Cheers, Portland

2009

The town of Portland, Oregon and I have a relationship of extremes. That is to say, I am at once enraptured and disgusted, admiring and eye rolling, in love and exasperated. However, I suppose here is neither the time nor the place to go into the greater details of my history with the Rose City.

. . .

I had recently returned home for the summer. The moment was both promising and bittersweet. I was simultaneously on the cusp of an exciting job and an entire season of enjoying my newly minted non-minor status as well as doing the sort of re-evaluation one seems to find a necessary evil at some point(s) in their college career.

The first warm evening of the summer I found myself with nothing to do. With two good hours of sunlight left I rolled my bike onto the MAX and whizzed towards downtown. It would be my first excursion in the city with my new cherry red cruiser, which I had dubbed “Bettie Page,” thinking I was perhaps more clever than I truly was. Decked out in my ultra uncool red helmet and makeshift-reflective seafoam green workout shorts, I was ready to ride.

Once in the heart of the city I pedaled towards the twinkling lights, bustling noise and competing smells of cotton candy, hot dog and carnival pony coming from the waterfront Rose Festival. I gingerly weaved through the crowded bike path, crossing the bridge, watching the city sunset from the east. By this time, my new bike seat seemed less comfortable with each pedal and I pushed back on my coaster brakes and smoothly stopped near an open bench for a break. Slowly removing my helmet, I sat down and rested my feet on my parked bike sitting in front of me, squinting at the sun.

From my solitary seat the cars scooting along the bridges, the festival rides swirling and twirling, and the chatter of people on the bike path behind me provided an intoxicating glimpse into the city’s simultaneous discordance and harmony. I breathed a deep sigh of contentment and soaked in the city around me.

Suddenly, a noise startled me and I was jolted from a relaxed gaze. A man, perhaps in his early 30s met my eyes with a smile. His face was dingy, but not filthy, and he carried a faded backpack and guitar case slung around his shoulder. With one hand he pulled a bottle from a sixpack and set it in my hand, resting on the side of the bench.

“Can I give you a few bucks for this?” I asked, caught off guard by his generosity.

“No, no,” he replied with a chuckle. “Just keep sittin’ and starin’ like you were.”

As I opened the bottle with my shirt folded into my hand I quietly smiled to myself… Only in Portland do the homeless people drink microbrews.

I asked the man what his name was, he said it was Tracy. We chatted briefly, then found ourselves quietly sitting alone on our separate benches. After thanking him I sat back, took a swig from my bottle, and watched the last glimmers of the sun dance on the river water. Tracy and I made eye contact and I raised my bottle in a silent toast.

“Here’s to me,” he said, “and here’s to you.”

At that moment, his concise words seemed perfect. Perfect because the moment seemed to encapsulate what I love best about this city—everyone can simply be themselves. Perhaps this is the type of experience that writers for the New York Times hope to capture in their increasingly frequent articles about the city.

Part of me is excited that people finally see the unique world Portland has to offer, but, at the same time, the rest of me wants the city to remain a quiet treasure. That Sunday night I sat on the bench with my bike, beer and buddy, I experienced the city for what it is—the sights, the sounds, the smells and most importantly, the unique moments of human interaction.

To Portland, I think Tracy said it best… Here’s to me.

And here’s to you.