The Portland white stag sign illuminated over Burnside Bridge. Photo / Travel Portland
Seattle and Vancouver may have better reputations, but over 48 hours, Alex Mitcheson uncovers a vibrant and relaxed side of Portland, Oregon.
Coffee and determination usually get me through jet lag. Sitting in the basement spa of Cascada Thermal Springs and Hotel, in Portland’s Alberta District, I’m beginning to think differently. If a Bond villain had the proclivity to soak, this might be it. I cycle between soft purple lighting, low ceilings, and attractive pools of different temperatures, letting my body sweat and shiver in equal degree. It doesn’t take long for endorphins to kick in and my economy seat stiffness to fade. On the ground floor, in the light-flooded conservatory, I float in a small magnesium-rich thermal pool surrounded by tall palms to conclude a wake-up like no other. It seems magnesium might be the new caffeine.
Over recent years, I’d heard differing reports on Portland. Most weren’t flattering. A sleepy city with its share of problems, I gathered. Yet, on a bright spring morning, Alberta St is a buzz of prams, dogs, and public displays of affection. I stroll along the street looking for coffee, feeling oddly at home in this entirely new city. Clothing shops, cannabis dispensaries, bookstores and yoga studios pass by before that familiar smell hits me. If you’ve had coffee in North America before, you’ll know it usually ranges from mediocre to shockingly bad. However, at Case Study Cafe, an impeccably poured latte arrives at my table – a disarming sight for weary eyes.
Breakfast is a countertop affair at Tin Shed, where I’m schooled on the nuances of scratch-made buttermilk biscuits. It’s a savoury scone, a hearty and unusual pairing with scrambled eggs topped with fried artichoke, minced beef and onions. The rest of the afternoon is a medley of street murals, art galleries and craft beers at Baerlic Beer Co, where a jovial group of afternoon revellers befriends me. Plucking up courage, I proclaim I’d previously been told Portland was an unsavoury place to visit. “Ha,” laughs one man between a grin, “that’s what we want the Californians to believe so they don’t all move here.”
Like most American cities, Portland is a sprawling metropolis. Public transport is available and reliable, but it takes time. I jump in a taxi to the neighbourhood of Hawthorne for dinner at Ok Omens, an ultra-modern corner brasserie-style restaurant focused on wine. Affluent and sophisticated diners come and go as I pair plump mussels marinated in fenn vinegar with a sparkling skin-contact wine of chardonnay and riesling. Back at Cascada, I fall into bed in my loft studio atop a quilted eucalyptus comforter with Turkish cotton sheets and a kapok flower-filled pillow. I’ve never slept so soundly.
Even on a Saturday morning, my drive along the Columbia River Gorge is stress-free. Heading east on Interstate 84, I wind beside this massive body of water while catching glimpses of nearby Washington state on the other side. The Missoula Floods shaped the landscape – a catastrophic weather event caused by the melting of ancient ice sheets at the end of the last Ice Age. As a result, fertile soils were deposited, the kind that is highly beneficial for growing wine.
Turning off at Mosier, there’s a steep climb before the understated entrance of Annalema Wines comes into view. Inside a large working winery building, high tables with groups of diners create a rustic yet friendly setting for an afternoon between drinks. I take a glass of their albarino – a white wine traditionally grown on Spain’s wet and windy northern coast – for a walk to a nearby vineyard. A remote viewing platform with wooden sun lounges offers a view across rolling hills, where corduroy-like grape vines trail off into the distance. Less than an hour from the city, it’s just me, locally made wine, and Oregon all to myself.
I usually have a good sense of direction, but inside Powell’s City of Books, in the Pearl District, I admit defeat. Still, it’s a delightful loss when you find yourself browsing row after row of all kinds of reading material in what many consider the world’s largest independent new and used bookstore. Corridors lead to hidden rooms, hallways, attics and even more shelves. I eventually discover an overflowing travel section and take an Attenborough book I haven’t read to a lounge seat to read the first page or two. Half an hour later and a chapter down, I tear myself away to buy the book. Outside on the street, a lone beggar catches my eye; he passively smiles as bustling pedestrians meander around him. “Here, this is all I have in cash,” I say, offering a handful of $1 notes. His face lights up. “I appreciate you, man,” he replies.
Nearly 48 hours have passed before I catch my first glimpse of Mt Hood, appearing like a snowy apparition from the 20th floor of the Ritz-Carlton – it’s almost distracting me entirely from my albacore and wagyu beef tartare. I’m sitting at a window table in the hotel’s signature restaurant, Bellpine, replete with panoramic views of Portland, where the metropolis before me appears to be competing with trees. In truth, I’ve never seen such a green city. A place where Pacific Northwest charm meets a capital with warmth at its heart.
The writer was hosted by Travel Oregon.