Every Pearl has its oyster
Posted by Ruth on June 10th, 2010
photo by quite peculiar
So we arrived in the States on Friday, but have been living out of a hotel until today.
The Ace is a painfully hip boutique hotel, full of quirky art, beautiful vintage furniture, staff so trendy and attractive you get all awkward and shy just asking for your room key, and located above some of the city’s best coffee, a great NY-style deli serving the most outrageously large (and delicious) sandwiches and Jewish treats (blintzes, rugelach and kugel, oh my!), and one of the city’s best bars and eateries. We stayed there when we were in town earlier in the year on holidays and loved it. But when you have to get up for work each day, and are trying to save money, connect phones and electricity, and buy up boring things like toasters, towels and tables, living in a glorified hostel with a bunch of 20-something travellers, across the road from two late-night gay bars, strangely loses its appeal.
photo by gak
But today we moved into our new apartment. It’s only a few blocks away, but they’re a significant couple of blocks. You see, when people ask where I live, I can now breezily answer “Downtown” instead of cringing and mumbling, “… The Pearl.”
Allow me to explain.
Like many cities, Portland is divided into a bunch of geographically and culturally distinct “districts”.
There’s Alberta, which is a bit like Fitzroy: art galleries, trendy boutiques, cafes, organic groceries and yuppies.
photo by Zerbas
There’s Hawthorne, which is more like Collingwood: a mix of trendy and trashy, freaks and fashionistas, op-shops, book shops, and about 50,000 Tibetan handicraft stores.
photo by Zervas
There’s the Old Town, home to dive bars, strip joints, a 24-hour vegan donut shop and the poorest excuse for a Chinatown I’ve ever seen.
photo by DennisSylveserHurd
Then there’s The Pearl (plus about 500 other districts, but I’ve only been here five days. Give me time), where the Ace is located. Here’s how one local puts it:
Every city has to have at least one hopelessly gentrified warehouse district. The Pearl District has gone through all the stages and is now packed with bad galleries, hi-rise apartment buildings, expensive and inexpensive food, and the Streetcar.
That’s about right. It’s all shiny and new and full of faux-warehouse apartments, tourists (hey, I have a bus pass and a job. I’m a local), criminally expensive designer furniture stores, pilates studios and nail salons.
photos by Edmontonenthusiast
It’s basically like Melbourne’s Docklands precinct (albeit with some excellent restaurants, bars and galleries): posh and plastic.
But that’s OK, because I don’t live there anymore. I have crossed the all-important border of Burnside St into the rather uninspiringly-titled “Downtown”:
But here’s my secret: I’m still living in a totally yuppie apartment building. There’s a concierge and a gym and private cinema and yoga classes and something called an “Integrated Wellness Coach” and shiny stainless steel fittings and people who wear chinos.
When we moved in this evening, there was free wine and finger food taking place on the roof, where all the residents (and their little designer dogs) mingled amongst themselves (and with the apartment staff, which is awesome, but made us realise how terribly British our sensibilities are, because it really threw us at first). We poked our noses in, looking terribly under-dressed in our Melbourne uniform of old black Levis and trenches, snapped up some free grog and grub (a good Chardonnay, excellent Pinot Gris, bland Rose and underwhelming Pinot Noir, for what it’s worth, but I fully intend to dedicate more time in future to investigating Oregon’s fine range of wines. Research, you see) and slipped away downstairs.
On the street below, an edgy photographer was prowling around, snapping pictures of a wispy young thing in a little bit of satin and a lot of eyeliner for a fashion shoot. We edged past and went to Whole Foods to buy some overpriced organic soup and salad, before returning back to our climate controlled apartment full of Ikea furniture and new flat-screen TV with about 80-bazillion channels.
So it turns out I’m a total designer-warehouse-apartment-dwelling, expensive-Chardonnay-quaffing, biodynamic-arugula-eating urban hipster cliché after all, regardless of which side of the street on which I live.
Whatever. I get to wake up to this every morning:
So nya.
