#PDXNPC

We were on our final day, by which time we had just given up on searching out new experiences. We went to Elmer's for breakfast. Elmer's is a west coast chain. The food is decent, standard American cuisine. Meals that you can get anywhere in the country. No better or worse really. It is the kind of restaurant that your boring aunt and uncle would treat themselves to for their anniversary. That's what sort of dire straights we were in, as my two foodie companions were

After Elmer's we went about singing our final note in Portland. Donuts. A high note indeed. Hat ready, let's go!

My suggestion was to visit Voodoo Donuts, a famous Portland standard. I'd been to the Eugene annex in 2013. I'm sure that people out there will roll their eyes and call them overrated. Who fucking cares. You can't overrate donuts. Donuts are a gift from Heaven. They're fried dough covered in sugar or sugary sauce. If that's not your definition of a donut, then you're doing it wrong.

Voodoo donuts made their name in the competitive deep fried dough covered in sugar world by creating concoctions of unusual donut pairings. Donuts with unusual, often breakfast cereal, ingredients. Creations like the triple chocolate donut covered in coco puffs, or the voodoo doll, a jelly filled donut in the shape of a person with a pretzel stake plunged into it's heart. I enjoy the gimmick.

Hey, they also sell a coffin shaped box full of donuts. I don't know for what sort of event anyone would ever require such a good/service, but I do know that If I lived in Portland, I'd buy it at least once. Hell, I'm going to make it a provision that coffin-donuts are to be served at my funeral.

Adam is firmly lodged in the camp where Voodoo Donuts is considered to be rather kitsch. That didn't stop him from buying and enjoying several donuts. But it did compel him to try a couple of the competitors. Who were also good. Because donuts are fucking delicious and difficult to screw up(looking at you Krispy Kreme). So blah blah blah, other donut shops that don't sell coffins full of donuts. Phooey and P'shaw.

When lunch approached, I wanted a burger. I'd been searching google for suggestions the entire trip and settled on a food truck that was described as the best burger in Portland.

I love a good burger and fries, and make a note to try and find a good burger joint in any new town. I settled my hopes on a food truck somewhere on the north side. We jumped back onto the yellow line north in search of lunch and beer.

The foodtrucks were parked in a lot that was owned and operated by a bar. Sweet gig for the owners of that bar. You order food from the trucks and then goto the bar and eat. Lots of food options that require absolutely zero extra work on the part of the landlord. I might have to start my own bar and follow that line of business.

We sashayed on in. Sara and Adam had their own preferences, and I left them to it. I wanted my burger.

And the fuckers were closed. On a Monday. Who closes on a Monday? I guess it makes a little sense, as much as being closed any other day of the week. But Monday closings seems to be common in Portland, and by common, I mean I noticed it twice. Stupid Portland.

I had Korean Fusion instead. Fuck you burger joint! And fumed as I ordered Cider at the bar and enjoyed my liquid happiness. After a while, I began to grow bored and restless with the sitting. I dislike bars. And since Adam was still intent on trying more beer, so we paid up and sallied forth to find a nearby brewery. I think it was Widmer Brothers.

Upon sitting down in the brewery, our server set down several small glasses of beer before us gratus. “Here,” he said, “This is our new award winning brew.” Well, I was buzzed when I walked in and I had finished the beer sample that they gave me, and it was the best beer that I've ever had, hands down. I don't like beer at all. I have tasted scores upon scores of beers to confirm my bias. So I tried this beer too, since it was free and I was buzzed. I liked this beer.

After we got our round, our server returned and said he “The cook saw your shirt, and he'd like his quest.” Yep, I was wearing my NPC shirt.

“Well fuck yeah!” I declared in intoxicated enchantment. “Have yourself a seat!”

“Where to start? Well the first thing the cook is gonna need to do is located and defeat Steven Seagal. Mind you, it's old dilapidated Steve, where he has the evil looking goatee slapped onto his potato shaped head. After that, he should be allowed into the tournament, and here's how that's going to go, he'll be fighting through Eighties action movie heroes, you getting all this down?”

“Sorry, I'm not going to remember all of this.”

“Not to worry, neither will I, but it ain't our quest so not our problem. Anyhow, one by one he's going to take down the action stars until he finally gets to the final boss, Jean Claude Van Dam. Or should I say bosses, Jean Claude Van Dam and Jean Claude Van Dam. They're twins like in that movie that they were in where they played twins. Do you remember.”

“I don't know that...”

“Parent Trap. Jean Claude Van Dam plays his own twin in Parent Trap. They're separated at birth and all that something or other, I'm kinda fuzzy right now. There's a tournament. And your man is going to have to take both of the at the same time.”

“What's all this for?” Asked he.

I shrugged my shoulders. If I knew that I wouldn't be here. Most of that was true. I finally got into the Portland talking to strangers spirit, and all it took was throwing a fair quantity of booze in a short amount of time. Now we see why it's called social lubrication.

The cook saluted me as we left, I returned the salute. #PDXNPC

We filled the remainder of the day with aimless wandering, notable only for the one sidetrip to the airport where we took pictures of the surrounding countryside from the roof of the parking garage.  Several of the surrounding volcanoes were visible.  We took our standard crappy tourist pictures.

Until we finally returned to our hotel room to wait out the rest of the trip.

Dinner was at the Jim Dandy Drive In. Because it was across the street from our hotel and had a cool name. The burgers were good enough. They offered a bacon shake, which Adam of course ordered, but alas they were out of the ingredients. Pork teases. The cook also liked my shirt, and stated as much, because Portland. I was starting to grow used to the quirk of the city,

Portland gifted me with self-discovery and understanding. Before I stepped back on the plane that would take me home, I realized I must be their messiah. And then I was pulled aside once more for TSA to check my bag. Stupid fekking Granola. I had forgotten about it. Fortunately it didn't attract any hippies.

As a note, I ended up with a week's worth of a really nasty case of food poisoning. Don't know where I picked it up, but I was the only one to suffer the Wrath of Lewis and Clarke.

Ah well, I suppose any messiah has to suffer.

Until next time Portland.

I'm running out of Portland puns

You ever seen Charlie the Magical Unicorn? It's a animated story that has made a home on the web and in my heart. I introduced Adam and Sara to Charlie after we returned to our hotel room from the dark recesses of Portland.

Every adventure needs an inside joke, or so they say. Charlie was ours. Charlie kept us level. Charlie kept us amused. I renamed Adam to Charlie in my phone. They're soul mates. Blu-loo-loo-loo-loo. We quoted Charlie for the rest of the Adventure. Charlie. Charlie. We're on a bridge Charlie.

Day two dawned nicely in Portland. The weather was beautiful. Stunning. Perfect. Praise the Sun. Back in Seattle Adam had lauged at me for having brought cargo shorts. He taunted me for my optimism. In Portland, he was cursing his lack of vision.

Fuck pants!

Opened the day with a German pancake. It wasn't bad. I was expecting a different recipe than what was placed before me. I was first introduced to the German Apple Pancake in South Bend Indiana. It quickly became one of my favorite foods. It was big and fluffy and full of cinnamon apples. Fucking awesome. Apparently Portland didn't get that memo when they adopted the German pancake as their breakfast of choice.

Then it was back on the trams. Yep. Portland has trams. Trains, trams, buses. You name it, we rode it.

Lunch was Ramen. Sara is a huge Japanophile and she insisted. My only previous experience with ramen had been of the instant variety. I ordered the spicy Miso, because of course I did. I enjoyed it immensely. But I think this bowl of noodle-soup was the most expensive meal that I ate on the trip. I'm not a huge fan of soups by themselves. They don't satiate.

To work off our foodie debauch, we decided to head up to Washington Park. This time, taking a bus! Goddamn, we are wild. A bus to a park. See the International Rose Test Garden, visit the Japanese gardens. Thats some Vegas shit there son!

Back under the power of our own feet, we began to explore a rather large and semi-natural park. Among the attractions that I just listed, Washington park is also home to the Vietnam Veterans war memorial. Oh, and an archery range, which I think was the single most unexpected thing I came across on the trip. Just an open field with archery targets set up, as if this were a common enough hobby. Which it must have been since there were several people practicing at the time.

Portland has been nicknamed the City of Roses since the early 1900s. I don't want to go into the back story, but part of the pay off is that in 1917 the International Rose Test Garden was established in Washington Park. You know, late October might not be the best time to go and see a rose garden.

Leaving the park, we split up for a while, planning to reconvene for dinner. What did I do? I took the Blue Line to it's Easternmost point. Yeah baby, gotta keep those plans intact! Really, riding the trains is just a way to see the city and do some people watching, as the tens and hundreds of fellow riders come and go with their own affairs.

Good times.

We heard tell of a new pop-up pod of foodtrucks on the east side of town. So we hopped the green line once more. This time the train was quiet. No loud conversations about how many times this rider kicked that one in the head. We had had our fill earlier in the day when two hostile crazies had a yelling contest, which involved altered iterations of “Don't follow me!” and “I'm not following you!”

I turned to Sara and Adam and proclaimed “I don't really feel like walking through this neighborhood in the dark. It wasn't awful. But it wasn't welcoming. They agreed with my assessment and we then bravely ran away.

We ended up eating at Yummy Bowls. Which was yummy. But mostly because I was famished after several long days of constant hiking. So I might not have been the best judge of the quality, as it was food and I was hungry. I also finished Adam's bowl after he turned up his nose. Cause fuck I need me some calories and I am not overly picky when the tank nears empty.

Portaged in Portland

I think that I've already made a Portlandia Dream of the 90s reference on my blog. So I'll skip that, even though I just re-watched the video and I still find the song to be quite catchy. Even after visiting Portland.

During my first visit to Portland, I came across a t-shirt at a tourist kiosk, it had a picture of Grumpy Cat, with the inscription “I went to Portland once, it rained.” Well, I went to Portland and it rained. All day. Cold, miserable, unending rain.

And we had no real plans or goals, beyond some vague intentions of finding interesting places to eat. So I suggested that we just get our day pass and see where the train would take us. That actually seems to be my standard answer to the question of “What do you do in a strange city?”. Portland's Max Light Rail has 4 lines. Red and Blue run mostly east and west. Green and Yellow are more north and south. Ish. All four meet in the center of town and share a lot of the same tracks. In all, they cover a fair portion of the city.

I was wearing my Jayne's Town shirt that day. As a quick description, because it comes into play, it has a picture of a Skull sporting a Jayne Cobb goatee and hat. Across the top there is the inscription “Heroes of Canton”. I love the shirt, as I love firefly, and wear it often.

Oh hey, one thing I found out, people in Portland notice your t-shirt. And strike up a fucking conversation. What the holy hell fucking fuck? I mean I like to let my geek flag fly, but my socially awkward ass doesn't want to interact, and I'm usually too polite to ignore people when they make an attempt to create a connection.

But interact I did.

My first oppressor was from Utah, as we took the train in to find breakfast, and he was a fan of Firefly. We had a chat about the show, and then he tried to sell me on owning my own business. Not sure if he was going to move into providing said business. I wasn't interested. Still am not. But hey, this would be the best conversation I'd have that day.

We found a small breakfast place that was nearish the train and trudged through the rain. Don't remember the name of the place, but I ordered plate Banana chocolate pancakes. And ate Most of them. They were so damn rich and sugary that finishing was impossible. It was a fair attempt on my part. But I was defeated.

Outside, the rain continued. That wouldn't change for the remainder of the day.

Our next stop was the Chinese Garden and Tea Room. I was cold and wet. But the beauty of the gardens still managed to shine through and allow me to forget some of my discomfort. We tried some of their tea. It was pricey, and I didn't really want to spend the money at that point, but peer pressure. The tea was interesting. If I were a resident of Portland, I might consider a semi-cyclical visit to sample more of their teas. I love tea.

My second Visitation of the Ghost of Portland Now came as we took the Red/Blue Line all the way out to it's westernmost stop. I shall call La Senorita Del Craneo. Known here out as Craneo. Mayhaps she was attracted to the strong silent type, of which I am, if you downgrade “Strong” to “Moderately Stable”.

Craneo noticed my shirt. See, I told you it was important. People in Portland pay attention to shit like that. Even the visitors. Must be something in the air.

She pointed at her head and said “I have one of those.” And I wonder to this day what would have happened if I had responded “Well I don't, someone stole my skull. Are you using yours?” But that wasn't even in the queue of potential responses. Because really, how often does a strange woman on the train start a conversation of which the crux is her having a basic bit of essential anatomy? I would like to know, as my brief experience in Portland leads me to believe that it is a daily occurrence, perhaps even multiple times a day.

I don't recall the full details of the conversation. I was too busy devoting my limited brain power to trying to find an escape route. Meanwhile, Sara and Adam were enjoying the show. Fucking Lannisters.

La Senorita Del Craneo finally broke off. Maybe she found my conversation to be less than inspiring. I did my best, but calculating the benefits of chewing through my ankle to escape was a bit of a distraction. But she wandered down the train to spread her good cheer to the other travelers. Praise The Sun!

Adam chose that moment to reveal his current passion, which happened to be for the works of Chuck Tingle. If you don't know who Mr. Tingle is, by all means look him up, his wikipeida page is a treasure to be cherished by all of Humanity, past, present and future. At the very least Google Chuck Tingle Books. I won't mind if you get distracted and fail to finish my tale. In fact, I will count that as a win.

Adam initiated us in the joy of Chuck Tingle by hipping us to the list of the man's writings that had been collected on the wikipedia page. High point of the day. How can you not read a name like “Space Raptor Butt Invasion”, or “Pounded in the Butt by the Existential Dread that you are a Character in a Chuck Tingle Novel” and not smile a little?

Chuck's antics helped to fill the train ride with much needed mirth. Walking around downtown Portland would grind away that little bit of happiness soon enough, as the damp blanketed us and drained our will. And Portland herself.

Back in town we zeroed in on the foodtrucks and scored lunch. I got some Indian. It was bland. A word that I usually don't associate with Indian food. Maybe I just had bad luck. And I didn't order the spicy option, as I was still feeling a bit wary. Really, the las thing I needed here was a repeat of my desecration of the Asian Art Museum.

The last time I had visited the food trucks was with my friend a few years back. She wanted me to experience the full magisty of the food truck experience. I walked around the block at least four times before I picked up some Thai. It was par excellence. Which seemed to be the theme of the trip. Sometimes it's better not to compare.

Powell's City of Books. If there is one place I'd like to take refuge during a zombie apocalypse, this is it. To hell with those kids and their fancy mall and their food and guns. Give me a bookstore that sits atop a full city block! It was like a maze of goodness, and I never wanted to leave. We left.

Powell's was bustling that night. Sunday in Portland and people were hanging around in a book store. I love Portland for this. A platonic love to be sure. We can be friends and hang out, we just will never be in a serious relationship. Which leaves me feeling a little sad. But there is always the one that got away.

Adam and I wandered around Portland going too and fro, up and down the streets, just getting a feel for the city. I think we made it as far as the 405 before turning back. We had no particular direction and just popped into various buildings that took our interest. Museums, shops, etc. I admired a statue of Theodore Roosevelt for a while, which left me gleefully surprised.

The Library called us, promising relief from the rain. In we went and wandered upwards towards the sound of music, to find a concert being played on the top floor. One largely being enjoyed by an audience of the homeless.

Seattle had a fair share of homeless people. Far many more than I am used to in the midwest. Strange that, a place that has a mild climate year round and a decent public transport system attracts the people who are forced to live on the streets. I think Portland is their Mothership. They crowd the corridors with colorful tents and crouch, hiding from the weather.

People ask for money left and right. I gave out much more spare change than I usually do. I wonder if that's how traveling affects me, with some extra sense of generosity. Though, I suspect that some of that had to do with the fact that I was actually carrying physical cash.

They were everywhere, and as an outsider I don't want to judge their performance against such a daunting task as feeding and housing such a multitude.

That brings me to the third and final t-shirt admirer. Adam and I took the Yellow line north. When we. Or rather I. Sat down across from a mildly homeless gentleman. He saw my shirt and he of course broached the subject. “You from Canton, Ohio?”

“Not I sir. Not I. But I am from the midwest.” And then I tried to explain the meaning of the shirt. He looked at me like the nerd that I am. Not with disdain, but more along the lines of boredom. We chatted some, he told stories, he liked Portland and Seattle and was intending to visit Alaska. He was from Buffalo New York(thus why he asked about Canton, as that would make us neighbors? Maybe. He said he knew members of the band Cannibal Corpse.

He offered to show us around Portland. I could see that in my mind's eye, following the dude to the end of the line to get a glimpse of the camp that was his home. And then the knifing. “I'm gonna be murdered!” was the reoccurring drumbeat in my brain. How the fuck is it that I can say stupid shit and alienate people I like, but be unable to use the full focus of my social awkwardness to stave off unwanted advances by complete strangers? What kind of bullshit personality flaw did I get saddled with? Roll to fail, natural 1.

Balls.

4 or so stops from the end of the line, and my taking my first steps in having my skin turned into a tent, Sara texted to let us know she was done with her chores. So, we never got out the the end of the yellow line. All without being turned into a sex-mummy in the woods.

Back together, we decided to head in the opposite direction, and ride down the Green Line. And it wasn't much better. We found ourselves seated next to some rather unpleasant folks, listening to their delightful tales of crimes and drugs and domestic violence. All the good stuff in life. We got off the train and headed back towards downtown.

I hit a low point in the trip. Being cold, hungry and otherwise miserable seems to do that. I wonder how well I would deal with venturing to soggy old England. Or true adversity?. One that left us wanting to just cut our losses and see if we could fly back early. We couldn't. Not without paying a rather large fee. So we stuck it out.

By dinner time we had already run out of inspiration for new adventures, so we stopped for pizza in a place called Sizzle Pie. It rated well and seemed easy. We passed by other fine tourist attractions that Sunday evening. The rain remained steady, even so Voodoo Donuts had a score or so people waiting in line. For donuts. On we went, not daring to fall into that trap. Not yet.

I was feeling a helluva lot better as digestion infused me with warmth. It was as if the rest of the misery was sluiced away in the rain as we hoofed it back to the nearest train stop. Along the way, we came across a hat store. And of course I went in. I love the idea of hats. The more absurd the better. I harbor a dream of one day owning a top-hat.

What foils me in this dream you ask? I know myself too damn well. I like the idea of hats, but not really the reality. I would never wear that top-hat, and thus it would be just a rather expensive souvenir. I ended up walking out of the store with a grey fedora looking hat. One that was water proof. I call it my Adventure Hat, and it probably makes me look like a complete and utter douche. No matter, I am a firm believer in truth in advertising.