I love living in Portland. There is nothing special about the neighbourhood that we live in, but downtown offers so much variety in such a small space that it’s an easy way to have a quick vacation and pretend that we have gone somewhere far away. We love to go down to a hotel in the Pearl district and then just go walking.
There is a seedy little sex shop right by Powell’s bookstore that my wife, Anne, loves to go in and browse. The very first time we went in the clerk was this very cute manic pixel girl type who flirted shamelessly with my wife and offered to help her try on a corset. My wife has always regretted turning her down. So, every time we are there we visit the same shop. Mostly due to fond memories, with a tiny little hope that the manic pixie girl will be there again. She never has been.
The last time we were there was a bit strange. Things were lifting from the worst of the pandemic and we were out again. But everything still felt very subdued. Everyone seemed to be on eggshells. The area wasn’t as lively as we remembered either. Dirtier, grittier. Everything felt like there was a pall of sadness hanging over it.