Portland In April: Saturday

Saturday, April 12

Mark arose, like he usually does, before I did, and after a particularly lazy sleep-in, I joined him at the Benson Cafe and Bar for breakfast. In the morning light, the place had an open and light quality that had seemed heavier the previous evening. The sun peeped out from behind clouds and shone through beveled and frosted panes of glass. Massively intricate plaster ceilings reflected the sunlight in a diffuse glow. A huge gilded and silvered mirror at the stair landing stood like a gateway to a reflected lobby—or would that be ybbol ? The darkly stained bannister held panels of carved wreaths between the sturdy rail posts. Breakfast was good, but we decided that better fair was to be had from one of the patisseries a few blocks away.

We skipped a brief reunion tour with Mariah and opted instead to explore the stairwell. This had been set up as a kind of museum, with different landings focusing on things like the history of The Benson, which of the recent U.S. Presidents had stayed at The Benson (many, except the 45th) , the Portland Rose Parade, and famous performers who had stayed at The Benson.

“Whoa,” said Mark. “Mariah requested seven limousines? And a specially lit mirror? And $50 candles? Telling folks that seems like a breach of confidentiality. They’re being so mean to Mariah; they don’t single out Elvis or Shaquille O'Neal like that! And then they make her show her boobies in the elevators!”

Mark then went on to play some Mariah Carey songs, and I recalled why I only liked “Fame!” and “Out Here On My Own.”

Then it was time for our first outing. Saturday was partially cloudy with sprinkles of rain. We entered the Chinese Garden right as it opened at 10 AM. I have never been, although I have walked outside its enclosure and caught glimpses of bushes and interior stuccoed walls through some of the ornate windows. The garden takes up an entire city block, but the layout of the tea shop and trees and galleries and shrubbery and moon gates breaks up site lines and makes the space seem much larger.

Our tour guide was a very enthusiastic Chinese woman who would lock eyes with everyone as she would explain the history and design of the garden and structures around us. Sometimes the sun would peek out from behind clouds; other times a cool wind would herald spattering rain. This was a Chinese scholar’s garden, brought together to enable a scholar easy access to both nature and culture. I would say the central design theme was bringing together contrasts: yin and yang, sharp and smooth, dark and light, moist and dry. I enjoyed the various dark and light pebble floor tiles and took pictures to see if there might be a pattern to bring back to our back yard; I’d say “cherry blossoms on ice” was the most interesting design because the other designs (which I also liked) were regular tessellations. Of all the flowers opening for Spring, I think the blooming bonsai wisteria was my favorite plant.

There were many koi in the irregular pond stretching from the center of the lot, ranging in color from red, to orange, to porcelain blue, to black, to bone, and multiple patterns between. I thought the most striking one was a large black and white koi with silver triangles running down its spine. Mark liked a large grey and white koi with pale blue, almond-shaped plate scale armor.

Later, I was able to capture a photo of the grey and white koi centered in ripples from its spine; in the water outside of the circle of advancing ripples, a cloud-veiled sun was reflected, distorted into a cat’s white slitted pupil in a small blue circle rimmed with yellow and red clouds.

“Whoa,” said Mark when I showed him the photo on my mobile. “That’s a powerful picture. It almost looks like The Moon tarot card.”

We took a meal in the tea house; I declined the chrysanthemum tea—which prompted a mini performance of Stephen Sondheim’s “Pacific Overtures” and a quick explanation to the somewhat amused tea house docent/clerk—and had a red hibiscus tea that was much more subtle than the old Celestial Seasonings Red Zinger tea I sometimes used to have a long time ago. Mark got white pine needles. The second floor of the tea house, where we ate, was open and airy, with Chinese lanterns hanging from the thick crossbeams. We had an interesting and hot soup. The moon cakes were fine, but not to my taste.

Mark had said that the Garden staff used to encourage patrons to use soft, quiet voices in order to preserve the serenity of the place. Apparently, this custom has been relaxed, and I had to compose a haiku about two particularly brash young women and their incessant chatter:

Screeching mergansers
Churning the koi pond waters

Miss the rain’s ripples.

After a final stroll along the peonies, maples and limestone formations, guardian dog and dragon sculptures, and sloped rooflines, moon gates, and ornamental picture windows, we said goodbye to the koi and ducks and exited the Chinese Garden—purchasing some chocolate from the gift shop before hand.

There was an occult bookstore that sold rare books—things like first edition copies of “The Equinox”—across the Willamette on Burnside that I wanted to visit, and Mark was amiable. As we set out, the rain was very intermittent, and the gusts had become more constant, prompting me to tie back my hair so that it wouldn’t blow across my face.

The bookstore was a few blocks east of the river. When I walked in, a wave of something like frankincense and myrrh and cedar hit me. The heavy scent had a deep note, and almost no flowery bouquet or fruity top note; it wasn’t unpleasant, but I knew Mark wouldn’t appreciate spending too long in the store (and in fact, he delayed coming in for a bit). The store was smaller than I expected; the decor was more occult than Neopagan, more Goetia than Wiccan. Folk-pagan music played over the sound system. The store had a collection of tarot decks by the front door, which looked interesting, but I already have several decks and I really only use one. Mark and I both liked a stain glass piece that used beveled cabochons to show the moon’s phases. Short stairs, decorated with occult paintings, led to a small landing with a closed door—I would suppose that a ritual space was located behind the door. The books were arranged by subject and author; the rare books were behind glass doors. While it might be fun to have a rare, first edition book—thinking of my lightly read but visually dynamic (and ponderous) copy of Jung’s “Red Book,” and my facsimile copy of William Morris’s stunning (and long-winded) “The Story of the Glittering Plain”—I felt that the florid style of early nineteenth century mystics, mediums, and ceremonial magicians probably wouldn’t warrant the expense.

I’d say the layout was not conducive to casual browsing, and my initial sense was that folks were not encouraged to loiter before the shelves. I wonder if I was giving off “I’ve come to see the freaks” tourist vibes or something when I first walked in, because I got a strong sense of wandering into someone’s enclosure. The proprietor warmed up after a bit, especially once I started asking serious questions like, “do you have this in soft bound copy?” I snagged “Queering Your Craft: Witchcraft from the Margins,” by Cassandra Snow; “Gay Witchcraft: Empowering the Tribe,” by Christopher P; and (on impulse) “The Awakening Ground: A Guide to Contemplative Mysticism,” by David Chaim Smith. Skimming them a little later prompted the Question of the Day: Can one both be critical of hyper-capitalism and still espouse the use of “money magic”?

Back on the west side of Portland, we took a quick nap, and then grabbed some food from an outdoor Food Cart World local to the Benson. I had sushi, Mark ate Columbian. We sat at a very long picnic table and listened while a busker tap danced on a stage. Then it was off to the New Mark Theatre for a world premiere Oregon Ballet Theatre performance of “Marilyn.” (We almost were seated at the stage where “Tootsie” was playing.)

Mark wore a nice, dark blue shirt; I wore a purple shirt with a detailed flower-of-life geometric pattern and a darker paisley-patterned purple scarf. I always like to see what other folks wear to the theatre. We saw a woman dressed like Carmine with a red flower in her hair; there was another woman in a dress that looked a notch above gold lame; there were two guys who were obviously together, but their outfits were not coordinated, as one wore a cowboy hat and the other was higher-end urban. There was less Hippy Chic than we usually see in Eugene.

“Marilyn” was a modern dance ballet following Marilyn Monroe’s life from childhood to her death. The mostly piano music was recorded, with occasional historical voice-overs. The set made use of a scrim, a mostly featureless art-deco wall with a split gate, and a circular stepped dais in castered sections. Effective lighting sectioned off the stage. The main antagonist was a chorus of faceless men in trench coats. At times the chorus was the paparazzi, other times it was men/the patriarchy, sometime it was just a bad situation. The most effective lighting trebled the cast by shining red lights on the trench coated dancers so that their hellish shadows danced on the walls. The most striking music was when Marilyn “sang” happy birthday to JFK without actually singing happy birthday. The dance explored Marilyn’s odd relationship with her father, her husbands, and how this translated to her relationship with men and men’s society, and how Norma Jeane Mortenson constructed the persona of Marilyn.

Afterward, Mark was emotionally exhausted. We made a new best friend (who had a fabulous green and black velvet dress) and the three of us had a mini-salon in the seats and discussed how Marilyn navigated the patriarchy while we waited for the auditorium to empty. I think the dancer we felt for the most was the very young dancer who performed as a child Norma Jeane at the beginning and who represented a regressed Marilyn near the end as she dance with Monroe’s psychiatrist (how would you direct a child to dance in such a convoluted adult head- and emotional-space? we asked ourselves).

We walked the streets of downtown Portland. Mark was open to the idea of cocktails, and I was hoping to find a place to dance (with the understanding that Mark was probably not in the mood for a dance). As we were circling in on where I thought the Silverado was, I pulled out my mobile to look at a map. Almost instantly, a young waif—I thought it was a boy, Mark said it was a girl—appeared and asked if they could borrow my phone to call their uncle. I was simultaneously processing 1) our location in relationship to the bar, 2) the mechanics of dialing a stranger’s phone number, 3) the likelihood of this being an attempt at “Apple Picking”, and 4) a Corvallis Nice Response, when Mark nailed them with a New York City buzz-off stare and a very firm, “No.”

The complex of gay bars that used to be around the corner from Powell’s Books had dispersed to other Portland sites. It was was now a Disneyfied pedestrian street mall.

We wound up back at the Benson Hotel bar for cocktails. Our waiter was putting off enough signals that even my feeble gaydar was pinging. After he suggested that my second drink might help us get lucky, we told him we’d been looking for the Silverado and Mark asked him where people went to dance. It depended on what we wanted to do. He suggested The Badlands bar, which was only a few blocks away, and mentioned Sunday night BBQ at the Portland Eagle (which was far away in North Portland).

Mark and I closed down the bar at 11 pm, more by accident than anything else, and went back to our room. Reader, I enjoyed that second drink very much.