Disappearing into Portland, Oregon...

A return to a piece of the past.

Those of you who have been here a while know I love old stuff. All of my clothes come from a second hand source, I shop at the thrift store multiple days a week, I’m a collector that borders on hoarder. I favor old houses over new tract construction. My house is old. My house was built in 1947 and has a push button electric stove and floor heater vents. Our old apartment in Alameda was built in 1930 - with a radiator in the living room and bedroom - and I miss it terribly. As much as I love old, I also still need it to be functional. My stove is electric and push button, but you bet your ass is still comes through with the efficiency that I require. During these days of Covid, we’re starting to see a surge in regression; what’s old is new again.

Writers have taken to creating newsletters - which was totally a thing ten years ago, ask David Lebovitz who started his around this time. Because the supply chain is in a state of interlude, products from Puerto Rico are increasingly more difficult to find and I’ve been having to implore my community on the island to ship me products much in the same way my grandma had to. We’re getting back to basics and that’s fine. But, I still need efficiency and practicality during this time of resilience.

It’s my first time traveling since 2019. I’m in Portland for the first time since 2016.

Portland was the place I escaped into. Portland has a very laid back vibe that reminds me of a very homogeneous Sacramento. Autumn in Portland is absolutely beautiful and because there’s very little to do, I can easily do nothing. The whole purpose of escaping in the first place. I’m content with just a walk through its idyllic neighborhoods.

But, I remember the 2016 vibe I felt in Portland, so different from all my visits between 2009-2015. So different. Maybe we were different, I was different. The stares seemed different. The Stetson hats and cowboy boots seemed different. I just remember feeling like maybe it wasn’t going to be the place I escaped to anymore and then…I didn’t. It wasn’t. And then Portland finally went through its own different in 2020 that I anticipated was different in 2016.

Sunday, I drove into the lushness and the greenness and the freshly rained on roads. The first time I’ve ever driven in Portland, not wanting to deal with public transportation during the “pan de coño.” The first place I stepped into after driving from the airport was a brunch spot in North Portland called, Gravy. I felt so welcomed in Gravy. Which was great since this was only my second time dining-in since 2019. They tucked me into a bare wooden booth, all the way in the corner, with only a one-top to my right. I couldn’t have asked for a better table. I was feeling that pre-2016 vibe all over again. I did notice a lot more BIPOCs than I remembered from my last visit. Maybe it’s a part of the metamorphosis?

Nothing but good vibes and EXCEPTIONAL service from the staff. Surrounded by smiling faces, BIPOCs and full stomachs. Gravy offers comfort food for everyone. Chicken fried steaks and biscuits and gravy (sausage or mushroom) and hash browns (that are more like Rösti) and perfectly cooked over-medium eggs.

When I first started visiting Portland, I’d stay at the White Eagle in North Portland. I quickly outgrew the shared bathrooms and shared showers and vibrating floors from the downstairs attached bar and music hall. And also opening the door to a rowdy crowd of party goers in coconut bras. Then I moved on to the Kennedy School and I never looked back.

It’s time to look back. I may have outgrown the Kennedy School’s quirkiness and oldness. I love the classic architecture. It’s a beautiful campus. But, I still need efficiency and practicality with my old architecture. Its wifi connection was barely keeping my laptop alive as I wrote this and I had to switch over to my personal hotspot via my phone. Not to mention the building seems to be holding my cell service hostage, encouraging guests to use their lackluster wifi!

My needs seem to be different this time around.

Trying to recreate my past visits just seemed almost impossible. There’s a reason some refuse to live in nostalgia. I wanted to sit near the fire pit that is in front of the school. But, there was no fire. This would happen from time to time in the past and I’d ask the front desk, they’d find “the guy,” and he’d come out and build a fire. Myriad of travelers would gather round the inviting fire with their libations and share stories while getting warmed in the brisk Pacific Northwest autumn weather. I was even starting to wonder where “Frank” was, a gentlemen we came to know who would visit the Detention Bar almost every night; Frank lived just up the street from the school. On this day, there was no travelers and no fire and according to the front desk, no “guy.” “The guy doesn’t come in until 6PM” they said. The clock said 5:50PM. I sat in the front of the school in front of the non-fired fire pit with my delicious (and apparently “classic”) Gin Rickey. I waited until 6PM. No guy. I inquired again and apparently, “The guy doesn’t come in until 8PM.” Okay.

I was directed to the restaurant on campus, just a mere feet away, where they have a fire pit. I walked passed the Black Lives Matter flyer taped to the hallway wall and proceeded to explain to the mystified (and insanely busy) hostess of the restaurant. My patience started to grow threadbare. She finally led me to a dark corner of the courtyard where an ignored fire pit stood. I sat in that dark corner until the someone from the restaurant (I actually know their name and position, but I don’t wanna blast them) came and built a fire. When I told them I had been sitting out front waiting for "the guy,” they said, “They lied. There is no guy. I’m the guy.”

On the consumer/guests’ end, I had paid the costs to stay here, all of the front desk workers were idle and I just wanted to sit in front of a fucking firepit. On the other hand, it’s still Covid. I felt like a Primadonna, and maybe I should have just moved on; I just wanted to sit in front of a fucking firepit. I guess you can’t see the difference without the inflection of my voice.

The fire was now roaring and I was both happy…and pensive. The fire was of no consolation. Maybe a deep soak in their salt water hot tub would make me feel better. It did. For a while. I sloshed back to my room in my wet Vans. All of the overhead lighting in my room was controlled by one switch, leaving me with the only option to sleep under direct overhead lighting or leave the long entry hallway pitch black. Hello?! The Cucui could be in there! These folkloric beliefs run deep. I immediately went to my old comforting friend; food.

That didn’t work out because room service never answered after I called. And I called. And I called. And I called. I called the front desk to inquire if they were even doing room service during Covid, “Yes! It’s only 9PM. I’ll transfer you over.” And no answer. I tried for 30 minutes. Not wanting to put on my sloshy shoes and cover my hair-wrap and put on my coat to cover my pajamas (if Mami ever saw me out in the world in pajamas she’d have a damn heart attack), I rejected the call of the tots.

The window in my room where I started Diasporican six-years ago.

The proposal to Diasporican was written in this very hotel six-years ago. I sat at this bedroom desk in front of these beautiful wall to wall windows that look out onto the beautiful trees and changing foliage. The window slightly cracked to allow that Christmas air into the room and my partially gloved hands clack away. This is the only thing that seemed to be exactly the same. But, the feeling isn’t the same. I really wanted that feeling. I needed that feeling on my first trip back in five-years. It wasn’t there.

So many businesses had closed. A few businesses had been demolished and brand new apartments built in their place. My needs seem to be different this time around. I felt…old. No longer am I amused by the quirkiness of the school; my job requires stable fucking wifi. Maybe I’m different. We’re still living in a Covid world, and receiving Covid-blamed apathetic service and quality, but still being charged pre-covid prices for everything. And we’re not allowed to say shit. Because…Covid.

The ice cold chopped brisket sandwich at Matt’s BBQ

I tried to sleep last night on the hotel’s uncomfortable and archaic spring mattress. My back reminding me that it’s only been, what? A month, maybe a few weeks before Mami had to come over and take care of me because I legit could not move from the painful spasms jolting through my back. The more I moved, the more I attempted to find a comfortable position at 3AM, the more mad I got. I laid my coat down on the floor and I schlepped from the bed onto the floor onto my coat and readjusted my spine. I was lying on my back. I was infuriated. I finally placed a bunch of pillows against the bed’s headboard and propped myself up like one of those Puerto Rican funerals where they stanchion the deceased doing something they loved while they were alive; dead body on a Kawasaki Ninja, anyone? My back finally feeling supported. Finally finding relief; I passed the fuck out until I woke up 30 minutes ago. A solid four hours sleep without a peepee interruption and I’m less angry, but still pretty damn ornery. Apparently, ornery is my natural state anyway.

How much shit can we blame on Covid and not capitalism? Will there be a statute of limitations when you can no longer use Covid as an excuse? Or, years from now will we still be under the root of Trumpism and Covidism and people will still be bitching about the wrong shit; they’ll convince you that hours and dollars need to be spent on changing the vernacular of the issue - homeless to unhoused -without actually solving the fucking homeless unhoused problem which is also a mental health problem. And people will still be eating barbecue in a cartopia food truck pod while a person with mental health issues stands on the sidewalk directly in front of the entrance and yells at the top of their lungs, “I’M HUNGRY! I FUCKING HATE BRISKET!”

The ending got away from me. I’m tired and angry. What’s new though, right?