I'm out here because I followed Jack to yet another Eighteenth Century Literature conference. I've been doing this long enough that his friends are now my friends also. I'm no longer just, "This is my wife, Laura."
The crowd this time includes Dale and Sean, Nora, Sharon, Mary, and Kevin. We're a few shy of the full posse. Brycchan decided not to spend 28 hours on a plane and Rebecca is up to her eyeballs in job interviews.
I came prepared this time. I searched the city for bead stores and found a few I could get to by public transit. I had a pile of projects ready to go. Then I got email from Grace Lampwork Beads: her show schedule included the Bead Expo in Portland on the days I'd be there. That's all I needed to hear. I made sure to pack a set of her beads that wasn't already in the project queue. If I use some up, I can get more (we beaders are good at rationalizing).
Lately Dale has been my Patron, my Client, my Best and Only Customer. Every time she finishes grading a stack of papers, she goes to my Etsy store (I'm truly without scruples). I can tell when the stack has been particularly big because she'll have bought something. For the first time since I started this business a year ago, I'm less than $100 away from breaking even.
So I have that pre-bead show excitement that makes me a little giddy, and I have two days to ride that wave before the show.
One of the first things we notice when we get to the hotel is that two of the four elevators are out of service. With our room on the eighteenth floor, this gives us a lot of waiting time. I get a good picture from the hallway window:
And another one of the carpet in the hallway (it makes a good cell phone wallpaper; try it):
Meanwhile there's a city to explore. Sean and I leave Dale and Jack to their sessions and wander down to the Willamet river. The other side is industry; this side is humanity. The cherry trees are in bloom even though it was snowing half an hour ago. We walk across the Steel Bridge. Traffic signals for pedestrians suggest that this bridge opens, but we can't figure out how as we walk across it.
Portland has a reputation for being alternative-transportation friendly, and it doesn't disappoint. We walk all the way to the Convention Center in twenty minutes on broad sidewalks. Bikers of all kinds -- messenger wannabes on their fixies, roadies, hybrids, and one older woman on a cruiser -- pass us along the way. There is a light rail system that loops through the city. It's free to ride within the downtown section, even to the Convention Center.
Our first night out is spent in a crowd of ten. Somebody has asked the hotel concierge where we should go for dinner. I follow blindly and we wind up somewhere whose name I can't even remember. There's a lot of drinking going on, and the food is pretty good. A few people have ordered the "Scottish wild salmon," which we learn really has been flown in from halfway around the world. This gives me a chance to get up on my sustainability soapbox and preach the word about carbon footprints. And in a city like this. Shame.
Sharon and Nora are close friends who don't get to see each other often. When they're together it's like a performance, even without Brycchan (when he's with them, it's even more impenetrable and twice as hilarious). Kevin leans into me and murmurs, "It's my fault. I introduced them." I laugh so loud people look at me, but I offer no explanation.
Dale, Sean, and I agree to meet for an early morning workout before breakfast. Jack has an 8 a.m. business breakfast anyway. I've forgotten my ankle brace, but I run on the treadmill without getting hurt. In a mirrored stretching room we complain about the extra fee to use this place. It cost me $10 for this measly pseudo-gym; it cost Sean and Dale $15 as a couple.
But the workout has woken me up. Time for breakfast and then on a hunt for the Evil Bean. There's nothing like going to a bead show with a caffeine high. It's even better when the blood sugar crashes but the caffeine is still going. All rational thought evaporates and one is left with pure bead greed.
We're given a table right behind Jack and the publisher he's talking to. He doesn't even turn around when I scratch his back; he doesn't even introduce us to this Very Important Person. I'm not sure he has the chance. The woman has not stopped talking since we sat down.
Sharon emerges and takes the fourth seat. Nora is still asleep, recovering from more drinking and smoking than she's used to now that she's entered the Mommy Vortex. Jack eventually joins us once the publisher stops talking and leaves.
After breakfast I run into Kevin in the lobby as I'm pondering strong coffee from a worthy shop. Sean told me that Peet's is the place to go for strong brew. Kevin and I walk in the rain in search of it. I passed it yesterday but only vaguely remember where it is. Somewhere between here and the river. We're close to giving up hope when Kevin spots a hotel entrance. "We can always ask the doorman," he says. I reply, "He'll probably say, 'It's next door, you dope.'" Which it turns out to be; we see the sign before we get to the hotel and avoid embarrassment.
As for Peet's version of aged Sumatra: Meh. Rojo's is better. We walk back to the hotel with our drinks and hang out with Dale and Sean, who are working a book table. I wait for the caffeine to hit.
Before I go to the the bead show we're all going to Powell's book store, known across the country as the book store to go to in Portland. We descend upon it in a mob of nine. This independent store takes up a city block; we're ready to compare it to the Strand in New York City. Powell's is better organized and more spacious, which really isn't fair considering NYC real estate, but in the end I have more books in my hands than Jack has, and that's saying something. We regroup in the store's coffee shop. Still caffeinated from before, I stick with water and a sandwich.
Our gang trickles out towards the hotel. Jack, with some free time, is taking our books back and searching for Pinot Noir, the wine this part of Oregon is known for. I'm headed to the bead show.
On my way I'm looking around, trying to distinguish Portland from other younger cities I've been to. How do I know I'm here and not somewhere else? There's not much obvious at first, but the walkability, traffic lights for bikers, the seemingly few cars, the free downtown light rail, and the prevalent recycling bins let me know I'm sure not in Philadelphia.
I cross the Burnside Street bridge over the Willamet River and get a good view of the steel bridge. Aha! It's a lift bridge. From the walkway underneath the span, we couldn't see the gears. I send Sean a picture with the message, "The steel bridge lifts I think."
As I approach the Convention Center, I see something that convinces me I'm on the west coast.
[I'm wrong. I found out there's one in Cherry Hill, NJ.]
I pay for my Bead Expo ticket and dive into the show. My first stop is Olive Glass, where Lark Dalton, friendly as ever, talks with me for what must be at least twenty minutes. I learn that he's worked with Dale Chihuly. It doesn't get any cooler than that. With some restraint, I leave Lark's booth with a couple of small beads, a spiral, a necklace form, two small bracelet forms, and a huge, sparkly, dicrhoic bracelet form that will be tough to put up for sale. [Check my Etsy.com page; they'll be up there sooner or later. An older one, the "Big Purple Bracelet," is up now.]
I'm looking for Joanne Morash, who is supposed to be here. I know her through my college roommate, Chris, who knows her through the bead artist scene in Boston. Joanne moved south a few years ago, but I see her at the Boston and New York City shows at least once each year. I'm looking forward to confusing her toady. It might take her a second to realize I'm on the wrong coast. But her table is empty. There's not even a sign with her name on it there.
Next to it, though, is a find. Nightside Studios: Beads with eyes! And the artist is a character, too. I get talking to him for a while. Here are some blurry shots of his table:
That red one on the upper right side of the second picture is the one I take home. I don't plan to string him right away. Fright Wig will live on my windowsill for a while, I think.
On to look for Grace, who is somehow going to be here and in New York City at the same time. Bummer. She's in NYC. I like talking to her. She's another super-friendly person, which makes buying beads from her a lot of fun. Once I bought up almost all of one particular pattern after I'd sold some finished pieces from the same beads. "You're crazy," she laughed. What can I say? They're still my favorites. See?
I want to show everyone my haul from the bead show, so I carry it in my jacket pocket to dinner. The concierge has set us up at a Lebanese restaurant. We sit at a huge round table. The lighting is too dim for me to show off the beads. But I have temporarily strung Fright Wig on some gold chain and I'm delighting in unzipping my jacket enough to unleash him and elicit giggles and screams of delight. I pass him around the table. Nora sits him on her head like a tiara.
The waiter serves us family style. We're stuffed to the gills before the main courses even arrive. A belly dancer comes out. Nora says, "I want to live here." As I watch the dancer I'm jealous of her confidence. What looks like a dance of seduction really is a show of power.
Back at the hotel, before we dive into the bar, I get a chance to show off the beads I bought today.
As the night wears on, I feel a scratch in my throat. I can't tell if it's from all the talking I did today, something I ate, or a virus. As I climb into bed, though, it's obvious I'm sick. My throat feels worse and I'm having trouble sleeping.
Saturday morning I wake to a fever, but I still want to see the Saturday Market. Jack will be pretty busy today. I text Sean. He and Dale are trying to carve out some free time from her schedule. I want to climb the hill I see from my window. There's a rose garden up there, and a view of Mount Hood on a good day. But I feel as if I'm walking through soup. I force myself to stay inside and make jewelry until it's time to meet Jack and go to the market.
The Saturday Market is an open-air affair. I'm picturing something along the lines of a farmers' market, with fresh food and homemade crafts. But what we get is a miniature version of London's Camden Town without the charm. We're older by 20 years than most of the people there. I do score some hand-made, organic catnip toys for Burnaby, Cleio, Sean and Dale's duo, and Rebecca's pair.
We buy lunch from some grease trucks, which leaves us unsatisfied, so we stop in a coffee shop. I get some on ice. I know I'm sick now. I can't even feel it going down, and it does nothing to make me feel better. My walking pace has slowed to what most people call normal. I want to take a nap, but when I get to the room the beads beckon. Sean calls. Dale is in a session but he's itching to get out. I meet him in the lobby, where we run into Kevin, who tells us he had a migraine last night. We're both dragging. We shuffle off to Peet's and sink into squishy leather chairs. I ponder the hill again. Hail starts to fall and doesn't let up for a good fifteen minutes. That settles that. I can't move anyway.
Jack and I have been invited to dinner by an emeritus professor from Penn. The other guests are all high-powered strangers to me. I don't know how I'm going to hold my head up around those people. I figure I'm in for a night of witnessing some high-end snobbery.
Back at the hotel we run into Dale outside of the conference area, and Jack wants to go to a session, so I follow him in. If I'm going to feel like crap I might as well have something to distract me. As luck would have it, two of the panel's four presenters have canceled. The first paper leaves me fidgeting to stay awake. The second one is entertaining.
After the session ends, Dale says, "My brain is full." I start to ask her if I can impose on her. Before the question is halfway out, she says, "Come to dinner with us tonight." I'm grateful and relieved. Jack, who says his brain is full, is pleased that I've found something more entertaining to do. We head downstairs for a snack. I can feel every fiber in my jeans against my legs. The blast of cold air in the stairwell pierces like a knife. I want juice.
We find Kevin downstairs. He doesn't have plans tonight either and he's not into being alone. "Perfect," we say. "You're coming with us." Jack leaves us so he can pack before going to dinner.
We agree to meet again in a few hours. I go upstairs to pack. Jack is still there, finishing up. I need to complete a necklace before I can put anything away. This has been a productive trip: I've made six pieces. Number two is around Sharon's wrist, a belated birthday present. Numbers one and six are here:
For dinner the concierge has booked us at a pub that Sean wanted to get to. We tip the guy for hooking us up three nights in a row. It's a moderate walk to the restaurant. I'm relieved when Dale says, "I want to ride the free thing!" So we ride the free thing, not entirely sure where to get off, but we figure it out. Dinner involves sweet potato fries, a salad, and some stringy, cheesy, sort of hash-browny potatoes. Through my fever, the potatoes hit the spot. We take the free thing home again, Dale and I shivering in the cold. "It's going to take hours for me to warm up," I tell her.
Pioneer Courthouse Square is surrounded by tall buildings, one of which is lit up and reflects in the windows of a skyscraper next door. Dale gets a real photo. I get this:
We say our goodbyes on the elevator. Jack and I have an early morning flight back home. I shower, pack, and wait for Jack to come back. I toss and turn in my sleep, getting even less than the six hours we have, and wake with the fever still going strong. I take it all the way home and don't shake it until the next morning, in time to go back to work. Now the cough sets in.
I wanted to write all this from Portland, but in the daze, all I got out that I didn't delete later was this:
"Start with a fervor, end with a fever."
That's about right.
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