Portland in April: Sunday

Palm Sunday, April 13

Sunday morning was sunnier, colder, and windier than the previous day. Walking the early morning streets Mark pointed out that the lighting on the embossed brass doors of the U.S. National Bank Building was diffuse and at a low angle. I’d mused about photographing them yesterday, but the lighting had been more harsh. I skipped across the street to photograph them. The doors are similar to the ones on the New York City Exchange building in that eight square panels show scenes of “progress”—except the New York doors show more Art Deco styling and the Portland doors are more “Empire” or “Romanesque” (I don’t know when they were made, but based on the naturalistic poses I would guess 1890 or something).

I didn’t register it at the time, but the panels are a history of Western Expansion, starting with half-naked Native Americans witnessing a clipper ship in the top right square, Lewis and Clark (and Sacagawea’s papoose-carriered back) on the top left square. Transportation and arrival seems to be the underlying theme, with the Native Americans watching locomotives in one panel replaced with settlers watching a steam paddle boat in another. The last panels along the bottom depict senes from the 1920’s or 30’s; the rolling landscapes have been replaced with power lines, model T cars, and metal draw bridges. While I appreciated the artistry, the doors are really Colonialism (and Capitalism) on Parade. (Pause to consider replacing the panels with ones that rotate with scenes restoring the narrative of Native Peoples; pause to consider how the concepts of capitalism are embedded within the architectural details of the vault-like doors, and what a post-capitalism bank might look like.)

After the photo session, we walked south. An ornamental cherry had shed its petals over the white marble steps of another financial institution, and I briefly entertained the vision of scooping them up and throwing them up into the air as if we were in a procession—but then I imagined the unsavory items and liquids that might be commingled with the petals and checked the impulse.

Mark and I breakfasted at “La Boulangerie” (or something), on things like quiche, croissants, and macaroons. Across the street, in a corner courtyard with the cherry tree, a vortex played with black sheet of plastic, possibly an extra-large garbage bag. Against the sunlit buildings and tree, the plastic looked like a Dementor from the Harry Potter series. Every time I though it would come to rest, it would jump up again and circle, over the cherry, around a building corner and back again, gyring up eight stories and slinking on the wind over the street in a way that looked less and less like a tumbling bag and more and more like cloaked and serpentine wraith. This was made all the more incongruous by a chocolate croissant and loud, vaguely French music coming from the kitchen’s sound system. Eventually, the apparition blew around a corner and out of view.

We returned to the hotel for a quick refresh and to meet a local friend, NH. She photographed us as we processed down the grand staircase from the mezzanine, in front of the great mirror, and into the lobby proper. I’d like to say that we looked regal as we went down the stairs, but we were dressed for an urban hike and looked like we were attending an Elderhostel Orientation (I blame my Tilley Hat’s inability to contain my hair).

The three of us headed to the Willamette River and the Steele Bridge. We chatted about our elderly parents and what our children are up to. Along the way we passed by a sheet of thick, black plastic crumpled on a corner. The temperature rose, but the wind was cool, especially if we were in the shade. Cyclists and joggers and families on outings passed us in both directions.

As we were making our way along the eastern river bank below OMSI, I looked out and saw a sea lion in the Willamette. The sea lion was so high out of the water and swimming so swiftly that it looked a little like the Loch Ness Monster. Another, smaller sea lion swam on its side and appeared to be sailing with one fin held up in the air; we weren’t sure if it was in distress or not. We seemed to be the most excited folks on our section of the path to see the sea lions—normally they are on the coast; Mark opined that they must be following the salmon as they spawned up the river.

Continuing forward, we crossed the Tilikum Crossing back to the west side of Portland. We ate at what we thought was a pizza place at first, but turned out to be an Asian Dumpling Restaurant. We continued our urban hike along the waterfront plaza, and wound up back at the hotel, where we bid NH adieu.

Mark wanted to pick up some books of his own, so I ditched my Tilley hat, Mark ditched some unneeded layers, and we went to Powell’s City of Books. Powell’s has rearranged the speculative fiction section and a few other sections; so there was a repeat of the moment where I would lead Mark to the former location of something. Which was a little irksome. Eventually, a bookstore clerk directed us to the sections where we might find LGBTQ+ romance (paranormal or otherwise) similar to what Alexis Hall writes.

Since I had already used up my book budget the previous day, I felt like I shouldn’t be buying any more books (and besides, I wasn’t sure I would have been able to fit them into my train luggage). I did ask two clerks if they had any suggestions or tools for repairing books that had been savaged by Evil Scrapbookers—one clerk was sympathetic and I felt like he was going to tell me some Powell’s Book Bindery Secrets, but the other clerk sort of shushed him and I ended up getting directed to a shelf of books on book binding, but, alas, not exactly book repair.

As I was leading Mark back through the stacks and to the cash registers, I had a a stairwell moment with another patron. I would quip that it was a “stare well” moment except it was more like my gaze fell on this other guy as I was descending, who sort of jumped and stop-motioned out of a freezing in his tracks as he continued ascending. It occurred to me that between my unbound hair flowing behind me, and my nail-and-bicycle-deraillieur-parts pendant against a dark shirt, I probably looked like the love child of Gandalf the Grey and Jareth the Goblin King.

“I think my hair just got a date,” I said to Mark when we reached the first floor.
“You mean the guy on the stairs?” Mark asked. “Yeah, he swiped right. I think that was the third one.”
“Oh,” I said. “So I wasn’t just seeing things in the corner of my eye. I’d wondered.”

Since it was just a block away from Powell’s, we traipsed over to Spartacus Leather for some apparel. Something fun, in a Magic Mike kind of way, but not with any chunky buckles or pokey bits. I think my favorite lines from the experience were:

Me: “Hello. I have two questions. (Holds up something like a lace-up tank top) Can I try this on?”
Clerk: “Of course.”
Me (Holds up a second, triangular scrap of cloth): “Uh, *how* do I try this one on?”
Clerk (mentally rotating the apparel in several axes): “I… think… one strap goes over your shoulder…?”


and


Mark (outside a dressing room, asking through the door): “How’s it fit?”
Me (in the dressing room—trying to squeeze into a vest made out of poly-something-or-other—in a stuffed-up, nasal, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer voice): “It’s not very comfortable.”
Mark (in a 1960’s Donner Reindeer father voice): “You’ll wear it and like it. There are more important things than comfort!”


Ultimately, there wasn’t anything there that met the trifecta of making me feel attractive, comfortable, and wouldn’t poke Mark if I hugged him while wearing it.

We wandered around a bit, and slipped into the old Sentinel Hotel, now the home of “Jake’s Grill,” to look at its architecture and interior design. The outside looks French: many masonry “tassels” hang from the corners and cornices, or are carved into the stone window casings. The tassel motif was repeated in balustrades and in stain glass mosaics set behind Beaux-Arts light fixtures. Anticipating Transformers by about eighty years, the stone tassels along the top frieze of the building became knight-like sentinels.

We chatted up the concierge / host, who seemed more than happy to let us explore and photograph architectural details. I stepped into an empty dining area and discovered a series of sepia toned murals depicting Lewis and Clark trading along the Columbia with The Native Americans. The art was well done; we saw a little more of Sacagawea’s face and not quite so much of her back this time. I’m not sure if, confronted with eight-foot tall figures of fishing Native Americans and bartering Corps of Discovery members, a diner is supposed to start humming the School-House Rock ditty, “Elbow Room,” or the Village People’s “YMCA.” However, I’m going to hazard a guess that artists in Oregon at the turn of the century substituted Pacific Northwest Native American men for Hercules, Apollo, and other Classical Excuses to Portray the Male Nude in Art.

That evening, we upgraded our athleisure wear to restaurant casual and had dinner at The Melting Pot (a fine fondue restaurant). Mark had pointed it out the evening prior; much to my excitement I discovered that The Melting Pot’s entrance was through a baroque arched belvedere that first caught my eye when I was a student at Reed. Back then, it was the entrance to a club or restaurant called, I think, “Bacchus.” Wrought iron grape vines and Bacchus heads adorned its four sides, and a horned goat head stared out from the arch’s keystones. A stairway led to the actual restaurant, which was underground. I always imagined a sinuous, writhing interior with torches and vines and snakes and couches and satyrs and nymphs and shepherds and shepherdesses and sheep and goats and urns and craters and pyxes pomegranates and grottos. Oh, yeah; and some sort of feast.

I never did make it inside when I was at school. It was a landmark we’d pass by riding the bus on the way to the Saturday Market; or, later, drive by on the way to Powell’s; or still later, catch a fleeting glimpse of on other Portland adventures. Somewhere along the way it had stopped being a restaurant—I seem to recall it was an unused space for a while—and I had no idea it had become a fondue restaurant.

When we got to the belvedere—I practically skipped up to it—I discovered that what I had thought were granite foundation stones and the intersection of two masonry barrel vaults was, in fact, a stoney facade affixed to a metal frame. Mark and I descended the stairs, which were concrete, with a plain metal railing along one side. I had already braced myself for an an interior which would be completely different from what I imagined, but I hadn’t been prepared for the belvedere’s forgery.

The inside was a sort of Arts-And-Crafts meets Scandinavian Design in dark earth tones. Blue, green, and yellow bottles stood in inset boxes—these were, I think, supposed to be illuminated, but the lights’ elements had failed and so the bottles flickered and flashed in an erratic and disconnected fashion. The center of every table had a rectangular, metal, induction hot-plate in it. We were led to booth seating, which flexed when the person in the adjoining booth moved, and which the seats of were a might too low for the table. But it was clean, didn’t smell odd, and everyone there seemed to be having a joyful time.

We went in not realizing how hungry we were, and ended up ordering four courses: cheese fondue, salads, a chicken broth fondue, and a chocolate dessert fondue. The wait staff brought skewers and fondue pots in a combination clamp holder that they would screw down to secure the pot’s lid and prevent boiling oil splashes. Our waiter reminded us not to cross-contaminate the uncooked salmon with other kabobs of food. The safety measure impressed Mark, and he wondered aloud at the nature of the staff’s safety training. He was also amused at how focused I became on my phone’s stopwatch as I timed the shrimp, potato, broccoli, and aforementioned salmon.

Everything tasted great.

We had a sort of floor show two-thirds of the way in as a teenager in a booth across the aisle lost her cell phone between the seat and the wall. This necessitated a floor manager to remove the seat from the booth’s plywood base, get down on her hands and knees, and finesse the phone out (with a ruler, I think). I’m fairly certain the cell phone’s teen owner wanted to die of mortification.

I wanted to go dancing, but we were full of fondue and Mark was feeling tired, so we took a disco-nap until 10pm and then took a short walk to The Badlands. The drag queen who took our cover charge complemented my hair; I thanked her and then we were through the doors to ¡Kaliente! Night.

We were (surprise!) the oldest people in the club (probably). I’d say the genders were equally represented. The crowd was very diverse, which I wasn’t expecting for Portland, Oregon. I was pleasantly surprised that the music wasn’t random, arrhythmic beeps set to water being poured into a pitcher; it was mostly high energy, in a cha-cha or maybe salsa beat. We found a table in the corner and I bought us drinks.

I was surprised by the accompanying music videos—there must have been at least fifty video screens lining the walls—which seemed to require a chorus of women with Very Large Butts and Very Short Daisy Dukes to twerk and gyre and other variations of the pelvic thrust in unrelenting time with the music. Occasionally, the (usually) male vocalist would step in front of the female chorus, rap in Spanish, and either pump one fist in the air, or else open and close his vest in a game of peek-a-boo with his chest. Usually the set consisted of a swimming pool, a drag race garage, or a living room. I really enjoyed the music, but I have no Spanish, so I caught maybe one out of every thirty words, and I had no way to read the imagery in the videos beyond, “I like butts and I cannot lie.” There was a more arty video that featured a bemused looking man in country apparel, who kissed another man, and then rode a coin-operated mechanical child’s horse backward—I am pretty sure that one was a commentary on the intersection of masculinity, same-sex-desire, and country values. Then the female chorus returned to shake their thangs.

I dragged Mark onto the dance floor and we started to dance. Mark dances like a Muppet, which is adorable. My dance style is Dr. Strange Does a Box Step, which will transform into “White Guys Are So Cute When They Try To Mix Aerobics With Tribal Dance” if I really get into it. The difficulty combining our dance styles became apparent when I tried to ballroom dance with Mark and remembered that the last time we went dancing together was probably at his nephew’s wedding over a decade ago. After several songs, I just put my hands on his hips, closed my eyes, and listened to the music with my ears and listened to Mark through my body.

“Oh, you guys are so cute!” I heard a young woman say to Mark.

I opened my eyes and saw Mark ask the woman, who had very long hair, how far back she could lean, and she demonstrated how she could hold a pose that was almost a backflip. Mark applauded, they chatted some more, and then a moment later said he needed some water.

Back at our table, a young black man locked eyes with us and proclaimed that we were hot. Which was surprising. Gratifying, but surprising.

I dragged Mark out for some more dancing. I could dance for hours, although I felt like maybe I (and Mark) needed to dance more at home just to knock some rust off of my ballroom dance repertoire.

It did not occur to me what sort of impression I was making until several songs later Mark leaned in and started singing: “I’m singing to the song / though I don’t understand the words / but I’m dancing with my husband. / He wears a black turtleneck on the dance floor / and a necklace that looks like a charm / he has long silver hair / everyone thinks he looks like a brujo.”

Mark lasted about another forty-five minutes, accused me of keeping him up until midnight, and confessed that after about a half-hour, he finds dancing boring. We exited the bar. A vendor was grilling what looked like Mexican fare on a wheeled food cart and doing a brisk business.

We walked back to the hotel, said goodnight to Mariah, and returned to our room.

January Wildlife

The Willamette Valley is slowly recovering from last week’s ice and snow. Several friends and acquaintances have had scary encounters with trees falling on or near their houses and cars; the most famous victim of weather is the Cascades Raptor Center, which lost an aviary to falling trees and is currently a deathtrap due to partially fallen tree limbs.

The other evening, Mark and I took a walk along the Willamette River and the inlet into Delta Ponds before shopping at the local mall. Rain fell, and I was glad for an umbrella.

A gang of kids sat on cardboard in a circle out of the rain under the Valley River bridge. Mark initially wanted to see logs, debris , and other flotsam as it came barreling down stream, but all we really saw were small twigs awash in the gallons of water rushing along the downed trees along the river banks and bridge pylons. I peered into the glooming grey, hoping to see an osprey or maybe one of the Skinner Butte eagles, but all of the birds must have been hunkered down elsewhere.

We left the bridge and walked along the bike path along the river toward Delta Ponds. Through the leaning trees and fallen branches, Mark pointed out a white heron in the shallows. Water washed over trees growing from slender eyots near the river’s bank. We saw some ducks between the river and the path, and when we rounded a corner where the inlet flowed into Delta Ponds, there was a tree stretching up bare branches laden with cormorants. On rainy winter late afternoons, the looming cormorants take on a gallows aspect, as if they were awaiting some watery menace to surface and dispense nacreous bounty.

A sign along the path listed likely animal residents of the waterways and I was surprised that river otters were on the list. We walked farther, not quite to the sluice gate near a car dealership, and then Mark saw a large animal swimming in the current. I thought it might be an otter because it was swimming more quickly than the nutria we usually see, but when it hopped out of the water and onto a bank below us, we saw the wide flat tail of a beaver. Mark was elated. We followed the beaver back toward the Willamette. I’m not sure if it was looking for downed branches to drag off somewhere or roots to eat or what, but during most the time we saw it, it made an almost dog-like whining, as if it were muttering to itself that “no, this branch isn’t right.”

The last time we saw a beaver up this close was around February 1, 2020, also during a flood, when the beaver in question was gnawing on an oak growing next to the bike path. I had forgotten how big they are. 

Bike Path Beaver

Friday evening after some errands, Mark and I went for a walk along the Willamette River.  Thursday, Mark had been walking along the Delta Ponds Bike Path and had seen beavers, and he wanted to see some more.

I brought along my camera, not realizing that it would be fairly dark by the time we got to the waterways.  As we were walking toward a car dealership from the Valley River Center, Mark showed me the gnawed roots of a tree where he'd seen a beaver the previous night.  A few steps later, he spotted a wake in the water.  He pointed out where a very large, log-shaped shadow swam in a pond-like side channel of the Willamette. We must have gotten too close, because there was an explosion of water as the beaver dove.

We spent about a half hour or so, creeping along the sides of the bike path, looking at shadowy forms of ducks, nutria, and geese.  We stopped at a spillway.  Water surged from the Willamette in to the Delta Ponds wetlands, which was surprising, because usually the water flows the other way.

We turned back, and around here, Mark noticed a lump by a tree.  "Is that an animal or a stump?"

I looked.  "I think it's a stump."

It was a beaver.

A really big beaver.  Chewing on a very small log.

 Mark turned on his cell phone light, and I hunched down about eight feet away from the beaver and attempted to take its picture. 

It gnawed on the bark, then looked at me and took a few steps toward me.  In my mind, John Cleese as Tim the Enchanter was saying, "It's got teeth like a... it can jump like... Look at the bones, man!" 

The beaver took a few more slow, lumbering steps toward me.  It looked like it weighed forty pounds.

"I'll just move reeeeally slowly."  I stood and took a few side steps back to the bike path. 

The beaver waddled over to where I had been, and continued to a path along the riverbank to the water. 

April 2019 Flood

 According to the weather service, Eugene got 3.77 inches of rain over the last 48 hours.  This appears to have been typical up and down the Willamette Valley, and, accordingly, the river has flooded.

Mark and I went down to Alton Baker Park and I took some photos.

 The Eugene Park System features a scale model of the solar system.  The sun and the planets are at scale sizes and distances.  Mercury and Venus are the size of BB's, and their stands were almost submerged.  Here's the sun.  I want to say it's about five feet high.

 Probably the most photographed sign in Eugene today.

The Willamette River.  Normally it's blue.  And narrower.

 The water fowl seemed a little agitated and confused.  We hoped that the geese hadn't had too many nests (with eggs) inundated.  Normally, the railing this goose is on comes up to my elbows.

 I'm trying to think where the spillway from the goose pond is.  It's around here under the water somewhere....

 The Peter DeFazio Pedestrian Bridge usually has it's pylons resting on dry land.

 There's usually a paved walkway under the bridge.

 And benches for folks to sit.

The water looked a lot deeper than it actually was.  Still, I don't think I'd want to wade through it.

Sunday Herons

Sunday, Mark and I went for a walk at Alton Baker Park and the Willamette River east of the park.   



I was hoping we'd see bald eagles or other raptors.   The sun hid behind bands of clouds, so sometimes the light was defuse -- other times the setting sun cast ruddy gold beams onto the trees.


About five minutes into the walk, I recalled that herons and other waterfowl like the park. 



Mark saw almost all of the birds before I did and pointed them out. 

The exception was a woodpecker, which I heard before I found.


Mark did spot a hawk, but before I could bring the camera to bear, a crow harassed it, and it flew off over the Willamette. 


We managed to get back to the car before huge black rain clouds hid the sun and sprinkled rain.

More photos here:  https://photos.app.goo.gl/WK6msxQ8cPtJ9nur8

Bridge Arches

The Willamette River runs along the north part of Eugene (and the East part of Springfield).  There's a new(ish) bridge over it, which Mark says will be the one that's safe to cross after The Big Earthquake.  I just like the way the arches look together.

The underside looked like an accordion.  

The forces on the bridge arches and spans must be interesting because the road above curves a bit at one end.

Also, it occurs to me that this is a typical grey Oregon January day.  

What surprised us (and which shouldn't have) was how many encampments we saw on the opposite (South) shore between the river and the train tracks.  

Tree and Wires

Last week we went for a walk along the Willamette River, near where I-5 crosses over it.  I managed to notice some broadcast antenna guy lines framing a tree.  It was so arty it demanded I take a photo, so I did.

In honor of the New Moon, I received two story rejections in about five hours.  Thank you, universe.   I suppose since I send out stories in batches, it's not too surprising that I receive rejection letters in batches, too.   It wouldn't be so bad if only all my rejection letters didn't start with "Dear John."  Oh -- wait...