I’ve lived in Seattle almost a year now and finally got around to visiting our younger, dreadlock-wearing, incense-burning hippie neighbor, Portland, for a second time.
I first visited Portland in February 2001 because my boyfriend at the time had a dj gig. Our broke asses hailed from sunny Austin, Texas and planned to visit the city for three days. The odds were stacked against this trip: the weather would be cold and rainy, I would be in places full of people I didn’t know, and I was staying at a Days Inn.
It turned out to be the sleeper vacation of the century. Compared to an entire childhood of disgusting Chicago winters, the weather in Portland was mild and kind of pretty. The sun even came out a few times. The boyfriend and I hung out with his childhood friend and his crew, and I met so many other nice people, it was unbelievable. Obviously, you can’t polish a turd like Days Inn, but we were out so much it didn’t matter.
Fast-forward to this weekend, many years later. I made plans to return to Portland for the Pints to Pasta 10K. It’s the tourist-traptastic month of September, I’ve begun to overcome my irrational fear of strangers (a little), and I booked a great 18th floor corner room at the downtown Hilton.
Unlike my last trip, the event I’m here to attend began at 8am. This wasn’t a problem; I’ve woken up earlier for dumber reasons. But unlike my last trip, I did not have childhood-friend-of-boyfriend and his fabulous rented Zipcar (which, back then, was called Flexcar) to transport me to the appropriate location. This time, the hotel was about two miles from the finish line of the race. By golly, that’s walkable!
In distance terms, that is true. But in a logistical, “Portland is a walkable city and easy to get around” sense, that is a LIE. Why were we going to the finish line in the first place, you ask? Because that’s where the packets were, and that’s where people were supposed to drive and park so they could take a shuttle to the starting line. Unlike most races, this one began and ended in two different parts of town. Unfortunately, the part of town in which it ended was isolated by a little road known as I-5.
General Outcome
Race: Missed.
Me: Pissed.
Portland: Temporarily on my black list.
I ended up walking at least a 10K through various neighborhoods and seedy gathering places just to find out that I couldn’t get to where the race was. After eventually returning to civilization and gathering my bearings, I ran the last mile of the race. The redeeming incident in this whole thing is that I was able to quickly find a race coordinator, who promptly gave me my shirt and race number so I could enjoy pasta and beer.
Portland does have some cool bars, I tell you whut. I still had fun with nice people and good food, and I’d go back. But I think I need to find a new place to call my sleeper city.
