Portland Walking Tour tales, 2019 . . . part 1

In 2019 I led more walking tours than in any other of the seven-plus years I’d worked for the company. By my rough count, I guided 98 tours, and probably a few more, because my records show I went downtown to lead a tour at least eight other times. I didn’t bother to distinguish between tours on which I received zero tips from guests, and scheduled tours when nobody showed up and I didn’t actually do one. (I’d estimate those divide up about 50-50.)

For a number of years, I had settled into a once- or twice-a-week routine — most often, the 10 a.m. Tuesday tour — because I had so many other free-lance jobs to juggle; plus, starting in the summer of 2014, a second part-time job with Portland Streetcar.

But in a massive unforeseen shakeup in February and March last year, the company lost more than two-thirds of its guides. Suddenly, the rest of us had to scramble to fill the schedule. I often led four or five tours a week, occasionally seven or eight . . . and I think there was at least one week I did nine tours (including several daily doubles, obviously).


(That I had “only” 98 is due to the fact that I accepted no assignments between mid January and mid March, in order to prepare for, then go on, a vacation cruise around New Zealand, courtesy of my Mom.)

Anyway, here are some of the memorable tales from my 2019 walking tours.

JANUARY 1

The first day of the year was lovely.
I set the alarm for 7 a.m., as I often do on Tuesday mornings before a tour, without remembering the streetcar would be on a holiday/Sunday schedule, so there wouldn’t be any trains at that hour.

I walked the 8 blocks north to Tilikum Crossing to catch a MAX train instead.

The forecast had predicted dry but cold weather, so bundled up in my new puffy jacket, a cashmere scarf, heavy gloves, my trusty brown Pendleton cowboy hat, and double socks with an outer layer of wool.

The sky was still black, but the dawn started to break while I waited at the west end of the bridge. I watched the Jim Blashfield “Flooded Data Machine” morph from running water droplets to crackling flames and shifting iron workers for the 13 minutes it took for the train to arrive.

My three tour guests were Californians from the Bay Area (Saratoga Springs) and LA (Whittier), and by the time we hit the bright sun at the waterfront around noon, we were all very, very lighthearted. Of course I told them Portland weather is NEVER like this, and they should tell everyone back home it rains here ALL THE TIME.

FEBRUARY 19

I had a quartet of guests this morning (on whom I’m glad it didn’t rain).

The trio voiced an array of dialects from across the British Commonwealth. The older woman told me she had been born in Zimbabwe, lived for a time in Johannesburg and Capetown, and had settled in Wellington, New Zealand the past eight years “so now I’m a Kiwi!” Her daughter and son-in-law live in Vancouver BC.

Then there was a lively young woman from Argentina, easy to laugh, smile, and talk.

The man from Vancouver told me I looked like Jeff Goldblum, which I hadn’t heard before (certainly not as often as David Strathairn, but I’ll take it).

MARCH 16

I was SO HIGH through my entire tour this afternoon — one of the best ever!

First, I was simply in a great mood from having just completed a fabulous vacation to New Zealand: returning to shirtsleeve weather in town after Carole had reported cold, rain, even a little snow, while I was away; and getting to do my second tour back after several weeks off.

Second, I had a great array of guests: a pair of women from Vancouver BC . . . a young couple from D.C. . . . an earnest young man from India by way of Raleigh NC on temporary assignment as project engineer for a construction firm . . . a young woman from New York and (I am guessing) her mother from Thailand . . . a single professional guy from San Diego . . . and a young couple hefting an infant who have settled here the past two years because the father grew up in the Garden Home neighborhood and brought his Kentucky-bred wife back here from college.

The female half of the D.C. couple was in town for a nonprofit tech conference (she works for NPR in Washington), the guy from San Diego was escaping the spring-break crowd down there for the weekend.

My pre-programmed mood made me loud, joyous, teasing, and devil-may-care from the start. But, as happens on many tours, first-time-ever events occurred along the way, to wit:

— a pair of newlyweds posing on the steps of Gus Solomon Courthouse in full dress as we passed (so several of my group wished them hearty congrats)

— a drummer doing a VERY LOUD sound check on the stage set up in Waterfront Park for tomorrow’s Shamrock Run, much to my mock outrage

— a yellow plastic Iguanodon to accompany the rather scraggly tree in Mill Ends Park

The drummer made it a challenge to be heard by my group of ten as I tried to describe Mill Ends Park and the Portland Loo just downwind of him, so I yelled “MORE COWBELL!” in his general direction.

As we rounded the fenced-off festival area, I heard somebody shouting on a PA, and — whattayaknow? — a street evangelist was haranguing afternoon pedestrians along the river. I had to serpentine my group between the two noisemakers to try to minimize their interference with my spiel.

Once I’d shepherded my guests to the railing overlooking the Willamette, I noticed the preacher strolling our direction. I paused and murmured, “keep moving, fella,” to amuse my tour group, then added, “But I’ll just keep smiling and pretending I’m doing great” — which I really was; nothing could dampen my spirits at that point, partly due to the fact that:

I used to talk about “Grimm” a lot during my tour when it was on the air, but depending on how I read my group, I often skip it these days. On the off chance, however, as we passed the big hole in the ground where the Lotus used to stand, I asked whether anyone was familiar with the show, and one of the women from Vancouver responded YES, she was A FAN!

So I told her I had appeared in episode 19 of the first season, shot in the bar that used to be right next to the sidewalk where we were walking. And she remembered my episode before I even got to describe the climax with the box. So she was PSYCHED and had to take some dual selfies after the tour to show her son later.

So I was even higher when it was all over. (Here’s a photo of the wonderful Lotus Cardroom & Lounge back in 2012, the year I shot my scenes in it, when it was 88 years old, six years before it was torn down).

MARCH 19

This morning’s tour was the opposite of Saturday’s [the one above] in many ways . . . except for the mutual pleasure throughout and the satisfaction at its conclusion.

Only two guests were registered last night, and despite the gorgeous weather today, no one else walked up before we were off. My tour group consisted of a woman and her ’tween daughter from Canada.

I quickly sensed that the daughter was extremely intelligent but shy and possibly fragile — on the near end of the autism spectrum, perhaps. Her mother was highly attentive to and solicitous of her, but not overly so.

The eighth grader had thick glasses and tended to stare casually around us instead of focusing on me and my spiel, yet she instantly snapped out the answers to some of my questions which other tour groups often require hints to get, if they do at all.

She knew what a Möbius strip is, for example (that’s the Hilda Morris sculpture, “Ring of Time,” in the Standard Plaza at 1100 SW 6th), and she guessed what the second most valuable commercial property is after waterfront. When I asked which subjects she liked the most in school, she said that’s a hard question, because there are so many. She likes math and science, particularly biology and brain science.

Her mother was also sharp as a whip (mentioned having attended school in Chicago), and laughed at all my jokes. Tipped well, too.

MARCH 21

As I’ve often said before, most of my tours, in their infinite variety, feature a first-time-ever occurrence.

This noon, as I was leading my group toward the “Promised Land” bronze of a pioneer family in Chapman Square, a multicolored load of plummeting bird poop glanced off my right cheek and splattered across my branded bolo shirt, neck, and collarbone while I was talking to my guests.

Fortunately, I had a stack of Starbucks napkins in my trusty satchel, and wiped it off my face . . . then the retired gentleman from Connecticut obligingly cleaned the rest I couldn’t see on myself.