Cruising in Portland - the royal welcome mat

So last week was houseguest-O-rama 'round here and that's a-ok by me 'cause they were all good houseguests (this includes my fabulous dad, who is a regular reader of my blog)!

My classmate, Gregory, was visiting from one of my favorite red states and, even though he's visited Portland before, he wanted to learn Portland better and do some semi-touristy things on this visit.

No problemo.

After a delicious meal at my favorite place to wait an hour for a breakfast table, The Tin Shed, we shopped on Hawthorne for a bit (including a visit to the store called Greg's because duh!) and then went downtown for the mini-version of my urban Portland walking tour (there's a mini, regular, and extreme version).

We parked smartly, then looked at The Governor Hotel architecture, which I think looks like Transformers-Robots-in-Disguise at the top of the building (mouse over "The Governor Hotel" and click on the link and you can see for yourself - they have some good pics on their website). From there we walked to Pioneer Courthouse Square, also known as Portland's living room.

Now, this is where things got interesting.

I was dying to show Gregory the amphitheatre at the northwest corner of the square, where you can stand on a small circle of metal and speak aloud, facing north, and just like magic your voice is seemingly amplified, but only within the sphere of the little circle where you are standing! To those standing just two or three feet away, your voice sounds completely normal! I don't know how this works or why it works, but I LOVE it!!! And every out-of-towner I've shown it to has found it rather fascinating as well.

Gregory, J and I take a few steps away and are laughing and talking while I'm pointing out other features of the square. Then, seemingly from nowhere, he emerges in his kelly-green glory and tips his hat to us. It is Eduardo and he works for the Portland Oregon Visitors' Association Sidewalk Ambassadors. Interestingly, their Info-Patrol logo utilizes a lowercase "i" with a curlique, not unlike the logo for my school, The Information School at the University of Washington. Gregory notes aloud that Eduardo is sporting our school logo.

Eduardo cheerfully offers his assistance and J and I mention that we live here and are showing our friend, Gregory, the sights. Eduardo makes small talk with Gregory and is clearly very interested in every word Gregory has to say. Gregory mentions that it would be nice to have a big map of the entire city, not just the puny walking maps of downtown that they hand out at Powell's. Eduardo opens his messenger bag that is chock-full of every type of tourist map one could possibly imagine and inquires as to whether or not Gregory is interested in any of them. Gregory holds his ground and does not succumb to Eduardo's temptations. Eduardo is not the least bit put off by Gregory's refusal of his goods and, instead, confides to Gregory the not-so-secret nickname that the Sidewalk Ambassadors have dubbed the good map, the "Mama Jama." Eduardo tells Gregory where he can obtain said Mama Jama, tips his hat to us and bids us farewell.

Suddenly he is gone as mysteriously as he arrived.

Approximately two point five seconds later, we notice Eduardo running toward us at top speed. J and I inform Gregory that he is clearly being cruised. Gregory spouts some nonsense about Eduardo doing his job. Yeah, right. J and I stifle laughter and enjoy our front-row seats of this show.

Eduardo magically reappears and gifts Gregory with the Mama Jama in his hand. If his eyes twinkle any more, he may find himself employed as the top of the ginormous Christmas tree that Pioneer Square displays each December. Eduardo slips us a card with his number on it - number 9, after The Beatles' song, and because 17 was already taken. The card asks us to rate his performance and he mocks the terminology stating that it seems like maybe he should do a song and dance. We all but dare him to. At this point, there is no doubt in my mind that Eduardo wants Gregory to rate another of his "performances" and I am marvelling at Gregory's suavitude. I've seen this happen to him before.

I ask Eduardo if he has any recommendations of any downtown sights not to be missed. He mentions the Chinese Gardens, which we don't have time for, and happy hour at the Portland City Grill. We tell Eduardo that we were already planning on going to Portland City Grill for happy hour and that we'll be there around 4:30 that afternoon.

Another tip of the hat and Eduardo magically disappears again. We continue our mini walking tour through the square and over to The Portland Building and the Portlandia statue. The Portland Building is a controversial Michael Graves design from the early 1980s - long before his teapots and toasters started to appear on the shelves at Target. Portlandia is the second largest hammered copper statue ever built - second only to the Statue of Liberty.

Plunked on the viewing bench in front of Portlandia, the three of us opened up the Mama Jama and noted various points of interest on the map. J and I were the "Mapgals" holding the corners taut while Gregory studied the grid of Portland.

Next stop: Powell's Books. Gregory went speed-shopping through the store and acquired about a dozen books in thirty minutes flat.

True to our word and with 4:30 rapidly approaching, we walked down to the Portland City Grill to brave the happy hour crowd and hope for a table. As we nestled in to the large, comfortable booth that was easily the worst seat in the house with regard to the view, we decided that we were lucky to have a table at all. Just as we are settling in with our drinks and contemplating our food order, who should mysteriously pop from around the corner?

EDUARDO!!

As we register our shock and awe at his appearance, Eduardo gestures with excitement and sends a plate of calamari flying out of a waiter's hands. The plate lands with a thud and a crack and calamari goes scattering in every which direction under the barstools and between the high-heeled feet of the building's office workers enjoying a post-workday libation.

Eduardo is clearly mortified. We invite him to join us and he repeats that he was just popping in to see if we made it for happy hour. Talk about follow-through! His hat is removed to signify that he is on a break and he mentions that he must return to work shortly. With that, Eduardo then re-donned his hat, tipped his hat with a gentle nod of his head and -poof!- he was gone.

Much to our surprise, Eduardo did not magically appear anywhere else.

The Arab Boy With the Strap-On

I have only one question to pose of the super tall couple who pushed their way past me at the Belle & Sebastian concert last night. They know who they are...the man looked more like a fellow you'd see at a Hootie and the Blowfish show: a veritable frat brother with a neck as wide as his head and the woman had one of those very protruding chins and a nose that looks like the tip piece was added on hastily as an afterthought. I felt a little bit sorry for her because her boyfriend smelled like sour milk. But what I want to know from them is this:

When you arrive at the concert later and feel entitled to shove your way past other people in order to stand in front of them, do you do so because:
a) you paid more for your ticket than they did
b) you're better than they are
c) you're completely oblivious to the fact that this is rude

I'm just wondering because you folks were very tall and arrived after The New Pornographers had concluded their set. I, on the other hand, am not tall and my girlfriend is even less so. We arrived very early (30-45 minutes before the show started) so that we could stand close to the stage and see well. We intentionally surveyed the crowd upon our arrival and stood behind the other not-so-tall people already there. We planned ahead - way ahead - to ensure that we'd be able to see the show. And then you shove past us an hour and a half later and plunk your tall selves right in front of the short folk. Why?

Fortunately, however, having my view of the stage partially obscured by a foul-smelling frat brother was only a minor dent in what was otherwise a very good time. I was very impressed with Belle & Sebastian's live show and thoroughly enjoyed the ongoing banter between Stuart Murdoch and Stevie Jackson. The large ensemble made beautiful music and Stuart's fluid dancing was fun to watch as well. My only complaint is that I wish they would have done more from Fold Your Hands Child, You Walk Like a Peasant, which is actually my favorite opus of theirs (I know, I know) - although their latest release The Life Pursuit is quite excellent and may get to become my favorite after I listen to it about ten more times. Still, one of my favorite live shows ever. Thanks to David and Dave for taking us!!!

David and Dave were here on a propaganda tour to persuade Dave to someday maybe hopefully wish to move to Portland and I'm pleased to report that it worked! I was happy to have finally met Dave and especially liked him because, like me, he pretends to be Canadian.

Space. The final frontier. To boldly go where no man has gone before and should never go again...

To the pregnant, balding man wearing an orange fleece vest at the Adrienne Rich reading on 20 March, 2006:

Do you have any idea how much space you consume? Your heavy breathing should be reserved for your more intimate moments and your overly audible "Hmmmmmm," "Mmmmmmm," "Oh," "Yeah," and "Wow" at the conclusion of each and every poem read aloud by Ms. Rich does not need to be heard by the person three rows back and five people over. Do you have any idea how intrusive it is to be so very vocal when you are in a crowd of mostly women listening quietly? Were you feeling dwarfed by the 15:1 ratio of women to men in the audience? Did it make you uncomfortable to be in the minority? Did you feel threatened? Were you wanting others to view you as a "sensitive man" and perceive you as one who is identifying with the works being read? Because I can assure you that your bodily outbursts painted you as something quite the opposite: Ironically, the precise patriarchal form that the uber-feminist Rich personifies in her prose. If you really stand behind what Rich proclaims, please, do so with respect to your fellow feminists and think twice about what you emit from your body and how far it travels; then consider whether or not those around you likely wish to share in these emissions.

the perils of hard butter

I arrived in an inexplicably good mood. It was Friday night, I was prepared to be busy, I was ready to make some money.

When I first arrive to the restaurant for my shift, I have something of a ritual - a routine that keeps me on track and ready for the onslaught, whatever that may entail. I check the dry-erase board to update myself on what we are out of, which seafood is starring in the seafood salad that eve, and find out what the soup of the day happens to be.

Then I do some fact checking.

If the board declares that our soup is presently green split pea with ham but, when I open the lid of the soup vat, it more closely resembles clam chowder, then I must do some editing as well. When this is the case, I then taste the soup (ok, yeah, sometimes I taste the soup even when it does resemble what it's rumored to be...quality control, you know?). I let my tastebuds determine the flavor and then I seek out assistance from the kitchen staff to confirm my assumptions. Often, I must inquire of several different folks in checkered pants before I find one who is able to name that soup. It doesn't end there, though. I also find out if the soup contains any meat or any dairy and, if so, how much and what kind. Trust me, I think I've met every "food issue" on the planet.

As I leave the kitchen feeling pretty well-informed about what is coming out of the kitchen doors, I head to the host podium to scan that night's reservations and learn more about what will be coming through the front doors.

"Maaaaaaaaammmmm."

I believe I am being summoned. Being called "ma'am" isn't such a horrible thing (oh, I've been called worse), but something in the voice just had this certain...I dunno...hint of desperation or something. So instead of reviewing that night's reservations, I head to table 27 (which "belongs" to the closing lunch server, Drew, for the record) and find myself face-to-face with a woman in her late 60s/early 70s sporting the most disgruntled look on her face. Uh-oh, this is not the picture of a happy camper. And whatever has her so upset is about to become my problem.

"May I help you?" I offer, with some reluctance that - hopefully - remains undetected.

"Can I get some butter that isn't hard?" the woman barks - more of a demand than a question.

"Actually, all of our butter is hard like that - we keep it refridgerated. I'm sorry."

People make this request on occasion and are typically understanding when I explain the situation to them. If I have the time and I like the people, I will show them my trick of placing the ramekin of hard butter on top of an unlidded teapot - this will soften butter in about ten minutes, but something told me not to go there this time.

"Well, then bring me some more butter," the Charmer on table 27 demanded.

"Sure, no problem."

I began to count my blessings that she wasn't my table and that my interaction with her would be only temporary. I return with another ramekin containing one pat of butter and placed it next to the ramekin already on her table that held a half pat of butter still. The Charmer looks at the ramekin with disdain.

"That's all you brought me?"

This is a trap. I can tell. Refusing to fall for such an obvious set-up, I sidestep the bait.

"Would you like me to bring you some more?" I offer politely.

"Well, I just don't understand why you bring it to me in these little bits!"

For the record, "these little bits" consisted of single tablespoon-sized squares of solid fat. The Charmer's face was reddening - she was actually getting really angry about this!

"Honestly? We don't want to waste it. So we're happy to bring you more if you intend to use it, but think it foolish and wasteful to bring a lot at each request."

I knew that I was playing Russian Roulette here. Sometimes it works in your favor to explain the rationale to a customer and sometimes not. It's about a fifty/fifty shot, but it's so gratifying when, upon explaining the whys of something that doesn't make sense to someone, they get it and calm down. I should have known that I'd be playing with fire to try to make sense of anything to the Charmer.

"Ohhhhhhh, you don't want to WASTE any of it, huh? Well, in that case, forget it. I don't want it."

And the Academy Award for best meltdown over butter goes to...The Charmer!!!!! [raging applause]

The Charmer jerks her head to the left, refusing to look in my direction, as if to punctuate her retracted request. I want to laugh out loud, but I don't. As I'm walking away from the table, the oh boy from inside my head somehow is uttered audibly from my mouth. Out of prinicple and professionalism, I hope the Charmer didn't hear me.

I return to the kitchen, fill a ramekin with as much butter as will fit, and return to table 27 where Charmer, who sees me approaching with about 1/3 cup of butter, turns her head away again, refusing to watch me honoring her initial request. Knowing it won't make any difference at this point, I politely inform her that if she needs more, just to let me know. I notice that she has since acquired a dining companion and a walker.

As luck would have it, Drew needs me to take over table 27 so he can get off the clock and run errands before his dinner shift begins. Somehow I knew this would happen. After the Charmer's grievances regarding her takeout order, I was thoroughly convinced that the Charmer just liked to hear herself when she becomes exasperated. There was no amount of kindness or additional service to appease this woman. I watched them from afar while I conducted my opening sidework and ventured near table 27 only when necessary. At my offer of a bag for her to-go boxes (into which she'd placed all of the butter I'd brought her), the Charmer grabbed the plastic bag out of my hand saying, "give me that," while handing me the guest check presenter and saying, "you take this."

After scraping every dust bunny from my wallet to make change for her hundred dollar bill on her $30 tab, I approached the table with a smile (yay! they're leaving soon!), told them thank you and placed the change tray on the table. As I was about to make a mad dash as far away from this toxic woman as possible, she says to me, but without really looking at me, "Help him with his coat. He can't get his arm into the hole."

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo my mind and body are screaming.

But, in retrospect, Dining Companion has done nothing wrong aside from having lunch with the wicked witch of the west. He looks helpless and frustrated trying repeatedly to get his arm to coincide with his jacket pocket without success. As much as I don't want to do this, I gingerly reach for his jacket and try and scoot the armhole closer to his actual arm. Naturally this feat requires more than merely holding the jacket still. After resituating the position of his jacket on his opposite shoulder and doing something of a six-point turn, then holding the armhole still with my left hand and practically holding hands with the old man with my right, I was finally able to steer his arm into his jacket. Not sure what to do next and receiving no verbal feedback from either Charmer or D.C., I happen to notice that the walker is more than arm's length from the gentleman. Apparently desperate to end this transaction on a positive note, I gesture to the walker and ask the man, "Do you need this moved closer to you?"

Silence.

As tempted as I am to just bolt away, I don't. I repeat my question, uncertain as to whether or not D.C. is even capable of hearing me. Realizing that it's been a full eight minutes since she'd had an outburst, Charmer barks at me, "He can get that himself."