Travel Journal: Portland, Oregon — Day 2
Public thoughts on my trip
Captains log: Tuesday, August 12, 2024
So, I was supposed to go to Cannon Beach today, but I missed my bus like Tobey in Spider-Man.
I’ll try again tomorrow. Though, I’m not looking forward to the bus back at night. But… that’s another story.
Moving on.
I’ve been doing a ton of walking these last two days—exploring with no exact destination. Since I missed my bus to Cannon Beach, I had to improvise today, which led me to…
… La Provence Boulangerie & Patisserie
This French-inspired café in Raleigh Hills was definitely a step up from the café I went to yesterday. The one yesterday—I can’t even and don’t even want to remember its name—wasn’t an enjoyable experience. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like the servers or hostess looked me up and down and spit on my feet—or face, but maybe, I’d like it?
Moving. On.
Yesterday’s café—decorated as if it were hosting a debutante ball, but with a required black uniform dominant with women in Doc Martens—was in the middle of Downtown, the sketchiest of the sketchiest of places. It was crowded and the tables were way too close together. People kept bumping into my shoulder as I ate. My anxiety was skyrocketing, but, more than that, on that particular day, na, on that particular moment, I was a different character: the quiet, civil, and reserved character.
I explain what I mean by a different character below.
And that reserved character wanted nothing more than to eat his food and get the fuck out of there as fast as possible.
I did.
But… at La Provence Boulangerie, I was a different character: my confident and magnetic self. Was it a great hair day? An outfit that was on point? An environment that felt welcoming? All of the above and then some?
I don’t know.
But, as my waitress, a redhead—a cutie with a booty, a hottie with a body—served my delicious salmon hash plate, I couldn’t help but fight the nerve to say, “Baby, what time are you off?”
I know, ya’ll.
I. Know.
Every now and then, I remember the scene in Rango where he enters the hostile bar and someone asks him, “Who are you?”
Then, Rango, voiced by Johhny Depp, thinks something along the lines of, “Who am I? Well, I can be anyone.”
“I can be anyone,” I thought as the cutie with the booty served my plate, fighting back the nerve to ask her out.
To be Xolo.
Who’s Xolo?
He’s a character in Netzii’s story who’s extremely, and I mean, extremely fucking confident, by far the most confident character I’ve written thus far. Hmm. Maybe not. Alexei Seranov from To Tame a Dame is up there.
Anywho.
In reality, Xolo is me. At least, a part of me. Remember this quote from The Shadow of the Wind? Here’s a refresher:
Julian lived in his books… His soul was in his stories. I once asked him who inspired him to create his characters, and his answer was no one. That all his characters were himself. ~ Nuria
Xolo is a part of my personality—my confidence amped up to an extreme degree. That anxious, quiet, and reserved guy I was yesterday at the debutante restaurant? That could have been Perseus, one of the main characters from Void.
Characters
We all have different shades—different characters to our personalities, don’t we? Some more than others. I definitely have more.
Nevertheless, as I write in a pizzeria called Life of Pie, the best pizza place in town—vouched by an older lady, a local, who declared this the place for a great slice of pie, not what the mob online declared to be—I can’t help but think of the Apple TV series, The Crowded Room, as I reminisce on the countless characters living in the human mind.
Characters.
The human mind.
The Crowded Room.
Gods, that show really showcases just how much we human beings are capable of. I’ll leave the details out, but there’s a character who relies on the various aspects of his personality to save his soul. And each aspect of his personality: kindness, toughness, insecurity, toxicity, and confidence, takes the helm when he needs to protect himself.
Gods. That show. It’s so beautiful, so emotional, so amazing. Seriously. I think it’s one of my favorite shows of all time. I highly, highly recommend it. It’s got an average rating online but, man, fuck those ratings. It’s probably because it’s a slow burner.
Anywho. Watch it. Be warned, though, the end of episode nine gets heavy. I’ll leave the details out but there’s a particular act of self-harm I can’t tolerate. It’s weird. I can tolerate people getting their eyes gouged, entrails cut open, faces ripped apart, yet that act… na, I have to walk away. I say this just in case you’re anything like me. Be warned. Take care of yourself.
Back to reality
Life of Pie.
I’m at Life of Pie in the northwest part of Portland and I’ve just finished my beer.
So, why am I here? On my blog? Why am I writing about my travels?
Most people take pictures to remember a moment in time, I don’t. I’m not a photographer, ladies and gentlemen; I don’t live in the visual—what you can see—na, son, I live in what you can’t see. Writing, books, and reading: this takes imagination, a conscious effort from the reader to use their brain and paint a scene.
So, paint it with me.
Life of Pie.
If you’ve been to Blaze Pizza, the interior is somewhat similar—the colors are dominant with a dark but cozy warm and blue. If you haven’t been to Blaze Pizza (Or don’t have one in your country—looking at my one particular reader across the seas) then picture a modern tavern with the tiniest hints of a speakeasy. The blue color cries for modernism, but the red keeps it grounded in the suave conservatism of Don Draper.
In this dichotomy of blue and red, I sit near the entrance with my back to the floor-high window. The street Life of Pie is on reminds me of Melrose in Los Angeles, with its many mom-and-pop shops and artsy vibes. Except for a couple sitting on the opposite side of the pizzeria, it’s empty. The employees get along well. They remind me of the found family in The Bear, granted, on a good day, not a toxic one. A day where laughter and smiles fill the room as gossip spreads like wildfire.
You here with me?
Good. Take a seat across from me on the mahogany chair. Have a beer.
Here’s the bill.
Bye.
I write this as a way to cement my memory like a photograph. I was here. I lived.
