“Gail, how would you describe the conditions where you are?”
“Well, Bill,” strongly holding her hat in place with one hand and the microphone with another, “the gusts are really whipping up here and as you can see behind me, area drivers are having trouble navigating the snowy streets.”
“Have you seen the city plows where you are, Gail?”
“We actually haven’t seen them in over an hour, Bill, and area residents are wondering if perhaps, the city should have maybe purchased more than one. As of now, the mayor’s office has no comment on the matter.” Despite the harsh gusts, Gail put her best, shit-eating news anchor smile, front and center.
“Back to you, Bill.”
For the duration of our three-day stay in Portland, Oregon last December, similar-sounding coverage occupied every local newscast. The town was buried by an unforeseen snowstorm that was already being dubbed the “Storm of the Century”; a label that seemed less impressive as the century was only eight years old. A place not used to being dumped on this bad in the winter months, Portland was a paralyzed shell of the city my buddies and I were hoping to run wild and free in for a weekend before having to come back to snowier Buffalo for the holidays.
Being a fan of the city, I was especially looking forward to wasting an entire day, stimulating my brain cells within the ample stacks at Powell's Books and then spend the evening killing those same cells at some of Portland's more than ample brewpubs. “Beervana” is what they call Portland and I had planned on doing some hard-nosed investigative field research to find out why.
Initially, everything went according to plan. My brother Welled and my buddy Riggs flew out to meet me in San Francisco where I scooped them up in a rental car and headed north. The fourteen-hour drive through California and Oregon was an orgy of scenery. We saw majestic ocean views along the Pacific Coast Highway. We drove through quaint fishing villages and stood awestruck at the hulking presence of the California redwoods. We found a place somewhere in southern Oregon peddling smoked oysters. At breakfast, we devoured linguiça, a savory sausage brought to the west coast by Portuguese fishermen. Undulating sea cliffs, winding mountain roads, desolate beaches, thick pine forests: all without a lick of snow.
An hour south of Portland is where the fun started. As the fir-lined road became white with snow it simultaneously became slow with cars. We eventually noticed the tires of surrounding cars covered in chains. As the snowfall got heavier, the drivers of these cars discovered their brake pedals and were driving far too overcautiously for less than an inch of snow on the ground. Meanwhile, our red rental, filled with born and bred Buffalonians − a breed of mammal known to laugh in the face of a travel ban − was cruising along right at the speed limit. Our fellow drivers hunched themselves over in their seats, nervously clutching the wheel like it was going to fly out of their hands. Conversely, my seat was slightly reclined and my laidback driving position made me look like an extra in a Snoop Dogg video.
I tried to slow down somewhat as a courtesy to the cars around me but, it was difficult. I don't know, perhaps it's a Western New York winter pride thing but I do know how to drive in snow and I guess a small part of me wanted to make that fact loud and clear. But I had other reasons. A friend of ours, Jase, and his aunt and uncle, Bob and Alice, were meeting us at an Ethiopian restaurant in town. It would have taken way more than an inch of snow to keep a car of hungry men from missing injerah, tibbs and other Ethiopian delights; even if we weren’t already five hours late.
Dinner was great, especially the company. Bob and Alice are two sweet people in a savory world. They opened their house to us for our stay and even included this Arab on their Hannukah tradition of breaking challah bread and the lighting of the menorah. Nestled in the always-lively Hawthorn district on what would be a tree-lined street in different weather, their house was cozy and comfortable.
For the much-anticipated Saturday evening follies, Jase, Riggs, Welled and myself decided to get a room at the high-rise Marriot across the river. This way, we could strategically position ourselves for maximum debauchery and minimum distance to a safe surface to collapse onto. Riggs’s brother Dave, a Marriot employee, was able to get us a significantly discounted room. We said a temporary goodbye to our gracious hosts and spent about twenty minutes trying to dig the car out from the snow bank.
Driving in to downtown was slow going and every other driver on the road was especially annoying that afternoon. The snow was accumulating quickly and the closer we got to the hotel the fewer drivers there were. We checked into our room and turned on the TV to nothing but depressing weather broadcasts and closing announcements. I started to panic. We had come all the way to Portland or at least to a Portland existing in my head, and it looked as if we were going to be holed up in our hotel room, hunched over the mini-bar.
I started to make some calls to brewpubs and restaurants I was interested in to make sure they were open. To my mounting dismay, I couldn’t get any answer from most of them. Cursing our luck, I hung up the phone and walked to our window, facing the downtown area. Looking out I could see night falling over a city covered in white with buildings and structures trying to poke their way out. There were no cars or buses; no movement at all except for the occasional cross-country skiers taking advantage of the rare opportunity to ski past city hall. All was eerily still as the snow continued to fall without letting up.
I eventually decided my wallowing was bullshit. My compatriots also agreed. We were already in town and the room was paid for. So we busted out of the room to search out what fun we could find in Portland’s city streets.
To avoid paying the hotel’s parking extortion, we parked our car at a meter spot across the street. Predictably, after two more hours of snowfall, we would have needed a team of archeologists and the Jaws of Life to get it moving again. Since there seemed to be no taxis around we decided to walk until we found the downtown light rail we had heard so much about.
The accumulation was up to our ankles and I found trudging through with my sneakers tough. We asked the few pedestrians we came across if they could direct us where to catch the train. Twenty minutes later when we finally found the right spot, we stepped on board.
The brightly lit train was filled with passengers in our age neighborhood on the same mission for fun or activity or life. In contrast to the coldly silent atmosphere outside, the train was lively with conversation and an eagerness that reassured us that maybe the evening wouldn’t be fruitless after all.
We frequented the few taverns open in Portland’s compact downtown. From Deschutes Brewery Portland Pub to Rogue Ales Public House to many other place names now forgotten, we drank with abandon, collectively sampling probably fifteen different beers in the span of four hours. Many other adult drinks were also quaffed and it wasn’t long before Riggs was stealing tater tots from other people’s dinner plates as they sat on the bar, waiting to be served. Jase and his lowered eyelids could be seen doing the bunny hop around puzzled patrons and Welled and I were complaining loudly about the bar patrons’ affinity for Andean chullo hats.
Traveling from bar to bar on foot and through the snow was wearing me out not to mention killing my buzz. A few fellow drunks aside, we ruled the streets screaming and yelling like teenagers which was bizarre as our voices had nothing to bounce off of but the closed storefronts. The sky was black and cloudless. The city felt like a movie set; hollow and temporary.
Around closing time, we miraculously found a cab and had the driver take us to an all-night diner so we could satisfy our hunger pangs. We were all basking in the haze of the drink, particularly Jase who began to be his usual brazen self in speech and behavior. This is what always happens when the lite beer finally kicks in.
After our waiter at the diner, a place locally renowned for its late-night breakfasts, seated us we perused our menus and drooled over anything with the word ‘egg’ in it.
“Hey guys,” Jase said with that familiar look of impending mischief in his eye, “what about this?”
And with that, Jase took the glass of ice water he was holding in his right hand and jerked it in the air so that its contents went all over the table and onto some of us. He began to laugh and snort deliriously. The impromptu shower was jarring, but not surprising. I was glad it was just water.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Welled exclaimed more out of fear of being kicked out of what was probably the only open feedbag.
Our waiter, who was also the manager, quickly descended on us. “Um, you’re going to have to leave.”
“Uh, OK,” Jase said, his smile disappearing. “I’ll leave but can my friends stay?”
“Oh they can stay, but you have to leave.”
There’s usually a solidarity amongst friends when one of their own is expelled from a bar or restaurant. Usually the whole party gets up and leaves, too. Welled, Riggs and I, annoyed and hungry, just looked down at our menus. Slowly, Jase got up and left.
Getting another cab back to the hotel after our meal was completely impossible. Even calling the dispatch did us no good. Reluctantly, we bundled up and began the two or three mile trek back to the Marriott.
It was about 4:00am and it had gotten much colder outside. Amazingly, the snowfall had ceased. I was drunk, exhausted and lagging significantly behind Welled and Riggs. Half way there and I had uttered every swear word there was and even created a few new hybrids. But it wasn’t just the terrain or the nausea that comes from imbibing almost every conceivable form of liquor that was pissing me off that evening. I didn’t get to see the Portland I remembered nor get to explore the Portland I had read about and wanted to experience. I really couldn’t believe our fucking luck.
Not a day later, at first light Monday morning, our plane finally took off from Portland’s international airport after a more than three-hour squat on the runway. We found out later that our plane was the last one to leave before they had to close the airport. As we ascended into the heavens I couldn’t help but wearily chuckle just a little. The trip we had expected became the trip we didn’t and mostly because of what insurers call an “act of God.”
But even if the weather were perfect, there can obviously be no guarantee everything would have went as imagined anyway. Such is travel and I should have known better. Any trip anywhere should leave some space for the unpredictable, the unbelievable and the unfathomable. (Or at the very least, for Jase getting kicked out of a bar or restaurant.) It’s what makes travel so rewarding. And it always makes the best stories.
In Portland my posse and I were all probably envisioning a carefree weekend of our usual antics. Instead, we experienced a Portland under unusual circumstances, practically a different city altogether. The storm succeeded only in making me want to return soon for a visit. Perhaps in July.
