Danger in Portland?

A scary experience in a city of contrasts

Portland, Oregon, is a city of contrasts:

spacious city streets sheltered by lovely vegetation are bisected by rugged new development areas. 

Gracious older buildings and well-dressed people mingle with a numerous and visible homeless population. 

Beautiful mature trees shade elders on benches at a riverfront park filled with whizzing exercisers of all kinds, as a large family of poor kids splash semi-naked in a public fountain. Fancy fine dining restaurants compete with hand-lettered signs on food trucks. 

Shiny highrises soar over short, squat brick buildings with doors swathed in graffiti. 

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

Very good coffee perks near a faux Mexican cafeteria sporting a dollar menu.

We’d lucked out when we arrived in Portland, just missing a record-breaking heatwave, and passed through to deposit our trailer at Fort Stevens State Park on the coast. 

We then backtracked, booked a cheap hotel, and began an exploration of the city with the Japanese gardens at Washington Park.

Amazing Japanese gardens!

Passing along groomed paths beneath carefully sculpted trees pruned into umbrella-like forms was like walking through a temple; I was bathed in the light of leafy green stained-glass windows. Each carefully framed and curated viewpoint pause presented a spare, yet lyrical aesthetic. The raked stone zen gardens were the largest I’d ever seen, leading the eye to and fro in relaxing yet energizing patterns. 

I couldn’t help reflecting that many of the natural forest settings Mike and I had explored on our trip were every bit as magnificent as this human-enhanced natural space; and even more special for having occurred spontaneously.

We checked into our 3-star hotel facing the Columbia River with our giant, full laundry bag in hand. The hotel had no laundromat on the premises, in spite of what their website said. Still, a delicious gourmet meal at a cafe a couple of blocks away and a long, hot shower more than made up for that setback.

Was great to be back in civilization wearing a clean shirt!

Refreshed, I left Mike taking care of Koa and watching 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. 

I love meeting readers in person…especially at a bookstore!

Powell’s was all I’d hoped, even with COVID restrictions in place: an overwhelming cornucopia of literary delights. Pippa assured me it was even better when the coffee lounge and seating areas were open! I topped up my to-be-read list with some intriguing thrillers, 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, and language was clearly a barrier. After several bumbling attempts at communication, I eventually trotted to meet his car at a completely different street from where I’d started. 

On the way to our hotel, Hussein overshot the turn, ignoring my pointing and back seat directing. He took an on-ramp lane that forced us to cross the freeway bridge over the immense Columbia River, instead. The lane then dumped into a very bad area of seedy abandoned buildings and homeless encampments beneath a Gordian knot of dank freeway overpasses.

Was he taking me somewhere on purpose? A friend of mine had been “kidnapped” by a taxi driver who took her far away to try to extort more money from her.

Was this how my kidnapping began? 

My lurid imagination went into overdrive.

“Where are we going, Hussein?” I asked. “This doesn’t seem right.”

He babbled something and waved his phone at me, ostensibly showing me the route. 

“I’m in a car under the bridge on the opposite side of the Willamette River from our hotel,” I texted Mike. “I think the driver is lost, but I can’t tell what he’s doing. Letting you know in case it’s not legit.”

Traffic snarled around us in bumper-to-bumper mayhem in as a train came through and shut down the maze of streets. We were trapped, surrounded by other cars, in the sleazy area beneath the bridge.

Suddenly my phone lit up with a bright red, pulsing message: the rideshare company contacted me via text that they perceived that we’d deviated from my destination; was I in trouble? 

They offered to call 911 to report the car and driver.

WAS I being kidnapped? Was calling 911 the only way anyone could help me?

I tested the passenger door; it opened. He hadn’t engaged the childproof locks on me. I could jump out if I needed to, into the scary underbelly of the encampment under the bridge. 

But I didn’t want to. How would I get out of this nasty area from there?

My finger hovered above the button on the text message to call 911 as I practiced relaxation breathing.

All of what I knew about criminal psychology told me to trust my instincts about the situation; and my gut told me that the nervous, visibly sweating Hussein had made a wrong turn by accident, and was terrified I’d call the cops.

So I waited to see what would happen next, my finger poised over a call to 911, and one hand on the door handle.

In a whoosh of sudden movement the train passed, traffic got moving, and Hussein finally pulled into a lane that seemed to be headed back over the bridge. “Sorry, sorry! All okay!” Hussein yelled, waving his phone, clearly just as freaked out as I was.

This time he made the proper turn, and dropped me at the hotel door, peeling away in his eagerness to be rid of me. 

I ran inside the lobby, answering Mike’s concerned phone call with an appearance In person, and a big huge hug of relief with Koa jumping up to kiss me.

The rideshare incident was sobering. I will think twice before I hop in a car with a stranger that “doesn’t feel right,” no matter what seemingly legit qualifications they have, though it was reassuring to discover that rideshare companies have a security protocol in place that might even work should I ever need to use it.

We shook off the incident and slept well that night, cuddled up with our laundry bag beside the bed. :)

Hungry for culture after all of our adventuring in nature to that point, we spent the next day walking the city and exploring Portland Art Museum. I loved the vibrant Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera Mexican modernism exhibits and the surprisingly extensive collections. 

We ate a delicious lunch after; Portland is a city of foodies, and meals are a true pleasure. 

Then, we headed back to our trailer and the Oregon coast–our current favorite geography of all of our wanderings. 

I’ll be back to Portland sometime to spend an entire day glutting myself on books at Powell’s, feasting my eyes on art, and soaking up the Rose Gardens, which we didn’t have time to see. That’s a promise!