Columbia - Portland

I was guided by a compass I saw beauty to the north – Dropkick Murphys “Rose Tattoo”

From Bend – having scarcely seen the city – we headed further north. The plan was to spend the night in Portland, but first we wanted to see several waterfalls along the southern bank of the Columbia River. We set out towards Mount Hood and, hoping for some good photographs, decided to skirt it from the east. Unfortunately, as on the previous day, the highway mostly ran between two dense walls of forest, with only the snowy summit visible above. There were no clearly marked viewpoints along the way, so with hardly any stops, we reached the town of Hood River by midday (I never cease to marvel at the originality of American place names).

Natasha quickly found a place serving food unusual for the area—Scandinavian cuisine—Broder Øst. At the entrance, the hostess informed us there were no free tables and we’d need to wait about forty minutes, offering to take a contact number. I began dictating my phone number and, noticing her surprise, explained it was an Irish one. She smiled, asked me to wait a moment, and – miraculously – a table became available immediately.

The place turned out to be excellent—the chef’s takes on Swedish meatballs and herring salad were superb.

At a table on the veranda, a young man and woman were having lunch. The man’s knitted jumper—a stunning blue with white fish—caught Natasha’s eye. As we were leaving, she complimented him on it and asked where he had bought it. Turned out there was a “vintage clothing” shop (i.e. second-hand) a couple of blocks away, so off we went. Fifteen minutes later we emerged with a find—Natasha had spotted a practically new-looking warm wool jumper from the British brand Scotch House, which shut down about twenty years ago. Sometimes you travel halfway around the world to buy something made on the neighbouring island.

Columbia

The Columbia River forms the natural boundary between Washington and Oregon. Along its mountainous southern bank, on the Oregon side, are several dozen waterfalls of varying size. We aimed to see at least two—Bridal Veil and Multnomah. As is common in the US, there are car parks at each attraction: drive up, look, and move on. But it was a Saturday, and it seemed half of Portland had decided to visit the falls. After circling the car park for ten minutes and failing to find a space, we resolved to come back later in the evening when the crowds had thinned. To pass the time, I set the satnav for Vista House—an octagonal tower on a cliff with a “postcard” view of the Columbia.

Vista House is a quintessential attraction of the automobile age. Built in 1917 to entice road‑trippers, it offered a place to stop, grab a bite, use the loo, take a scenic photograph, and then carry on along the river. A hundred years on, nothing has changed: you arrive, take photos (of yourself or otherwise), buy a fridge magnet, and move on.

Later in the day we returned to the waterfalls’ car park—now with plenty of spaces. One of the falls was about a kilometre’s walk along a path on a fairly steep slope. On the way back, we passed a man carrying a bottle of water. We exchanged greetings and walked on, only to hear a noise behind us seconds later. Turning around, I saw the bottle on the path but no sign of its owner. Somehow he had slipped off the trail’s edge and was hanging onto a bush a metre down the slope. I helped him climb back up and, after making sure he was unhurt, we continued to the car park. Turns out, railings on mountain trails aren’t just for children and the elderly.

Portland

By evening we reached Portland and checked into a studio booked via Airbnb. This was our first time using the service—I’d always defaulted to Booking.com, but couldn’t find anything suitable there for Portland.

The first apartment we tried to book on Airbnb was declined without explanation: “Sorry, we cannot accommodate you.” Most likely the hosts simply didn’t want to risk letting their place to someone with no prior reviews, but our paranoia kicked in and we decided it might be down to the Russian name on my profile.

The next appealing option’s description came from a silver‑haired man named Robin, who wrote that he and his husband Gregory had travelled extensively but settled in Portland in 2009, and now hosted guests in a small studio with a private entrance, parking space, and even an EV charger. Natasha was delighted—“Gay men are kind, they definitely won’t refuse us!”—and she was right.

Identifying Robin and Gregory’s house was easy enough: in honour of Pride Month, a huge rainbow flag hung from the facade. The studio itself was very cosy, with pleasant lighting, a great mattress, a small but well-equipped kitchen, and the best bath towels I’ve ever encountered.

On the coffee table lay a “Big Red Book”—a compendium of appliance instructions, waste‑sorting rules, recommendations for shops and restaurants in Portland, and so on. It also noted there were four residents in the house: the dog Beau and three humans—Robin, Gregory, and Frank. We never did work out how Frank was related to the couple. Judging by appearances, probably the gardener: the sloping, terraced back garden was a lush showpiece, and the third silver‑haired man was forever working in it.

Art Museum

Portland gave us our first—and only—spell of bad weather on the entire trip. All Saturday, brief glimmers of sunshine were replaced by prolonged downpours, making long walks unappealing. In the morning, to avoid getting drenched, we headed for the Portland Art Museum. At $25 per person, the admission price delivers something of a cultural shock after the free museums of London and Dublin—what for? The answer hangs on the walls of the very first gallery: Van Gogh, Cézanne, Renoir, Monet. For what is, essentially, a provincial museum, the collection is highly respectable.

A third—if not more—of the paintings from the first quarter of the 20th century were by artists with Jewish surnames and the note “American, born Russia…”. The waves of pre‑ and post‑revolutionary Russian emigration left their mark even here in Portland.

In the colour‑field gallery, one visitor, spotting us with our yellow jackets, smiled and said: “Oh, your coats match these canvases perfectly. These are my favourite colours!”
Well then—at the Van Gogh exhibition, we were the main attraction.

Japanese Garden

After the museum, lunch, and a bit of shopping to dodge yet another downpour, we still had time for a walk around the city centre and, to finish the day, a visit to the Japanese Garden in Washington Park.

Portland feels like a city that’s seen better days. Some shopfronts in the centre are boarded up, entire buildings stand empty, and along the streets—just as in Sacramento—there are whole encampments of tents for the homeless. Yet it doesn’t feel “depressed”: shops, cafés, restaurants, and “pharmacies” selling cannabis and related products are open for business. There are streets you sense are best avoided, but in a whole day we saw no aggressive behaviour. Robin and Gregory’s “Red Book” explained the city’s state by noting it had suffered significantly during the BLM protests and is still “getting back on its feet.” It would be interesting to return in three to five years and see how Portland has changed.

Against the backdrop of the somewhat worn central streets, the Japanese Garden is a genuine aesthetic oasis. Admission here is also charged—$22 per person—slightly cheaper than the museum, but almost as beautiful. Conceived as a symbol of cultural ties between Japan and Oregon, it was designed in the 1960s by a professor from Tokyo University of Agriculture. Japanese visitors have often said it’s the best example of garden design from the Land of the Rising Sun to be found outside Japan.

Taking beautiful photographs in the Japanese Garden is like fishing in an aquarium: just point your lens somewhere and press the button—nine times out of ten, the result will be a great shot.

…

Despite its rough edges and the rainy weather, I liked Portland. It has what’s called a strong sense of community—that feeling of shared identity among its residents. It’s not a huge metropolis where everyone is a stranger, nor is it a village where all know each other by name. Here, you can find inexpensive premises to open either a hipster craft‑beer bar or an art gallery—and both will find plenty of patrons.

In our itinerary, Portland was allotted one full day and Seattle almost two—it would have been better the other way round. But more on that later.