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