strike that

city

Up the hill from my house and then down under the freeway through the industrial blocks and a sharp left at the railroad tracks to the eastern esplanade, north along the Willamette by the science museum and the pedestrian piers and across the Hawthorne Bridge - low and humble bike-friendly cousin to the other hulking crossings. Spat out into downtown rush-hour traffic, taxis and trolleys and emptying parking garages, weaving my way past the park blocks to the sudden shift in city grid, the north-south axis bent at Burnside into northeast-southwest, under the Chinatown gate to the überhot Saucebox. Not my choice, but an experience at least: too salty edamame and a rum drink with muddled banana, hiphop blaring into the small spaces between inclined hipster heads. Out into the now-dark night slashed by the bright white gallery lights of First Thursday, beers for the pierced artists and wine for the buyers. (It’s no New York but it’s no Eugene, thank God.) And the gallery goers heading home, dodging the mobs of arriving club kids spilling out with the music onto the sidewalks. They don’t move for anyone. Legendary late-night Voodoo Donuts appears out of nowhere, right where you’d want it, with a revolving tiered glass case of overdone confections, pink frosted and Fruit Looped in donut form. And back on my bike, past the guys on the corner talking about That Band and the girls leaning on lampposts taking a break from Those Shoes, back over the bridge and home to Brooklyn.

The door’s locked but the light’s on.

posted by tortaluga @ 11:19 PM