Portland, OR
March 17, 2018
The Irish-ish have descended on the Great Pacific Northwest.
As if this wet, environmentally conscious city was not already greener than a high school hedge fund manager, along comes St Patrick’s Day to turn City of Roses into the Kilkenny of the Willamette Valley.
The revelers began pouring toward, the green beer pouring in, and the strains of Wild Rover pouring from, every Irish bar (and, this weekend, aren’t they all?) between Kells in Skidmore and Kells in the Alphabet district.
Like New Year’s Eve, however, today is a feast for amateurs.
Being genetic virtuosos in the stereotypical arts of drinking, arguing, fighting, and Irish dynamiting, for this day we set aside the beer, gin, whiskey, wine (OK, not the wine), and cake to the pseudo-Gaelic novices, and sought refuge in calmer pursuits.
I was last in Portland 20 years ago.
At that time, I spent several days interviewing with Intel, and a few more scoping the area while contemplating the possibility of moving here.
Although Intel soon realized they weren’t worthy of my talent, I made the most of the boondoggle to explore the town, much of which remains familiar two decades later.
Our first stop was the Saturday Market, the largest continuously operated assemblage of outdoor vendors in the US, a village of local merchants that pitch their tents each weekend on the West Bank of the Willamette in the shadow of the Burnside Bridge.
A few purchases having slightly increased our burden, we continued to bounce slowly thru the large colony of countless garments weaved, woodwork crafted, and sustenance harvested within a limited radius of Portland.
One thing extending beyond a limited radius of Portland was the line into Voodoo Donuts.
The equanimity with which people endure extended waits to purchase a donut, and the eagerness with which they (justifiably) endorsed “agricultural liberalization” in recent elections, did make us wonder what other than jelly might be in these sugary concoctions.
Our curiosity, patience, and time all being limited, we left the mystery to solve itself and pressed west, to and thru the Pearl District, pausing briefly for a mid-day Mocha and tea at the delightful Caffe Umbria.
A light rain accompanied us as we approached the Alphabet District, easing to a mist as we turned onto 23d Avenue.
Portland’s answer to San Francisco’s Union Street, 23d Avenue offers a dozen blocks of restaurants, cafés, specialty shops, and wine bars amid a neighborhood of charming older homes and a bevy of granola-chic urban hipsters.
Liner and Elsen wine shop marked the outbound extent of our Oregon trail (some people seek fulfillment at the peak of Everest or the source of the Amazon; this is what we do), and we celebrated the occasion by tasting five offerings and purchasing two.
We then retraced our steps, with an intermission to partake a late lunch at Thai Bloom while waiting out what soon became a fairly steady rain.
To the saturated locals, this downpour seemed no more than a bout of above-average humidity.
They could not have cared less about a dose of rain. We counted more coiffured dogs warmed by designer sweaters than people sheltered by umbrellas.
As we cowered indoors behind barricades of Pad Prik and Pinot, the denizens of northwest Portland absorbed with the pride of an indifferent familiarity every drop Mother Nature hurled upon them.
As the aquatic assault dissipated, we pushed our chairs from the table, eased back to the sidewalk, looked toward the sky for re-assurance, and continued on our way.
Party tents, as if reaped by the soft rain from solid concrete, seemed by now to sprout on every corner, or as a stem grafted to any structure with a liquor license.
We managed at every such doorway to step thru or over the budding green-clad crowds that gathered like a swarm of bees in anticipation of the nectar that beckoned within the hive.
Returning to the river, we continued thru waterfront park along la rive gauche, dodging a few more raindrops on the path to our hotel.
En route, we noted the rapid mobilization of facilities to house the weary, wounded, and the winners of the next morning’s annual Shamrock Race.
Perhaps momentarily affected by the remnants of our reward at Liner and Elsen, we considered for a brief moment the possibility of registering for the race.
Fortunately, the deadline for doing so passed earlier in the day, thereby preserving our illusions and our dignity.
God bless the luck of the Irish.
JD