Roll on Columbia!!
I wander the streets of Portland. Half drunk on cheep champagne, found chilling in our hotel room, addressed to one Mr. Woolsey. My companion has a poor sense of direction. we navigate by smell, the scent of each street corner floods my limbic system with the vapors of recent memories. Sandalwood, the Hotel Monaco and its oriental rugs. We run through the labyrinth of Powells books. The aisle, the shelves, the pages. In the Purple room, and elderly gentleman overhears us talking. It is Carolyn's birthday, the stranger serenades her. Donut zombies, mill around Voodoo. Barbara wants tapas and Allen knows of a Peruvian place on NW Gilsan. We, the young ladies, sip our canary yellow Inca Cola, Peru's official national soft drink. It is flat and it tastes like Bazooka bubblegum. We are children lost in a gray city. On Nob hill we explore the boutiques, hat shops, curiosity shops, and galleries. In Cannibals I discover the dioramas. Miniature studio apartments arranged in the taxidermied heads of deer. Dark cherry wood furniture and a small window that overlook a bloodsplattered Mr. Potatohead. Portland simulates every sense. It leaves my neck sore and my eyelids heavy. On the drive back we count the MacDonald's. 14. There is so much to remember, as the Columbia rushes bellow us. So much to look forward to at home: the aroma of pulp mills, and low tide, our own gray city.
