Impressions of Portland

Got to keep this brief, as I'm still using borrowed wi-fi. This time I'm writing from the middle of a time vortex; it's my local pub, the Black Cat, and apart from the wireless internet access, the place might as well be from 1986. The cigarette smoke hangs like a haze over the neglected pool table as a ragtag band of older local type folks, who look like they'd need to be removed from their barstools with prybars, attempt to achieve (with a little help from the Pabst brewing company) a deeper tone of red for their noses. Apparently, during the schoolyear, the place livens up and is something of a hangout for L&C students. Right now, though, it's definitely in the running for the most stereotypically blighted bar in the Northwest. But this being Portland, there are at least a selection of local brews to sweeten the deal.

Anyway, the city has been rather different from the image of it that I had been building up over the summer. My neighborhood, for example, is something of a disappointment. After my successful escape from Worcester, I had been looking forward to getting back into the urban milieu that I love so well. Alas, when I read that Portland is a city of neighborhoods, I did not anticipate that a more accurate description would have been "a collection of villages packed in tighter than is usual," or "small nodes of activity cushioned by generous helpings of suburban residential areas." I guess these descriptions do not have the same ring as "a city of neighborhoods," but to be honest the whole urban designation seems to be a bit misleading, at least from my vantage point in sleepy southern Sellwood.

This is not to say that Sellwood does not have its charms. In fact, while Dad was here I took advantage of the presence of another gourmand, not to mention the additional wallet, to make the grand culinary tour of the neighborhood, and we sampled the victuals of several nearby establishments. In general, I believe our stomachs will be well cared-for in the upcoming year(s), including those nights that (gasp) we will have to do our own cooking. There is a good supermarket not too far from the apartment, and it might best be described as a cross between Trader Joe's and Whole Foods. And there are several watering holes within striking distance of home, and at least one within staggering distance, so that will take care of that. There's even a small one-screen cinema that we can reach without benefit of bike or car. Still, the general tenor of the neighborhood is decidedly small-town, which I suppose is best proved by studying the closing hours for all of these businesses: none but the bars are open after 10pm (not even the coffee places), and frequent public transport service to the area effectively ends at 7pm. Having just come from a job where the hours were irregular and sometimes stretched far into the night, I can understand the desire not to let work overrun one's life. Nevertheless, I just can't wrap my head around the idea that restaurants would close before the customary dining hour for the entire civilized world (by which I mean me, of course). I foresee a rough adjustment ahead.

I did manage to get into the city center over the course of my many meanderings last week, and that district is much more to my taste. There are tall buildings that block the sun's insufferable cheery rays, and you have to share the sidewalks, and the volume of buses and streetcars in service at any given time causes drivers to bang their heads against their steering wheels. All in all, a reasonable facsimile of a major urban area. Businesses there are open later too, and they exist all piled up on each other in that wonderfully cramped city way, rather than insulated from each other by homes with lawns and gardens. Perhaps we will attempt to relocate to this concrete paradise next year, if we can find a reasonable rent there.

There is a thriving music scene here, which Dad and I have already dipped our toes into oh so cautiously. On Tuesday, we saw Rufus Wainwright with Sean Lennon and A Fine Frenzy at the Crystal Ballroom. Although neither of us ended up being a fan of Rufus Wainwright (you have to respect the sinuous, vaguely torch song quality of his writing and the expertise of his arrangements, though), we found Sean Lennon to be a winner. He had a voice eerily like his father's and a unique blend of early '70s fuzzy guitar solos against a backdrop that incorporated electrofolk elements with the distinctive keyboard style he has used since the mid-'90s (what's-her-name from Cibo Matto is at the synthesizer for this tour). Opinions differed about openers A Fine Frenzy, a piano-driven trio from LA; I liked the forlorn songs and the sense of great space within the sonic texture, while Dad thought the mood in the hall would have been better served by a more energizing set. The standout, though, was the venue itself: first used in 1914 as a dance hall, it is a very grandiose upstairs ballroom with high ceilings, arched windows, roundels all done up in Edwardian pastel hues, and a wooden floor mounted on rollers for a unique bouncing feel when the crowd sets itself a-moving. The entire concert was very ably engineered from the sound booth, and I left after several hours with no ringing in my ears; this is the type of experience that will encourage me to go to more concerts.

And go I shall. This weekend is the PDX Pop Now! festival, a full weekend of free all-ages shows featuring mainly local groups. I look forward to seeing what the much-vaunted local scene has to offer. I expect that this set of shows will take up most of my day tomorrow, although I might be tempted to stray by the prospect of free ice cream in Sellwood Park.


Oh, I almost forgot. I have visited the L&C campus at long last, and if possible it seems even smaller in real life than it does on the map. Seeing the scale of these buildings really drove home the concept that I am attending an institution with a smaller student body than my high school. This is simultaneously exciting and worrying, as I usually find myself more at ease in the anonymity of a crowd, for better or worse. But I am prepared to push myself beyond my comfort zone here, because being at ease in the anonymity of a crowd has also meant hiding from risk and success from time to time. Even more daunting than the prospect of total visibility, however, is the claustrophobia of the school's physical plant. Apart from the state forest that lurks behind the school, there doesn't seem to be anywhere on campus for me to be solitary (and everyone who knows me can imagine pretty well how I like the idea of using the forest for this purpose). In college, whenever I required some concentrated thinking, I could depend on the ability to occupy long-abandoned study carrels, pace up and down darkened library stacks, or if the situation became truly dire, to find a disused lavatory and have a good long poo while mulling the issue over (how I miss you, last stall in Emerson basement, last stall on Lamont floor 5, and of course the restroom in the Lamont sub-basement behind the European government records). My cursory examination of L&C, however, did not unearth any likely candidates for habitual Matt haunts. I never thought that this would be a source of frustration, but the whole school is too small and too damn well-lit.

At least those classmates that I have met so far have been uniformly warm. I stopped in at the Orientation office and had a nice chat with one of the rising second-years who runs the office during the summer, and that led to an invitation to go out with the entering class on Thursday night, where I met several interesting and friendly people. So far, there has been a conspicuous lack of backstabbing, competition and general jackassery, which is a promising sign for the future (historically, the law school experience is famous for the clash of titanic egos and crude Darwinism in the student body). The setting for our class outing was also more than pleasant: The New Old Lompoc bar, which by happy coincidence is the establishment that shows all the Red Sox games, and also serves its own house beers. I tried several quaffs that were hefty and malty, just the way I like them. This may be my new favorite place, and I would surely be there now but for the fact that it is a bit out of my way.

That is all the news from Portland at this juncture. I will very shortly be returning to the empty apartment, where my only companions at this time are Teddy and Cow, who are the silent type. But if you have an opportunity over the next few weeks, then hop in your DeLorean, crank it up to 88mph and zoom over here to the Black Cat, and we will share a beer and a few laughs. I'll have Huey Lewis playing on the jukebox for you.