Mixster Northeast

Another classic mixster establishment is the Sandy Hut, an unrepetant old school dive bar on NE Sandy (hence the name) just north of where it forks off from Burnside. The goofy hut-shaped sign
is prominent from Sandy as one drives by. It's classic Portland, but it's also the kind of place one would go into on a dare, which is exactly how I found myself there last Thursday afternoon.

I was up in NE, in the Hollywood district, on some personal business. Red had texted me that she was going out to dinner with her coworkers at the end of shift, since it was the end of the quarter. On my own, I decided to grab a late lunch. Seeing the Sandy Hut sign as I came down towards the river reminded me of how I had joked with Red about going in there.

Four-thirty in the afternoon is perfect time of day to explore these types of places. It seemed now or never.  So I parked the Bimmer on a side street and picked my way across traffic on Sandy to the wedge shaped little building that looks like it grew right out of the fabric of Portland itself, the city that works.

Inside were a dozen locals scattered along the long arching bar back in the dimly lit dining room.  Behind them on the wall behind the bar were not only usual collection of stickers and artistic designs, but dusty found-object artifacts like a King Tut head and some antlers, giving the bar itself that organic feel of a fallen giant log rotting in a forest---exactly what you'd want in a dive bar.

All five televisions throughout the place, including the big screen in the empty part of the dining room, were showing the Blazers game.  A couple of the local crusties at the bar were watching the game and discussing the team, in the manner of slow-speed color commentators.

A gregarious and ample-figured Portland blonde woman, her exposed chest covered with tattoos, busily served them drink from behind the bar. She seemed to recognize everyone there by name (except yours truly).

The signature cocktail menu was on a whiteboard, written with blue, green and red Dry-Erase markers. It three drinks, all of them named after Blazer team members, I inferred. I ordered the Robinson Root Beer, that was made with vodka and a maraschino cherry, served in a beer mug.


The menu on the outside wall was full of Mexican items. But once I inside I realized that it was probably better to forget about those dishes and order from the specials listed on the white board---a bacon burger. That's what I had been wanting anyway---a dive bar burger. To my satisfaction it was tasty and came in a basket with fries.

As I sat at the bar, I noticed the booths in the dining room, all of them unoccupied at this hour, were slanted in decor more to the hipster side, with lounge-style lighting. After ten minutes, as if right on cue, a couple thin-framed young men wearing dark clothes came in and took a seat in the dining room at one of the tables. They asked the bartender if they could switch the big screen from the Blazers game to watch the Stanford game in the NCAA tournament. She said she was happy to comply, and took the remote over the big screen to find the game on the channel guide.

"Yeah, the college basketball tournament," chimed in one of the crusties, as if waking up from a slumber to castigate the bartender over her ignorance of the sport.

"I only had all the televisions on the Blazers game, because that's what I thought people wanted," she said, offering a plaintive apology to the faux complaint.

It turned out that the Stanford game had not yet started, so the two young men played a table video game while a different NCAA tournament game played out on the big screen.

It was just before five o'clock. The hour of the hipster had arrived.

Mixster

---a mixture of hipsters and old-time locals. 

refers to a type of clientele at certain Portland bars or restaurants. Coined by yours truly yesterday while at in the crowded front waiting room of the (original) Original Pancake House on SW 24th.

Actually I was trying to say the above sentence in italics, but wound up fumbling on the syllables. It made Red laugh, so we decided to go with it as our term Portland term.

The (o)OPH is a superb place to people-watch during the weekend brunch hours. The chairs are arranged in two long rows. One gets a close-up view of everyone there.  Classic B&W photos on the wall of the American Dairy Princess being served.

Once seated in the crowded dining room, we got prompt and courteous service. Coffee cups were tiny for 2014, but they were refilled often, and with zeal, despite the fact that the waitresses had to navigate a very dense maze of tables to get to us.

Omelette blew me away. As light as a cloud. Red got the classic Dutch Baby, and together we polished off the whole thing.

No signature cocktail menu, however. The place closes at 3pm.

Greater Beaverton

Friday afternoon. Rain.

A good rope-like downpour today. The runoff from the balcony on the second floor has carved a pit into the soft soil. Oil is washed off the pavement. The city goes about its business.

In the evening, feeling in need of a suburban experience we drive out through the West Hills to Beaverton, to dine at the Outback Steakhouse next to the freeway.

On Oleson Road, the runoff from the downpour has climbed up onto the pavement. The parking lots of apartment complexes there are part of the creek for the time being.

Turns out that the airport set an all-time one-day record for rainfall that day.

A Continental Mindset of Seismic Proportions

Earthquakes on my mind again. Lots of movement along the edge of the North American Craton and nearby plates lately. Swarms of mild quakes in Yellowstone, southern Colorado, and the Salton Sea.  Even up in the St. Lawrence Valley.

Around here there have been a series of them up around Mt. Hood that have been on the television news. The giant plates of the earth are seemingly on the move, grinding against each other. Maybe the quake off the coast of Eureka is part of larger phenomenon going on. If so, I hope it's just a little slippage going on, with nothing major building up.

Portland---I pray this place is spared the Big One, but if it ever befalls this area to suffer that kind of huge-scale seismic event in the near future, I hope it is not during rains like this. There would a hundred landslides like the one that happened up in Washington, that just killed a hundred people when the soil turned to liquid. If it must happen, let it be not any time very soon at all, and also during a prolonged severe drought.  Amen.

For Want of Salt & Straw

PDX spring rain. Water falls from the sky even when the sun is shining. Folks complain about the weather this time of year. I find it refreshing to be able to be indoors and concentrate.

Work has kept me busy the last few weeks, since coming back from the Bay Area (bumpy flight from OAK in a Bombardier Q400 on Alaska/Horizon). Last week Red and I made it over to the East side for dinner at a three-year-old place just off Hawthorne---super-hip Hawthorne as of the year 2014.

Bierbrasserie Bazi--dining there we felt overwhelmed by the hipness. We realized almost immediately that the slow speed of the West Hills (a.k.a. Greater Beaverton) had left us hopelessly on the side track of the contemporary Portland experience.

Here the Euro theme, stylish decor, and the articulated luscious "look" of the waitress down to the seamless lipstick color, made it feel like being on a movie set. But that's part of the Portland vibe. Restaurants in Portland are a form of a performance art, as I say.

The waitress, without my prompting, told me the darkest beer they offered was a stout, then proceeded to talk me out of it. When I came back by ordering a serrano-infused vodka cocktail (the one at the top of their menu), she warned me that it was quite spicy (it wasn't, but Red's mojito felt like it had been doused with a bottle of Tabasco sauce).

We both ordered burgers, and also a side of Brussel sprouts, all of which was solidly satisfying.

As we finished dinner, Uncle Wayson showed up---Red's gay housemate from Laurelhurst, who still lives on the east side and who is the same program as Red.

We had a couple more cocktails together, ones that came at uneven intervals, leaving Wayson without a drink for most of the last part of the meal. So be it. It's a movie set, after all.

Then we all hightailed it over to nearby Division, where we parked and stood in line outside Salt & Straw twenty minutes in the lingering winter cold. Inside we ordered two scoops each of their addictive ice cream (after sampling other super-hip postmodern-combo flavors by spoon, of course). We ate the ice cream sitting on outside benches, across the street from a pair of new loft buildings going up. It felt like good old east side times.

At the end of the evening, back on the west side, as Red and I drove back down Capitol Hwy through the strip malls of Hillsdale, we bemoaned how hopelessly unhip it felt here.

"And there's our Salt & Straw," lamented Red, pointing at the little shack building at the corner of Bertha---the neighborhood Baskin-Robbins.

Twinkle, Twinkle Little Double Pulsar

Gravitational waves, predicted by general relativity almost a century ago, have been elusively hard to detect, and therefore hard to verify as a phenomenon. Over the years, many complex computer models of gravitational radiation have been created, but so far a great many remain outside the realm of direct verification. This has arguably led to a somewhat stagnation in the field of relativity as a whole.

This recent interesting development, based on measurements of the cosmic microwave background by the BICEP2 telescope at the South Pole, is probably just the thing physics needs right now. People are getting excited over the apparent cosmological implications---Big Bang, early-universe physics, multiverses, etc.---but the greater significance is arguably more immediate. Namely, the results seem to provide deep evidence for gravitational waves as predicted by GR.

Who knows what other gravitational wave phenomena might be discovered and explored?

Stuff like this is rather fascinating.

Los Santos Los Tres in Longfellow, Oakland

A partial selection of the words & phrases of the board game Balderdash played on a recent weekend evening in north Oakland, during what was surely one of the finest rounds of that game ever played.

(Rules improvised from memory by Coop---somehow the board and the pieces weren't necessary, nor the dice, but we set them out as props nonetheless. It all worked out.)

(Lasagna dinner and lush cocktails provided by Elisabeth, whose hostessing was surely the stage upon which the scene was played.)



cockchafer (by Coop---Red wrote a wool sweater for a chicken. Coop almost cracked up reading it)

L.S.L.T. (by Molly. Elisabeth: Louisiana Salt Lick Trade.)

scrivello (by yours truly. Red: a pasta dish mmmmm.)

fipple (by Coop--"like nipple, but an 'f'," he said when first reading it. Red echoed it back in her contribution. Me: An Elizabethan era term meaning lighthearted due to the drinking of mede.)

In Akron, Ohio, it is illegal to ride a donkey if... (by Red, of course, who stumped me, and who got the most points in the final tally).

Full Moon Over the Emeryville Railyards

Thursday, not surprisingly, was a bit slower than normal. A blessing came in the form of having a bunch of work to do, which gave me an excuse to stay in my hotel room all day, while drinking multiple Vitamin C packets.

Friday I was back to my old self. In the daytime I poked around downtown a bit, found a comfy Starbucks next to the Federal Building, and whiled away the time until Red texted me that she was in San Francisco again. I told her to take the BART over to 12th Street. It was fun to see her reaction to Oakland as she came up out of the escalator and we walked around downtown. Such a contrast from the City.


Then we caught the AC Transit bus up to Emeryville, a shining perfect yuppie nesting ground,  much of it vintage 1990's lifestyle center, tantalizingly within sight of San Francisco across the bay. We knew we were home when we saw the P.F. Chang's.

We checked into the Hyatt House. They gave us a nice upper floor room overlooking the Amtrak Station on the other side of the tracks. Good memories of that place.

Around six I called down to the front desk for a cab, which we waited for in the lobby at a quarter to seven.

The week was over. Finally it was time to relax.

Oakland Footloose

By the time Coop and I showed up at Molly's office, we were already three sheets to the wind. After the Uber driver dropped us off (back at Coop's car), we killed more time---an hour or so, in the Stork Club, a cozy lounge just a block away on foot.

This place was vintage rough-edge Oakland club scene---band stickers all over the wall---although Coop said it was the third incarnation of the club. He and his band had played at the second Stork Club back in the day. We sat at the bar, the only drinkers there, since it was early in the afternoon, and discussed the history of the club with the bartender, a strapping half-bouncer type. He had an ambitious bend, saying he wanted to go into to graphic design. When I told him I lived in Portland, he said he wanted to move there.

I challenged him to make his best cocktail, and he came back with a simple vodka and soda in a plastic cup. I told him "that counts," with an encouraging tone, but when the next round came up I demanded he use three ingredients.

Then somehow Coop and I wound up downtown, and I checked into the Clarion on 13th with my bags. Then we walked over to partake in an early happy hour at the Tribune Tavern, which is located in the Tribune Tower, one of Oakland's historic landmark buildings. The place was packed with an after work crowd, ones who had beat the five o'clock rush to the first round. We drank beer next to a group of two dozen guys of varying age, all wearing similar dark suits. They were toasting mightily. We discerned it was the staff of a law firm who had just scored a major victory and were celebrating.

When five o'clock rolled around we picked up Molly next door and went to dinner---where exactly I don't quite remember, but it was good to get some chow in my belly.

At some point in the evening, Elisabeth showed up.

Molly

If memory is correct, Molly grew up part of the time on a big spread north of Fort Collins, owned by her dad (an old school cattleman) and her brothers. It was along the base of the foothills one goes up towards Wyoming. Her father was an old-school cattleman.

By the time I met her, she was living with her mother in a condo up past the Country Club.

She went to a different high school her first year--a cross-town rival. She transfered in to FCHS her junior year with a couple other folks from Poudre and made a big social splash. Especially Molly. Who is this person? She even stared her own underground newspaper, and handed it out to folks in the hallway, at a time when I was totally playing by the rules of the system---working on the official school paper and desiring of being editor of it.

This means she was more destined to be a real journalist/writer than I, and that in fact she has done---in New York City for national magazines, in Chicago and in Denver. Now she works in downtown Oakland writing copy for a business involved in renewable energy research. It's the kind of thing she really likes to do.

Last month she was raising month for Outward Bound. If she met her target, she was going to rappel off a a highrise building in downtown San Francisco. It may yet happen.

Liberated Oakland

One of the great joys of my lifestyle and job these last few years has been being able to see my good friends on a regular basis.

I've been extremely lucky in life to have met some awesome people.

To wit, Coop, who greeted me in Oakland, pulling up to the curb in his MINI alongside the construction pit next to the BART station, as he had said in his text. It was seamless. We went from there to a raucous pub in downtown Oakland where we had three pints of beer each, and lunch, and then left the car took off a long walking tour of the city just like the old days.

It was California beautiful. We had both taken the rest of the day off. We walked up along Lake Merritt and took pictures. I marveled at the architecture of Oakland, and how it tells a history of the city at a glance.

I told Coop about my adventures in Menlo Park, and how I had missed out on being able to use Uber, but had a good time anyway. Immediately he downloaded the Uber app on his phone and configured an account. He punched up our current location and used it to find a car, one of which was almost right to where we were standing, by the Whole Foods. The car was there within minutes, although we didn't recognize it as first because it looked like the other cars. He read the description again, then saw the car across the street. He waved to the driver, who waved back to us.

By his accent, our driver was an African visa worker, maybe now a citizen. He said he used to work at Mega Search Engine in Silicon Valley. He made more money doing it this way, and could live in the manner of life that he pleased. We all felt like kings of the day.

Then at quitting time we went and found Molly at her office.

How to Get From Downtown San Francisco to Oakland On Foot Via San Jose With Many Detours

1. (In San Francisco) Take MUNI and/or walk to the Caltrain terminal.
2. Take Caltrain to Menlo Park.
3. Stay the night in Menlo Park at a motel.
4. In the morning, take the Samtrans ECR bus to Palo Alto Station.
5. Explore downtown Palo Alto on foot, going up and down University. Have lunch at a mom and pop sandwich shop.
6. In afternoon walk up along Palm Dr onto the Stanford campus to the Oval. On the far side of the Oval, go through the courtyard and admire the Rodin sculptures. Go inside Memorial Church, perhaps just as a tour group is exiting. Admire the interior from the pews. Listen to an impromptu organ recital. Examine a few of the windows more closely. Exit the chapel. Make your way to the tower. Go inside the tower. Buy a ticket for the observation platform and take the next elevator to the top, listening to the narration of the elevator operator. On the platform, take in a view in every direction, noticing, among other things, the skylines of the three cities.
7. On the way out of the tower, peruse the exhibit on President Hoover.

8. Walk through campus along Serra Street. Cut through the courtyard of the Knight Management Center while classes are changing. As you walk past the big glass windows of outdoor-facing classrooms, peek in to as many of them as possible, noticing some of the presentation slides.
9. Make your way to the Caltrain station at California Street in Palo Alto.
10. Ride Caltrain south to San Jose Diridon Station. As you ride the train, n otice as many signs as possible of the offices of well-known dot com businesses.
11. Walk through downtown San Jose, over the Guadalupe River, to the Hotel De Anza.
12. Check in to the hotel, obtaining a room on one of the higher floors.
13. Take the elevator up to your room and open the blinds.
14. As the sun sets, watch the moving light sculpture at the top of the Adobe World Headquarters.
15. In the evening explore downtown San Jose, including the little restaurants in San Pedro Square, preferably when it is crowded with San Jose State students in groups and on dates. After dinner, walk to the California Theatre and admire the interior.  Look inside the lobby of the Sainte Claire Hotel.
16. Go back to the De Anza and have a signature cocktail at the Hedley Club Lounge.
17. In the morning, check out of the hotel and walk to the VTA light rail station at 1st Street.
18. On the platform, catch the next 181 VTA bus in the direction of Fremont BART station.
19. Ride the bus to the end of the line in Fremont. Go inside the on to the BART station platform and buy a ticket with just enough money to get to MacArthur Station. Swipe the ticket as you go through the turnstile, and take a seat on the next train that is departing in the direction of Pittsburg or Richmond.
20. Ride it to MacArthur. When you get there, text your friend that you have arrived.
21. Swipe your ticket on the way out of the station. The turnstile will swallow the card.
22. You are now in Oakland.

Anon Visits Menlo Park (told in the manner of 4chan greentext)

>be me
>be in San Francisco after awesome weekend with GF
>check out of hotel
>enjoy feel of nice sunny day
>eat breakfast of bacon and eggs at Mel's Diner on Mission
>real-golden-state-experience-oh-yeah-baby.jpg
>walk to Perry & Third
>find sign on sidewalk under overpass marking stop for bus to Santa Rosa
>watch as transit worker dismantles a small homeless tent under overpass
>wait half hour with GF
>secretly put chocolate bar in GF's backpack cause she's gonna to be at a vegan place all week
>wave goodbye to GF from curb as the bus pull away
>walk to Caltrain terminal a few blocks away
>whistling-to-myself.jpg
>buy ticket and get bonanza of dollar coins as change
>get on train in upper deck seat
>stare aimlessly out window at city as it goes by
>ride train to Menlo Park
>get off train with backpack
>quaint-downtown.jpg
>cross El Camino Real and walk three blocks to Mermaid Inn
>vintage-california-motel.jpg
>check in at desk and get old-style metal room key
>catch up on day's work and emails
>take long refreshing nap until it's dark outside
>sortie from the motel to grab some chow
>eat halibut and chips at a cheap take-out next door
>feel restless
>decide to take spontaneous walk to test trip maps made the week before
>meander up Santa Cruz Avenue
>detour off memorized route using smartphone Google maps
>freestylin-jpg
>find easy route on side streets to Sand Hill Road
>enjoy peaceful residential neighborhood
>it feels like a college town in the Midwest
>realize small houses there are probably ungodly expensive
>see lighted street sign at intersection of Sand Hill
>cars whizzing by
>walk up Sand Hill Road along footpath
>get to huge intersection and cross it
>see signs for venture capital funds on the corner
>this-is-silicon-valley.jpg
>walk one block and notice cool glass headquarters of Vinod Khosla
>see a few lights still on inside
>imagine the billions being handled there
>keep walking until the Safeway shopping center
>cut through shopping center and explore through parking lots of dark office buildings
>find signs for the venture capital funds previously memorized

• GI Partners
• Westly Group
• Lightspeed Venture Partners
• Nexus Venture Partners
• 5AM Ventures
• New Market Venture Management
• Blackstone
• GGV Capital
• Storm Ventures
• Shasta Ventures
• Onset Ventures
• Highland Capital Partners
• Northern Light Venture Capital
• Benchmark Capital
• Mayfield Fund
• Greylock Partners
• Capital Dynamics
• Blackstone Group
• Cambridge Associates
• Interwest Partners
• Morgenthaler
• Kohlberg Kravis Roberts 

>find front entrance to Kleiner Perkins Caulfield & Byers
>sit on bench in front admiring architectural design
>have fun imagining self to be entrepreneur waiting to go inside to make pitch
>be thankful I am not doing that
>cross Sand Hill Road and go inside the Rosewood Sand Hill Hotel
>ask doorman for direction to the bar
>go down the hall and turn left
>take seat at the elegant bar
>rich-techies-relaxing.jpg
>curvy-cocktail-waitress.jpg
>guys-in-grey-blazers-and-dark-shirts-sitting-on-the-patio.jpg
>read over signature cocktail menu
>ask bartender for his favorite
>say "that's the one I want."
>drink signature Manhattan
>peruse amazing selection of obscure whiskeys on the shelves above the bar
>chat with bartender and another guy at the bar
>bartender says Thursday night is "cougar night."
>decline offer of a second drink
>pay tab and go to men's room
>stand in line for urinal with drunken Indian business men
>take a rolled cloth towel from stack on tray to dry hands
>realize it's a long way back to the motel
>look up local cab company on smartphone and call number
>find out there are no drivers in area
>approach doorman of hotel and ask him to call cab
>doorman calls one immediately and apologizes it will be at least ten minutes
>hang out in front of hotel on bench chatting with doorman
>notice black limousines parked with drivers on curb nearby
>watch as old Chinese guy with thick accent comes out and asks doorman for his limo
>limo pulls up and Chinese guy gets inside it
>after ten minutes doorman says maybe one of the limos is free
>he takes golf cart and drives quickly over to one of them
>he comes back and says one is free and can take me anywhere I need to go
>limo pulls up and doorman opens the door for me
>"Have a good evening, Mr. Trump!"
>back of limo is full of snacks
>limo driver says to help myself
>ask driver to be taken to downtown Menlo Park
>we go back down Sand Hill Road
>chat with driver about Menlo Park
>cool guy
>tell him to stop in front of bar in downtown near station so I don't have to tell him to go to the Mermaid Inn
>he says to pay him whatever is felt appropriate
>give him twenty bucks and see smile on his face
>driver gives me card and says to call for ride anywhere in Bay Area
>walk rest of the way back to motel in dark
>sleep well in bed
>best twenty bucks I ever spent for a ride in my life

In the Groovy Epicenter of San Francisco History

It was a little past ten o'clock in the vening when we entered the front doors of the St. Francis Hotel. I know because I noticed the clock in the lobby---the famous master clock.

Orig. 1904 building, before additions

We'd made it the last stop of our splendid Sunday evening. We'd walked down from Nob Hill after trying to catch the cable car next to the Fairmont after our tour of the hilltop.

We'd just missed the cable car, but walking proved to be the better option anyway.  The air was pleasant and the sidewalks were dark but lively with other folks enjoying the evening.

When we got to Union Square, we marveled over the renovated department stores on the south side. It was clear that cities were fully "back," Red noted. I reminisced about the time many years ago that I bought a pair of black men's shoes in one of the stores there to go to Coop's first wedding.

Staring up the facade of the St. Francis, on the west side of the square, I insisted that we take a few moments to peek in and see the interior. If you're going to see one hotel in this city for historical reasons, then it probably should be this one. It's not because of the old-time grandeur, for it has been renovated several times top to bottom, and has been architecturally "spoiled." Rather it is because of what has taken place there.

As we crossed the street to the front door of the hotel, I pointed out to Red that the view southward on Stockton was exactly the same as a famous photo of the ravaged city just after the quake and fire.

Fatty wished he'd stayed elsewhere

Immediately after we entered the front doors, it was obvious the lobby of St. Francis was of much more recent vintage than the Fairmont or the Palace, even though the St. Francis was older than those two.  The bar looked like something one might see on the contemporary Las Vegas Strip---classy and bit classic, but definitely modern.

Built in 1904, the structure survived the quake fairly well but was gutted completely by the fire. In the ruins army troosp turned dining rooms with collapsed ceilings into impromptu mess halls. But the interior was rebuilt, and even expanded, and became much grander.

More than its rivals, it became a central pivot point of San Francisco history, as early as the 1910s. Famous guests included Woodrow Wilson, Mary Pickford, Charlie Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks, and Fatty Arbuckle (on the very night that ruined him).

In the 1920s, Art Hickman and Paul Whiteman brought jazz to the masses in the famous Rose Room. After Pearl Harbor, the hotel embraced the role of being a transfer point for ordinary uniformed Americans on their way to and from the Pacific Theater.

Later in 1945 came the UN delegations at the famous conference, when Molotov and Nelson Rockefeller stayed there. And it even survived as relevant into the modern era. Sara Jane Moore took a shot at Ford here. Reagan frequently stayed here. Queen Elizabeth and Hirohito did too.

Part of the cost for this modern relevance was the addition of a gaudy modern tower in 1972. But it spoils the original one no more than do other juxtapositions in this city. At this point, it almost lends a bizarre postmodern funky charm to it.

Instead what broke the link with the past was the remodeling of the lobby and the removal of its famous interior spaces, such as the Rose Room, as well as the Mural Room, where GIs danced before shipping off to the war.

Gerald Ford was a fellow lucky visitor to the St. Francis

Most of what you can see of this era today is contained in exhibits in glass cases in the hotel lobby. We spent a good half hour perusing them, and walked to the back part of the lobby to look at the Ansel Adams display (Adams was frequent guest during his urban commercial projects).

Then, having seen as much as there was to see that way, and not feeling up to another cocktail in the Vegasy lounge, we went back out through the front doors.

All in all, looking back, it was a fitting place for Red and I to experience this interesting but thankfully harmless event, by some stroke of luck.  Of we didn't actually consciously feel the quake, being safely distant from it. It was out on the Cascadia fault instead of along the San Andreas. We learned about it only a couple days later.

But it was certainly that event, and not the ghosts of the Rose Room, that gave yours truly a fitful sleep that night in our room in the nearby Parc 55 Wyndham. The hotel must have been ringing like a tuning fork all night long.

Sometimes things just work out that way to make a trip a bit more fun. When it happens in a city you love so much, like this one, it makes it all the sweeter. But if that's as close as I get to experiencing a true "big one" here, I'll live out my life as a perfectly happy man.

Little Paper Parasols at the Top of Nob Hill

"The Fairmont Hotel, please," I said to the driver, as we slid into the back seat of the taxi on Cyril Magnin Street.

It was a phrase that most folks do not get a chance to say very often, and I relished the syllables as they came out of my mouth.

The Fairmont Hotel (from Wikipedia)

Within seconds, we were climbing the steep grade of Powell Street to the top of Nob Hill, the historic location of some of the most elite addresses in old San Francisco, including the mansions of the Big Four railroad barons (i.e., the Nobs).

From the back seat, the dramatic view up the hill brought back primeval memories of my first trip to San Francisco as a teenager, sitting in the back of my grandparents' car as we followed nearly the same route on our way to our hotel in Fisherman's Wharf.

Red had the same reaction as I did back then.

"This is about as steep as you would ever want to make a street," she said, as we climbed the last impossible block to the top. There we passed the Mark Hopkins Hotel, which I pointed out to Red was yet another locale from Bullitt.

Its rival the Fairmont, which opened in 1907,  sat right across the street, looking as much like a bank as a hotel. Above the ornate portico entrance flew a dozen flags of different nations, crowded so closely that they were barely distinguishable.

It had been only four months since I'd found myself gazing on the Fairmont as I passed by it while riding the California Street cable car line. What is that place? I had asked myself, since no prominent sign adorns the outside of the building. A little research told me what it was, and piqued my interest.

The room rates were a little steep (no pun intended) for this particular trip (and frankly I'm not a big fan of staying in historic old lodging establishments), but it seemed a no-brainer to put a visit to the Fairmont on our itinerary this time.

The Tonga Room, showing the musician's barge

Fortunately Wikipedia had informed me about the Tonga Room, the funky historic South Sea-themed restaurant in the hotel. It had been quite popular during World War II and the years afterward, but like many such places had fallen into decline.

Only five years ago, the hotel owners had wanted to turn the entire place into condos and shutter the old kitschy restaurant, but as in the case of the Pied Piper of Hamlin painting in the Palace, a sudden outcry among locales had forced them to change course. The Fairmont remained a hotel, and the Tonga Room was renovated.

Having learned about this during my research back in Portland, I had used the OpenTable web site to book dinner there for us on Sunday evening. It would be the climax of our trip to city. It seemed the perfect place.

As our taxi came to stop in front of the elegant entrance, the driver opened the door to us and our feet. The hotel doorman, dressed old school to fit the setting, noticed that a dime had fallen out of my pocket as I paid the driver. He sprung forward to pick it up off the pavement and hand it to me. I tipped him a dollar in return.

We were a little bit early for a our dinner reservations, so we strolled through the lobby, gawking at the ornate marble columns and the Rococo-style ceilings. Then we navigated our way sporadically through the corridors and found ourselves alone on the rooftop garden in back, standing at the railing and watching the glow of twilight over the skyline of the city in the lordly quiet manner of the old Nobs themselves. Just across the street would could see down into the plush lounge of the exclusive University Club.

I narrated some of the history of the Fairmont to Red, including hiow it was built just before the earthquake, but had yet to open. The fire had damaged it badly, but the quake itself had left it structurally sound. A female engineer had been hired to shore it up for safety, and had applied the revolutionary technique of using reinforced concrete.

Then we took the elevator down to street level and found the entrance to the restaurant. Lively music came from the interior as we waited for the hostess to check our reservation. It was a true old-style Tiki Bar, everything you would want in such a place, down to a barge for the musicians to play on, that sailed out to the middle of a swimming pool in the middle of the dining room.

"I feel like I'm back in Kona," I told Red. We both agreed that it was a pleasant sensation.

The atmosphere was top notch, and we certainly enjoyed the exotic cocktails. Red took out one of the paper parasols and placed it in her hair. It reminded her of being a little girl, she said. Her grandfather had owned a restaurant supply business back then, and he often had many extra boxes of them which he gave the to her and her sister to play with.

It would have been a shame to lose such a place. Yet we both agreed that the food itself was very underwhelming, on par with a mediocre Chinese restaurant that serves take-out.

"They phoned it in," Red said flatly, as we ate our dessert. "It's as if someone wants this place to fail."

Still we were both glad we made it the centerpiece of our Sunday experience.

After dinner, we went back up to the lobby and lounged decadently on the circular sofa to absorb more of the decor and digest our meals.

The lobby of the Fairmont (Wikipedia)

I imagined the parade of upper and middle class residents who had come through the same doors over the years. I was particularly fascinated by the old brass mailbox just off the lobby, and the long chute leading down from the ceiling. I love such things that evoke a completely different and long past paradigm of communication. Could one still mail letters that way?

Feeling our experience at the Fairmont complete, we went out through the front doors into the warm night to stroll around the blocks at the crest of Nob Hill.

Next to the hotel I pointed out the Brocklebank, the upscale apartment building where Madeleine lived in Vertigo (Red had been unfamiliar with Kim Novak until we watched the Academy Awards this year---not a good introduction to that classic actress).

Then, returning to the movie that has been the centerpiece of this trip, I led her to Frank Bullitt's apartment at 1153 Taylor Street. The latter locale, although modest from the outside, was only a block down from the top of Nob Hill, within shouting distance of the Fairmont. Not bad for a San Francisco PD detective.

Last time I was here four months ago the theme was Dirty Harry. This time it was Bullitt. It makes me wonder what cop-related postmodern theme I'll pursue the next time I'm here in this city. I guess there's always McMillan & Wife.

In the Patchouli-Scented Footsteps of the White Rabbit

Refreshed from enjoying the sand as our mattress by the ocean, we headed back down the beach to the dune at the end of Judah Street, where we put on our shoes and waited on the curb until the next N train arrived and turned around to head back towards downtown.

Once on the train, we both relaxed in peaceful silence, alternately staring out the window and leisurely reading news articles on our smartphones. The train passed blocks of Chinese businesses, herb stores and acupuncturists, in two-story buildings that reminded Red of Mexico.

The train mounted the long hill on Parnassus and arrived at the west portal of the Sunset Tunnel,  where we disembarked at the corner of Carl and Cole streets. There we walked down the hill a few blocks to the heart of Haight-Ashbury, into the midst of the postmillennial incarnation of San Francisco's longstanding counterculture.

Red had wanted to see the neighborhood out of historical interest, and I had thought it would a nice addition to our itinerary on the way back to downtown.  It had been part of the tour that Coop and Elisabeth had given me a couple years back.

As we walked down Cole towards Haight,we passed ancient Victorian mansions crowded side by side and augmented by rusting security gates installed decades ago. I narrated to Red a little of the history of the neighborhood, how in the 1960s it had become a cheap refuge for post-beatnik types fleeing the higher rents of North Beach. One could imagine the waves of slackful youth that had occupied the floors of houses we passed, at least until they became prohibitively expensive.

I pointed out the direction to the east end of Golden Gate Park, the location of the Human Be-In in January 1967 that had launched the Summer of Love, and which gave early exposure to the Timothy Leary, the Jefferson Airplane and the Grateful Dead. It was amazing to realize the degree to which the counterculture had become the mainstream, something that would have been difficult to imagine back then.

I generally can't stand to listen to the old pop standards anymore, the ones you still hear so often on classic rock stations. But if you play the original album in sequence, interspersed with the songs that never became singles, it can be a quite different and pleasurable experience, and evokes what it must have felt like to have heard them for the first time, turning the vinyl over after each side on a stereo and dropping the needle. It was the Youtube of its day, a viral form of postmodern communication now long outdated and primitive.

At Haight one could see an appropriate urban collage of funky boutiques, secondhand clothing stores, cafes, a Tibetan gift shop, and a smake bodega selling hookahs and other pipes.  Above them, on the second floors of the buildings, it was obvious many of the apartments along Haight had been renovated to accommodate wealthier yuppie tastes.

Almost stereotypically, the aroma of patchouli and cannabis alternately greeted us as we passed open doorways, the latter scent being detectable nearly everywhere throughout the city, as Red frequently noticed.

The thin sidewalks were crowded with folks of all size and shape that one might expect in Haight-Ashbury,  including more than a few homeless youth in clusters. Almost if as cast in a movie, a bearded old man wearing tie dye shirt and dark sunglasses staggered by us into the entrance of a tobacco shop, as if he had walked the same path daily since the Sixties.

We had a light lunch at a burger place, where we watched with amusement as a homeless man outside picked condiments off a sandwich and threw each little piece onto the street with abandon until the concrete with littered with the ingredients he refused. Ten minutes later a city sanitation worker in an orange vest came by and scooped up the food debris into the trash with a broom. The cycle could start anew.

After lunch, we walked down the bus back to our hotel. At the legendary corner of Haight and Ashbury, Red used her iPhone to take a photo of the street sign and then sent it to her parents and one of her girlfriends, saying "Guess where I am."

Her parents immediately texted back "San Francisco!" but her friend, who is of the same age as her, replied "Berkeley!" which made us laugh.

The generation gap is alive and well.

Circular Meditations on the Chaos of the Pacific

Satisfied with our breakfast of toast at Trouble Coffee, we walked the short distance down Judah to

the ocean, where we took off our shoes and walked over the grassy dune and out onto the wide flat beach. The air was just on the edge of hot and cool, a perfect temperature under a mildly cloudy March sky. The forecast had said rain, but it looked now that the day would pass without showers.

A scattering of Sunday San Franciscans was out enjoying the fresh breeze. We blended in with them, strolling north at the very edge of where the waves reached.  The clouds refelected hazily in the sheen of the freshly dampened sand.

We walked all the way past the windmills at the western edge Golden Gate Park until we got the end of the beach near Seal Rocks and the Cliff House. There we spread our jackets on the ground and lay on the sand as the minutes and then hours of the afternoon passed by.

The reward for our walk was a splendid seaside nap, adjusting to the time change of daylight saving the night before, occasionally waking to sit up and watch folks passing by, as well as the few brave surfers out in the foam.

Red noticed the riptides making their way sideways across the beach. We traced the rogue waveforms and they moved unmolested through the main surf vectors.

For all the prep I'd done for the weekend, I'd left this time as agenda-less. Freestyle travel, I call it.

Of course from our position we were within sight of the epicenter of the Great Earthquake, making our spontaneous walk fit perfectly within our theme.

When you're in the groove of travel, things just happen this way it seems.

And the world is like an apple, spinning silently in space.

But that's an entirely different McQueen movie.

Pretend Hipsters on the Loose, With Cinnamon and Sugar

"This is probably the hippest thing I've ever done in my life," I told Red, as we disembarked from the N-Judah train on 45th Avenue after a half-hour ride from Market Street.

It was Sunday about noon. We were within sight of the ocean, only a few blocks away at the end of the line. We'd hopped off the train as soon as I recognized the exterior of our destination, Trouble Coffee at 4033 Judah.

We'd wondered if the place would even be open. There was no question that it was. At least a dozen people were standing outside on the sidewalk, drinking coffee and eating the specialty of the house---large slices of cinnamon and sugar toast slathered with generous helpings of butter.

Artisanal toast---that's what the gone-viral-on-social-media article on the web had called it, the latest too-trendy-to-be-believed fad among the youth of this city. Trouble Coffee's quirky founder and proprietress had started the trend, but it had supposedly already spread throughout San Francisco.

We had decided we wanted to see the original, of course. It seemed like the perfect Sunday morning adventure in the city, taking the train over (and through) the hills to the Sunset District.

The tiny establishment with packed with folks waiting in line. Behind the counter, three hipster-looking young men were busy serving them as fast as possible, one taking orders, a second making coffee drinks, and the third making the toast. The last of the three men performed his task using only a small household toaster and a counter area no bigger than two square feet. All three looked as if they had been working many hours and were in a Zen of concentration to keep up with the arduous demand.

By some miracle, we walked up to the door right at the line seemed to dissipate. We were able to place our orders within only two minutes. I seemed to have at least fifteen years of age on everyone else within view.

The founder, and subject of the article, was nowhere in sight. Perhaps Sunday was her day off.

I had figured the toast would take some time to arrive, but the bottleneck turned out to be the cappuccino that Red ordered. By the time it arrived, we had already scarfed down our big slices.

What was the verdict? "It tastes just like my mom used to make it," said Red, with a touch of girlish delight.

And we didn't even mind that it took so long for Red's coffee drink to arrive. It gave us an excuse to order a second round of slices and indulge in the decadent pastime of Sunday San Francisco people watching.

Our Cybernetic Time Travel Tour of Old San Francisco

The first stop on our Earthquake tour of San Francisco was of the famous golden fire hyrdrant at the top of Dolores Park, the one that continued to work during the fire and miraculously saved the Mission District.

Dolores Park, as seen from about where we stood (Wikipedia)

We walked en minutes from the Castro to Church Street, then hiked up the steep sidewalk until we found the inconspicuous little landmark sitting on the sidewalk.

My friends Elisabeth and Coop (true locals) had generously given me nearly the same walking tour a couple years back. This kind of "pass-it-forward" travel experience is a great pleasure when you can pull it off.

Actually despite having visited the fire hydrant before, at first I couldn't locate it at the intersection and had to resort to quick use of my smartphone to track it down.

Below us the park was packed with folks lingering in the balmy late spring afternoon, lounging around the grass amid a smattering of litter leftover from the height of a busy Saturday. By now it was just the right time of day to make the downtown skyline, and the historic mission itself, come alive with psychedelic oranges and golds reflecting off the steel, stone, and glass.

After soaking in the relaxing vibe, we caught a crowded J train back to the subway station at Powell and Market, which was just one block from our hotel. After freshening up, we then headed out for the evening on foot.

The Palace, as seen from the angle we approached it (Wikipedia)

I had decided our focus for that evening would be the historic Palace Hotel, which is a few blocks down Market at the corner of 2nd Street, occupying an entire city block.

As the hotel came in view, I narrated to Red a little of the history I learned from my pre-trip research---how the original Palace, built in 1875, had been the grand lodging establishment of old San Francisco, but it had been largely destroyed by the fire.

The current building---the "new" Palace, was built in just one year after the quake, and was designed to be more opulent than the original in the interior, although the exterior was far less gaudy, because styles had changed.

Red punched up the Wikipedia article on the Palace on her iPhone and continued providing more details on the hotel as she scrolled down the article with her finger. It's hard to imagine a time when such facts weren't available at one's command like this.  In this respect, the world seems so much more "interactive" now. San Francisco, of course, is the perfect place to experience this new paradigm to the fullest extent. It almost seems mandatory at this point.

We dined that evening at the elegant Pied Piper Bar & Grill inside the hotel. Even though there were larger tables, we chose to sit at a tiny one near the bar so as to be able to admire the large mural painting of the Pied Piper of Hamlin by Maxfield Parrish, which gives the bar its name.

Like many folks, even locals, I had heard about the painting only because it was slated to be removed and sold to a collector a couple years back (it is worth at least five million dollars in the current market).

The painting, as seen from about where we were sitting (Wikipedia). I'm noticing a theme.

As seems to happen in San Francisco whenever anyone wants to remove something historic, there was a huge sudden outcry, and the hotel changed course and decided to keep the painting after a restoration. It was replaced only last August, allowing us the pleasure of dining next to it, and admiring the vibrant surreal hues. Red found out that Parrish himself was the model for the Piper, and that when the painting was commissioned in 1909, the bar was the hotel's "Gentlemen's Bar."

Sitting below the painting was the perfect way to enjoy the bar's fantastic signature cocktails. The bartender was a real old pro.  His eyes lit up when I ordered the Chaplin Chaplin, which is made with absinthe.

"This is the kind of bartending job that someone keeps until they retire," I said to Red.

My strip steak was cooked to delicious perfection. But is was the caramelized banana and cream desert we shared that really stole the show. By the end of the meal, we felt like we'd really done San Francisco right that evening.

After dinner, we strolled down through the lobby to admire the massive and opulent Garden Court, a dining room that occupies the center of the hotel, and was the centerpiece of the reconstructed version of the Palace. 

I pointed out to Red that this is where Michael Douglas comes crashing through the ceiling at the end of The Game, a movie she hadn't yet seen. One thing about this city---you never get very far away from the postmodern experience.

And to think---we weren't even wearing Google Glass.

The Peaches Christ of the Old Barbary Coast

San Francisco is one of those cities that challenges one's travel fu in the deepest way. If you're going to go there, I say, then why not make the absolute best of it?

Of course that could apply to any destination, but when it's San Francisco, the benefits of beforehand research can pay off in a very big way in terms of pure fun. It's a shame not to do so.

In the weeks leading up to our departure, I had spent nearly every free minute at home taking pages of voluminous notes and making sketch maps of possible activities for us. I didn't want to waste a single hour of our time there.

Red had been there only twice before, when she worked for the Big Consumer Products Conglomerate, so she was open to just about any suggestion as to a theme this time. I had already settled on making a tour of historic hotel bars, something that has become my specialty. She liked this idea a lot.

It also turns out that she didn't know much about the 1906 Earthquake and the fire that ravaged the city afterward. A couple days before we left, we rented the 1936 MGM feature San Francisco, one of my favorite movies from that era.

It turns out the television I bought last month in Beaverton has Amazon Prime installed right in the firmware, so after configuring the Internet connection, we were able to download and watch the movie at our leisure (so we won't have to put the t.v. away until the next Olympics after all).

Although San Francisco, directed by "One-take" Woody Van Dyke, has been largely forgotten today, TCM considers it one of the landmark movies in the history of American cinema, as judged by the ten minute featurette they produced, and which they still show from time to time.

If you've seen the movie, you know why it was groundbreaking (amazing special effects, with the directorial help of D.W. Griffith).

It was the top-grossing movie of the year it came out. Moreover it introduces the famous title song that contains the lyrics "open your Golden Gate," which is sung repeatedly by Jeanette MacDonald.

Yet I would hesitate to recommend it to my friends, many of whom are devout atheists, because of the strong religious theme at the end. But it's hard to blame someone for falling to their knees in prayer when they see their entire city destroyed in one day (see map). It seems San Francisco has always been a place that has provoked ideological and spiritual extremes.

Red liked it a lot (she had never seen a Clark Gable movie before), and I enjoyed it as much the second time. In fact, the image of MacDonald as the "Colorado Nightingale" on stage in the Barbary Coast doing her bluesy earthquake summoning dance was still playing my head while we watched the drag queens dancing on stage at the Castro Theatre. It felt like a direct link between the past and the present of this magnificent place.

What more could one want, to dive head first in this city, so unique among the metropolises of the world?

The version of the song I mentioned starts at 1:26 in this clip, and takes place just around 5 A.M. on April 18, 1906. Amazing to think the movie was made only thirty years after the earthquake, in living memory of the event. What would San Francisco look like now if it had been similarly destroyed in 1984?

Papa Smurf Does the Castro

As it happens, we got to the Castro Theatre in plenty of time for the show.  Nevertheless I found it odd that the cab driver didn't recognize the name of such a famous local landmark, and actually drove half a block past the grand facade and towering sign before we made him stop in the middle of traffic.

Near the corner with Market Street, a cluster of men, some of them completely naked, were holding signs as part of some kind of protest.

Our VIP tickets that I'd purchased online were waiting at will call at the box office. Once inside the crowded lobby, I snagged our complementary cocktails at the cash bar. A old poster for an open casting for the movie Milk hung on the wall next to the table.

With our cocktails in  hand, we went down the long aisle of the big auditorium to the second row, to get as close to the stage as possible. When we took sips of our drinks, we found that we had been given quite ample portions of vodka.

There were already plenty of drag queens walking around the aisles and on stage. Having finally arrived at our destination after our little adventure, we relaxed in our seats and marveled at the opulent interior of the grand old theater, which Wikipedia says opened in the late 1920s and has been owned by the same family all this time.

At showtime the house lights came down and the faux movie credits of the stage show came on the screen---a drag queen parody of the movie Clueless from the mid 1990's. It was the debut of a brand new show from Peaches Christ, a cross-dressing performer well known in the Castro district.  In the opening number, the entire cast performed a dance and lip-sync to the song "Kids in America," which opens the movie as well.

The show basically followed the movie, with all the principal female movie roles played by drag queens, and with changes and twists appropriate for this type of cast and show in the Castro. The audience recognized the main performers and yelled raucous approval when each came on stage for the first time.

Red and I both greatly enjoyed the show, and agreed it was the perfect way to start a weekend trip to San Francisco. It was clear Peaches Christ (who played the role done by Brittany Murphy in the movie) is very talented as both a performer and a show producer.


We even stayed to watch the movie afterward, which had new meaning after the stage pre-show we had just seen, although I dozed off for a nap during most of the second act of the film. The audience was very interactive during the movie and shouted out loud comments many times.

Afterwards, as the auditorium emptied out, Red and I used the respective restrooms in the basement--the women's and the men's---and it turns out both us stood in line behind drag queens to get in.

When we went back out onto the crowded sidewalk the afternoon sun was still bright. Rainbow flags seemed to flying everywhere along the street, and men of varying ages were walking down the sidewalk with their arms around each other.

There was plenty of day left to use for fun in the city. I offered to give Red a walking tour of the area, including the location of Castro Camera, where Harvey Milk ran his political campaigns in the 1970s. It was only half a block down the street.

It must have been the stocking cap I was wearing, as well as my untrimmed white beard, because as soon as we started away from the theater entrance, I heard an effeminate male voice, seemingly peeved at my departure, say to me: "That's right, Papa Smurf, just keep on walking..."

That cracked me up. But as I told Red, I was used to it. I'd been getting cat calls from the men of San Francisco since I was fourteen years old.

And my new Castro nickname seems to suit me well. I think I'm gonna go with it. As my friend Elisabeth says, "One does not simply walk into the Castro...and expect to ever leave."

I blatantly stole this photo of the show from the Facebook page of my friend Elisabeth. She's a big fan of Peaches Christ (center), and she seems to have sat in exactly the same seats as us, but at the 8 pm performance.

Postmodern SFO

The bright sun and the warmth of the California air hits us as soon as we walk out the door of the CRJ-200 on the tarmac of San Francisco International Airport.

We ride the courtesy shuttle to baggage claim, then walk the short distance to the front door of the terminal where a taxi is ready waiting for us. Only a few seconds later we are gliding away down Highway 101 heading towards the City.

"Of course that's where the climax of the movie takes place, " I reminded Red, pointing back at the airport. "It's where Frank Bullitt kills Johnny Ross. Of course they've remodeled the entrance since then."

Later as we pass the exit to Candlestick Park, I point out the place where Bullitt pulls over in the Mustang to let Cathy puke, after she's seen the corpse in the motel room in San Mateo.

I point out a few other places from the movie as the cab driver weaves through the thickening traffic that is trying to get to downtown. We exit on 7th Street, and the driver asks me to clarify the address so he can find it on his iPhone. He hands me the phone in the back seat to make sure he is going to the right destination---55 Cyril Magnin Street, just off Market near Union Square.

When we are finally at the hotel we check in early and go up to our room on the sixth floor. It is just past two o'clock in the afternoon. We are in our room only five minutes before we leave again and head down to the lobby. We are not yet late, but I want to get to the show with plenty of time.

Outside the hotel the doorman motions a cab for us, which like the one at the airport, seems to materialize for us immediately.

From the back seat I tell the driver our destination. "The Castro Theatre, please."

Channeling McQueen

Saturday morning on the Marquam Bridge. I am in the Bimmer, racing up one of the chaotically interwoven lanes, heading towards the east side. I am following the car in front of me as closely as possible, as if in pursuit.

I follow the car that way down the ramp onto I-84 heading east. After a passing a couple exits, I switch to the left lane and push the accelerator down. The Bimmer zooms past the car that I was following. When I'm past it, I slip back into the same lane. Now the roles of pursuit are switched.

The car follows me all the way to the rustic parking facility in north Portland near the airport. Once there, I get out of the Bimmer, leaving the keys in the ignition. I walk over to the other car and get inside it.

"We switched places half-way," I say to Red, once we are at the airport. "Just like Bullit."

A Plastic Fantastic Night Above Portland

Another vista of the river, and the city beyond it, but this time the sky is dark.

The Chart House restaurant on Terwilliger Drive is lively with a Friday evening crowd. From our tight circular booth on the back wall we can see above the other tables to the long row of windows. Through them the lights of the east side make a big mural, a white and yellow rolling carpet. Down on the dark ribbon of the river, a passenger ship passesby  lit with a string of lights from the mast.

Tonight we order the three-course menu prix fixe offered for annual restaurant month.

"Now this restaurant rotates, right?" I say to our server,  as an aside, motioning with my hand toward the windows, stirring in the air with my finger.

It takes her a second to realize we are pulling her leg. It turns out it's her third shift working there.

"Maybe if you drink enough wine," she says. We all get a good laugh out it.

We pad our tab with signature cocktails. As we drink them, we surreptitiously watch parties at the other tables.

An afterwork get-together of coworkers, or family night out? 

That two on the end---are they a couple?

Our conversation turns to old television theme songs. Improbably, Red can recite the lyrics to the theme to Mr. Ed.

After dinner, the valet attendant brings our car to us in the tiny parking lot.

When we are in the car, I say "let's consider the trip to start right now,"

We go back home and put the Surrealistic Pillow album on Spotify while we pack.

The Lords of the Willamette

The trail popped me out in the quiet residential area in back of the campus of OHSU, which is up in the forested hills south of downtown. The back neighborhood is one of those little pockets of hat is not usually on one's route unless you live there. The houses and apartment complexes looked like the type students might live in.

From there I walked down the street towards Terwilliger Drive. The back edge of campus was marked by a student parking lot, and the old quaint buildings of the School of Nursing.

From there I cut through campus to the VA Hospital, and then walked along the level winding road. It was easy and level. One felt high up above the rest of Portland.

A few minutes later I came upon the next ravine, which is no longer wild, but rather is opulent with soaring palaces of glass along sides. The towers are even connected by a majestic glass sky bridge for pedestrians. Down through the gap one could see blue sky and the hills beyond the river.

I picked my way along the concrete staircases, following the official trail signs. Then I followed the sidewalk up to the OHSU hospital, then doubled back along its outdoor walkway, in front the windows of the hospital reception area, through a sculpture garden.

As I did, I passed a crowd of people going the other way, who had just gotten off the aerial tram.

I zigzagged along the obvious corridors to get to the tram station. When I opened the door to the outdoor platform, the cold wind blasted me and held the door open.

The passengers were waiting in line to board. I waited for the door to close, then I watched the car descend along the cable to the station below. Far down below I could see another car making its way up the other cable.

I went out to the very edge of the platform and took in thea deep wide vista of the city and the volcanos. Mount St. Helens in snowclad glory looked almost as grand as Rainer.

Down below Portland seemed never so revealing.  East Portland rolled in a big long grid across the river. Towards downtown could see the Hawthorne Bridge spanning the river and the little triangle of water that had been visible from the Marriot. From this high vantage point, the Marquam Bridge looked outrageous---a beautiful interweaving of lanes not depicted on most maps.

My mind reeled, trying to trace the traffic along the intermixed lanes of I-5 and I-84. Like I told Red, when I was tracing out the highways on the map for her, it's like nothing I've ever seen.

I watched the traffic pile up helplessly, trying to get onto the Ross Island Bridge to reach East Portland. I thought of my friend Adam, who lives in the neighborhood on the opposite side of the bridge, and to whom I once dedicated a book. He knows a ton about typography.

Seeing Beyond the Tops of the Skyscrapers

The trail went down into the woods in steep switchbacks. After a few minutes I was completely out of view of civilization.

It had been a couple days since the last rain. The trail was muddy in a few spots, but manageable.

At one switchback, there was a small clearing where one could see through the trees towards downtown. Downtown was further away than I thought it would be. Moreover the tops of the buildings, even the Wells Fargo Center, were lower in altitude than where I was standing. It felt strange to be above the buildings that way.

Halfway down the mountain, I took the fork that cut laterally across the face of the ridge, descending several times into creeks. I paused at the bridges, in peaceful solitude, contemplating the gushing stream, swollen from recent downpours---the opulence of water in an Oregon spring.

After twenty minutes I finall saw civilization again, in the form of thick houses though the trees, and signposts at the trailhead.

I had no idea where I was. It didn't matter. I was curious to find out. Another Door of Portland was about to open.

In Portland the Trees Are Your Friends

That walk I took up into the hills---like I said, the houses up there are like treehouses. They cling to the slopes on beams. The driveways go right into carports that are suspended as well from the cliffside. The other treehouses are visible under the forest canopy on the hillside nearby.

The houses are largely in a modern style, but are now aging themselves, the wood having accumulated many years of dripping rainfall. Some of them look as if they could tumble down in a good earthquake. Others were as small as apartments, as if someone built a standard American duplex clear up there in the trees, and made it stick out from the hillside. In a more upscale city, someone would have torn it down and built a bigger house there by now.

After making my way up the maze of residential streets, I found myself on Fairmount Boulevard, which circles the entire top of the ridge. I was right under the shadow of the Stonehenge Tower.  I could have gotten closer, but I didn't feel like it that day.

Instead I decided to follow Fairmount around eastward to the river side of the hill. Soon I found myself on a overlook. It was a chilly sunny day, with blue sky and clouds for good shading. I could see across the Willamette straight at Mount Hood. The contours of the mountain were in stark relief like a map. I estimated its prominence against the surrounding horizon---about one thumb width held at arm's length.

Here at the overlook on Fairmount, the houses had become standard old-style mansions, with manicured grass and a tennis court visible just below on the hill. I could see right into people's front windows. It felt odd, but there was nobody in any of them.

As Fairmount began descending the hill, the hedges at times were planted in a dastardly way to force pedestrians and bicycles right out into the flow of traffic on a blind curve. It seemed obnoxious to have left the hedges that way, almost leaning over the road.

Portland, despite its image, is actually one of the most foot-unfriendly cities around, if you count the actual city boundaries. Stay in the contiguous grid and you're fine, but much of the city (not to mention the whole Metro Area) is actually outside of it). It makes it quite hard to get from one section of the city to another on foot.

By the way, it shares this foot-unfriendly distinction with Austin (where they perversely throw you in jail for jaywalking).

Fortunately for me, the road was empty. Moreover a contractor doing work at one of the mansions had parked his van in the road, forming a natural traffic block augmented by the placement of several orange cones in front of it.

I wanted to walk onward, down past the mansions towards Downtown, but I feared I was going to have to go down Fairmount looking over my shoulder and leaping out of the way if a car came by.

Fortunately, only a hundred feet later there appeared on the side of the road a trail head, leading into the thick woods below.