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.