Something's Missing

I am rested after all the walking in the morning. My legs and feet have ceased their complaints finally. It's time to get out again. My husband rejoins me after being gone on business all day, declares his stomach empty, a need to fill it. I tell him about my walkabout, confident that I can suggest dinner at any number of places nearby. Paley's Place is so close that I can hear the kitchen clattering, and Marrakesh (Moroccan food) is about to float up into the night air on its own cloud of cumin, cardamom and lamb braising with onions.

No, they will not do tonight, he says. We ramble up Northrup to NW 23rd St and turn left toward the cafes I'd seen earlier. There are young people sitting, strolling, texting and chatting everywhere we look. Cars make their way hesitantly up the street, progress interrupted by jaywalkers and couples on the move. Pizza, burgers, pubs, more pizza (including Escape From New York, which would be my choice if you were to ask me, based on the way pizzas were getting slung about by young men with interesting haircuts) and finally Santa Fe Tacqueria. Bingo!

Santa Fe has a barn-like interior with spray-painted murals of heroic Aztecs frowning down on us from all the walls. The food crew are quick as cats. These are cheap eats, in distinct contrast to high-end Higgins the night before. It seems we shall average out our expenses to about mid-range after all. The place, empty when we arrive, quickly fills, the energy rising in the room along with the decibel level. It's a place that could just as easily push back the few middle tables, put on some salsa music and attract a partying crowd. I inhale a ceviche tostada and his carne asada burrito evaporates in mere minutes. We are happy.

Out into the night, we walk along and window shop, talk about the day, compare this place to Berkeley, Santa Cruz, and other college towns. It has all the usual high notes: pizza, coffee joints, pubs, New Age bookstores, high end corporate stores and foodie havens.

We surprise ourselves and begin to plan our breakfast destination. With full stomachs. At the end of the day. Right?

I continue to feel that I have not really discovered anything yet, except that I am interested in finding the heart and soul of Portland. It isn't here. There is a cushion of safety and connectedness here in the Northwest End that is pleasant for a vacation. I feel complacent here in this part of town, pretty as it is. I have found no local art yet and no evidence of anything distinctly different than other college towns with affluent students. Not complaining, mind you, but I am aware I am still hunting for something from the blood, sweat and tears of the place. Is it a reflection of my own inner search? Travel almost always is a parallel journey, the outer reflecting the inner one.

On Foot in NW Portland

I am on foot today in NW Portland, and it's time to get out there and see it. Being alone in a city for the first time in a year or two makes me feel, oh, like my compass is spinning a bit. Time to case the neighborhood, orient myself and see what's going on.

Up Northrup Street two blocks from my hotel (Inn at Northrup Station), I walk east to find the boundaries of the neighborhood and then north again, uphill. The eastern boundary is easy to find as prosperity dwindles down to a sparse and barren area that abuts a freeway. Going north there are clots of cafes and neighborhood businesses. Homes that I guess date to about 1910 predominate. Virtually all are well kept and attractive, indicating some kind of money in regular doses being applied to maintenance and upkeep. Young women with the fixed gaze of connected effort trot by. Parents with strollers are on the move, shoving the complicated baby movers ahead of themselves. Their chins jut a bit; they look inspired, righteous. It's Saturday midmorning, and the day is in full swing.

I walk up a gradual incline along what seems like miles of straight lanes lined with beautiful elm, poplar and maple trees. The neighborhood is well established, a little lumpy in the sidewalks and pleasing. After taking a zig-zag route I turn left and soon find a large pretty park where children are yelling happily as they rush away from their parents. Dogs are corralled in a large dog park under more leafy elms and a group of young men are playing flag football. It's a modern tableau representing young urbanism, filled with health, vigor and self-aware coolness. America is doing well here it appears. I turn left again and go back downhill, past more handsome Victorian homes and Arts and Crafts bungalows. It's very appealing, this successful and vigorous lifestyle playing out all around me. Youth is on the move, on its way to a safe middle age someday.

On 23rd Avenue, the business community is shaking out its doormats and flipping signs around, from "closed" to "open." I see a tall hill behind them that locals call Nob Hill, a prominent ridge that affords a grand overlook for miles around. That's where the enormous mansions reside, easily dwarfing even the most substantial residences I've been walking among all morning. Down along this avenue, cafes and pubs stand shoulder to hip. I try to imagine their crowds later in the evening. I am in a walking mood and keep moving. From the look of it, all citizens have set forth in jog bras and Nike shoes.

Ahead of me, one man is talking loudly, frowning, glaring at trees and fences, paranoid about the coming wrath of God and shaking his fist at impassive storefronts. They are silent. He finds no fight, shuffles through shadows along the sidewalk, anomalous amid the chic.

The sun is coming out, and I am working up my usual sweat, wishing I had brought something to mop my face. I am not a delicate rose that simply glows. My hair is damp and my face has rivulets. I've only been walking at a moderate pace. Imagine if I'd been running.

Taking this new distress as a sign to slow down, I am delighted to find a chocolate cafe. Having mostly sworn off of sugar and flour, I hesitate for a nanosecond and then yield to the seduction of Moonstruck Chocolate. Far better than coffee, I am convinced, is a small delicious Mayan Dark Hot Chocolate. I'm not sure how, but I manage not to buy any of their beautiful truffles. I might go back. It's likely.

I am refreshed, but if I sit any longer, I'll stiffen up and be unable to move. The rest of the walk is meandering, in and out of shops, up and down side streets until my legs and feet finally protest so loudly I cannot ignore them. I want to watch people and see how Portland - at least Northwest Portland - takes on life. The challenges they experience are not evident today. It is all a serene and harmonious morning. I will have to look further to find another layer of Portland life I suppose. A city this size must have more to offer than this perfection.