Adventures in Portlandia

I suppose it’s indicative of how hellish my recent trip to Portland was (and not the actual trip itself, but the getting to part of it) insofar as this: when I finally arrived in Portland late that Monday night, in the pouring rain (of course) and went out to the hotel parking lot to find the car Kim’s friend was kindly loaning to me, the words that came out of my mouth when I saw it were:

“Oh there you are, my little friend the Escalade.”

Yes, it’s true.

Then I giggled, that I had said such a thing, outright laughed as I keelhauled myself into the damn thing (note to self: next time bring rappelling hooks), and went on my merry way. The fun was only just beginning. To wit:

Escalade rage?

So there I was trying to follow Kim….somewhere. I forget where. Oh, I think we were dropping off her car downtown to get fixed. Point being, I was tailing her closely, or at least trying to. Until she scooted over into the right lane, and like a good driver, I put on my turn signal to get behind her, but….what ho? The car that was some distance behind her is speeding up! Must be an oversight, right?

Umm, wrong. Because as I again try to get into the right lane, he scoots even closer to Kim’s bumper, so there’s no way I can get behind her. Okay, fine, asshole. I get behind him, and figure I’ll just keep an eye on where Kim’s going.

Which would work, if this douchebag asshole didn’t suddenly creep to practically a stop with no turn signal on, before sloooowly making a right turn into the next parking lot. Asshole! I turn to look at him incredulously as I’m driving past, and this hippie-looking older bearded guy is giving me the finger! What the hell! I thought people from Portland were so nice and laidback! I am incensed, and in true Chicago fashion, am tempted to follow him and beat the ever-loving crap out of him, as we’d do in Chicago. Alas, I need to catch up with Kim – who, in very Kim-like fashion, later tells me that she didn’t notice any of this going on behind her. Sigh. 

This episode makes me deeply embittered, and it would totally derail my interest in moving to Portland, except for this:

Magic Crosswalks

So Kim and I decide to stop for breakfast at Vita Café, one of the 6 billion vegan places in Portland, and after we park our cars, we have to cross the street. Now, Kim’s explained to me this whole bizarre crosswalk concept that supposedly exists in Portland, where people actually stop willy-nilly for pedestrians, but even though I’ve seen it in action, I’m still skeptical. But there’s a crosswalk, and our restaurant is across the street. I close my eyes and stretch one leg out in front of me into the street……

“Umm, Tasha, what are you doing?”

The strains of “…and we’ll all float on okay” dissipate from my head and I open my eyes. There’s a car waiting patiently, while Kim is looking at me a bit strangely. Oh. My. God. Cars actually DO stop here for pedestrians, they DO they do! I look down. My leg is still attached to the rest of my body, not having been sheared off by a crazed driver! Hallellujah, it’s a miracle!

The entire rest of my time in Portland, this same magic continues to happen. There’s a street and a crosswalk, and the second I step into said street, the cars immediately and non-bitterly come to a stop. I find myself walking across streets just for the heck of it. Whee, another street to cross! For some reason Kim finds all this a bit strange, but I say, anyone else from Chicago would do the exact same thing.

(Portlandia to be continued….)

The weirdness that is Portland

When friends come to visit me in Chicago, it never fails that I have to literally hold them back from being mowed down by cars, as they blithely and foolishly step into crosswalks, as if pedestrians somehow have the right of way there.

(pause for incredulous silence)

Not in Chicago, that is. Where even the cops blow through the crosswalks. Gee, great example you’re all setting. But I digress. But basically, we're a bunch of pissed off, angry drivers, and given the crappy roads, the highest parking meter prices and garage rates, and the stupidly high parking fines for the smallest infraction, who can blame us?

So you can imagine my trepidation at the thought of driving in Portland, me, who had cut my teeth on the mean streets of Chicago, where if you actually want to get anywhere you need to just barrel your way on through. Portland, where I had noticed the last couple of times I visited Kim, that people don’t just stop at crosswalks, they stop all the time for pedestrians. And they let other cars through. And they don’t dash across streets as said pedestrians when there are clearly no cars coming.

Clearly, this was going to be ugly.

(I will note, however, that in my driving adventures I did learn that it is just Kim who stops 20 feet from any crosswalk if it looks like there might be someone there who could possibly perhaps someday think about the idea of maybe theoretically wanting to cross the street. Yep, that’s all Kim. Bless her heart.)


But not only did I not start plowing over people willy-nilly once my Escalade and I were making our way through the streets of Portland, something strange happened. I lollygagged. Meandered. Went the speed limit. Who me, hurry?

I know, I could hardly believe it either.

I also found myself stopping eagerly at 4-way stop signs, hoping against hope that there would be another car there. Okay, I admit this was because I wanted to take advantage of that Portland niceness and be waved ahead, as opposed to what usually happens at 4-way stop signs in Chicago: I get there first, the assclown on the cross street decides to go first when it’s NOT his turn (or just drives on through, which happens all too often), and I wind up cursing, using the salty language I never resort to, making rude gestures, the works. I’ve come to expect this. So I was truly looking forward to this:



Alas, even though Kim did tell me that her sister Pam actually did stop when she did not have a stop sign, I never got to experience this wonder. Sigh.

However, that disappointment went crashing by the wayside, when another miracle occurred before my very eyes. It’s true. There I was, driving back to Kim’s after getting my daily coffee at Papaccino’s, when I stopped at a red light. And coming from the other direction were 2 cyclists on road bikes, all kitted up, taking advantage of the beautiful bike lanes that are all over Portland.

(a moment while I seethe with jealousy)

As I idly look at them, I noticed that one of them had clipped out and stopped, while the other was doing a track stand.

“Oh,” I thought, “the 2nd cyclist will blow through the light and then his friend will catch up with him. Friend must have had a mechanical, to actually clip out like that.”

Then, shocker of shockers, the 2nd cyclist clipped out. Nay! How could this be!

By now, I was staring in fascination. What could be wrong? Were they ill? Simultaneous flat tires? There didn’t seem to be anything wrong. As I continued to gape in wonder, I waited for them to go through the light, as there were no cars coming from the cross street. Nada. They had ample time to cross this not-busy-street and be on their merry way, chugging their Infinit, worrying their seats were too high, blaming the headwind for slow speeds. Like all cyclists do.

The light stayed red. They didn’t move. They actually laughed and chatted with each other.

I know, you’re thinking as I did: what fresh hell is this?

Finally the light turned green and they clipped in and rode on, and I stared at them as they went by, wishing I had my camera so that I could have capture this moment on film, this rarity that brings to mind the Yeti and other marvels heard of but never seen before.

To this day, I still don’t know what to make of it….

My own private Portlandia

The reason why I suddenly found myself in Portland visiting Kim is a story for another day. So for now just let me segue into the fact that I hate Escalades. Hate. Them. In fact, because my yuppie wildlife-hating neighbors who moved in 10 years ago, have not just one but TWO Escalades (a maroon one, and the white extended cab version), the Escalade has become a stand-in for me as a symbol of excess. Of wildlife-hating gut rehab yuppie excess.

So you’ll all understand why, as I was making my way last week to the car I was borrowing from Kim’s boss, I burst out laughing.

Yep, an Escalade.

Maroon.

Big huge honking thing that I needed a rappel hook to climb into, it’s that huge.

In Portland, of all places.

But the fun was just beginning, as the Escalade and I have been stumbling our way across this lovely burg for the last week. To wit:

The No Bag Adventure

There I was, heading to the Scuzzy Fred Meyer grocery store to pick up the staples: kale, chocolate, and booze. As I was walking to the entrance, I stopped, horrified.

I had forgotten…..my bag.



Yes, the ubiquitous canvas shopping bag that is de rigeur in Portland. EVERYONE has a bag. Everyone. Even the woman who was outside the Scuzzy Fred Meyer as I was walking in, who was chugging some nefarious substance out of a 2-liter bottle nestled in a plastic bag, even SHE had her canvas shopping bags. Fuck. What to do, what to do. Could I haul everything off in my arms, bypassing a bag altogether? No, then there’d be a chance I’d drop a precious bottle of alcohol.


I could feel people looking at me askance. All the people with their bags. Even the homeless-looking people shopping at the SFM had bags. I had suddenly become a pariah in Portland, the worst kind of person, a bagless person driving an Escalade. Hell, why didn’t I go club some baby seals on the way home while I was at it? Argh!

In the end, The Cancer came through for me yet again. Because I was wearing my Fuck Cancer hat when I got to the checkout, and looked sufficiently surly yet winsome, so whatever look of “don’t mess with me and aren’t I pathetic take pity on me” that I managed to plaster on my face, it worked. I didn’t even get carded. Got my paper grocery bags without being stoned.

This time.

Next up: A miracle happens in Portland

The Portland Pattypan Gods speak?

So once in a great while I like to head out of Chicago and share my greatness among the little people far and wide. After all, the gifts such as those I possess shouldn’t be contained within such a small area, n’est-ce pas? (that’s French for “Tasha, are you on crack again?”)

Thus, over Labor Day weekend, I decided to head out to grace the city of Portland, Oregon with my presence – to visit beloved CancerChick friend Kim, who lives there, and meet up with equally beloved CC Melinda, who was flying in from Ohio. In a fortuitous turn of events, I managed to get the very last ticket to Portland on United using my miles. Hmm, interesting. I mean really – they try to scare you on the website with the “there is ONE ticket remaining, buy now or you’re screwed!” thing – but in this case, it was true.

So off I went, whee! Kim came to pick up me and Melinda at the airport, and we head out to the parking garage, where I got the first indication that Portland exists in some weird time-space warp that is so unlike Chicago as to be scary. Or rather, it just confirmed how absolutely fucked up Chicago is.

Because we get to the garage-ticket-paying thing, and I pull out my wallet, ready to be the polite guest and pay for the stuff that our wonderful host wouldn’t incur if we hadn’t foisted ourselves on her. I figured it would be what, $26, maybe $28? You know, like in Chicago. And Kim had surely been there almost an hour.

We patiently wait for the machine to tell us the total owed.

$2. Yes, $2.

I promptly put away my wallet. “Hell, you can pay that!” I cheerfully say to Kim. I am nothing if not the most considerate of guests.

We then proceed to have one of the most amazing weekend ever, truly. I never laugh so much as when I’m with my CancerChicks. Katie joined us on Friday, and then Debbie came down from Seattle on Saturday, all of which led to us having the most amazing and brilliant conversations, replete with astonishingly wonderful ideas, like this one.

Me: Hey, we could totally do a doggy food truck here! Think about it, people would love it, especially since this is already food truck central! And we could have special things based around Kona and Lucy and Daisy.

Kim: Yeah, like….

Me, interrupting: I have it! Kurmudgeonly Kona’s Kookies! Because everyone knows me as Miss Curmudgeonly, so it would all blend seamlessly, and….what?

I noticed that Melinda is looking at me with that long-suffering “Tasha you’re insane” look on her face.

Melinda: Umm…..do you realize that Kurmudgeonly Kona’s Kookies spells out……KKK?

Thank god I have my friends to save me from myself.

But the truly remarkable thing happened when we went out to dinner on Saturday night. The Portobello restaurant we wanted to go to was booked, so we went to another cute place, Café Haydn or something like that, which had an outdoor seating area under a beautiful gazebo. After we ordered our drinks, I noticed that they had a lawn area to the side, with gardens in raised beds, so I got up to wander over there and take a look.

I’m walking along, noticing the nicely trellised lemon cucumbers, the lack of tomato plants (sigh), the…….wait, what? Is….is that what I think it is????

“Oh my god, oh my god, give me my camera QUICK, before it disappears!” I’m practically hyperventilating as I bustle back to our table, waving my arms and demanding someone hand me my camera.

Melinda: What the heck did you find? A tomato?

Me, breathlessly: No!

Kim: A…….pattypan?

Me: YES!

I grab up the camera and run back, and lo and behold, the pattypan beauty is still there, perched on the railroad tie, like a beacon from heaven in all its glory. I swear I am not making any of this up. It’s bizarre. This lone lovely pattypan, right there at this random restaurant – when there’s not even a squash plant in sight, because I look closely.

Is it a sign? Is it one of many signs I’ve been getting, like my deciding to read the latest Outside magazine (which I never do), which names Portland as one of the top places to live? Actually, THE top one, right after Chattanooga (which, really, what the hell?)?

Would it be crazy to pack up and move to Portland in part based on a sign from a squash? Does the fact that the idea of moving from my sedate comfortable ordinary life scares me shitless mean I should just go ahead and do it? I have no idea.

We left the pattypan there, as I didn’t think it would be right to relegate it to an ordinary end, like being cut up and grilled. That seemed a bit….ignominious. Better to leave it in its exalted state, right where I found it.

Of course, no discussion about Portland would be complete without mention of Miss Lucy, Kim’s most adorable and wonderful pup. I’m happy to report that Kim runs a tight ship just as I do, ever the strict disciplinarian. Then there were the daily jaunts to Papaccino’s, the best coffee shop EVER, and the trip to Breadquarters, aka home of Prisoner Bread, and last but not least, the visit to the incredible rose garden, which wowed even me, aka someone who’s generally ambivalent about roses.

Portland – Chicago – Portland – Chicago. Hmm. I need more signs. Off to the store now to get alphabet soup – I will report back. Though I kinda feel like god or fate or whatever is out there is right now saying "Oh for chrissake, now you want words written in alphabet soup??? I gave you a fucking PATTYPAN, wasn't that enough?? You people!"

Oh, and if I do move to Portland, I need insta-friends, so please, blogosphere, send some cool people my way. M’kay, thanks.