No, It’s Not Like Sleepless in Seattle

I recently spent several days in Portland, Oregon for work. I had never been before, and had only heard good things. I had been told there is plenty of great coffee and great beer, two of my favorite things, as well as a Nordstrom Rack. Bargain shopping, maybe one of my favorite American pastimes, per-fect. Everyone I would talk to about my upcoming trip would fall into two camps 1) never been but always wanted to go or 2) used to live there or visited quite a bit and absolutely loved it. “You’re never going to want to leave.” “You just might move there.” Really? Well, okay – maybe I should just take the moving van with me. I started to imagine my new Portland life – maybe living in a house like Tom Hanks had in Sleepless In Seattle (I know, that was Seattle, but same difference), waking up every morning to walk the dog to the independent coffee shop where I have a large organic fair trade coffee and read the New York Times (sporting a perfectly disheveled pony tail, of course), finding the casually put together Portland boyfriend who wears perfectly worn in jeans, Patagonia fleeces, and works for social justice (but not in an annoying way). At night, we drink microbrews, go to the gelato store, and make a regular stop at Powell’s – just getting lost in the stacks…and each other. I might even start wearing Chacos again – ok, scratch that, but I’ll date someone who wears them. This is great, Portland is going to be amazing, I’m going to love every minute of it and never come back.

After a late flight Wednesday night, I woke up Thursday morning, ready to discover my new city and soon to be new life. I’m going to admit, there were several events that made this dream come crashing down. I knew I didn’t quite fit in when I went to go get breakfast my first morning in Portland wearing a Theory suit, Chanel scarf, and Manolos (Filenes, Filenes, and well, July 2007’s grocery money). I don’t consider myself an insecure person, but I felt like people were looking at me like I had three heads. “Hmm…am I a bit overdressed for my morning meetings? Should I have brought out my old Clark’s Wallabees from college?” As I ate my vegan banana bran muffin and drank my fair trade coffee, I noticed a “Clogs and More” store across the street. Hmm…maybe I’ll just have to do all my shopping on the internet when I move here.

By Friday afternoon (second full day there), I started getting a hankering this city was not for me, but still was not quite ready to admit it. Does anyone not like Portland? It’s kind of like Miles Davis. Everyone says they like Miles Davis – do they really? Who knows, but you look cool saying you do. I was ready to just go back to my hotel, order pizza, and spend the rest of the evening watching election coverage, when my friend Matt, the only person I know in Portland, called to invite me to dinner at his friends’ house.

“Really? Oh my gosh, that’s so nice!”

I immediately imagine a group of young Portland professionals, inviting me in their adorable Portland home (See Sleepless in Seattle house).

“I must bring something. Can we stop at the liquor store?”

The southern girl in me knows to never come to a house empty handed, and when in doubt, booze always works.

“Yeah, I’ll pick you up in 15 minutes.”

Panic strikes. I’m already out with coworkers, at a bar, wearing exactly what he saw me in the night before. I look less than refreshed after a day of trying to look like a Portlander. Matt is cute – I could go for a Portland smooch.

Sure enough, at exactly 15 minutes on the dot, Matt picks me up.

“Wow. You look really pretty.”

Um, really? Now there are times I have walked out the door and thought, “I look good.” This was not one of those times.

We pick up wine, and as we’re driving over, I ask for a briefing on all the attendees. (Yes, I work in politics, so I often use political vocabulary in real life – like asking for a briefing.)

“Well, so and so is in acupuncture school. So and so just got back from 6 months on a kibbutz in Israel. So and so works at a food cart.”

Toto, we’re not in Washington anymore.

We pull up at the house. There I am on the doorstep, wine in hand, ready to meet my new Portland friends. The door opens to a girl about my age wearing, I kid you not, biking shorts, cowboy boots, a tight strappy black tank top, and dreadlocks. Now, I’ve never seen an outfit quite like this before. So let me just say it was even more shocking when I saw another girl wearing, wait for it, the exact same outfit. Yes, biking shorts, cowboy boots and all.

We make our way to the backyard. Cowboy boots/biking shorts/dreadlocks girl #2 has brought a basket of apples just picked from the tree outside to make a pie. This would seem fine if you were baking it in the kitchen. Instead, they’re mixing and chopping on the floor of the back porch. Ok, I guess no dessert for me tonight.

There’s a slew of tapestries and mattresses in the backyard. I walk up wearing: big glamazon sunglasses, Tory Burch gladiator sandals and bag, tight jeans, and a fitted sweater coat. Matt introduces me to the group. Being a Washingtonian, I ask what they do because that’s how you start conversations. I hear again about the Israel sabbaticals, the health food store apprenticeships, and grad school opportunities in acupuncture and herbal therapy. “So what do you do?” they ask.

“I’m a political fundraiser.”

Crickets.

I start trying to explain my organization, and at one point use the word “progressive” (now that liberal is a dirty word).

“Oh, so you work for the progressive party?”

“Um, no, I’m a Democrat.”

Crickets again. Good thing I’m not a Republican.

I make my way into the kitchen, where everyone is feverishly cooking. Now let me explain something. I grew up in a Southern household with a mother who loves to entertain. I think she’s kind of the Sally Quinn of where we live. When my mom throws a party, everyone comes. Because of this, when I entertain, I make quite a production – I have a high standard to live up to. While some people may be happy just putting out a jar of salsa and a bag of chips (which is fine), I have to get my platters out, make dips from my treasured Junior League cookbooks, and most importantly, make sure there’s plenty of alcohol. If I were having a dinner party, I would have planned the menu weeks ago. I’d have some appetizers, maybe a cheese plate, and then for the meal there would be a main course, a side dish, a vegetable, maybe a salad, some bread. For dessert, I’m thinking maybe an ice cream sundae, maybe a brownie with a scoop of ice cream. You know, something sweet.

This was not the case in this situation. Pretty much everyone made what they brought leaving us with four main courses, one, of course, involving tofu. While offered the pies (I declined), dessert was a communal bowl of watermelon and feta cheese. Maybe I’m just not sophisticated enough for a savory dessert. Give me ice cream any day. Alcohol? My bottle of wine was it, and if there ever was a time to get drunk until you feel more comfortable, this was it.

Finally it’s time to break bread. We sit down at the newly made Japanese seating area (earlier in the week, the house decided to chop all the legs off the dining room table and chairs. Apparently, it brought an inspiring energy to the room, so I’m told. Not sure what the energy was like with a normal table and chairs.) The lights go out, candles go up. Suddenly, I realize….this is a Shabbat dinner…in the flesh. No wonder we’ve been munching on Challah! This Southern Episcopalian is suddenly enthralled. You have to understand, I knew AH Jew before I went to college. This is practically like studying abroad.

After passing around the food, I start listening to the conversation. Several people are leaving early the next morning for Burning Man – an art festival in the Nevada desert where “Everyone brings everything in and packs everything out. Nothing is bought or sold – it’s a gift. Well, except for drugs.” Ahhh…this is a party I know for sure I have no desire to attend. My friend Matt is asked how his school party went the other night, “Oh, it was fine. It’s just everyone was so superficial. I mean, how can you discuss the Olympics and not even have a debate over whether China should even be HOSTING the Olympics due to human rights violations?” Okay, I guess I won’t go on my beach volleyball rant.

After more discussion on the meaning of life and what is truly happiness, Matt offers to follow me back to my hotel. I say good bye to my hosts. As I drive back to the hotel I realize, I don’t think I can live in Portland, and while I may be a Southerner at heart, four years in Washington have made me an East Coaster, for better or worse. I realize: I like to be the original owner of my clothing and I like it to fit my body. I’m high strung, highly over caffeinated. I have no patience, I can’t relax, I even grind my teeth at night. And while I’m sure there is a balance between the life I live and the Portland lifestyle I witnessed, I think I’m just fine for now right where I am.

By the way, when I got back to Washington, I ran into a coworker who used to live in Portland. “How was Portland?” “Ugh, too many dirty hippies.” “Thank you for saying that! That’s exactly why I left.”