Peril in Portland?

A sketchy situation in a special city

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Portland, Oregon, was a city of contrasts. 

We lucked out when we arrived in Portland after leaving Cottonwood Canyon State Park, missing a record-breaking heatwave. We passed through the city and deposited our trailer at Fort Stevens State Park on the coast, then backtracked and booked a cheap hotel. I was ready to be in civilization after more than three months of straight-up camping, and eager to explore a city many friends considered a favorite. 

• Spacious city streets sheltered by overarching trees were bisected by rugged development areas where tall, new buildings sprouted like ungainly weeds. 

• Gracious older buildings and well-dressed businesspeople mingled with a numerous and highly visible unhoused population. 

• Beautiful mature trees shaded elders seated on benches at a riverfront park, as exercisers of all kinds whizzed by on skateboards, feet and rollerblades. 

• A large family with numerous children clad in underwear splashed semi-naked in a public fountain. 

• Fine dining restaurants competed with the hand-lettered signs of ethnic food trucks. 

• Shiny high rises soared over short, squat brick buildings whose doors are swathed in graffiti. 

• A glossy Tesla was parked beside an abandoned lime-green rental scooter used for public transport.

• Very good artisanal coffee perked beside a faux Mexican cafeteria sporting a dollar menu.

We checked into our three-star hotel facing the Columbia River with a giant, full laundry bag in hand. Though the website claimed otherwise, the hotel had no laundromat on the premises, a bummer. Still, a long, hot shower and a nap on clean sheets more than made up for that setback, along with a delicious gourmet meal at a cafe a couple of blocks away.

Needs of the body taken care of, Mike and I set out for the famous Japanese gardens at Washington Park. 

Walking groomed paths beneath sculpted trees pruned into umbrella-like forms was like moving through a temple; I exulted in the light of leafy stained-glass windows. Each framed and curated viewpoint presented a spare, yet lyrical aesthetic brought to magnificence by the changing of leaves as fall approached. 

Photo by Monica Flores on Unsplash

The raked stone zen gardens were the largest I’d ever seen, leading the eye to and fro in relaxing yet energizing patterns. The ponds, with their delicate footbridges, were serene—and the koi enormous and mellow. 

The whole garden was, as intended, a feast for the senses, a forest bath for the soul. Only the presence of crowds of rowdy humans stole from its peace.

I couldn’t help reflecting that many of the natural forest settings Mike and I had explored on our trip were every bit as restorative as this human-enhanced natural space—and even more amazing for having occurred spontaneously. Many times, we hadn’t had to share them with others, and that too was a gift.

Refreshed, I left Mike taking care of Koa and watching the latest TV in our room (a rare treat!) and took a ride-share to Powell’s City of Books, rumored to be the largest bookstore in North America (possibly the world?) There, in the mystery/thriller section, I met a reader fan named Pippa who’s been following my work for years. 

Meeting Pippa at last was a treat!

Powell’s was all I’d hoped: an overwhelming cornucopia of literary delights. Pippa assured me it was even better when the coffee lounge and seating areas were open; they were closed when we visited.

After a good long browse of the stacks, I topped up my to-be-read book pile with several intriguing thrillers. Evening fell, and after a lovely visit with Pippa and a sampling of gourmet cider at a nearby bar, I called for another ride-share back to the hotel.

Hussein, the driver, seemed new at the job. He couldn’t find me on the street corner even with the GPS. After several bumbling attempts at communication, I eventually trotted to meet the car at a completely different street from where I’d started. When he pulled up, speaking in gestures, language was clearly a barrier.

On the way back to our hotel, Hussein overshot the turn, ignoring my pointing and attempts at directing. He took an on-ramp lane that forced us onto a multi-lane freeway bridge over the immense Columbia River. 

“Where are we going?” I asked. Hussein shrugged, gesticulating at the phone clipped onto a dashboard holder. The phone showed red lines: we were not where we should have been.

The bridge overpass lane then dumped us into a very bad area of seedy abandoned buildings and a Gordian knot of dank homeless encampments beneath the uncharted overpasses. 

I checked that my doors were locked, then realized I couldn’t open them. 

The child safety locks were engaged. I was trapped.