Wandering by the Willamette

I have no direction, when alone. Park the car in some random spot (or walk some random direction out of the hotel, or get off at some random metro stop, depends what sort of city I’m in), and just walk in what seem to be likely directions until something happens is my usual style. This would be hopelessly annoying to a companion, were I so rude as to be myself when with someone else.

Downtown Portland is unique to me in that wherever you go there are a few random people walking the sidewalks, going somewhere, oftentimes women alone as if the streets are safe; and however barren a given block may be, however closed up the shops and abandoned the warehouses, another block along there will be a coffee shop, a restaurant, a bar of some sort. Maybe this doesn’t really contrast with Sacramento and San Francisco -– but I don’t generally have cause to walk those places at night.

I was hungry and alone and didn’t know where the Pearl District was. Street people were polite -– “Any spare change, sir? Okay.” Prosperous middle-agers and non-prosperous youth were mixed and going in the same random directions. The air was cool but warm enough and I enjoyed being lost. A part of town seemed to have a lot of girlie bars with variations of “Full Nude” in their marquees and at this point I asked for directions. I wanted dinner.

When I found the Pearl District I also found my talent for picking the wrong streets. Is it a part of town famous for fine bars and restaurants? I expect so but somehow I picked the blocks that didn’t have them. I did however find Powell’s.

“Can I help you find something, sir?”

“You have books, what else is there?”

I smiled and bounded up the stairs and wandered through the stacks aromatic with bound and printed paper, a smell like no other, looking for something to make up for the fact I was about to dine alone. The landscape narrowed as my hunter’s instinct drove me down the trail. Purple signs, history books, western states, California, San Francisco; and as always must happen, a treasure I would never otherwise have known existed: A 446-page book on the banking career of William Tecumsah Sherman.

Well? One man’s used book is another’s gold strike. It fits perfectly with a project that has been growing in my mind for years and even occasionally found its way onto virtual paper. I also bought a Powell’s t-shirt.

Mission half-accomplished, I was happy now to continue my directionless quest for food. I turned towards the river for a vague memory of a cool old part of town, walked swiftly through what garishly passes for Chinatown, passed by countless wonderful brick buildings ninety to a hundred twenty years old (each one alive with its unique history and personality) and turned at least into Kell’s for a table and a shepherd’s pie and sixteen cool dark ounces of Guinness.

A refuge is no refuge if it isn’t sweet. The table had a small lamp to read under. The crowd was relaxed and friendly. The stage held a man who held a guitar and sang like a Clancy and spoke with a brogue. The shepherd’s pie was far too fancy but the place had a below-ground cigar bar so a wee bit of pretension was no surprise. Let’s just say the blood in me bequeathed by my Irish great-grandmother Susan Braley was at home, and the evening wound down well.