J-Ro Goes To Portland…Part 6

Meanwhile, the adventure continues…

The Monday of the trip was dedicated to only one thing: books, glorious books. Today, it was just me, my debit card, and Powell’s – the largest independent chain of bookstores in the world. And wouldn’t you know, it happens to be in Portland. Even better, so was I. My loins girded, I set off with the last of my data allowance on Google Maps to guide the way, and within a few minutes I was standing at the gateway to Nerd Nirvana:

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Click on the pic to head to my Instagram!

Now THIS is the best way to spend a Monday. Losing yourself in a bookstore like this is one of those natural antidepressants that should be used at least once a week for best results. You don’t need money, just wander through one in your locality, or if you’re abroad, keep the eyes peeled. They’re just magical. If you’re looking for a list of the coolest independent bookshops in the world, then click here to find out where these literary wonderlands exist.

Powell’s is just amazing. There’s so much to look at in there, I was briefly paralysed with sensory overload. I know myself, the visit I paid there on that Monday barely did it justice. I actually couldn’t bear to look everywhere, lest I collapse in a puddle of Want. I walked past the Graphic Novel section with my hands over my eyes chanting “NONONONONONONO” as I passed, because I knew my suitcases were already at the required rate, and I hadn’t even included the two bagfuls of books I was carrying at that precise moment to the register. I’m going to have to go back. I know this now.

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Sure who DOESN’T love those two things together? Follow me on Instagram: @_jayrow_

In addition to an absolute wonderland of literary delights, they also have a coffee shop within their hallowed walls, the clever bastards. So in between spending your entire wage packet and rainy day savings on all manner of books, you can sit and be refreshed with the finest of hot tasty beverages – and, this being Portland, there are many organic / artisan / hand-woven / wished-upon-a-star-spun-with-gossamer-warmed-with-the-thighs-of-a-virgin-handmaiden herbal chai mocha-frappo-lattes to choose from. At the very least, while you contemplate where your mortgage payment is coming from while looking at your newly-aquired pile of old and new publications, you won’t be thirsty. I’m not even counting the masses of tourist tack and souvenirs you have to wade through to get to the good stuff, or indeed the Portland-themed products (which I spent a good portion of my holiday money on) that tempt you from the stalls. Exercise caution, ladies and gentlemen. For, as Yeats once said, “Tread softly because you tread on my rent.” Or something like that.

I’ll leave you with a gif that gives me a tingle right in the literature. BOOKS, GLORIOUS BOOKS….TOUCH THEM…TOUCH THEM ALL…

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When J-Ro Went To Portland….Part 5

Southeast Grind, my second home in PDX!

Southeast Grind, my second home in PDX!

My first Portland Sunday was a proper day of rest (The Lord himself would have been delighted with me). I was completely cream crackered, having been on the go since I arrived and not really paying any attention to the spectre of jet lag that was hovering around me. It eventually walloped me upside the head and rendered me incapable of any sort of forward motion or day-planning, so I just threw on some threads, loaded up my backpack like Dora the Explorer, and headed over to Southeast Grind, my unofficial Base of Operations for things to do in Portland (click here to read about why I loved this place so much).

I pretty much decided I was going to plant my tired old self there for the day, but first I had to grab something to eat, and being as wrecked and fuzzy-brained as I was, I chose to fall up the road and go to Jack In The Box, an American fast food franchise outlet. It wasn’t the smartest decision I’ve ever made. I hated it. I’d been pretty fussy and paranoid about food since I’d arrived in the States (it’s a long-standing issue that I won’t bore you with in THIS article anyway), and I think I’d had a pre-existing notion about how the chicken teriyaki rice & veg bowl I’d ordered would taste…and it didn’t deliver. I was bitterly disappointed, pretty much all of the things I’d eaten that looked familiar to me all tasted just that little bit different to how I’d expected them to taste, so in my mind I couldn’t ingest them. I chewed grumpily on the twisty fries I’d also ordered instead. At least they tasted like I thought they would. I also tried to make a dent in what was certainly the largest liquid-carrying vessel for one person I’ve ever seen. It went waaay beyond ‘Go Large’…they called it The Quencher. I could barely hold it in one hand without being terrified I’d drop it. I’m surprised it didn’t come with armbands and a fucking lifeguard.

Literally Me.

It’s safe to say that Jack In The Box isn’t exactly gourmet fusion cuisine for foodies. Thus, I was Jack’s complete lack of surprise when I found that I’d basically left the whole thing and, despite the best efforts of my kidneys and bladder, the remaining two-thirds of the bucket o’ fizz I’d stupidly said ‘yes’ to. I noticed that there was a guy outside the main doors who looked a bit out of it, and was rooting through the fast food joint’s bins outside. I looked at my tray and instantly felt like a complete asshole for contemplating chucking out so much food. So ninja-style, I gathered the bowl of chicken and rice and The Quencher and sidled out the door without the staff seeing me, and I gave them to the guy with a brief disclaimer of “the food is fine, I was just full” in case he thought I was trying to pass off something that had gone bad. As it turned out, he barely registered me and just muttered something unintelligible as he took the food off me in a complete daze and shuffled away. I didn’t really mind; I was just glad SOMEONE was enjoying the food and it wasn’t wasted. Pay it forward and all that.

But it got me thinking as I left Jack In The Box and strolled the short distance to Southeast Grind. I was about to put down roots for a few hours in a lovely place with some nice tea and maybe a treat of some kind, tap-tapping away on my new laptop in a foreign country I’d been able to travel to for a holiday, feeling happy as a clam; so I took stock and felt so incredibly grateful to have the life that I have, that I’m able to find contentment in the everyday things I do (when my mental health is being managed properly obviously).

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A mini shanty-town set up at the junction of two streets next to a main road. The white object directly under the tree on the left-hand side is an umbrella for shelter & shade.

The problem of homelessness is a massive one in Portland, from what I’ve seen first-hand and from what some locals have told me. Maybe it’s because the population is roughly ten times that of Limerick, but it’s very visible and in a very unfamiliar way to me. I took a couple of pictures (see above and below) of the setups I saw dotted throughout the city centre and the suburbs that you would never see out on the streets of Limerick.

This is a slip road coming off a freeway where cars roar past at full speed. I'm standing across the road from the zebra crossing to take a pic of this particular camp, because it actually takes up a big portion of the footpath.

This is a slip road coming off a freeway where cars roar past at full speed. I’m standing across the road from the zebra crossing to take a pic of this particular camp, because it actually takes up a big portion of the footpath.

Look; anyone with a molecule of common sense knows that there are homeless people in every city, and Limerick is most certainly no exception. I’m not blind to it in my hometown by any means, and this isn’t a preachy bleeding-heart post telling people what to do or anything like that. It’s just me observing the different forms that homelessness takes wherever you go depending on population and city size. I’ve never seen anything like those mini tent townships; as fantastic as Portland was, that was definitely something that has stayed with me. That and the incredibly wide demographic of people affected; young, old, disabled, war veterans, addicts, men, women…nobody seemed immune. Which is a scary-ass thought. There but for the grace of circumstance go I.

When J-Ro Went To Portland…Part 4 (In which Bigfoot escapes me)

My first Portlandian Saturday rolled around, and I had the biggest of plans. My original POA had been to head to Skamania County (what a rapid name) and take in the delights and wonders of The Bigfoot Bash n’ Bounty. That’s right; I was heading in search of Bigfoot – or at least a bunch of cheesy imitations and gimmicky tourist souvenirs. It shouldn’t be too hard to get there, I thought. After all, this was America.

Oh, how wrong I was. I spent HOURS Google mapping, Amtrak-ing, Greyhound Bus-ing every which way i could think of online the night before, desperately trying to work out a public transport route to get there and back. Skamania County was in Washington, Oregon’s neighbouring state, but it might as well have been in the Australian Outback. There was no way in the laws of physics I was going to make it. So after much deliberation, I had to abandon ship. In an ironic twist, the Bigfoot festival was proving to be just as inaccessible as the creature that inspired it. Bastard.

When I awoke on the Saturday morning at 6.30am (THANKS JETLAG) I decided that today was the day I would head to the RV & Motorhome show in the Portland Expo Center. As trips go, this would prove to be the easiest peasiest journey ever, compared to the epic journey of the backroads and side-roads that the Bigfoot Festival would have conjured up. A friend had suggested Craigslist for ride-sharing, but I vetoed the crap out of it because NO FUCKING WAY ARE YOU KIDDING ME THEY STILL HAVEN’T FOUND THE SERIAL KILLER WHO’S NAMED AFTER IT SO I THINK I’LL PASS OKAYTHANXBYE

By this stage I was getting used to the MAX (the Portland version of the LUAS), and hopped on it & headed to the Portland Expo Center, where my eyes were treated to some of the maddest-looking yokes that ever graced a road. I was extremely disappointed to find out that for all of their hidden sections and expanding compartments, not one single RV turned out to be an actual Transformer. I wish someone had told me at the beginning, though. I’d spent a full fifteen minutes chatting up this rather hunky red, blue & chrome motorhome in the hope that it was Optimus Prime having some chill time. Alas, it was not meant to be. However, the guy sitting behind the wheel in said motorhome now thinks he has a sleazy Irish girlfriend; so, there’s that, I suppose…

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I was sort of hoping for a more rustic affair, packed with a load of motorhome enthusiasts named Dale and / or Earl strolling around in all their Sunday camping finery, smugly showing off their pride n’ joy while their wives Martha or Darlene tut-tutted and left them to it. Nope. It was a giant venue full of the newest and shiniest that the RV world has to offer the discerning retired whoever who has $60k and upwards to chuck around. It was still very cool to check out though. As quaint as it sounds, there’s no way on this green earth any one of these monstrous vehicles could ever negotiate Irish country roads, they were wider than two high-rise car park spaces. These yokes were definitely made for the wide open American road. Looking inside them, I realised they were nicer than some houses I’ve been in. Them Yanks take their driving & camping holidays seriously.

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There were still some camper vans that hearkened back to a bygone age with the classic VW hippy vans getting a nod from an American company who had bought the license from Volkswagen and so went ahead and made some really cool small VW-inspired vans, complete with retro interior. I TOTALLY wanted one.

Tell me you wouldn't want to cruise the open road in something like THIS...

Tell me you wouldn’t want to cruise the open road in something like THIS…

The high point of the day was when I got chatting to an Argentinian RV salesman who, when I told him I was Irish, said to me “Ah the Irish are cool, I’ve got a few friends from there – we hate the Brits as much as you guys do.” I leaned in and whispered “Falklands?” and he nodded, smiling. “Got it in one!” We parted ways, laughing heartily and muttering obscenities about Thatcher.

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So ended my day trip to the world of RV madness. I was exhausted by mid-afternoon, having been walloped upside the head by a jet-lag shaped baseball bat, which was how I ended up getting my bearings all mixed up and going waaay too far on the MAX line that was supposed to take me home. I wasn’t too stressed about it, I didn’t have anywhere in particular to be and sometimes it’s nice to get lost in a place, sometimes weird and strange things happen. Which is precisely what did happen.

I eventually worked out at which stop I had to get off, so I waited for the next train to arrive. This being Portland, it was like five minutes, bless ’em. No sooner had I gotten on the Orange line back the way I came, when, at the next stop, who should get on but Colton McBride, he of the gentle Goth persuasion I wrote about in my previous post (click here). Given the randomness of me ending up where I did and how big a city Portland is, I was genuinely surprised at the coincidence. He looked the exact same, apart from being makeup-free. He also seemed a bit more ‘with it’, and didn’t recognise me at all, even when he sat across from me and asked if this was the Orange line. I decided to leave him be. As ‘with it’ as he was, he still clutched his Victorian china doll reverently, fixing her hair and her dress, making sure she was neat and tidy, chatting with a woman who asked him where he’d gotten the doll (nothing surprises me here, it’s Portland) and telling her he’d found her in a thrift store for $3. Fair play to him.

Well if that don't put the 'dink' in 'co-inky-dink'...

Well if that don’t put the ‘dink’ in ‘co-inky-dink’…

I didn’t push to remind him that we’d met, I just answered his questions about which train it was, and he smiled and went back to making sure his doll was looking presentable. I took a sneaky pic to prove that I’d met him again so that when I wrote about our second encounter I’d have proof that life can be very odd sometimes, and my wondering about the welfare of Colton had somehow prompted the Universe to put him in my pathway once more so I’d see he was doing okay. The fact that he had no makeup on told me that at the very least he’d had an opportunity somewhere to clean himself up, so maybe he wasn’t as badly off as I had initially thought. But who’s to know? At least I got to see him one more time. Cheers Colton!

(tune in next time, when I laze around Southeast Grind thinking about stuff, then I visit the largest bookstore IN THE WORLD)

When J-Ro Went to Portland….Part 3 (An Encounter With Colton McBride)

Colton McBride (Sept 2015) – The Undisputed Goth King of Portland

****UPDATE APRIL 2018**** Colton has been spotted frequently the last few days, last seen last night in Macon Illinois. For anyone searching for him, there is some info in the comments section of this blog post. I hope he and his family are reunited very soon.

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When J-Ro Went To Portland…Part 1 (Why Portland?)

I’d been all set to do an epic ‘before’ post in the days running up to my solo adventure, but every time I sat down to type, a cold wave of fear and reality would crash over me and I’d shy away from the laptop in terror, only returning to let it entertain me via Netflix and distract me from the magnitude of what was about to happen.

I’d been obsessed with wanting to visit Oregon at some stage in my life ever since I was about fifteen. It was the early 90’s, it was grunge, and all our teen idols were shabbily dressed, softly-spoken, unconventional non-Hollywood misfit types – enter one River Phoenix. I adored him. Every bit of his quirky unassuming self spoke to my soul. I totally got what he was about. I was a child of newly-separated parents, not a Catholic, with one foot in grunge music, the other in whatever metal I could get my hands on. All you young metallers will never know the giddy thrill of obtaining an illicit cassette tape recording of your band of choice with a handwritten label stuck on the face of it; usually with the author’s crappy but big-hearted attempt at recreating the band’s logo in black biro for you…but that’s another blog post altogether. I digress.

My one, my tragic teenage love...

My one, my tragic teenage love…

So anyway, I discovered through the medium of Smash Hits magazine that my beautiful River had been born in a log cabin in Oregon, and I thought that was the coolest. Along with being a typical moody hormonal teenager, I also suffered from massive amounts of crippling anxiety that could turn my stomach into a churning mass of molten vomit at any moment’s notice, so when I wanted to escape situations that set it off (read: everything), I would begin to imagine myself living in a beautiful log cabin in the wild green woods of Oregon, far from the people & things that threatened to destroy my fragile peace of mind. As the years went by, the dream pretty much stayed the same, but I added the occupation of hermit best-selling writer into the mix. Not gonna lie, that’s still pretty much exactly where I want to be, but with the ability to beam myself anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice so I don’t miss anything important back home.

So Oregon remained one of those places that took root in my mind as somewhere I had to visit if I ever had the time and resources, and I eventually narrowed it down to visiting somewhere like Portland once I found out more about the place. The show Portlandia sang to me from Netflix and told me that I was completely right; Portland was now the place to be for all things weird and unconventional. I did some serious research along with devouring the show and feeling super-envious when I saw all the beautiful quirky houses in the suburbs, or the dynamic shots of all the mad eejits floating around Downtown. While Seattle had been the Mecca for the grunge generation, it seemed like all those folks got older and migrated down the map to Oregon and brought up the next generation of misfits and unconventional ne’er do-wells. Portland seemed to have become the new Seattle, but in its own contemporary way. But our original kind are more than welcome here, after all, we were the founding fathers of the Portlandia generation. (I’m including myself in this because fuck it)

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So with all that madness in mind, and all these above thoughts racing around my brain at warp speed, I decided that this year was the time to do it. My finances were healthy enough to support my decision, and my time was my own, so it was just a matter of when to bite the bullet. I decided on September, because I liked the idea of going in my birthday month and spending some time reflecting on what direction I wanted my life to go in, and letting the mental freedom that travel can provide influence my decision. Also, I’m an Autumn / Winter gal at heart, and Portland in the Fall just sounded pretty epic all round.

Once I booked it, I immediately felt scared and anxious as well as completely at peace with my choice, if that’s possible. One part of me was patting myself on the back, telling me that I’ll feel like I’ve come home, I’ve been wanting this for years, and it’ll all be fine. The other more grounded part of me was screaming WTF DID YOU JUST DO YOU’VE NEVER BEEN TO THE STATES LET ALONE SPEND TEN DAYS ON YOUR TOBLER IN A STRANGE TOWN THERE YOU’VE LOST THE FUCKING PLOT and continued to do so right until I set down my bags where I was staying. No wonder I had a pounding headache that night.

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to be continued….