Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, September 25, 1994 TAG: 9411080054
SECTION: TRAVEL PAGE: F8 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: SARAH COX SPECIAL TO THE ROANOKE TIMES & WORLD-NEWS
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
down the passage which we did not take.
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose garden.''
|(``Burnt Norton,'' Four Quartets, T.S. Eliot)
In this case, it was the Japanese Gardens. And like the thread of fatalism that chased me around Portland, Ore., we decided to pass on the Rose Gardens in lieu of Oriental design and a certain disquieting silence.
In August, my mother and I made a three-day, two-night trip to Portland, and like many short trips to beautiful cities, we couldn't take it all in. But what we did take in left me yearning for the doors we never opened.
Portland is old and grand. Portland is new and clean. It is sophisticated, but tempered with West Coast friendliness. It is gourmet Northern Italian and Northwest seafood. It is the Columbia River shining at 5 p.m. and antiquing in the Sellwood district at noon. It is big, but has a great bus system. And where we stayed - the restored Imperial Hotel at Broadway and Stark, right in the middle of downtown - was within walking distance of several days' worth of sightseeing.
From Eugene, Ore., the drive took us two hours. We arrived at 11 a.m., hours before check-in time at the Imperial, and were welcomed with a fresh room and a beautiful day ahead of us. After carefully folding a downtown map to just the right section, we set out in search of lunch. Two blocks away, toward Powell's City of Books, where more than a million volumes awaited browsing, we spied a small family-run Italian deli. Perfect for mortadella and fontina sandwiches washed down with Full Sail Ale. There's nothing like the Northwest for good beer.
Powell's, a good way to digest, goes on for a block and devotes entire rooms to new and used books categorized by subjects. I found a tremendous selection of gastronomical literature, my mother explored the children's section. We never got to gardening, history or photography.
But the Oregon spirit of adventure was waiting for us outside. This is a city founded in 1851 by pioneers and boosted by the California gold rush. The insouciance of freedom, a trademark West Coast attitude no matter if it's cloaked in '90s clothes, still manages to shine through. So we sallied forth in search. First, a cup of Starbucks, the best coffee in the entire world. Starbucks, now a huge mail order business, was founded in Washington state and has coffee shops all over Portland. I began a three-day habit of espresso and steamed milk, my mother her usual decaf. It gave us just enough zip to walk the floors of the Portland Art Museum.
We kind of worked our way from very, very primitive (Pre-Columbian) to primitive (Northwest native American) to primitive modern (Southern religious) to Renaissance to Impressionist to modern. My favorite section was the upstairs rooms of calm, reflective Renoirs and Monets.
By that time, it was early afternoon and the sun, typical of Northwest weather, had burned off the cool wisps of morning clouds and fog. We turned back towards the Imperial Hotel, and on the way couldn't resist a spin around Nordstrom's. This is the West's version of Bergdorf-Goodman. Here, that thread of fatalism tightened the noose in the form Coco Chanel's assistant, a tall, gaunt, rather heavily made-up French woman who held my grubby hand and talked to me about perfume chemistry for one-half hour. I left with two small paper blotter samples for my underwear drawer.
That night, we rounded the corner and ate at Chen's Dynasty, feasting on spare ribs in a bird's nest spun with Chinese noodles, and discussed plans for the next day.
The Japanese Gardens were first on our list, at the top of a bus ascent through a historic, ritzy residential section. The Japanese Gardens are breathtaking.
They were founded more than 30 years ago, and based on the Shinto, Buddhist and Taoist philosophies that emphasize the essence of nature - plants, stones and water. Meditation, contemplation, serenity - these are but masks over an acerbic, rapier edge. We were confronted at nearly every corner of the gardens with choices. The lower path might take us to a pleasant pool fringed with ferns and a bamboo fence. Up above, we saw the missed opportunity, a raked sand and stone garden. Behind us, the sound of a deer chaser, a traditional noisemaker that we somehow passed by.
And although in the Japanese Gardens we went round and round until every maple and stone was admired, every bridge was crossed, the pagoda entered and the Tea House peeked in, real life and our Portland trip was not like that.
In the afternoon, we took the bus across the river to Southeast Portland's Sellwood, where 13 blocks stretch out like a maiden aunt's thin arms draped in fusty lace. Antique glassware, old china, battered furniture, from shop to shop to dusty shop. After three hours of this, we retreated in defeat and took the bus back. But not quite all the way.
A stop at Pioneer Place was in order. This is no ordinary, suburban mall, but a four-level flashy shopping heaven. Ann Taylor to Victoria's Secret. Godiva to The Sharper Image. Williams-Sonoma to Crabtree & Evelyn. We even found a Starbucks.
Missed opportunities, maybe. But not many. After a day like that, of course we relaxed over a Navy Grog at Trader Vic's in The Benson Hotel. The Benson is one of several restored hotels that echo grand times and rougher days. This one was established in 1912 by lumber baron Simon Benson. In addition, The Governor Hotel and Heathman Hotel, also in the downtown area, are worth visiting simply for their beauty.
At the bottom of our grogs, we again rounded the corner of the Imperial to Pazzo Ristorante, for which we had made reservations two days in advance. But after a generous T-bone grilled with rosemary butter, after a mixed grill of quail, venison sausage, lamb and veal, after a rough Chianti and a smooth dessert of tiramisu (rum and espresso-soaked ladyfingers, mascarpone cream, cocoa powder) we would have waited 10 days for another chance.
That left us with one brief morning to go, which we spent wandering about the old downtown section, browsing in a rare book store, and taking in the mix of cast-iron flourishes, art deco finishes and Northwest architectural fantasies.
Portland is a pretty city, plain and simple. Just to walk it is satisfying. To explore it is succulent. It leaves the wanton desire for more. Three days in Portland was only an appetizer.
We crossed the Columbia River on our way home. It lay like a gray silk ribbon sewn with tiny mirrors. What would those mirrors have reflected in another time, and what had those mirrors shown another set of travelers?
``Other echoes inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?''
by CNB