It’s weird to travel most of the way around the world, only to find yourself in a place that is sort of your home town in some blockbuster sci-fi movie alternate universe.
Portland, Oregon. The home of food trucks, the only ‘real’ (that’s bona fide, Melbourne approved, kids) coffee in ‘Merica, a ridiculously awesome Sunday brunch culture (yo Melbourne? Any chance of getting on board that bottomless mimosa bandwagon?) and donuts that folk will legitimately wait two hours in line for.
And no. I didn’t. Because ain’t nobody got time for that. There’s bottomless mimosas, guys. I be drinking them, while you fools line up.
PDX seems to be rejecting the very notion of American culture. In a land where convenience rules, and everything is deep fried (three times) – it’s a glorious little lush oasis of acai bowls, kale and barista made coffee – all wrapped up in a could-be-Fitzroy-but-isn’t-obvs expanse of industrial brick and food markets. Oh – AND THEY EVEN HAVE TRAMS, GUISE. (And in further proof of their evolved intelligence – there’s not a Myki to be seen…)
From drinking far too late into the night atop the Departure rooftop bar, to struggling to decide which brunch menu is superior in the Pearl district, to long runs across the river, and lugging yet more orange bags to the hotel from Nike Town, I never feel like I’ve ever had enough time in the home of the Ducks.
Til next time, PDX. You stay classy. (Except for your airport carpet, which should stay as ridiculously un-classy as ever, because iconic.)