A city of "-est's"

Portlandians love their city. They also like to lay claim to a lot of “-est’s” – the biggest, smallest, tallest. There are also a lot of “most’s” here as well. I am on a hunt to find all the “-est’s”, and experience all the “most’s.”

There are two “most’s” that make Portlandians (and myself!) the proudest: Portland has the most breweries per capita than any other city, and Portland has the most strip clubs per capita than any other city (this includes Vegas and San Fran!). What a combo. I have frequented many bars thus far – actually, an embarrassing amount. (Jeremy’s keeping track and writing reviews about each one. Check it out here.) I am yet to visit a Portland strip club – but I do know which one I want to go to. Soon. Very soon.

One of the first weekends we were here, Jerod and I had a day of “-est’s” with Ryan as our tour guide. On the list: Powell’s, Mill Ends Park, and Saturday Market.

Powell’s is the largest bookstore in the world. It is indescribable, you really have to see the place, but I will try. It takes up an entire city block. It stocks more than a million used and new books – a million! The store is divided into color-coded rooms (rose, orange, blue, gold, red, etc.) by sections – there are 122 sections and 3,500 different subsections. The purple room is my favorite – I could spend an entire day in just the pop culture/sociology aisle. The bookshelves alone are the biggest, tallest bookshelves I have ever seen. It’s a booklover’s dream.

We continued onto Mill Ends Park, the smallest city park in the world. Shaped in a circle, it is only 24 inches in diameter and is located in the middle of Naito Parkway. You really have to keep your eyes peeled for it, or you’ll miss it. In 1948, the “park” was built to be the site for a light pole. When weeds sprouted in it, Dick Fagan, a columnist for the Oregon Journal, decided to plant flowers in the hole. His column, “Mill Ends” would often feature the park and its leprechaun inhabitants. According to Wikipedia, the park has been home to many unusual items in the past, including a swimming pool for butterflies (with a diving board) and a miniature Ferris wheel. (No leprechauns were harmed in the taking of the below picture.)*


The last stop in our day of “-est’s” was Saturday Market. Located under the west end of the Burnside Bridge, it is the largest open-air crafts market in continuous operation in the U.S. I was stoked to go – I heard there was shopping, beer, food and live music. Sounds awesome! And all of this was true – to an extent. In actuality, it was a bunch of booths with random crap you don’t need (i.e. blown glass, bow and arrows, miniature dog statues), the live music was hippies beating on buckets, the food was mainly fair food (and we all know how I feel about eating food from a fair), and the beer was contained to a small area. Bummer.

Other Portland “-est’s”:

- The Hood to Coast Relay is reportedly the world's largest running relay race, with nearly 20,000 racers per year. The route is from Timberline Lodge on Mount Hood to the Pacific Ocean at Seaside. I hear it starts out really cold in the mountains, then gets hot at sea level, then finishes cold again on the coast. It’s 130 miles.
- Portland has the largest fabric store in the U.S., Fabric Depot.
- The Portland Building hosts Portlandia, the second-largest hammered copper statue in the world, second only to the Statue of Liberty.
- Portland is home to the very first professional hockey team in the U.S., the Portland Rosebuds, though no longer a team. But Portland was first, nonetheless!
- Forest Grove, Oregon, west of Portland, has the world’s tallest barber shop pole.
- In 1905, the largest log cabin in the world was built in Portland to honor the Lewis and Clark expedition.
- I’ve also read that Portlanders supposedly eat more ice cream per capita than any other city. Which is weird. I haven’t seen a single person eating ice cream since I’ve been here.

Now I haven’t heard of any “only’s.” Hey Portlandians, Portland is the only city to what? Fill me in!

*According to many sources, Portland is also home to the largest urban park, Forest Park, which is nearly 5,000 acres. I have heard, however, that Alaska swooped in and took over the title with one of their parks. Non-Palin supporters insert remark here. Poor Alaska.

Where Diane and Portland Meet

I remember visiting relatives in Texas as a child. We’d be down there for only a few days and I was already sleeping on “pillers” and referring to “you” as “ya’ll.” Well, it’s been a similar assimilation process in Portland. I don’t know if it’s because I’m impressionable or if I just adapt well. I’m going to go with the latter. Either way, I’ve learned that even while doing things the Portlandian way, it’s still Diane doing it.

Here are some shockers for you: I recycle. I ride a bike as transportation. I gave up Miller Lite for PBR. Now, before you get your panties in a bunch, let me explain…

I recycle. Portlandians LOVE to recycle. I never much got into recycling in Kansas City. You had to pay extra for it, and I remember hearing the rumor that Defenbaugh just threw it with the rest of the garbage anyway. That was excuse enough for me to not participate! What’s the point?! I said.

But people are serious about their recycling here. I watched a bartender, probably 3 or 4 times throughout the night, take an empty cigarette pack off the bar, slide the plastic off (non-recyclable), tear out the foil stuff (non-recyclable), and fold up the cardboard box to put in recycling. And he was fast at it! If it were my bar, it’d be going in the trash.

In Portland, they make recycling so easy, I’d feel bad if I didn’t. There’s a giant recycling can, big and green, just sitting right outside our house. What sort of people would we look like if that wasn’t dragged to the curb every Tuesday night? Definitely not Portlandians!

But keep in mind, I’m recycling in lazy Diane fashion. I’ll throw soda cans in a separate trash bag and paper in a box. That’s fine and easy. But if it’s something that requires being washed out, like a can of spaghetti o’s, sorry Portland, it’s going in the trash. I’m proud I’m doing as much as I am.

I ride a bike. And not just any bike. A bike named Nancy. Nancy is badass (as is obvious in the picture below). And yes, there was a Sid. I told Jeremy, who was with me when I bought Nancy, that he should buy Sid. He thought that would be silly being he already had a bike. Whatever. So, I bought Nancy, and broke up the bike couple. I told Jeremy that this was actually perfect, that I would find my lost Sid riding down the street some day, and we’d be instant soul mates and fall madly in love. Aaahh…

Jeremy broke my daydream with, “It’ll probably be a lesbian who buys Sid.” What? No. He continued, “Or no one buys Sid, so they send it back to the factory and melt it down to make another Nancy.” I’ve totally cursed Sid – and my love life – by buying one-half of a bike pair. Dang it.

But I did buy the most Diane-friendly bike I could find, even if it does prevent my happily-ever-after. It’s an automatic. That means, I don’t have to figure out shifting. I’m just riding along, and Nancy senses I’m struggling, so she just kicks it into an easier gear, and *wa la* pedaling is fun again. Also, I have small hands so therefore used to hate braking. Well, Nancy has petal brakes. Problem solved. Though, I must admit, on my first bike ride, I fell twice looking for the brakes on my handles. I panicked and the next thing I knew I was on the ground. It was awesome.





I drink PBR. A lot of it. I’ve tried some of the local beers – even drank a beer named “Nebraska” – but Pabst is just easy here. First of all, practically every bar either has it on tap or as tall boys. Secondly, it’s cheap. And when I say cheap, I mean cheap. So yes, while I’m drinking not the best beer, I’m being frugal Diane.

The most I have paid for TWO, not one, PBRs here is $5.80. And I was appalled at that price. “What? I bought two last night for $3.00! That’s a $1.50 a piece! And you expect me to pay $2.90 for one? That’s ridiculous.” No, what’s ridiculous is that I’m already absolutely spoiled by this.

But Portlandians like to drink, and so there’s a massive effort to make it accessible for all. Like last night, we went to this neighborhood bar for the first time. We walked up to the bar where someone politely pointed to the cups and free keg. Sweet. Not only is Portland the city of roses, it’s also the city of alcofrolics – everyone just drinking and having a good time.

I can adjust to all of this. And still be me. Home sweet home.

Keep Portland Weird.

You see it on bumper sticks. You see it on the sides of buildings. It’s everywhere. “Keep Portland Weird.”

This city is a city of transplants. I was at a party of maybe 35. Of those 35, only two were from Oregon. The rest of us were from all over – Ohio, Kansas, Jersey, Philly, Wisconsin. No wonder Portlandians are urging everyone to keep their town weird. They’re being invaded.

Well, I’m definitely doing my part in keeping the weirdness. And not just because I’m weird (out here, I’m actually pretty plain and boring). But I’m keeping the weirdness in my living situation alone.

Jerod and I live in a neighborhood called Woodstock in SE Portland. (For those of you who were concerned I’d starve, there’s a Mexican restaurant less than two blocks from me.) I enjoy Woodstock Blvd – between about 57th and 39th (all walking distance) are bars, restaurants, a grocery store, a hardware store, banks. Basically we could never leave and still survive. But here’s where it gets weird.

There’s an Arby’s on 52nd and Woodstock. Just a couple blocks down from there is Duke (which is a block or two from our house.) Upon that entrance into our neighborhood is a giant billboard that reads “Jesus is the Light.” This billboard was put up by the Apostolic Faith Church that literally is right across the street from our house. As in, we sit on our front porch, and instead of seeing a house, we see a church.

The church is beautiful, but this isn’t just any church. It’s the WORLD headquarters for the Apostolic faith. For those of you unfamiliar with Apostolicism, it is a Pentecostal Christian denomination. Jerod and I have been watching the habits of these churchgoers. It’s very interesting – the gates are open all week, until come the weekend, when people actually attend service, then they close and lock them. I think they’re trying to keep the people in. I am yet to see any snakes though, dang it.

But it gets better.

Around the corner from the church is an honest-to-God (pun intended) Jesus Camp. Remember the documentary “Jesus Camp” that created so much hype? Yeah, it’s like that. With little white huts and all. The Apostolics from all over the world congregate at this camp the last two weeks in July. I’m sad we missed it this year. (My mom hung through the bars on the fence of the Jesus Camp to get this picture.)

And if that weren’t enough to make our living situation weird – this is my favorite part – there are people that live in our backyard. Within the fence. They rent out the garage – not from us, but from our landlord. Every time I pull my car into the driveway, my headlights shine into their living room.

Only in weird Weird Portland.

Responses & Reactions

When you decide to make a big life change, such as moving to an entirely different part of the country, it's interesting how you handle telling people. A friend of mine, my heterosexual soulmate, just recently moved to Chicago. We found out on the same day our moves were going to work out, and celebrated with lots of beer. That night, we freely told all of our new bar friends of our plans. But sober, it's not as easy.

For example, with my parents, I slowly laid the groundwork. "Portland's really cool" and "I really like Portland" became common statements in conversations with them. I finally decided to just come out with it. It was a Thursday night. The conversation went something like this:

Diane: "Mom, I'm actually going to move to Portland."
Mom: "Yeah?"
Diane: "Yeah, aren't you excited for me?"
Mom: "Yeah, but I'm watching Grey's Anatomy right now."

I don't know why I was so worried about telling them. My parents obviously roll with the punches much better than I do.

I just came out with the news with most of my friends - and most have responded quite positively. In fact, more than one person has told me that they think this is the smartest decision I have ever made.

But there are some friends I still haven't told. I'm not trying to hide it, I'm just a little nervous for their reactions. The reaction is critical. It's a big decision, and you're never 100 percent sure of it, so the worst would be to have someone be completely unsupportive and make you question it. Or make you feel guilty for leaving.

And then there are the neutral reactions. For example, my favorite, which has happened on more than one occasion:

Diane: "I'm moving to Portland."
Friend: "Why?"

What do you mean "Why?"

There have been other times in my life where this has been asked about decisions I've made. The perfect response is to put it back in their court and ask them "Why not?" When you flip the question back, there really is no good answer, and especially in this Portland scenario. When I say, "Why not," they can't answer. Because there really isn't a good reason NOT to move to Portland.

But the classic, most memorable response I've gotten to the Portland move was this:

Grandma: "So, your dad tells me you're moving to Portland?"
Diane: "Yeah, I am, at the end of August."
Grandma: "Why don't you move to L.A.?

Huh?

Chuck, my adventure guide

I have no idea how long I plan to be in Portland – six weeks, six months, a year, but I’ve been making a list of the things I want to do while there. The list is pretty standard: fishing, camping, tour the cheese factories (I heart cheese in a BIG way), visit the country’s smallest national park. Okay, maybe standard in a Diane way. But a friend from Portland recommended I read Chuck Palahniuk’s Fugitives and Refugees: A Walk in Portland, Oregon.

I picked it up this past weekend, and have read only about 30 pages, but the list has already grown immensely.

For example, I must visit the self-cleaning house. There is a house in Portland that was built in a way that does not require vacuuming, dusting, scrubbing. The floors and walls are washed with the flip of a switch, and all of the water washes out through the fireplace – the art on the walls is waterproof to allow this to happen. Trinkets are kept in specially designed boxes so there is no need for dusting. The owner’s clothes move from closet to closet, a washing closet, a drying closet, then arrive at the last closet, ready to wear. Pure architectural genius.

Another Portland must-do is the adult soapbox derby, where participants race their homemade cars down Mount Tabor. According to Chuck, “Cars crash. People are hurt. And someone wins.” Luckily, the finals happen at the end of August, right when I arrive!

One I may not get to do, since I must earn my keep and make a living, is the Monk-for-a-Month. There is a monastery southwest of Portland in Lafayette that allows non-Monks (that would be you and me) to live as Trappist monks for 30 days. Each day starts with vigil prayers at 4:15 in the morning. The rest of the day is spent “binding books, baking fruitcakes, and tending the forest.” I’d probably last 12 hours… tops. But it’d be a learning 12 hours, nonetheless.

And these are just a few from the list… from the first 30 pages.

If the list continues to grow, which I know it will (I’ve peeked ahead and saw chapters on strange museums, gardens not to miss, and places to get your picture taken), this adventure may take longer than six weeks, six months, a year.

Here’s to Chuck.

Meet Jerod.

He’s weird. And he’s going to be my new roommate.

He actually rivals me in the weirdness department – and that’s hard to do. Here’s a sampling.

ONE Check out his pic. I think he’s unsure of which generation he was born in to. He’s kind of a cross between a 70s hippie and a 90s hipster, and gosh, I don’t know what else. But every time I look at him, I smile (okay, so I laugh, but not to be mean.). Oh, and he got cornrows yesterday. Classic.

TWO He calls me sunshine. We all know I am no ray of sunshine. Not even close. But he seems to think I am. Which either means he’s going to be in for it when we move in together, or that he’s just a weirdo and actually enjoys my disposition. I’m going with Option B.

THREE He regularly reads Charles Bukowski, William S. Burroughs, Hunter S. Thompson, Jack Kerouac – not so weird. But what is weird is that he actually gets something out of these books, more than the usual drug-induced gibberish that most readers get. It takes a weird mind to be on the level with the Beats.

FOUR Jerod and I play this game where we ask our iPod’s a question, then hit shuffle, and the first five songs that play are supposed to answer the question. We both truly believe in this game. Mine turns up pretty much a solid mix, not shocking that all five artists are on there. His, however, is always off the wall.

The last question we asked was, “Will we find Portlandian love?” His iPod answered with: The Update by the Beastie Boys, Under African Skies by Paul Simon, Hungry Like the Wolf by Duran Duran, My Heart Would Know by Hank Williams, and Dotted With Hearts by the HorrorPops. He was pleased with this response. Me, I have no idea.

FIVE Jerod is from Kansas City but he uses words such as “pow” and “back bowls” in everyday speech. The other day, I lost him at “cat track” when he was taking a “chute through the windows.” Huh?

I think much of this Portlandian adventure will consist of me reminding Jerod that he is a white Midwesterner in his mid-to-late-twenties, and that it is the year 2008.

I couldn’t have picked a more perfect Adventure Partner. Jerod, my AP.

What's Mine Is Yours

I plan to take to Portland only what fits in The Fit. This leaves me with a whole household of stuff that is not going.

Over the years, my friends have dispersed all over the country – New York, Chicago, Texas, Colorado, etc. Sadly, I have not seen a lot of these friends in years. I’m also leaving behind lots of very important people in the Midwest.

I’ve figured out a way to solve both of these problems simultaneously.

As it stands, my options are to 1) sell my stuff, or 2) store my stuff. I would prefer to not do either. So, instead, I’d like to “give” my things to my friends, as a promise that we’ll see each other again, so that stuff can be returned. It’s like we’re holding our friendship as collateral!

How it works is, if you live in Kansas City, Lawrence or Omaha, I’ll drop these items by your place, or if you live elsewhere, I’ll mail them to you (light loads only, please). This will force us to visit each other.

So, say I’ve been dying to play a game of Battleship, or have a Sex and the City marathon, and a friend in Chicago possesses these, then I come to Chicago for a visit, and then return to Portland with my items.

Or say I leave behind my yarn and fabric stash in Kansas City with a friend (you know who you are!), and that person wants to come to Portland, bring the stash along!

This way, eventually, I will get to see all of my long-lost friends AND get all of my stuff to Portland! Killing two birds with one stone, I say.

Now, of course, I’ll want you to put my stuff to good use. I expect whoever gets Scrabble to be an expert-Scrabble player upon my return. So please, ask for items that you need and want! No need for them to gather dust!

I bet you’re wondering, why not just ship everything to Portland? Well what’s the fun in that? This way, not only do I get to see all my friends, but I get to buy new stuff too!

I have CD’s, movies, TONS of books, an awesome breakfast sandwich maker… well, you all know me, you know what I have. So if there’s something you want, just holler! Lola is the only item not up for negotiation. (And I’m also not opposed to you, say, taking a mixer if your mixer has gone kaputt. My boring stuff needs homes, too.)