May 23, 2020: Campfire on Main Street -

It was gloomy this morning, and I was battling general unease, what with businesses closing and people out of work, and bizarre political doings, plus all the uncertainties about re-opening and what lies in store. I decided to turn off the news, and go down to the river and get some air and a larger view.

All in all, it was a good plan, and I came home several hours later feeling less sunk. But going down to the river was probably not the best choice of destination if I wanted to bypass our current woes.

The ramp to the Hawthorne Bridge angles up from 6^th Avenue, so that by the time the bridge is about to cross the river, it’s fairly high. I took that route, knowing I could get down to the riverbank by a steep set of stairs. The result was that I had an excellent view down at two of Portland’s new tent cities, erected in late April.

I’ve mentioned that I’m in some ways acclimating to Virus World, which means I flip-flop between two views of the same thing. Oh my gosh, look at these tent cities -so big, so many people who are out amongst the elements, it’s a crying shame.

But then: Given that so many are on the streets…those are really good tents, big, sturdy 2-person or 4-person models, and they are on pallets, up off the ground and out of the puddles! And every one has a tarp! And there are plenty of Porta-Potties and volunteers doing something at the entrance, and I suppose in some ways, for some people, things may be marginally better than they were.

I was very aware of my own easy life, and aware that I was (from up on the bridge) Looking Down Upon Others who were in a tough situation. I often have dreams that are full of stupidly overblown symbolism like this, as if my subconscious were a talent-free teenager in an intro creative writing class.

The other interesting thing I could see from the bridge was that while the tent cities weren’t full (I counted ten big square pallets in the nearest one that were empty), a great many people were living in tents outside of the tent city enclosures, here and there – right outside the fence, or a block or two or three away, scattered all about, tent city and tent suburbs.  These too, with one exception, were very nice tents. (The exception was a stylish young woman quite a few blocks from the cities, draping plastic tablecloths over a little, low, one-man, right on the sidewalk. I fervently hope she will come into one of those good tents, or better shelter, soon.) I’m guessing there may be good reasons some people don’t want to be In the cities, despite the pallets and Porta-Potties. Maybe some of the other denizens are intrusive. Maybe there are restrictions. I don’t know.

So I  looked down from above on my way to the river, but I decided to stay at street level and walk past both the cities and the suburbs on my way home. I’d gotten to a quite empty part of Main Street when I saw a fellow with a muti-part encampment, tent plus an awning, and a little lawn chair. He was whittling, and there was a wonderful smell in the air, which I realized was coming from a campfire he’d built. I thought Oh, “Campfire on Main Street,” there you go, more heavy-handed symbolism. 

As I got closer and said Hi, I saw that he’d rigged some stones around the campfire into a ledge, and he’d balanced an aluminum tray there with spaghetti in it and alongside, a loaf of French bread. He had three old bowls, Franciscan ware, that looked like he’d gotten them from Goodwill, and three forks, and a handwritten sign on cardboard that said, “Hungry? Have some spaghetti and bread.”

I said, Oh, you are sweet.

But he couldn’t hear me, because of my mask, and he cupped his ear and said, “Ma’am?”

I said, gesturing at the buffet he’d laid out, and the sign, and then at him, and then patting over my heart, “You are so sweet.”

He said, “You too, ma’am.”