Partyhard

The big party at Reed is Renn Fayre in the middle of May. I will write about this in due course, once the flashbacks cohere into something more decorous and family-friendly. In the meantime, here are some of the pre-RF2K11 parties I crashed.

Oh, ok, nothing was as rock and roll as I'm trying to make it sound. I use the word 'party' fairly generously. One of these 'parties', for example, involves the construction of an eight-tier cake. Probably the most rock and roll thing the idiot has ever experienced, but certainly not on my scale. There has been a bit of a role reversal since I started this blog: I used to be the conservative one in the relationship, but now I reckon she assumes the scolding position more often than I do. Verily, America has changed me.

YE-YE!: The French House event not long after Spring Break. Reed ostensibly has no alcohol on campus, so in order to hold one of the official parties you need to work in partnership with the alcohol society, who are the only group who can legally provide drinks for those over 21. 'Beer Nation', however, decide they can't be arsed with Yé-Yé, and so Yé-Yé are prohibited from giving us any of the customary social lubricants we have come to rely on. Instead, they set up a luscious table of virgin cocktails and, in a cunning move, list the mixer ingredients along with (in brackets) the liquor they would usually accommodate. BYOB, in other words. But hush hush BYOB.
Next to the virgin cocktails, there is an array of French cheese, grapes, cured meat, aaaaand waffles (?). The idiot is shortlisted in the New Wave caption contest and wins a $5 voucher at the waffle window (I hazard that someone in the French House has a particular predilection for the waffle). After a slow start, everyone ends up throwing sweaty moves to drum and bass. Not in keeping with the theme, but it does the job.

COCKTAIL PARTY: The idiot is fortunate to be friends with those in the French House who, after the sobriety of Yé-Yé, possess a superfluity of grenadine, orange juice, cranberry juice ... but no liquor. We establish a liquor fund for the following weekend. For $5 each, a staggering and quite horrid amount of alcohol is purchased from the store on Woodstock. They begin the evening in a civilised manner - supporting musical friend Charlie who plays the famous violin theme in a Reed production of The Glass Menagerie. The party which follows, however, has absolutely nothing to do with me. I leave by 11pm in general disgust at the idiot's behaviour, not to mention the dancing. She returns to the room at 4 in the morning. I think I hear her mutter, "Shit, Consette, I've lost a sock."

THE EASTER PROJECT: Easter Sunday, and Aurore has visions of cake. It takes until midnight to complete, but the final outcome is something rather special.

ROYAL WEDDING: The four English girls (idiot, Holly, Vicky and Rachel), plus some anti-monarchists, plus some anglophiles, and live CNN coverage of Wills and Kate tying the knot (11am GMT/3am PST). The idiot is fairly moved and senses the first tiny smidgen of homesickness, but would never admit it. Goes to bed before the kiss, claiming exhaustion and an early class in the morning. Pah. Something in your eye?

STOP MAKING SENSE: On the Saturday before Renn Fayre weekend, the SU is transformed into a den of iniquity - and Talking Heads, on repeat. For 4 hours.

Consette x

Eateries

The idiot spends most of her time either eating or exercising, fatrolling on an interminable cycle of greed to guilt to greed to guilt ... to (always provisionally end with) greed. I obligingly trailed her on this silly circuit whilst we were in Oregon, and spent most of my time complaining. But, to be honest, we went to some great places, some of which should certainly be shared. Portland's foodcart thing is no secret, and I wish we had been there long enough to try out more of them. Restaurants, too, proliferate. Everyone there is super foodie, and I think this accounts for the idiot's marked affection for the city.

NICHOLAS (Lebanese): The website says the restaurant has just celebrated its first 20 years of business. Not to be scoffed at; 20 years is ancient history for west coast America, haw haw. Getting a table can take a while, it being both tiny and very popular. We go with about ten of the idiot's friends, in order to attenuate the Sunday Fear at the end of an unproductive weekend. The waiters greet you with a ceremony of flying saucer pita breads, and the portions which follow are ridiculous: individual hummus dollops the size of your face, five or so falafel, beef kebabs, tabbouleh, pies etc. We lick our plates clean, before retiring to the Spanish House for whiskey and gossip.

ST. JACK: The idiot perseveres with the weekly Gray Fund lotteries, and we win a spot on the trip to St. Jack restaurant, which opened less than a year ago (NB: Don't go on the website for this one - its flashplayer just made my computer freeze up.) Half of the property is a patisserie and the other half is a posh French restaurant. They close off the restaurant to accommodate the Reed Gray Funders for a three-course brunch. We have croissants, pain au chocs, frangipane and cherry brioche for starter, then toasty things and cheese for main, and a chocolate mousse with boozy cherries for dessert. The pastry chef makes the mousse in front of our very eyes. It is magic.

POTATO CHAMPION: Americans call them fries, we call them chips. Whatever, this is the best and most almighty matchstick-potato-crisped-in-oil you will ever eat, served in a paper cone and located in the foodcart pod on 12th and Hawthorne.

NECTAR FROZEN YOGHURT: SE Bybee and Milwaukie intersection. The idiot, Stephanie and Kerstin use it as their base for film project 'briefing'. I tag along, and suck the peanut butter yoghurt straight from the dispenser. Am forcibly removed. They don't do frozen yoghurt like this in England, though, with about 6 changeable flavours and a pantheon of toppings. Graham cracker dust, for instance. Everything is self-service and priced according to weight.

LUCKY STRIKE: Chinese restaurant on Hawthorne. We deprive ourselves of lunch and starve through the Friday JOFM class (James and Ozick/Faulkner and Morrison) in order to build up an appetite for Lucky Strike's Happy Hour (3-6pm). Dan Dan noodles, hot as you like. Modest servings, but very very delicious.

WOLF AND BEAR'S: A somewhat isolated foodcart on SE Morrison, which we at last locate after an hour's circumambulation. Walk down Belmont because Belmont is lovely, and then cut up to Morrison on 20th (I think it's 20th). Under normal circumstances, I would eschew the idea of eating at an entirely vegetarian foodcart - god they might even be vegan - but Wolf and Bear's is something surprising and beautiful. Order a humongous falafel pita. Beware of crying in public.

THE ORIGINAL HOTCAKE HOUSE ON POWELL: A hotcake, it transpires, is just a big scotch pancake. But in spite of this, the Hotcake House retains its legendary reputation, perpetuated by students who use its '7 days a week / 24 hours a day' guaranteed opening to full effect. It was established in 1955, and the interior décor is accordingly diner-ised. Why the idiot waits until her final month in Portland to discover the joys of the Hotcake House, I have no idea. And even then all she orders is a strawberry milkshake. Granted, the milkshake is about 30cm tall, contains more than 5 scoops of ice cream, half a pint of whole milk, and 4 inches of whip on the top, but it does not come close to registering on the scale of my meal: philly steak omelet, 2 blueberry hotcakes, hashbrowns and fries on the side, and a bit o' gravy. Washed down, be assured, with a DIET coke.

WHIFFIES: Do as we do: miss the number 14 bus down Hawthorne, walk instead, preferably on a sunny evening, drop into Excalibur comics and feel very out of place, then turn into the foodcart pod on 12th. Choose Whiffies Fried Pies, always. Does what it says on the tin.

PORTLAND FARMER'S MARKET: There are many farmer's markets in Portland, but the really posh one happens every Saturday on the PSU campus. Like all the best farmer's markets, you can eat a three course lunch and pay absolutely nothing. All you require is an aggressive cocktail stick and sharp elbows.

FLAVOUR SPOT WAFFLES: It is quite unusual to find a foodcart with more than one location, but Flavour Spot has three different carts dotted around the city. The waffles here are referred to as 'dutch sandwiches', which basically means a waffle bent in half to make a sandwich. The idiot orders the THB (smoked turkey, havarti cheese and bacon) with maple butter. I order the Nut Fluffer (peanut butter and mallow fluff). Respective meat and sugar sweats ensue.

SWEET PEA BRULEE: Foodcart on Belmont, selling the crackliest creme brulee you ever ate.

OLD TOWN PIZZA: We began or 'underground' tour of Portland at Old Town Pizza, but never got the chance to eat anything. The building itself is apparently steeped in history and ghosts and what-have-you, and there's a nice candlelit vibe in the seating area. The idiot and I take the mother there when she comes to visit Portland. En route, walking through Chinatown, a man with a rickshaw - no kidding, not stereotyping - tries to persuade us away from Old Town's soggy crust and into Pizza Schmizza. We ignore him and have an incredible meal.

RUBY JEWEL SCOOP SHOP ON MISSISSIPPI: Ruby Jewel (s?) sells their famous ice cream sandwiches across the city, but the scoop shop on Mississippi is where to spend a gluttonous afternoon. The idiot ploughs valiantly through a 'double scoop' portion of pistachio and cookies and cream, with peanut brittle spilling off the top. FYI, 'double scoop' in Americanese can in fact translate to mean FOUR scoops in standard English. The idiot likes to reprimand me when I spread 'false' rumours about eating habits and portion sizes over here. But, when faced with the double scoop, she concedes a defeat.

Consette x

Americanisms

Some wtfs 'I LOVE THIS COUNTRY' Americanisms from yours truly.

PEANUTS IN THEIR SHELLS LIKE WHAT YOU SEE IN DUMBO.

CIDER WHICH IS ACTUALLY APPLE JUICE, AND 'HARD' CIDER WHICH IS ACTUALLY APPLE JUICE WITH A SHOT OF - PROBABLY - VODKA: In Fred Meyer they sell a 500ml bottle of Aspall Suffolk Cyder (British import) for $7.

4/20

CLAPBOARD SUBURBIA: A culmination of the idiot's technicolor American dreams.

CHATTING TO THE NEXT DOOR TABLE IN A RESTAURANT: Serious no-no awkward in England.

BISCUITS: Kind of savoury scones with a pool of creamy gravy. Not cookies, which, according to the Queen's English, are in fact the right and proper biscuit.

TELEVISION AND NEWS: America flaunts a manifest disinterest in news stories from other countries, which I suppose is fair enough if your country eats about 50 of my countries in one gulp. But still. And, with the exception of HBO and Scrubs, Consette declares that everything else is shite. How does anyone have the patience to sit through all those commercial breaks?

THE PEOPLE: Largely marvellous.

Consette x

PDX

There is a lot of rain in this city. It is not Seattle. In any given survey, nearly everyone ticks Caucasian, under 40, gender preferably undisclosed. But there are also some really cool things about Portland that you (?) should probably check out, if you are ever on your way to California and need a stopover with sass.

("stopover with sass"?! - ffs Consette, get a grip)

GROUND KONTROL: A really quite delicious arcade on NW 5th and Couch: Lord of the Rings pinball, all sorts of Pacman, and Tetris for goodness sake. We wander in for a quick fix, and end up staying for two hours. If I had ever experienced the womb - which, of course, I have not, being imaginary - I would say that there is something very elemental and cosy about the dark of the arcades. The restrooms are bedecked with Pacman tiles, and there are lightsaber blue lights above the taps. This is what I imagine my imaginary mother's endometrium would have looked like.

THE DOLLAR SCHOLAR: Shop on Hawthorne. Equips one for life. The owners tend to let their dogs run riot around your feet while you 'shop'.
"If you don't like our dogs, then we don't care much for your money".

THE GARDENS AND PARKS: Tanner Springs boasts its own micro Water Cycle (the one you learn about in GCSE Physics), with mandrakes bobbing about and a corrugated wave at its edge. The 'rhody' garden, running parallel to Reed's 28th avenue boundary, is more than just an extra party venue for students to exploit. In daytime it is rather civilised. For maximum pleasure, buy a lime popsicle from the Berry Good fruit stand a few yards down the road, and get thoroughly sticky and dissipate.
The Chinese Garden is embedded right in the middle of Old Town. Its delicate trees seems so incongruous against the high-rise flats behind, and it manages to sustain an eery sort of silence; possibly, granted, because Portland has very little traffic and mostly bikes. Still, it is bizarre. Lucia, the idiot and I visit on a Friday afternoon, in an unprecedented pocket of sunlight. We pick our fortunes from sticks which look like perfume testers, and the idiot's says something like: "You are ambitious and impatient, be patient and you will succeed." I bloody well hope not.

MOUNT TABOR: Not the Mount Tabor in Galilee, by some believed to be the site of the Transfiguration of Jesus, but the 'mountain' of the same name in Portland, OR, at the eastward end of Hawthorne Boulevard. The idiot and I climb it together around about the time of our 'fall-out' (see post on June 11th), with the intention of settling differences etc. In America, I suppose this walk would be filed under the heading 'hike'. If it is uphill, it is a HIKE. The Tabor summit is an extinct volcano cone and, even on a cloudy day, it provides quite a view of Hawthorne's arrowline into downtown. We smell BBQ on the descent, and finally think of summertime.

COMMONS GEORGE: The most favoured Commons cashier at Reed College and, if anything, the best reason to visit the campus. Oh my goooooodness.

LAST THURSDAY: On the last Thursday of every month, Alberta in Northeast holds an almighty good street fair. We get drawn to go on the Gray Fund lottery, and it is a miserable rainy day. The vendor turn-out looks slightly sparse, but we make the best of it. Erin adopts the idiot and thankfully takes control, because, let's be honest, the idiot really does not know anything about this city, in spite of pretensions to the contrary. We drink our first (!) frogspawny bubble tea, and scoff a ginormous enchilada from a Mexican restaurant which refuses to translate the menu from Spanish - a good sign.

ERIKA MOEN: A comic artist based in Portland. I don't really understand the appeal, but the idiot insists I make a mention, and goes all feverish with excitement when talking about DAR: A Super Girly Top Secret Comic Diary. Moen's latest project is called Bucko, and is even more Portland than the last.

THE BINS: 1740 SE Ochoco St. Basically, The Bins is a fugging amazing Goodwill store, where everything is literally thrown into big blue bins, sorted in ever-so vague categories, all jumbled one on top of the other in glorious disorder, bam bam bam, and you pay by weight, for framed children's fingerpaintings, papier-mâché monsters, defunct treadmills, singalong LPs from musicals etc etc etc.

KENNEDY SCHOOL: A fair schlep out of the way (5736 NE 33rd Avenue), but worth it. A converted old school house, adorned with 'American Gothic' type paintings on the walls. The rooms are seemingly endless, housing theaters, pubs, bars, and a swimming pool. It is owned by McMenamins. The idiot did not like beer until she met McMenamins.

ST. JOHNS: I am loath to describe St. Johns as part of Portland; this neighbourhood to the north is so different and so set apart from the rest of the city - possibly the most uncontrived and ungimmicky throwback to the 50s you will ever come across. The idiot brings her Morrison essay along and studies below the famous Cathedral bridge. We drink a coke float in a diner/thrift store hybrid which has 7-inch records hanging from the ceiling, and buy a harmonica from a tiny music shop. One of the vintage outlets has old guidebooks of Portland from the 20-30s, and the idiot takes two for $20. After lunch we catch a bus back to Southeast for a cider and more essay-ing on Hawthorne. It is one of the hottest days so far. Everything suddenly seems kind of European: the Bagdad opens its full-length windows to the street, and I imagine I am smoking a gauloise on the Left Bank.

RIMSKY-KORSAKOFFEE HOUSE: Is the name not enticing enough? The idiot gets her tarot cards read, and sometime in the foreseeable future anticipates an upside-down hermit to have an irrevocable bearing on her life. We share an amazing cobbler. The restroom houses a plastic, balding man lying on the floor, and feet dangling from the ceiling as if through water. It will eff you up.

Consette x

Ache

CONSETTE APOLOGISES FOR THE NOTABLE IRREGULARITY OF WRITING. SHE IS AT THE MOMENT SUFFERING FROM UNEXPLAINED, AND EXTREMEMELY BORING, BACK AND NECK ACHE, AND HAS BEEN ADVISED TO SPEND LESS TIME ON A COMPUTER, AND MORE TIME HORIZONTAL. TO BE SURE, I RECEIVE DAILY EMAILS DETALING THE MINUTIAE OF HER PAIN, BUT SHE ASSURES ME THAT THESE ARE DICTATED TO AN AMANUENSIS (I SUSPECT THE IMAGINARY BOYFRIEND), FROM THE REPOSE OF A ROMAN-STYLE COUCH BY THE POOL.

BLOGPOSTS SHOULD, HOWEVER, START TRICKLING IN. AS AND WHEN SHE IS ABLE.

LOVE,

THE IDIOT

Seattle

Spring Break III

I have been told to stop using words which I don't understand and, to paraphrase idiot, 'sentences with no control'. Too many syllables one after the other, she says. She has advised me to write like her for a while. Or, at least, to write like she intends, or supposes, to write. The Orwellian ideal, everything in its right place, correct, succinct, and dull. Good exercise. Why not. She says that the grandmother thinks I'm an ass, and the parental unit often finish a blog and don't know what on earth is going on. Although disorientation of the parental unit can have its advantages (see post below), I am going to try my hardest to cooperate with the new demands. It is at least fair and true to say that the parental unit and the grandmother constitute the sum of regular readership.

The idiot has also accused me of spreading false rumours. She was all prickly in her last email, on the subject of the imaginary boyfriend. She says that he is my imaginary boyfriend, and not hers, and that she doesn't know what I am talking about. I envisage a sort of infinite regress of imaginary friends, or boyfriends, or girlfriends. I warned the idiot that she too is someone's imaginary friend, who in turn is the progeny of an imagination, who in turn in turn in turn ... The idiot hates this kind of idiocy, and threw me an imaginary punch over hotmail. Apparently I need to learn humility and respect, but I think she would benefit from some education in that area too: the 'HELLO WORLD, LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME' compulsion is becoming more and more pronounced by the second.

But enough cod-psychology. Let's say something about SEATTLE, which happened oh so long ago. It would be foolish to attempt the chronological narrative of previous posts, so we're just going to write about what we remember. Food, then. And some pretty views. Rather like a diluted, weak-pee tourist guide for those who have no intention of visiting, but will read about it anyway. We were blessed with sunshine, but if you would prefer a more realistic impression of Seattle in March, just supplement anything you read below with a coating of drizzle and grey.

PLAYERS: Me, her, George, Febee, Claudia (Febee's friend from home), and Lucia.

UTILIKILTS SHOP IN PIONEER SQ: This really does exist. FormFollowsFunction etc. (a perverse variant of the creative writing edict). We go inside to take our first tourist pictures since leaving the Amtrak station. I pine for a Scotsman. A Scotsman knows how a kilt should be worn: for country dancing, bagpipes and supping whiskey. Not, under any circumstances, for utility.

PIKE PLACE CHOWDER: We arrive in the city at lunchtime, which is convenient. On Lucia's recommendation we make our way to Pike Place Chowder, found in an alleyway behind the main channel of the market. It claims to be the best chowder in America - a credential no doubt boasted by 99% of chowders in the country. But this one really is phenomenal. I order the traditional clam in a bread bowl, eat everything (lid included), and binge on packets of oyster crackers for dessert.

STARBUCKS: It's as if there's mummy and daddy Starbucks, giving birth to babies and babies and babies. Rampantly. On every street corner, like they say.

CITY HOSTEL: Plug. Ever so lovely here. But if you wake up in the middle of the night and forget where you are, beware of the murals on the bedroom walls: momentary panic attack, Fear and Loathing etc.

OLYMPIC SCULPTURE PARK: If you ever go to Seattle, have a look into the greenhouse which holds the fallen redwood. We squint through the pyrex, it seeming all deep-sea submerged in there. Some newlyweds have their marriage photos taken in front of the harbour view. In a wonderful coincidence, we had seen the bride bustling into a taxi earlier that day on 2nd Avenue, presumably before the wedding. The idiot feels silly and happy. Everyone runs around like toddlers in a playground, in and out of sculptures, doing that whole 'see how wide you can get your arms' scenario for the camera.

CHITTENDEN LOCKS: Febee and Claudia opt to go to the top of the needle, but the rest of us take a bus to the salmon ladder at the end of Ballard. An old lady on the bus gifts us with a bunch of daffodils wrapped in foil, and refuses our refusal. Lucia passes them on to a couple on the pavement. It is still sunny, but the light, by the time we get to the locks, has taken on that marine quality of storm. There are of course no salmon to see in the viewing chamber below the ladder, just small fry and water. The spray along the locks makes rainbows, though, and we catch sight of the famous blue heron on the other side of the bank. The idiot, being wholly unscientific, considers the boats in the locks to be rising and falling like magic. Febee and Claudia rejoin the group for dinner in the People's Pub on Ballard Avenue. No one talks, nom nom nom.

'CLUBBING': Capitol Hill does not live up to its promises. To be fair, the idiot has forgotten her passport, and so our entry into clubs is somewhat limited. Quite by accident, we end up in a gay bar, and the evening turns into a confessional. The single life is once more bemoaned by all. I tentatively suggest that they embrace bisexuality and double their chances, but am silenced with a conservative frown. Pussies.

DANCE MOVES ON THE PAVEMENT: If you walk down Broadway, watch out for the bronze footprints embedded in the concrete. Tango, foxtrot, rumba, with numbers to tell you the order of your steps.

JIMI HENDRIX STATUE ON CAPITOL HILL: An unusual rendering of his face, but, as George correctly observes, the sculptors communicate the 'semiotics of Hendrix', and accuracy is not important.

CURIOSITY SHOPPE ON THE WATERFRONT: We begin day 2 with a bracing walk along the piers. Seattle is basically just a narrow strip on a very steep gradient, with skyscrapers balanced on top, but the waterfront is thankfully all on one level. I recommend the curiosity shop (called 'Ye Olde Shoppe', or something like that). The front is just a regular tourist outlet, but the back half boasts shrunken heads in glass caskets, and mummies, and tiny tiny glasses from 1850. The idiot fantasises that they once belonged to Emily Dickinson.

SEATTLE PUBLIC LIBRARY: Please let me live in this city. Aside from stupid toilet stalls, with doors which just about cover the essentials (and nothing more), this library is perfect. A spaceship of books.

PIKE PLACE MARKET: The idiot makes a split from the group. I trail in the wake of her foodie dreams: Washington apples, cider, kumquats, hot flakes of smoked salmon from the fish throwers, caramel marshmallows, $13 salmon sandwich with rosemary mayonnaise ... THIRTEEN DOLLARS FOR A SANDWICH ... tax-free Oregon is sorely missed. We descend into the underbelly entrails of the market, for trinkets, records, and the smell of the sea.

GREYHOUND: Home.

Consette x

Return

And finally, she has left me. We have been apart for a week now; she flew back to Heathrow on Saturday night, and I have been instructed to remain on this side of the Atlantic for a little longer, to do all the things she would have done if she had had more time. I am in L.A at the moment, consummately failing to make much of an impression on the sight-seeing list she left behind. I have borrowed someone's infinity pool and, in a selfless gesture not foreign to my character, am looking after it for them while they are away.

About a month ago, the idiot and I had an argument. Not the first, but certainly the most prolonged and unnecessary. She placed bans on my writing of the blog (a fair excuse for the silence, no?), and at the same time said she was too busy, let alone too upset with my behavior, to write it herself. In circumstances I won't relate here, I came to discover that she had been nurturing the manufacture of an imaginary boyfriend, without my knowledge or approval, for the entirety of our stay in Portland. As you can imagine, Consette felt deceived (to the degree that she began referring to herself in the third person for a while). An imaginary boyfriend? It is beyond pathetic. I hated him at first. He seemed so ratty - an improbable perfection of all I know to be her type. Gruesome. But then we got to talking, and it turned out that he was very very embarrassed about the whole thing. Understandable, given that all his illusory existence amounted to was an accumulation of unrequited desires, a hologram of a person, a good three years in the making. We both agreed this was rather sad; for her sake, it was decided, we were going to enforce a liberation.

The imaginary boyfriend and I eloped for a dirty weekend in Newport (OR), and the idiot hit the roof.

Although she would never say it herself, I think she's finally come to see the benefits of life without his influence. She is unable to concede the charitable motivation which underscored my actions, but last Thursday she caved in to a conciliatory transatlantic email, replying that she is less angry with me now that she doesn't have to look at my face every day, and that it was wise for me to stay on in America. She also sanctioned a resurrection of the blog. Hello blog! I am pleased to be back with you. The boyfriend is here with me in L.A, and we plan to spend the summer catching up with all the writing we have not done. And, who knows, by the end of it, maybe we will stay on into September, and the rest of 2011, beginning of 2012, forever? The idiot is growing up, and I flatter myself that I am an important factor in this maturation. My absence, too, will be important, not to mention the absence of the boyfriend. We are happy to absent ourselves together. But not before all these loose ends of her year abroad have been accounted for - whatever she might think about me, I am capable of considering matters beyond the sphere of my own personality. Just about.

Consette x