This street is lined with houses of varying hues of pink. First we have the salmon-colored one. Then the cotton candy one. We’ll call the third one dusty rose. It’s almost as if cotton candy house went first, which either inspired or infuriated the homeowners to the left and right. Regardless, this is no coincidence.

I’m looking out the window of Cellar Door, a local coffee house in Southeast. The latte was exceptional and went down way too quickly. If you’re in the vicinity of SE 11th and Harrison I recommend you drop in and try the espresso, maybe even buy a bag of beans for the road. While you caffeinate, sit in the window and watch people pause before entering the A-1 Food Market across the street. For some reason they all reemerge with nothing in their hands.

I’m really enjoying working in an office setting. It’s been almost four years since Jed and I left Clemson University, which means it’s been four years since I’ve gotten to be a nerd for a living; since I’ve had a desk with dual monitors and a chair adjusted just so; since I could feel slightly under the weather and not have to call in sick because I can’t run or talk for eight straight hours; since I could wear whatever the hell I want (not a uniform) on the weekdays; since I didn’t look at the clock every hour and wish time would pass faster; since I felt like I wasn’t under constant scrutiny to sell, to be fast, to always be “on”. Oh, and since I could drink coffee and work at the same time.

Life is good.

I think there are a lot of things that we’re afraid of “looking like”: a creep, a dork, like we’re stuffed into a piece of slightly-too-small clothing, a criminal; I could go on forever. Me? I dread looking like a tourist.

As I sit here in Stumptown downtown, sipping a pint glass of latte and enjoying the noise and bustle around me, I realize how tough it is to be a tourist in Portland. A whole crowd of them just moved through, and I bet they didn’t anticipate how difficult it would be to order coffee here. Sure, the staff at Stumptown is friendly enough, but the establishment itself can be a little overwhelming for the out-of-towner.

First of all, it’s noisy in here. The ceiling is cavernous, the walls made of brick, and the floor concrete. Acoustically, this place is primo for amplifying the thrumming music of the spinning LP, clack-grrrummm-clack-clack-clack of the espresso being dispensed manually from the grinder, and the dozens of voices competing for auditory real estate in conversation. Get past that, and it’s time to figure out what you want to buy to make your Portland experience feel more legit. After all, Portland rhymes with coffee. Yes, it does.

One chalkboard overhead lists almost thirty different kinds of whole beans to purchase, and next to it another chalkboard listing the types of drinks you can have made. There are prices but no sizes, and the boards list no descriptions to help the novice coffee drinker make a decision. If you want to purchase beans to take away as a souvenir, there is a shelving unit full of 12oz bags that are marked with name, type, and origin of bean. Still, no prices. Once a bag is chosen, a price is found on the aforementioned chalkboard. Be careful, the nicaragua las golondrinas is $45 a bag. And that bag looks just like all the others.

And for the Starbucks educated folk who consider themselves true knights of the land of espresso, toss all your expectations out the window. There’s no skinny mint mocha frappuccinos here. No blended drinks at all; just the classics either hot or on ice. Sure, you can get non-fat milk, but it’ll diminish the taste of that latte. If you order a small, you’ll get an 8oz sip. 20oz drinks are for the McCoffee masses.

(note: I have absolutely nothing against Starbucks or those who like its drinks. I’m just saying that getting coffee at Starbucks is a much different experience.)

In a hurry to get out and see more of Portland? They don’t care here. You have arrived for coffee, and they are going to give it to you Stumptown style. The beverage you’re about to consume at Stumptown will be more amazing than anything you’ve had before. But! There’s a catch: You’ve got to wait for it. The lines here are long, and the only thing ready-made is the french pressed coffee loaded into a self-serve decanter on the front counter. From the time you get in line to the time you receive your drink, ten minutes will have easily passed.

So what the hell, right? “Pretentious Portland”, some folks may say. I think those nay-sayers just don’t get the point; just like the Americans who visit Japan and can’t understand why their souvenir purchases are wrapped in so many layers of beautifully folded packaging. In Portland, we take very few things as seriously as we do coffee and beer. Okay maybe politics. But that’s a different post. Anyway, as a city that finds immense pleasure in the pursuit of leisure, we like to take the time to enjoy those things that the rest of the world takes for granted. It’s the details, man. I think it’s tough for an already overwhelmed out-of-towner to slow down enough to see them clearly.

I can understand. I looked like a tourist for the first two years I lived here.