North by Northwest

It has officially taken me a week to get over my birthday hangover. Not the one that was incurred as a result of my drinking, of course. Just the hustle and bustle of the earth making one more rotation around the sun during a year in which my main priorities were sleeping and memorizing the Internet. At the sage age of 24 I can now come to terms with the fact that my energy levels are directly proportionate to the quality of my REM cycles. Perhaps 24 is the year I will up the quality and quantity of my stimulants. Perhaps not. That sounds tiring.

Aside from the Great Fatigue, I had an absolutely lovely birthday weekend. It began with a family dinner, moved on to dancing with friends and ended with an overnight stay in Portland and a long train ride home.

Every time I visit Portland I want to move there. Especially when Seattle is getting on my nerves. While the grass is literally greener in the Northwest than, say, the rest of the country, there is something a little kinder about Portland that sets it apart from the rest of us cranky evergreeners. Portland is akin to that ongoing flirtation you’ve had for years. Nothing serious but alluring whenever your long-term beaux farts in his sleep and leaves pee on the toilet seat. Again.

Portland will buy you flowers from the farmer’s market and find your lost earring. Things are cheaper Portland. People do not possess the famous “Seattle chill.” You get the impression that they might actually dance at musical events. Public transportation is comparatively efficient and reliable. The food? Don’t get me started on the food.

Or, please do. Lovely Hula Hands did us right and soothed our travel-weary souls with ingenious Dungeness crab deviled eggs and cocktails with such fabulous names as Tallulah’s Bathwater (a dreamy and tart adventure in vodka and pomegranate molasses). Every damn time we journey to Portland we find ourselves eating through the town with the aid of some expert Googling and food-centered friends. Our breakfast the next day was less delectable but still full of adventure as, pressed for time, we chose to eat at the hotel cafe, aptly named Shenanigans. The food was nothing to write home about, as we chuckled, “1985 called, it wants its breakfast back,” but the grand moment of excitement came when we saw who was dancing on the buffet tables.

Is there a better way to convey the true spirit of Shenanigans than to construct life-size sculptures of the Blue Brothers and display them on your buffet table just behind the soft-serve machine and the cake banquet? I have no idea. All I know is we don’t have these kinds of crazy high jinks in Seattle.

Then again, we also don’t have hollowed-out salmon from the seafood bar. Looks like someone has been up to some shenanigans.