Looking back at Portland

I am not in Portland, have not been in Portland since Monday. This is Thursday.

The sky here in Monterey has retreated behind its coastal gray blanket of clouds. If I were to stand up on my rooftop, the peak of the rooftop, and look way over east, I might see a lighter version of gray than I see directly outside my window. If I were a bird, I'd head there now to find warmth and bright daylight that changes by the hour as the sun, which would be visibly  bright in the sky, arced across the span of blue from east to west.

No, I am not in Portland, but I have brought home my experiences and impressions, my mind stamped like a paper in a letterpress, a first and lasting collection of images.

Monday took us to the Columbia River Gorge. We only had a few hours to drive around, head off the Interstate to find views of the river, the bluffs, the mountains, and the smoke-haze-veiled trees. A fire was burning somewhere in the distance. It made all the long views of the river appear to be paintings done by traveling artists in the Lewis and Clark expedition. Short of actual leaping salmon in the wide and very grand river, the beauty and riches of the river gorge were splendid.

Of course we went to Multnomah Falls and had a little hike up to see the pretty scenery, doodled around in the gift store, bought a fridge magnet and wondered if we could just go AWOL from both our jobs.

Nope. We had to leave.

I'll go back. I talked to a young woman at breakfast at Besaws Cafe (Do not hesitate; go there. Diners cling to their table, chain themselves to the chair until they have savored every last morsel.) who said she'd grown up in the area, left for a number of years and always found herself coming back again. She gave up and moved back and feels content, satisfied and energized by the city. I understand, not because I am looking up at the fog here, hearing the seagulls' hoarse shrieks and empathetically feeling a kinship with Pacific Grove (I'm not), but because Portland is a fine place, and its people respond to it with a deep resonant love that plays out in a thousand interesting ways. It kind of gets to you. Right in the heart.

A Different Portland

Food trucks and breweries are breeding like rabbits in Portland. It becomes much more evident the farther away you go from Nob Hill. There are a few food trucks back in The Groove, where I live, but it's nothing compared to P-town (I'm picking up the names for this city, like pennies off the pavement.)

We are driving now, searching for The Big Egg, a food truck with some notoriety in that devotees write long drooling sentences about the delectable Steak and Egg Sandwich they serve. I just want to see a newer version of Portland, still seek the organic upheaval of creativity that lies behind so many things done so well about town. It's Sunday and brunch must be considered with all due respect.

Mississippi Avenue is straight ahead now, and I'm thinking, here we go, this may be ground zero for creativity, where neutron bombs of inspiration go off. There on the left is a converted parking lot with a shade tent down the middle and the periphery lined with little trailers. The near trailer is bright yolk yellow, the Big Egg we seek. People are milling around, but they look patient and a little sleepy. More interesting hair styles are worn by the young men who also have very thin legs and tall narrow bodies. A young woman walks by wearing Converse high tops and bright orange leg warmers. We're here.

"The wait will be about 55 minutes!" calls a young woman scribbling orders furiously at the counter window of the trailer. We order a PDX and a Steak and Egg Sandwich. I have no idea what I'm in for, but with this many people crowded around willing to wait, I'm good for the hour as long as I have some Stumptown Coffee (Portland's morning nectar).

We set about casing the Avenue and find a row of businesses in a brick-front building. I like the looks of it. A crow sitting on a crowbar, black on gray, is understated and funny. Across the street is a lighting store with what looks like the history of lightbulbs displayed on filament lines in its front windows. A concert venue is closed but looks well kept and on the rise. Gravy, a local cafe, has attracted another patient crowd of mostly twenty-somethings who chat in quiet voices out on the front sidewalk. The inside is jammed. Business is very good.

Back at the food court, we count about 10 trailers, most of which are closed. The Big Egg and a trailer selling biscuits and gravy, grits and bacon sandwiches are taking constant orders and working like the devil to get their orders out. After more than an hour, ours is ready.

Damn! Somehow, they have created a juicy but not soggy grilled sandwich with gourmet flavors including a delicate mustard that counterbalances the melted cheese and ham. It's not massive, but it is a piping hot sandwich with calories leaping off of it straight onto my waistline. I am transported. We thank them as we leave. They grin and glow with pride - a common and very appealing trait among Portlanders.

Mississippi Avenue is emerging - or a cynic could say it may be in a state of arrested decay - from a corner of North Portland where it sits in isolation, like a kid sent to sit in the corner as punishment, separated from the downtown rush and roar by the river, rail yards, industrial steel and graveled lots. It feels resurgent to me. Crummy low-rent old homes with sagging porches on one block have as neighbors some real beauties - Arts and Crafts bungalows, Victorian family homes where care as been given to the yards and structures. It could go either way, but my sense of it is, it's going pretty well.