Dispatch from the Caffeinated Shangri-La
Portland, OR
March 18, 2018
As hordes of hungover revelers mustered strength to lift themselves from bed (or wherever they lay) and run the Shamrock Race, we opted instead for Mass at St Michael’s, praying for our souls and their soles.
Founded in 1894 as the Italian National Parish of Portland, the Romanesque Church and bell tower anchors the pleasant neighborhoods east of Park Avenue and adjacent to Portland State University.
As we emerged from a pleasant service on this fifth Sunday of Lent, clearing skies signaled the approach of Easter…and that at least one prayer had not been offered in vain.
After scattered rain Saturday, clouds continue to dissipate, with nary a one expected the next couple days. People in Portland wave palm branches at such weather when it rides in during the month of March.
We are currently nestled at Black Rock coffee in the Pearl District, surrounded by brick walls, covered by high ceilings, supported by rustic wood floors, and heated by a soothing central fireplace.
We are camped in two large leather chairs separated in front by an antique marble table and behind by a large, imposing portrait of the impressive founder of the Great Northern Railway, James J. Hill.
Hill grew up in poverty but used entrepreneurial skill to create and extend his railroad from St. Paul to Seattle, distinguishing himself from other magnates of the era by forgoing any government subsidy.
How quaint.
In 1893, when the crony railroads went bankrupt, Hill’s line was able to cut rates and still turn a substantial profit.
Flanking Hill’s visage are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves bearing antique historical and literary volumes that, if this place dispensed wine as well as coffee, could retain me like Hillary Clinton clutching an erstwhile dream.
As such, we were wise to have spent our time in the Pearl District prior to settling comfortably at this caffeinated Shangri-La.
After a precarious walk along Burnside thru some of Portland’s seedier blocks, we crossed the figurative tracks to come upon a former industrial district that has been very successfully refurbished over the last couple decades.
Isabel restaurant caught our eye, and thru slow service and our own lingering, supplied a delightfully extended lunch amid a buzzing scene.
We were, however, blessed with a table beside a window and beyond the middle of the maelstrom, applying a thin layer of serenity to the swirl of activity in the center of the room.
Chardonnay and Bloody Mary washed down our wrap and burrito, while fostering enhanced enjoyment of the passing scene within and beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass.
Joining the exterior act, we strolled up one street and back down the next, gliding past many upscale niche shops and sifting thru the wares of a few, we absorbed, appreciated, and will henceforth proclaim, the many merits of the Pearl District.
Should I ever pry myself from this seat, I will be tempted by the lure of Powell Books.
The largest independent bookstore in the US, it occupies a four-story building and the entire city block between 10th and 11th Avenue and Couch and Burnside Streets.
I recall spending the better part of a blissful day two decades ago swimming the endless stream of new, used, antique, and rare books that flows thru that literary Louvre.
Had Plutarch written a Collected Lives of US Bookstores, Powell would be his Alexander: sweeping, comprehensive, and overwhelming. Those who embark on an adventure with or to either colossus risks not ever returning.
We will therefore leave my excursion to Powell Books till after work tomorrow or Tuesday.
Whichever day I choose will, like the architects of Stonehenge or the rationale for alcohol-free beer, be irretrievably lost to history.
The remainder of today will be devoted to the commercially abundant Pioneer District and then to tonight’s cocktail party launching the Corporate Community Affairs conference that is, after all, Rita’s reason (and my excuse) for being here.
JD
