One Day of #SnowDrinking

For the past few days, every Portlander had Thursday morning circled on their calendar. It was simultaneously an undesignated holiday and (potentially, and in 58% of the population’s mind, almost certainly) the end of the world. Snow. It would be preceded by stiff winds overnight, followed by UP TO THREE INCHES of accumulation. The city slept in. I was out at 8 to meet a friend for coffee, and the streets were empty. I strolled with maximum carelessness across East Burnside, a major arterial bereft of cars, and found a small gathering of daredevils out braving Snowpocalypse 2025 (TM).

In the event, the snow did come, and a bit early. By the time I was strolling back across still-deserted Burnside an hour later, the wind was whipping pinprick flakes in my face, and white whorls were forming on the asphalt. The snow had arrived, more or less on schedule, and the city held its breath.

Look, I don’t make the rules. Portland is among the most snow-frightened (and delighted) cities in America. As I witnessed today, we stage anticipatory closures, shutting the city down hours before any storm has arrived. In some cases they never do. The city doesn’t spend money on the infrastructure it would take to clear the streets, and wisely, since we get maybe three days of snow a year. Many people who live here have no experience driving in the snow, so ill-timed storms can turn streets into parking lots, stranding the helpless for hours (this happened two years ago).

We each conduct our own rituals. People boil out of their houses with all manner of snow gear to take advantage of the moment. Children sail down any hillock with more than a five-foot descent. Adults, who have of course laid in enough food to last a month, walk their dogs and children and check email, calling it a day. Some, and I am a member of this tribe, make haste to a pub, as I did for lunch. I stopped in for a “world famous Reuben”* at former mayor Bud Clark’s Goose Hollow Inn, and had a pint to wash it down.

This is #SnowDrinking, the absolute best adult activity for the stranded Portlander. There’s nothing to do, nowhere to go. One can have a noontime stout (I enjoyed the incredibly delicious Gigantic Totally Wired Stout, made with coffee from our best local roaster, Coava) and worry not a whit that it will necessitate a post-prandial nap. Indeed, the nap is one of the chief reasons to have the stout. Alas, tomorrow the temperatures rise and the snow will melt, leaving very little excuse for further #SnowDrinking. That’s why I follow the rules. It snows, I take the day off and head to the pub.

Here are a few pictures to put you in the mood.

* Portland is insular enough that “the world” extends no further than the outskirts of Gresham in the minds of most folks (maps report “Here There Bee Dragons” on parts beyond), so this claim is narrowly true. But it’s also a hell of a Reuben.