What are we at the crossroads of here, the cinematic aspect ratio of this tight little neighborhood as the sun goes down and the little plays begin, each in their own spotlight, pressures me to draw conclusions about the disconnects between characters and props in the city, yet all I can do is rub the night in between them and hope to return someday to give them my answer.

These notes I scribbled sitting in a plastic chair on 26th as I attempted to lean backwards against the brick wall, the flimsy legs wobbled. The sun was setting. We had walked a gentle walk through the neighborhood between Hawthorne and Clinton, the evening settled down as people came home from work, or having eaten dinner, stepped out onto porches or took to the streets on bicycles or on foot, all quietly, reverently. Cats stepped out to the sidewalk to greet us. It was too idyllic! The compression of the intersection after the respite of the residential stroll felt too intimate.

We sat outside waiting for the 8pm showing of Night of the Living Dead at the Clinton Street theater. I felt the painterly omniscience of ‘Rear Window’ with high walls filled with windows. I watched as the sky darkened a woman fluttering about in her apartment. The gritty chiaroscuro and claustrophobia of the film preinserted into the dusk landscape, I watched as it grew too dark inside the apartment. It was not until complete dark, where the apartment had disappeared into the sky, that she turned on the light. Warm lit windows have a very powerful effect on me. They are a communication of the most personal routines, the drudgery and comforting reassurance of the home, all carried forth, including sounds although light is silent, and smells of cooking dinner or coffee although light is empty, in a radiant almost tangible powder. Sitting outside of a lit window, with its light falling upon you, is nearly as calming as being on an old chair surrounded by plants reading, or at the small kitchen table next to the window eating pasta in shirtsleeves. The street level was active as well. The sole employee of the Clinton showed up to unlock the theater, young families pulling kids in wagons waddled by, cyclists with fancy skintight suits popped into K&F for a chai, and we felt the cool night air.

I only vaguely remember the inside of the coffeeshop, but I don’t think it matters. The location and the night sketch it for me in such a romantic light as we sat in silence, and walked back across the river hurriedly after the film, haunted by shadows and zombii, that the shop has become an artifact of the memory that serves no real purpose outside of that isolated tableau.

what a simple yet evocative name. if a comma were added it could serve as a list of the essential components of civilised existence. we made a long trek to coffee cat from the hawthorne district, strolling through neighbourhoods until the heat grew unbearable. then when it became clear that it would be another 2 miles we collapsed in a bus shelter to wait for the trimet bus. the bus arrived. i climbed up the steps and felt freezing air blow across my soaking skin. i nearly fainted. why were we voyaging through this heat into the suburban hinterlands of portland to drink coffee? because coffee cat was a cool low-lit little corner, with a cat astride an armchair often squinting to awakedness to sniff your chai and lick the air; worn rugs over wood floors lay haphazardly, sometimes overlapping one another and coffered wood ceilings set low were illuminated by sconce torchieres. there was no heat outside, in fact there was no outside, this was a sanctum, a library of leatheroleum bound volumes, an arabian tent lavished with pillows, catacombs seen through the thick smoke of a swinging censer, and of course, a large adult cat, preferably half-asleep… thats why.

… but, the bus stopped at an intersection on woodstock diagonally across from coffee cat. i was jerked out my reverie by the heat cascading into the opened door and by the full height glass strip mall frontage wherein lay coffee cat. o’ what is in a name. it bespeaks not checked black&white ice cream shop vct floors, not rooms-to-go armchairs in storefront windows, not pop radio, not a patio on which a transient has apparently been drinking soda after soda for several hours, not a colour scheme of whites, pale blues, and other pales, and certainly not a sterile and hard space where a soft, sleepy cat could find no purchase. there was, in fact, no cat to be found. we had seen more cats walking through the neighbourhoods and would see more cozy atmosphere whilst sitting in front of the clinton waiting to watch night of the living dead and seeing dusk fall upon lit upstairs apartments. perhaps if the place had been named ‘cafe au lait’ or ‘coffee corner’ or ‘well-lit space’ the disjunction and deceit would not have clouded my perception of the cool drinks we purchased and the time we spent there. if it had been called those things though, i would not have traveled 1 hour to get there.

When freely associating, the name Stumptown reminded me of the devoted self-sacrificing tree in “The Giving Tree.” By name only, I expected this cafe to be a sort of dive, where old grizzly Portlanders would frequent in the mornings before continuing with the daily grind. I pictured ratty sofas, paint chipping off of second-hand tables and chairs. To my surprise, Stumptown was Hipster paradise. Inside, one might say that the atmosphere was sterile and antiseptic, despite being in a brick building. The cafe was sparsely decorated with IKEA-like furniture, and on the coffee tables lay a wide assortment of hipster mags (adbusters, dwell, wallpaper). The dichotomy between building and furniture did not feel interesting or unique, but egregious to the extent that it lacked any personality. The burnt sienna coffee mugs were perfectly coordinated with the light pine buffet, in which sat the usual coffee accompaniments. Everything about this place was coordinated–clientele, furniture, employees.

On a more positive note, the coffee was good and I discovered one of the most amazing pastries I’ve ever been privileged to eat called a gibassier. A gibassier is an orange-anise flavored doughnut type thing, covered in granulated sugar. It was delectable. There is also patio seating outside, but make sure the person before you has left–it is a fierce competition to get a table, and apparently some people think that an empty coffee cup is sufficient to stake a claim.

Overall, this is not a place that gives you the warm fuzzies on a hard winter’s night, or any other day for that matter. I was too distracted by watching other people watch other people. If you are like me and enjoy an eclectic mix of people and an inviting ambience, then this may not be the place for you. However, you may have a different set of criteria for which you judge coffee shops and may enjoy the atmosphere–to each his own.