Portlandia: The Sequel

It's taken me a few years, but thanks to Jet Blue and Even More Space™, I finally made my way back to Portland.

It's one of the cities I happen to have big love for. Quirky, unexpected, innovative, creative and unbelievably great coffee everywhere you turn.

I'm staying at the Benson, which is where I stayed last time—although for a very different reason.

What I've learned so far this trip is that, in the same way people who live in San Francisco hate when tourists call it "Frisco", people in Portland aren't crazy about it being called Portlandia. Even though they love the show. Also like San Francisco and New York, they J-walk all over the place, but they feel a tiny bit bad about it.

And coffee everywhere. Did I mention that?

When I got in this afternoon, it was 37 degrees and light snow. Having been born and raised in L.A., my wardrobe is lacking when it comes to winter weather. It's also lacking in anything stylish. And clothes that fit.

Shut up.

So the first thing was to head to Nordstrom, where they carry all sorts of winter coats you can't find in Southern California. I picked up a snappy one (yes it fit), so now the cold isn't so challenging.

Which brings me to this post. It's the one I put up about my last trip here, and since I'm here again it seemed like a good time to revisit it.

It's impossible to be in this city without thinking about my late, great friend Paul Decker. When he passed away, they broke the mold. A brilliant writer, an extraordinary human being and an irreplaceable friend, I know without a doubt you would've loved Paul. Not a day goes by I don't think about him.

There's a link below to a post that goes into more detail about Paul. It'll give you much more of a sense of the kind of remarkable person he was. I think you'll like it.

In the meantime, please to enjoy this repeat post about my last trip to Portland.

I haven't been to Portland in a long time. Somewhere around nine years. And I miss it.

The last time I was there, I lived for three weeks at the Hotel Lucia downtown while I was shooting a commercial for an agency called Perceive that no longer exists (it barely existed when it did). Because we were also editing up there, I had plenty of time to explore the city. If you've ever been there, you already know it's a good walking town.

Alan Otto, my friend (currently) and creative director (at the time) would meet in the lobby every morning. Then we'd pick a direction and start walking for as long as we could before we had to be at the shoot or the edit. One morning we walked to the 97-year old Portland Luggage Company where I picked up a mid-size Boyt suitcase to complete my set and had it shipped home.

I love luggage stores. Whole other post.

Another great thing is that all of Oregon is a Powerball state. And for someone like me who's inclined to play the lottery since I won $5,000 in it once (yes I did), it was fun to play in a multi-state draw where we're talking real retirement money.

By the way, the hotel you see here isn't the Lucia. It's the Benson, just a block and a half up the street. It's one of the grand old hotels you run into, a 100-years old - the one where presidents, foreign dignitaries and celebrities stay when they come to town. In fact when we were shooting up there, at three in the morning Nic Cage was playing piano and singing to Lisa Marie Presley in the lobby.

Anyway, I imagine it'll be somewhat of a let down for them, but the Benson is where I'll be staying when I return to Portland in May. I'm looking forward to it because it's Portland, but also because the reason I'm going is for a gathering to celebrate my dear friend Paul Decker's life.

The good news is I already know what suitcase I'm taking with me.

Snow balls

I'm going to cop to a little bait-and-switch on this particular post. It's not about snow balls. Well, it is - just not the kind pictured here.

I'll try to be delicate.

I'm lucky enough to have a nice Japanese luxury car. It has many features designed to make the driver, and the ride, as comfortable as possible. One of those features happens to be perforated leather seats, which come that way from the factory - although with a dog and kids, they'd eventually wind up that way anyway.

The seats are perforated because they're both heated and cooled, depending on which makes you more comfortable on a hot or cold day. I've used the seat heater many times. Since I've owned the car, I've never used the seat cooler. Until today.

Now, I'm not the only one who drives my car. My wife drives it, and so does my son. Both of them have a habit of leaving the seat heater on when I get the car back.

Today, I was driving up to Marmalade Cafe to meet my good friend Carrie for lunch. As I was flying up the 405, riding on rails and listening to Tony Bennett singing For Once In My Life, it suddenly dawned on me that, how shall I put this, the jewels were a little chilly.

Not knowing the seat cooler had been left on high, and never having used it, I wasn't familiar with the sensation. And frankly, it wasn't my first thought.

My first thought was that something was terribly wrong with the boys.

After a quick investigation - which must've been very entertaining for the cars next to me - I finally figured out the seat cooler had been left on.

Oddly enough, once I knew nothing was wrong, it just felt right.

Uncle Pete

I didn't get to choose my first family. But I did get to choose my second.

And Pete Caubisens, who passed away a few days ago, was a huge part of it.

Many years ago my pal Richard introduced me to a friend of his named Rémi Aubuchon. I knew fairly quickly this Rémi character was going to fast become a new best friend. What I didn't know was how important Remi's family would become in my life. In some ways, with absolutely no disrespect to my own beautiful parents who had their hands more than full with me, Rémi's would often be my family of choice.

Living first in Brentwood then in Santa Monica when we met, I'd always look forward to driving (willing) my orange Super Beetle over the hill to the valley, then up the hill to Remi's house in Woodland Hills. It was always a welcoming, safe place, giving me many things I couldn't get in my own home.

Family, in the bigger sense of the word, was one of them.

Rémi's father Jacques was an accomplished actor. I was a theater arts major. Jacques didn't like flying. At the time I had a huge fear of flying. We'd sit for hours, talking about acting and how flight was still just a theory.

While we're here, one more thing about my major.

My parents were older when they had me, and like many parents of their era they had some old school thinking on what was a real job and what wasn't. Let's just say there wasn't a lot of love in my house for being a theater arts major (they were Jewish - doctor and lawyer were genetically programmed to be at the top of their list).

Where was I? Okay. Rémi's mom Denise, who looks like Ellen Burstyn, was an artistic, warm and welcoming presence. In my eyes she was always accepting and non-judgemental. It was like a breath of fresh air (perhaps I've revealed too much).

I was also close to his sister Danielle (the birthday girl in the picture above), and while his brother Philippe always marched to his own drummer, I constantly enjoyed his company and humor, and always loved hearing his take on things.

It was just good being around them. It felt like what a home should feel like.

Because of how I felt about Rémi's family, and the way I felt about my own at the time, for many years I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas at his house.

On one of those holidays early on, Denise's brother Pete was out from New York. Pete was an attorney for the airlines, so naturally with my fears I had all sorts of questions for him. I'd never met someone who knew so much about wind shear and bird ingestion (not the Thanksgiving kind, the jet engine kind).

Pete and I hit it off right from the get-go. He had a gentle brilliance and a sharp wit about him. He was funny as hell. He was worldly and sophisticated. He had a smile that lit up a room. And a laugh that let you know how much he was enjoying life.

He was New York cool.

I know what you're thinking: that he was also somewhat of a father figure to me. Is it that obvious?

The conversation turned to New York. Pete said I was welcome to stay at his place on the upper east side anytime I wanted. So I took him up on it. I was there about a week, using his place as my base camp.

I remember meeting him for lunch one day. He took me to my first real French restaurant. Escargot, rude waiters, the whole neuf yards. It was awesome.

Afterwards, as we were walking down 5th Avenue, it started to snow. It was the first time in my life I'd ever seen falling snow. It was magical. It's a feeling I'll always associate with Pete.

Time marches on and everyone's life gets busier. And while I talked to Pete less and less over the years, ironically I thought about him more and more.

When Rémi (here with the coolest uncle ever) let me know Pete was gone, he said one of the reasons he wanted me to know was because he knew how much I enjoyed him and his company.

But I don't think he really did. In fact, I don't think I did until I heard he'd died.

I don't know many things for sure, but I do know that Rémi's family, New York and my life are all better for Pete having been a part of them.

The other thing I know is, as of last week, heaven is a much more welcoming place.