to honor its creator, and his magic (crazy) park. It's wee; don't blink.If you're interested, I've created a link to our public Picasa album of Portland. To the right, look for "Picture Portland" and click on "Through our lens" to find out what we've seen. I'll update it regularly with new images from around the city. The link is below "About Us" and above the Slideshow.

How much is this?

We went yardsaling today. Well, it wasn't really a yard sale, there was no yard, more like an apartment sale. One of our neighbors is moving back to wherever she was before she was, well, here. Kansas or somewhere. Like us, she decided to sell most of what she owned to make the move easier. Unlike us, she ordered an ABF moving crates to help, not packing her car with as much crap as possible and driving thousands of miles. We got a bureau, of sorts, a laptop station, on which I am now typing, some decorative flower pots and some plants. Her stuff has made or apartment feel homey. Cheap and helpful. We spent less on all this stuff than on any one thing we've bought so far.

Tonight, for kicks, we went to the Laurelhurst Theater and saw a documentary on Hunter S. Thompson and Gonzo. I really wanted to see it and Amber acquiesed; she enjoyed it, or so she says. The theater reminded us of the Pleasant Street Theater back in Northampton, small, vintage, kind of indie, and full of nerds. It's been good to get out and explore the city to see what it offers.

Stop and Smell the Roses

After a few hours of job hunting and studying for a gruesome Phys-Dis placement, Amber and I picked up the tourist map of Portland and chose to visit the Portland Japanese Garden in the Southwest section of the city. We had visited the Seattle Japanese Garden and I was a bit apprehension; the garden in Seattle was well cared for and very attractive, but I was bored most of the time, except when I spotted a turtle or unusually large koi. However, we decided to give Portland’s garden a shot. It was only 6 bucks with a student ID, and if you missed it above, I’m still looking for a job.



We hit the highway at two, even though the gardens are about eight miles away and found our way without issue. The day started out sunny, but like many here, there would be a shower in our future. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The garden was zen-tastic and chi-mazing. The association of caretakers, Samurai gardeners as I call them, has created a relaxing balance between the natural conditions of a hilltop in Portland and the often stringent requirements of a formal Japanese garden. Paths wind through outcroppings of rock and Japanese maples cower in the shadows of ancient, indigenous deciduous trees; the Northwest mist hangs in the green and tint the air with a scent of purity.

Poetic, huh?

But the gardens were gorgeous. And, oh yeah, they also had gargantuan koi fish, but no turtles. I would suggest a colony of turtles if I were on the garden board, and I would have business cards read, “Matt Lobo: Head Pinecone”. Maybe I’d use my whole first name.



As we set off, neither one of us wanted to go back home and kept walking. Unknowingly, we stumbled upon the International Test Rose Garden. Thinking about it now, it makes sense they were near each other, but at the time, we were both very surprised. I’m not going to surprise everyone and admit to some secret affinity with roses like Hightower in Police Academy, when he turned out to be a florist. But, again, I was surprised at how nice the roses were, considering they have only one full-time gardener. We saw prize roses going all the way back to 1919 in all different shades and shapes. They call Portland the City of Roses, and since we’ve returned from the rose garden, I’ve noticed several more yards with large rose bushes that I ignored before. Do roses like rainy, cool weather? Maybe they just like the coffee around here.





We also visited the Pittock Mansion, a big house on a hill that was owned by people I don’t know that are now long since dead. The reasons I mention the mansion in a brief and distracted manner are two-fold. First, upon arrival in the parking lot, we were surrounded by panting, sweaty teenagers that, I assume, had run up the steep hill atop which the mansion sits. If you visit a mansion, like the Breakers, you don’t expect to see half-naked teens running through the parking lot, unless Boy George has rented the place. And second, the view from the property opened just north of the city and sent us reeling. Portland sprawled out before the mothball mansion and the light showers painted a rainbow across the business district. It was worth the five minute drive up.

A Long Walk

We've spent some time here in Portland and the city is growing on Amber with every step. We bought a bed and some other living room furniture, so the place is a little more comfortable. Most importantly, however, we bought a television. Sure, we can sleep comfortably at night on a real mattress fill with springs and padding rather than one filled with air, but we have a TV! Best Buy and Comcast have made my day.

Oh, and we've begun exploring the city. We stopped downtown for the Saturday/Sunday Market and visited the acclaimed Voodoo Doughnuts. I ordered the Voodoo Doll (shown below) while Amber played it safe and had a doughnut coated in mini M&Ms. Both tasted extremely delectable but were insanely sugary. I think eating that little doll made me diabetic; maybe Voodoo and OneTouch should sign some sort of partnership and expand nationwide.

Anyway, we spent nearly five hours walking downtown, through the Pearl District, an area of the city full of expensive condos and high-priced, specialty boutiques, this morning. The other day, filling some of our free time and venturing beyond the immediate neighborhood, we navigated the shelves of Powell's Book City on Burnside, the largest bookstore in Portland and, perhaps, the WORLD. A great bookstore in the heart of the city that stacks countless titles at very reasonable prices. Sounds like an ad, I know, but the book city deserves some e-ttention.

There's a lot more to explore about the city and we are both itching to get out on the few sunny days we'll see in the next few months.