This morning Oregon Public Broadcasting reported that last
night a man riding a bicycle threw a Molotov cocktail at a Portland police
cruiser. He was apparently arrested seconds later and the cop car survived
unscathed…
Sitting in the eye of your own hurricane it becomes easier
to muse on just how strange the world is becoming… I was continuing on my
calculated tack of eking out a little more time by selling off assets and
reinvesting in more practical items for the long haul. Less sure of what the
long haul may look like and not wishing to idly and invite depression, I
proposed an adventure to escape the rainy doldrums of Portland. Let’s test out
the ’99 Saturn wagon I had just acquired by selling off my gas-gulping truck… A
road trip with my partner was just what we both needed.
Maureen proposed Olympia, just two hours north where one our
favorite bands, Sassparilla, were playing at some no doubt divey bar. Neither
of us had been to the capital of next door. As we drove I 5 Maureen read aloud
candidate profiles, Oregon ballot measures, diligently filled in the bubbles
making me feel more lost in my hurricane of financial and vocational woes. My
mail in ballot had not arrived in So Cal, had not been forwarded…
It was drizzling beneath gunmetal gray skies in Olympia and
it felt like we were driving through a washed out watercolor. We passed the
capital on our way to our motel. The legislative building looked quite a bit
like the capitol in DC. This capitol is the tallest self-supporting masonry
dome in the US at 287 feet. It spoke of a slipping era of Doric, Corinthian and
granite-blocked opulence. The downtown had yet to fall prey to serious attempts
at urban renewal and felt strangely 1970’s ish.
We checked in to the hotel and I was instantly convinced the
new tires would be gone by morning and the Saturn up on blocks so I parked at
the front door beneath the brightest lights. We carried our extra clothes up
the stained carpeted stairs past the aged security guard and questioned the
wisdom of booking online, sight unseen… The ceiling had massive spackle marks
and the walls had bare spots where it was obvious large framed pictures had
recently been… Outside was a view of a back stairwell, the landing decorated
with 100 cigarette butts. The room’s safe was broken.
We threw caution to the wind and left the computer in the
room and headed to Capitol Lake for a stroll. Blustery, rainy… Angular dirty
buildings on the grided streets, views of the port and horse skeleton-like
cranes that seemed frozen in the fading light of dusk. Two bald men walked
their dachshund and a black lycra clad woman jogged past. A homeless woman
wrapped in a blanket strolled by.
Pre and post concert we wandered 4th avenue -
past sleeping homeless, leopard mini-skirts, used book stores that smelled of
rotting vellum and counter-culture decay, a puking man who’s girlfriend rubbed
his back. The vibe was very different from Portland making us feel tragically
unhip. A bit like dreadlocked Arcata but with a grungier Seattle edge.
Steampunk meets hippie post-apocalyptic hipster pirate rocker. Olympia seemed
on the edge, a glimpse of where the world was likely headed in the wake of our
Franken-hurricanes, super pacs and urbanity …Poorer, dirtier, more ambivalent
and hedonistic, puking in the dirty gutters of yesterday’s Haight-Ashbury and
bedfellows with H. S. Thompson and Bukowski.
For breakfast we hit up Dargan’s. It was packed. It was 11
and we waited half an hour for our Americano and soy mocha because they gave precedence
those ordering Brass Monkey’s… Orange Juice with Olde English 800. As I ate my
aptly named Volcano omelet with its fried jalapenos I wanted to Shazam the
music that assaulted us like a tsunami through the speakers that seemed to have
ripped cones to add to the grungy bass-laden atmosphere but my phone had died.
No doubt the bastard child of a Radiohead/Nirvana tryst. The Wizard of Oz décor
reminded that we definitely were not in Judy Garland’s Kansas anymore…
Leaves fell; amber beer was sipped from pint glasses by
bandana slung corsairs, refugee roadies from a Guns and Roses tour. Scarecrowed
scruffy rockers sipped espressos while their tiny designer dogs peaking out of
slung messenger bags. I actually looked forward to returning to Portland, as short-lived
as that feeling may be. Maureen and I talked of escaping and becoming baristas
in a Mallorcan café…
Smooth sailing home over the border. Maureen dropped her
ballot off at the Beaverton library along with others stuffing their hopes and
dreams in a slotted wastebasket that might just morph into political sublimity.
Doing some challenging calculations we figured out the Saturn got 36.5 mpg.
Maybe there is still hope circumventing Thunderdome… By god I felt compelled to
vote more than ever. Success. Another rejuvenating road trip.
all images and writing ©Bennett Barthelemy
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