Portland, OR: Coffee. Beer. Sex. Beauty.

2. Beer

When I left Ohio, my carry-on baggage weighed a mere 5 pounds, mostly comprising of a couple pairs of sweatpants and a towel. On my way back, with a strained hamstring, I hobbled through the airport with a 40-pound piece of luggage strewn about my torso, banging me in the hips as I limped down the corridor (fuck paying for a SmartCarte).

I reached the metal detectors, and the TSA man standing there looked at me, his eyes soft with pity as I struggled to load up the bag in the plastic tray that was now not accomodating to the bag's size. I was struggling, but I was careful. I limped through the metal detector but didn't take my eyes off of that man's eyes as he watched my bag pass through. His intent glare on the screen, which had before been a look of compassion now turned to complete laughter (as much as a government official can laugh, really). Passing through the x-ray was the following:

2 bottles of Rogue "Old Crustacean"
3 bottles of wine from the Chateau Bianca Winery (located in Dallas, Oregon man, was I confused)
1 bottle of Rogue Distillery White Rum
1 bottle of Rogue Distillery Hazelnut Rum
1 bottle of Lucky Labrador Black Lab Stout
1 bottle of Lucky Labrador Dog Day IPA
2 bottles of Issaquah Brewery Bullfrog Ale

And some sweatpants and a towel (I knew you all were wondering why I brought sweatpants on vacation).

All of those beers were specifically acquired at the source. While in Portland, I visited almost 10 breweries, and it would've been more if I wasn't completely lost almost every minute of the day when I wasn't at a bar. I was sitting at Lucky Labrador Brewpub when I saw two older gentlemen sitting at the table near me peering into a map. God, I needed a map. As I eavesdropped closer, I saw that not only was it a map outlining downtown Portland, but downtown Portland breweries. I felt like my prayers (okay, okay, expletives) had been answered. I asked to see the map, which one of the guys (the one wearing a Homer Simpson mullet t-shirt) just gave to me. I traveled with these gentlemen to a few more of the nearby breweries and it wasn't until the third stop that I found out that one of them was a diabetic and one was blind. I had the blind one take my picture:



Regardless, the blur is appropriate. 

After I planned meeting them at a local organic brewery, Roots, I got there only to be informed by the two dudes sitting out front that it was closed for that day. No reason, really. Just closed. I lost my drinking buddies for the afternoon so I decided to continue wandering solo instead. At least I had a map.

The following day, I Googled the Rogue Brewery in Newport, OR and drove there. When I drove through Johnson City (where the guy I was staying with lost his virginity, I was told) I caught my first real glimpse of the Oregon coastline and my heart dropped to my stomach. It was beautiful. However, not as beautiful as this:




or this:




I stayed there for quite a while, and bought them out of two kinds of pint glasses and their bread made with their Hazelnut Brown Nectar. I also visited the distillery which is located across the marina from the brewery and picked up some of the Rogue White Rum as well as their spiced Hazelnut rum. I got two recipes to use each (titles are the writer's interpretation after trying said recipes):

Rogue "Don't Make Any Plans Later" Mojito
Lime
Mint
Rogue White Rum
1 tsp. sugar
Club soda

Grind lime and mint in bottom of glass, add rum, sugar, then top off with club soda. If you don't want to grind the mint because you're a lazy ass like me, splash in some Rumplemintze or Peppermint Schnapps (I believe mine is called White Thunder or something)

It's good. But, and especially if you use the Schnapps, very potent.

The Hazelnut Creeper, aka "The Fuzzy Nut"
Bailey's
Hazelnut Rum
Splash of Amaretto

You know what to do with it. Put it on the rocks. I am, once again, lazy and I used some Amaretto cream shit instead of buying a bottle of Amaretto just to "splash" it places. It was creamy, surprisingly good, and also surprisingly got my sister wasted off of one drink. I recommend ordering it on first dates.

Now I know why the Rogue Brewery is also a Bed & Breakfast. Although, they call it Bed & Beer, since they give you two pints of stout in place of food. Brilliant!

Saturday I worked the Portland International Beer Festival as a volunteer.

I was placed in the Belgian beer tent pouring Saxo Blonde, which could've been a great beer, however, I was so sick of hearing old men dorkily guffaw, "Yeah, lemme get a sexy blonde" that it is now my least favorite beer based on sheer principle. I ripped every second ticket or so that I took and pocketed the rest strategically for my Sunday attendence spent on the other side of the table. My careful strategery was a success.

Beers I tried in PDX

Philadelphia Amber
Lucky Labarador Super Dog IPA
Lucky Labarador Black Lab Stout
Bridgeport Black Strap Stout (this beer was awesome)
Rogue Hazelnut Brown Nectar
Rogue Shakespere Stout
Rogue Imperial IPA
Rogue Old Crustacean
Rogue Chipotle Ale
McMenamins Ruby
McMenamins Terminator
Green Flash Brewing Co. West Coast IPA (San Diego)
Laurelwood Free Range Red
Walking Man Bloodvoetse Bruin (this brewery has a beer called the Big Phat Homo as well)
Full Sail Old Boardhead
Freeminer Waterloo
Lagunitas Crisp Summer Ale #10
Cassissona
Urthel Hop It!
MacPelican's Scottish Ale

And the worst of all:
Tucks Smoked Helles. This beer deserves its own section, primarily because its cloudy appearance reminded me not of beer, but of drainage or the leftover juice from bottled meat. It seriously tasted like they bought a bottle of pigs feet, dumped out the feet, and brewed the beer with its juice and dipped sausage in it during the fermenting process before adding cedar chips.

Please stay tuned the list of things I attempted or successfully completed while under the influence.

Portland, OR: Coffee. Beer. Sex. Beauty.

1. Coffee

There are some places that pride themselves so much on something you wouldn't dare even challenge it. Philly practically owns the cheesesteak, the clam chowder really isbetter in Boston, and I definitely wouldn't go to Germany and fuck with their beer. It's more than just food; it's culture. Such is Portland and their coffee.

Coffee houses in Portland are Places of Interest. They draw people to the city, in the same ways that a museum would bring in people that are similarly appreciative of craft. When I mentioned I was traveling there, each person told me to visit a different small place to get coffee. Hitting up a Starbucks, even though birthed from Northwestern culture seemed an almost embarassing waste of time and experience.

In fact, Portland is so serious about their coffee that coffee houses everywhere are not only boasting of their triple-mocha, but they also serve as political fronts as well as showcases of local artistry.

Seriously. Put it down.

Tiny's, for example, is just as identifiable through the way they craft their lattes as they are through the subtle political hints weaved conspicuously (and not so conspicuously) throughout the store. Every place in Portland has an opinion. It's usually this: Put Down Your Cell Phone. 

I got the impression that it wasn't so much that they considered it rude to talk on your cell phone, however, it was that you weren't talking to them or giving them the opportunity to talk to you. People in Portland really just love to talk. At Tiny's, I mentioned that I was from Columbus. The girl working behind the counter said, "Oh, yeah, how was Comfest this year?" I gathered slowly that almost everyone had a story about Ohio, and most of them had even lived there at a certain point. 

I ordered a Gunslinger, which is one of the best drinks I've ever had. A shot of espresso sunken into a pint of Guinness, it was the perfect breakfast.

Coffee a la the "Honor System"

The most beautiful coffee I have ever seen I got at the Albina Press. The windows were open, the breeze drifted across the place, cooling off the people on their laptops, and a stray black cat walked in the side door and strutted through the middle of the floor unannounced. Even though they were busy, everyone working was seemingly really happy to be there and they didn't skimp on the time it took to create each individual coffee creation. The barista poured the froth into the cup in such a way that the swirling of the coffee and the milk was almost a floral piece of artwork. My date for the afternoon ordered a triple-mocha in a double cup.

"No need to dilute the espresso," he explained, placing the lid onto the smaller cup. 

Dilution not necessary. A beautiful cup o' joe from The Fresh Pot on Hawthorne.

Even though the quality of coffee was absolutely superb I was used to my shitty midwestern coffee. Before I left Ohio, my boyfriend handed me a fistful of packets of Spenda. 

"Just in case," he smiled sideways, looking down at the packets in my hands. I remembered these packets when I had picked up the afore-pictured double mocha from The Fresh Pot. I went to reach into my purse and then hesitated. I suddenly realized what an incredible faux-pas it might be to put Splenda in my java. Like leaving sushi behind. Like asking for A-1 at Ruth Cris. I waited until I got into my rental car and untucked the Splenda from my purse, looking cautiously around to see if anyone was nearby. Quickly, with the fervor of someone waiting to get caught for something, I dumped two in to my mocha and just as quickly replaced the lid. 

I immediately felt guilty. Even more so because we were on our way to breakfast, and I already had my own coffee. The waitress came over to the table, looked down at our coffees and smiled, "Cool, so you're good on coffee, what else can I get you?"

This place rules.

What Famous Intern...

All answers to the Green questions on the 90s Trivial Pursuit edition have something to do with Bill Clinton. 

I also learned that no matter how much alcohol you bring in a flask on your way to the bar, you're going to run out of booze and you're still going to spend more money than you brought. I'm not sure what sort of fucked-up night-formula constitues financial detriment recovered through spotty post-blackout memory-Tetris, but trust me. Where'd that 25 bucks go? Good. Luck. 

My cell phone alarm now promptly rings at 10:38 a.m. and I thought it would be funny to self-sabotage and change the entries in my own phone book to different names. Like most things, wouldn't have been funny had I been cognisant at the time. I spent the following two days wondering, "Who the hell is Eddy?!"

Let the recovery begin.