Glossolalia’s Adventures In Portland
by Glossolalia Black, couchsurfer.
Episode 1 of 3

Hundred Mile High City

10 PM PST, 4/21/05

I fade into waking somewhere over the plains. The moon is out and I can see the rabbit inside. The cracks in the earth below me are like beautiful fractals from a distance. They plant things in circles out here. Crop circles.

I descend like a tipsy angel into Denver’s airport. The last time I stopped through here, I was going the other way… back from a conference for the MS Society. It was the first time I’d ever flown out for a job’s sake. It ended up being lonely, though. And boring. There were a total of three moments that made it worthwhile:

1.) As they bussed us from one side of town to the other, I marveled at the sight of pigeons fucking and pointed it out to my fellow passengers. The whole bus crowded to see, and laughed.

2.) A reporter friend at the Rocky Mountain News took me out for buffalo. We spent the evening eating animal I’d never eaten before.

3.) I shared a cigarette with a baggage handler at the hotel, having a totally sincere conversation — he being comfortable enough to say, “You’re lonely, aren’t you?”

I have this habit of making out with skinny white boys on flights, but not this time. I’m saving all my fun for a city I’ve never seen.

I’m saving my love for Portland.

***

4/22/05

No, I don’t know how to relax; why do you ask?

Could it have something to do with moving from crystalline Minneapolis to organic Portland? Can I relax enough to find any peace?

There’s topography here, and that’s what throws me. The river’s pointing the “wrong way”, the streets are narrow and still manage to accomodate light rail; people look you in the eye, here.

There’s running water outside. Fountains. I don’t think they know just how good they have it here. I’m sure a lot of them would be baffled by Minneapolis, too.

Smoking a cigarette in Adrian’s backyard, everything looks as if I’d stepped straight into a cel from Ranma 1/2. Colorful, rooftops made for rain. I expect Japanese kids to come barreling through any second now.

A Jesus-lookalike asks me for change for the bus. I give it to him. We’re friendly and intense, though his beard disturbs me greatly. We’re both kinda lit.

Now to watch Kung-Fu Hustle!

***

The sushi is cheap here. God I miss living near water.

All the food tastes like it wasn’t shipped a million miles.

I look really gauche just shoveling it into my mouth, but fuck it; I’m on vacation.

People openly look at one another here. No one’s as knee-jerk polite as me — or maybe it’s that they’re just much more used to walking around.

Weird magnet incident #1:

Coming back from the light rail, we spy a dead possum in the road. It’s been years since I’ve seen a possum, alive or dead. Me & Tom try avoiding it, but the weird guy across the street walks up to intercept us, then starts kicking the dead possum towards us, ostensibly to get it out of the middle of the road. It’s still disturbing.

Weird magnet incident #2:

Retarded, scabby black dude starts by asking me for change. I give him 26 cents. He starts following me around, saying that I’m his new girlfriend now.

Weird magnet incident #3:

German guy with two kids behind me here at the sushi joint. They all smell oddly of urine. They’re shooting toy guns. Repeatedly. At me. They only stop when their father tells them “stop” in English.

In some ways, it’s like being dumped from one fishbowl into another. There’s Saks, Starbucks, Nordstrom — all the familiar sights and sounds of any typical American downtown. Yet everyone is much more happy, much less annoyed, more willing to let their eyes linger over you. Looking is definitely allowed in Portland. In fact, it’s almost encouraged.

I’m a fossil from the 20th century, sans phone. Where the fuck’s a payphone? They have wireless everything… tattooes… interesting hair. No goddamned evident payphones, though.

***

(4:15, outside of Starbucks.)

Waiting for Tom. Drunk Okie-looking bastard yelling “HEY BITCH,GOT THIRTY CENTS?”

This place (Pioneer Square) is for people-watching. It’s weird to sit on the bare ground. Buildings aren’t as tall here, but they don’t need to be. Lots of white boy afro going on. Lots of punk boys unafraid of embracing. The guy in the Operation Ivy shirt: bad skin, 18 years old, tops. Old enough to be his mom. Old enough to remember OpIvy on vinyl.

I’m a fucking dinosaur wandering through the Garden of Eden.

***

to be continued…

(Glossolalia Black’s handlers are still looking for the cattle prods and the ropes. In the meantime, enjoy this little bit that her alter-ego Leslie Powell transcribed while in Tampa. )