Willamette River and 1-405. Other than the train station and a few
restaurants Portlanders called China Town, there weren't many
legitimate reasons to go to Old Town back then. Those three square
miles harbored the majority of the city's homeless population, a
thriving drug trade, and cheap bars with underground behind-the-counter
needle-exchange programs. Most of the buildings in the area were
abandoned warehouses.
But life north of Burnside changed in the early 1990s,
when Portland's economy began to experience its current boom with the
help of Nike, its nationally recognized ad agency, and more high-tech
companies than you could shake a stick at. Portland became the
sought-after new address for thousands of upwardly mobile young
professionals.
To uprooted Californians and to Easterners like my ex-husband, a move
to Portland was supposed to represent a dedication to a new way of
living, a clean slate, a commitment to a simpler lifestyle that
balanced work, play, and family. Their office walls were lined with
photographs of them hiking in the Columbia Gorge and skiing Mount Hood,
and they bought life memberships in the Sierra Club. But they also
drove Range Rovers and Land Cruisers that got eleven miles to the
gallon and had never actually been muddied by off-road use.
One upside of the Yuppie Takeover, however, was the development of the
Pearl District. A group of savvy developers foresaw the desire of this
new crowd to live in upscale housing close to downtown. They purchased
entire blocks of warehouses on the west end of Old Town and refurbished
them as loft apartments and townhouses. Buildings you used to be
afraid to walk by now boasted million-dollar apartments. Along with
the housing had come a slew of chic restaurants, retail shops, hair
salons, interior decorators, and every other business that might make
the life of some thirty-year-old millionaire a little more
comfortable.
Some of the old-timers, artists who had used the warehouses as
inexpensive studio space, complained about the gentrification. But
most Portlanders, like me, were happy to have a neighborhood close to
downtown where they could go after work for dinner and a drink.
Tonight's dinner was at Oba, my favorite Pearl District spot. The bar
in the front of the restaurant was, at least for now, the beautiful
people's place to see and be seen. And, although I didn't have
first-hand knowledge, Oba enjoyed a reputation as a good place to find
a companion for the rest of the night. I came for the food.
Grace was already there when I arrived. Despite the throngs of people
packed into the bar, my best friend had managed to procure a seat at a
table of young and painfully attractive men. One of them was returning
from the bar with her favorite drink, a Cosmopolitan. And, of course,
all of them were laughing. Grace Hannigan is one of the funniest
people I know.
I worked my way over to the table and leaned over so Grace could hear
me. 'You been here long?'
'Hey, woman. I didn't see you come in. I just got here a little bit
ago.'
One of the men at the table got up and offered his chair.
I could barely hear Grace over the noise. She leaned in. 'This one on
my right is a client. He saw me walk in and waved me over. He's a
computer programmer. The rest of them are with him.' She leaned in
even closer and said in my ear, 'The blond one's got potential. He's
coming in next week. I made room on my calendar.'
Grace cuts hair. It's a good thing she's got the kind of job where a
guy can make an appointment to see her on a risk-free basis, or she
would probably never get a date. You know how actresses and models say
that guys never ask them out? You're supposed to infer that they're so
beautiful that men are too intimidated to risk rejection. I wouldn't
have believed it unless I had a best friend like Grace. She has
collagen-free pouty lips, bright white teeth, and flawless skin that's
alabaster in winter and bronzed in summer. Her hair looks different
every time I see her, but her natural curls always frame her face just
right. And she can eat all the junk she wants and never get fat. I'm
so glad I know her, or I'd probably hate her.
Despite Grace's looks, men who are obviously attracted to her rarely
ask her out. Instead, they make appointments for haircuts. Eventually,
they get around to asking her if she has time to grab a drink or dinner
afterward, but they always use the haircut as the way in. Grace says
she can never tell whether a man's appointment is a pre-date formality
or if he just wants his hair cut, but I keep telling her that any man
willing to pay $60 for a haircut is probably looking for a date. A
nice shag. A good bang. A first-rate bob.
I ordered a Bombay Sapphire martini, but we didn't last at the bar for
long. We were eager to talk about the week that had passed since we'd
last seen each other, and the noise was too much, so we moved to our
table.
I let her go first, because her news was always more fun. Most of her
week this time was spent working on the set of a movie being filmed in
the area. Grace's business had been thriving in town for years, but in
the last couple of years she had developed a strong reputation as an
on-set stylist for the increasing number of film productions that were
