Portlandian pedestrian perils

 

Monday 2 June 2025

After the exertions of the previous day, capped by nearly ending up wandering the NW Portland Forest Park at nightfall, I was in no rush to get out early, plus Lucy had booked a swim and foot massage across town that morning. After an amount of indecision and faffing about, I set off to meet her via two buses accompanied by long waits, only to discover that I'd been misinformed on her finishing time.

Rather than hang around any further, it was a gloriously sunny day so I decided to venture back across town to see the Pittock Mansion which is at the edge of said Forest Park and was built just over 100 years ago by (I suppose) self-made millionaire Henry Pittock. Born in London, Pittock grew up in Pittsburgh PA and headed west on the Oregon Trail at the age of 19 to seek his fortune. He found work as a typesetter on The Oregonian daily newspaper, and having been given shares in return for back wages, he worked his way up to own the paper and built a financial empire by canny investments, as well as being an outdoorsy type, one of the first group to climb nearby 11000' Mt Hood. 

He married fellow Oregon Trailer Georgiana, who had several children with him and became founder and fundraiser for a number of charities and cultural orgnaisations; together they planned and built their dream home with its panoramic hilltop views over the growing city. 

The house isn't especially large - only five full bedrooms for example -  but it's remarkable for its kind of three-cornered shape and the fact that it included an amount of what would be deemed as new gadgetry - a bit like a smart home would be today. For example, it had a new-fangled vacuum cleaner system in the skirting boards, the latest refrigeration and telephony, and the most up to date shower fittings, as above. Henry employed the best architects and builders money could buy to realise his vision.

The family moved in in 1914 but sadly Henry and Georgiana only survived a further four years. (Georgiana had already had a stroke leaving her with limited mobility, so Henry had an elevator put in. It also appeared that the white plague had carried off a few other members of the family.) The house passed down the family but had a relatively short life as their home, being put up for sale in 1958 and then being made derelict by damage caused by the Columbus Day storm in 1962. Its restoration to a museum in 1965 was the result of dedicated and skilled volunteers and some money from the city.  

It's a really interesting family home, and includes the cutest lodge lived in by Scottish chauffeur and general factotum James Skeene and his family from 1919 - 1958. 

But in case you ever decide to visit, be warned that it's a bit of a labour of love to get there without a car. The no.20 bus took me to the main road less than a mile from the house, but I then had to schlep up a fairly steep and zig zaggy hill along the road with no footpath until I got on to the Pittock estate. The walk is pretty, surrounded by beautiful sun-dappled woodland, but I had to hope that drivers didn't take the bends too fast or I would be roadkill. 

Walking back downhill was less daunting, but then I had to play chicken crossing the main road to the bus stop and wait in a tiny clearing with no crash barrier, with a 20' sheer drop behind me in the forest as an escape route should anyone (which was everyone) not stick to the 35mph speed limit and veer off the road. I was very glad to see the bus.

Fortunately said bus took me close to Nob Hill where I met Lucy having a glass of wine at Papa Haydn, a restaurant with a counter fridge full of huge cakes as its centrepiece. We had identified the street as an area for retail therapy together with a number of eateries, so after some browsing and a few small purchases, we checked out the restaurants, discovering that most were Thai, Vietnamese, Mexican or standard sandwich/burger fare; one we liked the look of was French, but also hideously expensive and quite possibly a bit pretentious. We finally settled on the Fireside restaurant and had some nice food from a mixed bill of fare, friendly service and wine.

At this point, and at risk of teaching an elderly relative to suck eggs (I coincidentally bought a card game at the Pittock shop which reveals the origins of weird phrases like that - am keen to find out!), if you visit the US one of the great things about Portland is that the price you see is the price you pay - no sales tax added on after the fact. However, the weird custom about tipping (if you're not given the opportunity to add it via the card reader) is that they take your card away to charge you for food, and then bring you a receipt and you then write the amount of tip on it and sign, (you do get a copy) which is a promise to pay it - you just have to hope they don't add a 1 at the beginning or a 0 at the end.....