PORTLAND SATURDAY IN EARLY AUGUST

This Portland Saturday started last year when we missed the big group holiday night out.

Yesterday began in the home kitchen chopping up five ingredient guacamole.

Followed by strawberry margarita testing for the arrivals on their way.

Hmmm, needs more of something.

Tequila?

For the organizational impaired, event planning that includes more than yourself is tricky.

‘We’ worked on a fun destination for starters.

That it happened to be in the same neighborhood where I lived when I met my future wife was purely coincidental.

Also coincidental, we had a reservation in the local restaurant we went to when we were first dating, which has since changed hands.

Back in the early eighties it was called the Wheel of Fortune, a cafeteria set-up with two soups, salad, and bread for staples, which is all anyone needed at the time.

Date night wasn’t tricky:

 

Me: I’m going over the Wheel for soup and salad. It probably isn’t too busy if you want to come along.

Her: Okay.

 

Long story short after that. We got married, moved to suburbs, and raised a family.

On this Portland Saturday thirty-some years later everyone dropped their kids with their other in-laws and spent an evening on the town.

Is it the same Portland it was back then?

Without sounding like some ex-urban dilettante, it is better.

Here’s why:

 

The Portland Plan

To stay even with responsibilities in front of young people, we had red strawberry margaritas, green guacamole, played drums and electric guitars, then called an UberXL.

There were six of us.

We made it downtown in good time, passing this drab green building and dull brick apartment house.

It’s a local business people walk past. Same as the apartment.

Just city stops for people on the go.

But that’s not how we remember it.

I moved into the apartment building after a series of mishaps and misunderstandings usually attributed to middle aged divorces than guys in their twenties.

The women I knew all wanted more and I didn’t know what more meant.

Not that I was a slow learner, I just wasn’t marriage material. At the time.

No slipping and sliding on the emotional roller coaster ride for me.

‘Don’t blame me for your problems’ was my working motto.

Better yet, don’t have any problems. Until:

 

Me: I’m going over to the Wheel for something to eat. Would you like to come and start making problems together?

Her: Yes I would.

 

Problems In A New Light

We rolled past where my wife used to work, past my old apartment building, toward what used to be The Wheel Of Fortune.

Just two nondescript buildings you’d find in any city.

You’d find them in any Portland neighborhood; on Hawthorne, on Division, on Mississippi.

But they wouldn’t light up on demand like here.

21st and Lovejoy is just another urban intersection.

 

 

Except it was my Portland intersection for a good six years.

Again, like any other. No big deal.

Millions of people have an intersection they remember, but who gets the chance to walk it with the woman who made it memorable, and the kids you share together?

Is it a thrill? Yes, it is a thrill. A big old thrill. Every time.

After the sun shined on our origin story and everyone stopped in rapt attention like they were on a tour, we continued.

No one really stopped, but the sight stopped me.

It turned out to be the theme of the night, sights that were real show stoppers.

 

The Door Opens, The Curtains Swept Aside At Marrakesh

Two blocks up from Lovejoy, the door opened at Northrup and NW21st.

We were right on time and seated beside a large open space with more tables on the edges.

Moroccan beer and Moroccan wine and the Royal Feast Dinner for six? Yes.

We drank and sipped and talked, then the music took a dramatic increase in volume.

It wasn’t an accident.

A belly dancer in the true sense of the title came leaping into the room with a series of impressive whirls and a traditional costume.

She dashed past all the tables and into the back before returning for a longer session.

My expert eye defined her as a professionally trained dancer from the old country.

Maybe?

 

The truth is that average people in our culture don’t actually know what belly dance is, and upon hearing this term the image they conjure up in their heads is, at worst, a wildly inaccurate representation of what I do, and at best it is a simplistic and incomplete view of an extremely rich, culturally diverse and socially complex art form that is both incredibly beautiful and powerfully transformative. 

 

Halfway through the Royal Feast our waiter pointed out a table he’d just seated.

 

“That’s my mom and my family.”

 

They were visiting from out of town. We waved back and forth. It was sweet.

When the belly dancer came back for the longer session the mom stood up and moved into the dance space.

How could this go anyway but wrong?

But the mom knew all the steps and mirrored the dancer’s kicks and turns to perfection.

They did a few moves together like they’d rehearsed.

That got everyone at my table going, doing the full-belly dance in their seats.

I kept waiting for someone else to jump up, but one was enough.

Towards the end of dinner I found the restroom in the back busy with another downstairs.

So I went downstairs.

It looked like a party down there, so I mingled briefly before going back up. Mingling practice comes in handy in case you have to do the real thing.

I took the wrong stairway up and landed in the kitchen. I didn’t mingle briefly or otherwise.

Instead of going back the way I came, I hustled over to the door going out on the packed restaurant floor, got disoriented by all of the activity, and slow-walked my way to the front.

We left with the idea of one more stop together before we split up and headed home.

With the warm August air under our wings we stopped at Twenty First Ave Kitchen & Bar. 

Again, first impressions were deceptive. More than a dive-bar, they have a open air space in back decked out like any SE Portland hipster destination.

 

An unexpected treat, it was the cherry on top of a Portland Saturday cocktail.

I closed my eyes and took it all in. The group thought they had a passed out problem on their hands.

Like that ever happens. Hardly ever happens. It could happen, so be careful.

 

PS: If it’s been a minute since you checked into an old neighborhood, take a look around.

PSS: While you’re at it, work on your own origin story for your kids and grandkids. They’ll want to know.