Bean bag toss games are rampant.
Portlanders are pathologically friendly. Passersby are happy to chat for as long as you want. Everybody thanks the bus driver when they disembark. The bus driver thanks everybody back. On one bus, the driver ended his shift mid-route by coming to the back of the bus to say good-bye to everyone and to thank them.
You CAN pickle that.
Everywhere is food. There seems to be a restaurant on every corner, but we only ever saw one fast food enclave. Food trucks take up permanent residence in food truck trailer parks that dot the city. Charming little places, they are, complete with twinkly lights, picnic tables with Trivial Pursuit games on them and covered eating areas with big screen tvs for when the weather turns inclement. And bean bag toss games, of course. Figs, tomatoes and Swiss chard were ripe and available for our use in the garden of the house we rented. The Plaid Pantry around the corner had really decent $5 wine and the $10 stuff was excellent.
Portland's curb-side recycling program looks really complicated at first glance, but ultimately boils down to put everything in a bin, we'll sort it out. I am still trying to figure out how to buy the gorgeous, roomy and drop-dead charming Craftsman house that we rented, or a suitable equivalent.
Portland has the most liberal freedom of expression laws in the entire country, our guide on the walking tour told us. Right on cue, a girl passing by raised her fist in the air and triumphantly yelled FUCK YEAH!
Gorgonzola fries. Powell's Books. Afternoons playing pool. Pumpkin beer. Really great paper bags with comfy handles at the grocery store. Record stores with subversive labelling. Backyard chickens. Long warm evenings morphing into nights on the back patio in the company of great friends, whom I wished all lived closer.
Put a bird on it. I will definitely return.