(Editor's Note: Trip Darvez was sent on assignment in Portland to cover the "Rose City Speedboat Races" over the past weekend. He returned days late, and left only a well-worn Mead notebook. We believe these stories to be from this assignment.)
Day 1 - "Dude, did you see that?"
I sure did, man. How could I not?
My arrival in Rip City began with a familiar face. Greg Oden's mug stared from a billboard that would cover most buildings. So this city is "back," huh? It's safe to guess the old pro isn't supposed to really do that. Hell, who could?
Checking in to an older hotel downtown may have been a mistake, but it's not right now. A wedding reception is taking place in the lobby. Not in an adjacent ballroom, right in the fucking lobby. Hey, uh, am I in the right place? Confusion reigns: the pills I took have likely worn off but they did NOT go down easy. I can't pretend I'm here for the wedding in this Magnum, P.I. T-Shirt (you could at my wedding). But I get in, ready to put a deeply delayed flight behind me. I start at Cassidy's.
At least that's what I think it is, and what it's supposed to be, People are working but there are no customers. An Abbott & Costello routine with the bartenderess...but I get served and fed. And those pills decided to rear back to force my mind's haze to return, they sure did. Cold water on the face didn't work. Am I still hungry or did I over-eat? This is a problem only I seem to have. Well, which is it? Whichever it is, the dry heaves are telling me I need something. This girl is actually about to suggest I go home with her and hang with she and her husband. 3-ways aren't the solution. So, back to the room for rest and recuperation.
My time in bed is fraught with confusion. What the fuck happened? I have speedboat races to cover tomorrow; I need good health. Bruce Campbell is on my TV and he's being served a beer while ordering more. Somehow he's attempting to send me a message, which is "Get up and drink. You will feel better almost immediately."
Choosing a dive bar is no easy task in this town. Coming from an area where DZA and I can talk of all dives we know in LA in a 3 minute convo, a choice is a welcome difference. Scooter's is where I settle because the bartender is Irish. And by that I mean "she arrived from Dublin on Monday." Mean drink is poured as she plays The Clash & Blondie on the stereo. And just as I'm starting to think this bar is made for me, one of Portland's "middle" sits next to me. An attempt for a free drink from Ms. Ireland yields no results. But somehow he finds the $3.00 he "forgot [he] had" and gets Well vodka on ice. And just as his "luck" visits him, he nearly spills the entire drink on me. His last moment save and freeze hears him say the quote above. I agree, and realize it's the right time to avoid the future at all costs.
Day 2 - "I've been 32 before. I was, once."
The race organizer said possible lightning is delaying the race by 1 hour. So, I wander to a gigantic book store and look for info on Speedboats. I want to seem in my element to keep the free drinks coming. While there a familiar scent stings my nostrils. The mixture of tired cement floors, worn wood, and years of sweat give this a very collegiate feel. It's not that I miss this vibe but that I missed it. And this "middle" of which I spoke, they clog the aisles in this place. This is seeming to be an inordinately large culture of ongoing grad school. Year after year, they study...with no end in sight...with goals set so long ago, you don't bother to wonder why.
Shit, that was depressing. Getting back on topic, a topless girl has just gone by on a jet ski, and unless I have severely underestimated this town, the race is on. 3 at a time, they come gamely down. Almost all of the boats are white, sans numerals...which is continuing to make this tough. A supposedly lost small boat is mixed in this shuffle and nearly clipped by the front runner in heat 6. An incident such as that would have really excited me but it all seems perfectly normal, if usual. A "tow boat" just went by us and we're in some delay, awaiting the news.
After a continued spell of waiting, the derelicts at Scooter's told me some very unfortunate news: what I was watching was the finals. The actual full race was done at another location. Safe to say I'm fucked when it comes to this story. Bar patrons aren't ever in the mood to talk of why you're depressed, they're looking for reasons to celebrate. It's one patron's birthday, which lead to today's quote from the man next to him. The birthday boy is off to a girl he knows who's "an easy fuck" so we wish him well. I've got to get the fuck out of this bar.
Day 3 - "That means the weekend, so I work then and I've got it made."
Climbing along the Columbia River the following day, I am determined to put the previous day's sorrows behind me and see if I'm still on for the assignment in Albuquerque. It was a rare moment of quiet that made me reflect on the people in this area. This city churns with its own personality...its own beat...and a tolerance to accept this to match. But there's a fine line between that and laziness. From a distance these two probably seem like the same thing, but they aren't. Because while these people may seem "unusual" or "quirky" to the "Olive Garden or Chili's?" crowd, they are doing their own thing. It's their own speed, and their own way, but they're doing it. The tubby lounger wouldn't fit here any more than he would in Dealville...you still have to give some sort of effort toward life. And bless these people for doing it their way. And for voting on no sales tax. And making the train free in city limits. The above quote is someone who might not be making it, might be struggling more than he has to, but his outlook is so positive, I'm not about to say anything. Here's to $3.50 beers. Back to Goldtown.
(Editor's Note: All that follows this writing is a note (apparently to someone near him) about how Alaska Airlines has free booze on flights.)
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