The second thing is that I'm really bad at planning trips. I had the nights off -- we were there for a VISTA in-service-training -- and could have explored more if I had figured out my doings beforehand. But I didn't.
The first night I was sick-ish and moody. I tried to go somewhere and ended up getting as far from the hotel as a nearby Domino's, buying some cheesy bread and falling asleep.
The second night --
I could tell you about the days. They were long and there were Sessions. Some were more interesting than others and all of it was Helpful.
The second night I was determined to go out. I ate dinner at a table with Portland natives. Upon discovering this I said, with a quiver of desperation in my voice:
"Where is Fun?"
They looked at me confused. "Fun? Is that the name of a place?"
"No...I mean I want to get drunk around people like me."
More confusion, more blank looks, and "What kind of person are you?"
Um. "A damn fine fellow?"
Laughter. But still confusion. How are they not getting it? Isn't Portland the Land of Cool?
"Be more specific," they said. "Do you want to go dancing? Do you want a pub-type atmosphere?"
Ugh. I thought this would be easier. How can I figure out what I want without saying the word "hipster"? "Um....I want to go where..."
How to describe it to them? Images tumbled through my mind of a thousand drunken nighttimes. I seized upon one: "I want to go where the boys wear really tight jeans!"
Suddenly, the table fell quiet.
Okay, fuck it, "Where are all the hipster bars!?" And you don't understand what it took to admit that. I fled to rural Oregon to escape all of that, the Scene and the nonsense. And here I find myself languishing without it, not knowing what to do with myself or who to talk to.
Eventually, I left the hotel and went out into the night with a couple of people I found who were also going out. I drank 10 new Rogue beers. My favorite:
...
...
It turns out I cannot remember the name. I guess that shouldn't be a surprise.
The night ended with me alone in a bar near our hotel. A band was playing some kind of jazz, and I nursed a Fat Tire and smoked maybe 14 cigarettes and fantasized that All My Friends walked in and knew me and sat down to hang out, but they didn't, and I was moody and stumbled angry back to the hotel and passed out.
And that was Portland.
Bright Side: This morning, we visited Powell's Books. That was delightful. I purchased:
Glorianna, by Michael Moorcock;
A Clash of Kings, by George R.R. Martin;
The Order of Things, by Michel Foucault.
The first I've been looking forward to for a while now. The second is comfort food: When I am sad I crave epic nerd fantasy. The third makes up for the second (you can use Foucault to pretty much cancel out every embarrassing book you want to read).
I am back in Roseburg now. Yeah, I've decided to use the town's real name. I suppose it's not a bad place. But part of me would rather be elsewhere...
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