We got up at 3AM and drove through thick fog to Manchester Airport. Right from the start it felt like a dream – any moment I’d wake up and I find I’d imagined the whole crazy idea of flying in to celebrate a wedding of a friend I’d only met once, to a man I’d never met and at times even doubted his existence.
A mere 20 hours later we touched down in Portland and I was struck full in the face by culture shock. It’s hard to put it into words – it was partly to do with the scale of things, like the highrise blocks that came into view as we drove in an enormous taxi over a massive bridge across a wide river to downtown Portland. Everything was so big, so American. Everyone was so nice. It was like every American movie I’ve ever read, every book, every photograph all rolled into one.
And Portland was putting on its autumn best, the streets strewn with fallen leaves in red and yellow. People rushing by, takeout coffee or a bottle of water in one hand, waiting to catch a tram, or jumping into a car.
Then there was the beer – there was a lot of rain that weekend, and many cosy bars to be discovered. Portland ale, I found, is just like my favourite English beer but served colder. We shopped, we checked out the microbrews, we suffered terribly from jetlag.
And there was still a wedding to go to.
Somehow, we’d ended up in the same hotel as the bride and groom, so we met up with them the night before their wedding. They rushed in laden with suit carriers and bags of shoes, pulled up a chair and we talked for hours as if we were old friends. We took Polaroid photos and engaged in conversation with other guests, and the hotel staff. (“Have you see the film Madman”? apparently, I have the same camera.) There is nothing like an old Land camera – or a Blad for that matter – for breaking the ice with strangers. People warm to a Spectra, too. And I’ve even had an admittedly disparaging comment from someone when I whipped out my TwoStep and took a self portrait.
It felt like moments later when the bride announced that it was her wedding day tomorrow and she really ought to get some sleep, and we realised that we’d managed to hold an impromptu stag and hen party.
The wedding was a crazy mayhem. Introductions often took the form of “I’m Ronet on flickr,” as we bumped into people we’d only ever known their their photographs. And others were pointed out: “That’s clumsy bird. There’s ms. teso, and isn’t that Elizabeth Taylor over there?” Not that Elizabeth Taylor, you understand.
I’ve never been to a wedding before where the bride and groom walked down the aisle to The Final Countdown, where their best friend gets himself ordained on the internet and writes vows for them that hit the perfect note of comedy and sweetness. And this was the first time I have clapped and cheered at the end of the service. And I’ve never in my life hi-fived a newly wed bride.
The wedding was all done by 10PM, after singing and dancing and an insanely funny photo presentation. Driving back the cloudy skies had parted enough to reveal the night-time light show of downtown Portland. Wouldn’t it be great to get out one night and take some photos, we thought, but we were running out of town.
And there was the rain.
The next few days were packed with all the things we had to see before we left. We didn’t get out to the Cascades or down to the beach – the weather put a stop to all that. But we browsed the vintage shops in Hawthorne, whiled away a rainy hour at Peet’s tea & coffee, walked silently round the Vietnam memorial, and stood gazing up at the sequoias in Washington park’s arboretum. We had to see the Japanese garden, and on the way met a man who’d just moved to the neighbourhood. We learnt his entire story in the space of five minutes and when he’d waved us goodbye at the entrance I realised we hadn’t given him much in return.
There was time for a last lunch at the Goose Hollow Inn, where I wrote on the chalkboard in the ladies, Best pub in Portland, though I know that part of it was that it had the advantage of being my first in America.
One last dinner at Deschutes, where I swear they serve the best steak in the Universe, and it was time to pack our bags and head home.
Back on the plane, another of those dream-like flights where time rushes by as you fly into the night which shouldn’t fall for another 6 hours or so.
Amsterdam was a rude awakening, not just for the early hour but the waitress at the airport café who yelled at people for not ordering in the way she wanted.
And then home in bright sunshine, which made me blink as if I’d just woken up from a dream.














