Here’s a thing, a thought. Since leaving New York, the weather has been ridiculously hot. Hot, humid, sticky, sweaty. I’m sure you get used to it, but if you’re not it’s just kinda oppressive. We know all that. What I realised it that since New York, I’ve not been dressing like me. I’ve not looked like I look. I’ve been wearing shorts and t-shirts and – and this is going to sound terrible, but – I look like everyone else. When I dress like I dress… I look interesting, different. People notice, and that makes a difference. They think I’m interesting cos I look interesting and OK, it doesn’t take too long to shatter that illusion but for those few, precious seconds…
When I’m wearing shorts and t-shirts, I’m just another red, sweaty, overweight, balding bloke wearing nail varnish and too many rings. In my head, with the suits and the hats, the rings and nail varnish make a kind of sense. With shorts and t-shirts and sweat… It feels like one of those photofit pictures Shaw Taylor used to show in Police 5. Not so much interesting as dubious. Frankly, I wouldn’t talk to me either.
Police 5. What a very strange and fantastically English idea that was. A five-minute show at Sunday lunchtime where an English actor appealed for help with crimes. Apparently a third of all appeals led to an arrest, the format was sold round the world, there was a Junior Police 5…. Keep ‘em peeled….
The other thing is the landscape and the architecture. Austin was difficult to get to grips with physically. Everything’s so spread, so wide. Yes, it’s Texas so it’s going to be, but it still makes the heart of the city hard to locate. It’s really wasn’t so easy to see how the East 6th was the zone, it was so spread and so disconnected that unless you had an ‘in’…. how would you get in? I’m not talking about The Dirty 6th, that was easy to locate. During the day, look for the rhinos, winos and lunatics. During the night, listen for the dulcet tones of Loud Alcohol. But I’m just not really interested in that. Like I say, I’m sure it’s great fun during SXSW, but I’ve never liked either getting pissed or – worse – being with pissed people.
———–
I should have stopped at Boulder, Colorado. If I was serious about doing this whistle-stop tour of hipster towns, I should have stopped at Boulder, Colorado. Something had to give, and in this paragraph, Boulder is that something.
I was intrigued by the idea of getting to Portland. In some ways, Portland was where the idea for this break started. I read somewhere that once again – once again? Who knew even once? – Portland had been voted the coolest city anywhere ever ever. I remember reading that and thinking “Really?” Probably everyone else already knew, but… Portland? I pictured a whole city that looked like Hackney Wick, everyone’s got angular hair and beards. Every shop sells artisanal sourdough, there’s no plastic… (It’s probably not even angular hair and beards anymore. My reference points are increasingly more than a little Kate Moss).
Immediately Portland felt more like it. The streets looked like streets and the weather was a bit miserable. Home.
I was staying in a hotel in the Pearl District supposedly, according to Vice, Culture Trip and how many other sites, the Hackney Wick in the land of Hackney Wick. Obviously by the time I got here it had gone all SoCo – someone somewhere is probably knocking up a PeDi mural in genuine graffiti-lettering as we speak. There was a street market by the river and we like street markets and rivers, so… Dropped bags, walked out of the hotel and started walking to the river.
There’s a palpable air of affluence. The streets are clean, the shops are smart, the cars are new. Everyone you see looks… well actually, it’s not dissimilar to Austin though it felt more European somehow. It wasn’t just the weather – though it was a relief to get away from that heat. The architecture was different. The streets looked more familiar. It was more compact, less wide.
But it was still very Austin. Everyone looked cool and young. And white. There’s a Chinatown and a noticeable Chinese population and you see a few back people knocking around, but overwhelmingly it’s white.
There’s two things that are very odd about Portland, and they’re both the result of a seemingly overpowering idea that “we’re liberal here”.
I was staying in a hotel in the Pearl District supposedly, according to Vice, Culture Trip and how many other sites, the Hackney Wick in the land of Hackney Wick. Obviously by the time I got here it had gone all SoCo – someone somewhere is probably knocking up a PeDi mural in genuine graffiti-lettering as we speak. There was a street market by the river and we like street markets and rivers, so… Dropped bags, walked out of the hotel and started walking to the river.
It’s about a 10 – 15 minute walk, no more. Left onto 9th, turn at Burnside and keep going. Just as I was musing on how clean it was, how smart… There was a couple of homeless people hanging around, their belongings in big bin liners. OK. Then I saw a few more sleeping in a doorway. Another group of homeless people on a street corner. Suddenly there’s more homeless people than…. Well, than Brighton and that’s going some. And no, this population isn’t so overwhelmingly white. It’s not exclusively male and black, but…
Doorways were packed. There’s a flyover underpass just by the river and to get to the riverside walk, you go through the underpass. Again, loads of people. You don’t get hassled, people don’t really ask for money, there aren’t charity muggers. They’re just there.
The longer I was here – and OK, I was only here a couple of days, but it was enough to get a feel – it became apparent that for the most part, the two populations didn’t interact much at all. They didn’t see each. To the outsider, it looked fantastically uncomfortable, this stark, extreme, in-your-face chasm between the haves and the have-nots. And maybe that’s why the nice folk don’t see them – because otherwise it’s just too uncomfortable.
Every so often, you’ll see someone who’d clearly been zapped by something waving his arms around, shouting to the sky, swaying, dancing, looking like something out of a zombie film – and the nice people with their pink boxes of “Voodoo Donuts” walk past and through, maybe talking on their phones making arrangements for this evening’s vegan feast.
“We’re very liberal here. Portland’s a very liberal place” said some bloke whose name I didn’t catch in a bar whose name I didn’t catch either. He was Dutch, had lived here for over 10 years. “There are all sorts of programmes here to do with shelter and food and looking after people who need it, but what’s happened is that because of all that it’s attracted more and more homeless people and the city can’t cope”.
I remember once saying, in a glib SoCo kinda way, that it was easy to understand why homeless people came to Brighton, that all the things that attracted those nice gluten-free folk from Crouch End, why wouldn’t they also attract homeless people too? The same thing’s probably true of Portland.
“But in a few weeks when it starts to get colder, they’ll all leave and go back to California”. There is, apparently, not just a crack problem in Portland, there’s a FUCK of a crack problem in Portland.
Then we had the Austin conversation which wasn’t a million miles away from the Williamsburg conversation. In recent years, Apple, Google, Facebook and other tech companies have come here cos it was a really cool place, but now it’s all starting to have an impact “and it’s getting really expensive” said the Dutch guy – who worked for a tech company – and “the things that made Portland Portland are getting pushed out”.
“And you’re getting overrun by tourists looking for the next cool place” I said.
“Have you been to Boulder yet?” he said.
——————-
The other curious thing about Portland is the oft-quoted “… and it’s got more strip clubs per head than any other city in the US”. What’s that about? How does that work? The coolest place, the hippest place, the place where you really don’t have to look too hard to find a health food shop, has more strip cubs per head than any other city in the US?
Strip clubs here are clearly not strip clubs at home. The reception bloke at the hotel said going was a thing to do. The Dutch bloke’s girlfriend said how much fun it was.
“But isn’t it exploitative?”
“No, Portland’s a very liberal place…”
Yeah, I know.
So, when in Rome… And when in Portland, go to a strip club. I didn’t want to go to some New Orleans type clip joint (no, I didn’t go to one) and I didn’t want to go to some glitzy Spearmint Rhino type place (not that I’ve ever been there, I just know the name) though obviously I would have if that was the only choice. The question was, can there be such a thing as a ‘woke’ strip club?
Mary’s was the obvious choice. It’s the oldest strip club in Portland, so going there ticks both the history and culture boxes – and gives the casual tourist a legitimate chance to gawp at women with no clothes on. It’s a win-win whichever way you spin it.
Mary’s has been a breeding ground for some famous pop culture figures – Courtney Love is the one they always wheel out – and the tourist literature here talks about it like it’s the Guggenheim or something. It’s a “downtown institution”, “a Portland nightlife landmark” and sealing the deal “a must-visit for any true strip club connoisseur”. Well, blimey. I’m not sure I’m a true strip club connoisseur, but I have been talking about getting a new hobby. Mary’s also had the advantage of being round the corner – always my favourite distance.
The neon sign looks old and iconic, like it’s been there since 1954.
Got to go.
There’s a $3 entry and a one drink minimum. Seemed a little too reasonable. Where’s the sting?
“OK” I said to the bouncer. “But how much are the drinks?”
“Beer’s about $5, not sure about anything else, just ask”
Inside Mary’s, it’s small. It looks like a bar, largely because… it’s a bar. The only difference is that all that tables are pointed on way and there’s a small stage. One small stage, one shiny pole in the middle of it.
I had a look around. Mostly groups of people, mostly couples, maybe one or two single (young) blokes. I saw a table with three couples, loud and laughy, a little bit drinked but not drunk – not in a West Street, Dirty 6th way, in a nice way. Middle aged, middle class, safe.
“Excuse me. Do you mind if I sit here” I said.
“Sure. Please”
“A single bloke in a strip club, it’s not a good look”.
They were lovely, very friendly, very welcoming. After all the where are you from, why are you here stuff, I had to ask.
“What is this about, this strip club thing?”
“Oh, it’s just a bit of fun, you know” said the woman nearest to me. She looked like someone I’d know – attractive, clearly smart. Bet she worked for one of the tech companies.
“But it’s exploiting the women, isn’t it. It’s…”
It’s a curious thing. As I was saying that stuff, it just sounded so joyless, so miserable. Everyone was having fun.
Mary’s, she said, was the best club, it was owned by a woman and all the women who worked there bought into the ethos of the place. There were other places that were glitzier, that had multiple stages, lots of girls dancing simultaneously, women who were more hassly and hustly and places that were more “anatomical.”
“But more strip clubs than any other American city? What’s that about?”
“Portland’s a very liberal place”.
The girls were all similar – all blonde, very slim, a few tatts, not a lot going on in the air bag department and – and I’m only saying this because I’m a professional – favouring what I think is called a “landing strip”, a little bit more than a Brazilian. (Should that be the other way round?) Blonde, very slim… Just as well they weren’t relying on me for a tip. (You want a tip? Eat….) What they all were was very extraordinarily flexible and acrobatic. Things you can do on a pole… No arms, no legs, no feet….
“How’s she doing that?” someone said.
“Suction?”
There’s another area, smaller but still part of the main room where you can go for your private dances.
“So” I asked the waitress “What’s the deal with that?”
She was sweet. A bit older, fully clothed, not so made up, not so obvious.
“It’s $40 for one song. The girl is completely naked, but you can’t touch her at all”
“OK, thanks”
$40 for someone schtupping their tuchus in your face for three minutes? And you can’t even…?
One of the women I was sitting with said that she’d never had a private dance before which made her husband hoot, so inevitably… within minutes there was $40 on the table.
“It’s got to be her with the tattoos” she said.
In fairness, her with the tattoos was the best bet, in terms of cultural exchange.
A few minutes later…
“Was it good? What happened? Did you talk to her?”
“How could I talk? She had her tits in my face the whole time”
She laughed, they laughed, I laughed. It was a laugh. My Fine Wife might say “Ah, but did her with the tattoos laugh? Or was she being beaten by the Chinese Gangmaster as soon as she left the stage and she was only there anyway because the Albanian trafficking gang had stolen her granny’s pet spaniel and the only way she’d ever get it back was by dancing naked six nights a week?
But, you know. $40. That’s what? About £30-odd, give or take.
It was fun. A laugh. And not an aggressive, alcohol fuelled laugh. Just a laugh. Is it wrong? Well, I wouldn’t go at home. But when in Rome… And listen, at Mary’s a vodka and tonic was $5.75. At the last bar I was in, it cost $8. So, you know, poledance schmoledance. Over the course of the evening, that adds up.
I left Mary’s at 12.30am or something and, as I stepped over the bodies on the pavement, I still couldn’t make much sense of it.
*********************
One thing I think I’ve realised – and I’m only 61, so getting this now makes me something if a prodigy – is that most places are more or less the same. Streets, the things on streets – the shops, bars, cafes, restaurants, H&M, Starbucks… If it’s a major town there’ll be a big river running through it. There’ll be rich parts of town and there’ll be poorer parts of town. In the rich bits there’ll be the white people, in the poorer parts there’ll be mainly the black people and the later groups of immigrants. (OK, this is an uncomfortable gross generalisation borne out of spending too much time in Trump’s America, but essentially it’s the way it is most places).
The other universal is that when it rains and it’s dark and grey, it looks miserable. And when I was in Portland it rained and it was dark and it was grey and it looked miserable and felt miserable. Happens.
The next day I rented a car and had a drive around. There was another area – Hawthorne – that sounded interesting, so I headed up there, just to have a look. And Hawthorne, it’s got to be said, looked like it was in with a shout for the coolest place on the planet ever ever. (Thank you Vice, Culture Trip etc). Cafes, bookshops, vintage shops… you know. It’s not rocket science. It would have been nice to stay, but… maybe next time.
It’s a curious thing. Portland was where the idea for this break started and so I went there but in truth I think I missed it.
