The Corner of Hipster and Homeless

I’m sitting in a local coffee shop doing some writing.  It is a beautiful Portland day.  My table is next to a window and as far as I know it’s 85 degrees outside (it’s not--it’s March in the Northwest).  There’s plenty to look at.  A young couple walks by carrying a laundry basket implying a recent trip to the laundromat. The girl carries a birthday cake shaped hat.  A man walks by in high heels and a dress.  His hair is styled perfectly and like all those wearing high heels he looks to be quite uncomfortable. The woman with him looks at everyone with a “what are you looking at?” smugness that communicates more about herself than him (by the way his calves are amazing!).   A young foggy-eyed hipster stands on the corner holding a sign and petition as he stops everyone to request their signature to help him legalize marijuana.  

Here in the shop I’m surrounded by Mac computers, black rimmed glasses, a cheerleader (I only know this because she is wearing a pair of sweat pants reading “CHEER” across the buttocks), and the occasional cloth scarf around the neck-black leggings-boot wearing-hair in a bun with big earrings-20 something gal coming in for an iced tea. Included in the decor is some local art.  Each one consisting of a bird house looking base, some kind of figurine like a cherub, a dog or a Buddha.  They are adorned with Scrabble pieces and coffee cups.  

In the background I hear trendy music and am thankful it is at a respectable level that I can hear but not feel. A “community board” holds ads for dog walkers and house cleaners, for local art shows and running groups.  The bathroom door is locked keeping bathers and druggies out.

A girl walks by.  She appears downtrodden and tired. She carries a black garbage bag filled with clothes.  She is clearly not homeless, apparent by her attire and purse. Rather she seems to be returning from the thrift store around the corner where she tried to sell several pieces of clothing, only to be rejected as they bought one or two pieces for less money than she hoped and expected.  Now she travels to the Goodwill down the street to make a donation. 

It’s 48 degrees in Oregon so the bar across the street has their outdoor tables occupied by local artists and service workers done with work for the day.  They sit while sun glasses rest on their noses and wipe their foreheads because the sun is so warm. They dream of what summer will hold. They discuss plans for camping, trips to Sauvie Island and street fairs.  

At this busy corner of hipster and homeless, Portlanders remember why they live here.  They embrace a phantasmic diversity and a teasing sun, forgetting the summer heat is still months away. They come out of their homes and workplaces, watching each other living outside the confines of buildings, petting each others dogs, loaning each other cigarettes.  I could be in just about any coffee shop located on any street in Portland, but do you know where I am?