Stage two: The "I love Portland!" phase
Where you’re living: An endless chain of month-long sublets throughout the Inner Eastside
Where you’re going out: Between Division, NE 28th, Belmont, and the occasional slog up to Alberta, there’s no shortage of highly crawlable bar districts within a short bike ride of your house... unless it’s a Sunday night, in which case a Sunday Session at Rontoms is the premiere event for rubbing elbows with fellow transplants and what’s left of the neighborhood's klatch of OG indie rockers.
Your mantra: "YOLO," with no trace of irony whatsoever, because your life is that magical.
Go-to activity: Ditching plans to find a job and a permanent abode in favor of boozy bike rides and day trips to Mount Hood and Sauvie Island.
Congratulations! You’ve completed the Oregon Trail, and have the bumper sticker to prove it! Your dreams of living in a purple bungalow in a bikable neighborhood have finally come true. You’ve befriended the barista at the coffee shop you walk to at the crack of noon every day; the bartender at the trendy spot with the neon "BAR" sign remembers your drink order (whatever’s on tap from Double Mountain or Ninkasi); and you’ve staked out a handful of brunch spots that don’t have oppressively long lines. The halcyon days of Portland Summer are limited -- why fritter them away creating a tenable future for yourself by looking for a job and a real place to live when you’re having so much fun and making so many new friends RIGHT NOW?
Stage three: The reality phase
Where you’re living: In a basement somewhere in NE that you’re told is "Alberta-ish," but is actually Cully
Where you’re going out: Mad Hanna, Spare Room; anywhere with cheap happy-hour food
Your mantra: "Are you hiring?"
Go-to activity: Bouncing from one terrible food service job to the next; scouring the "free" section of Craigslist for furniture that isn’t covered in MRSA
After spending a few months flying high on IPA, legal weed, and #campvibes from your cool new Poler duds, you come to the sad realization that what goes up must come down. All those days of getting tan by the river and slacklining at Colonel Summers instead of working have left you flat broke, so you log on to Poached and take the first soul-crushing dishwashing gig at a popular brunch spot that’s run by a tyrannical wannabe rockstar chef with a cocaine problem you can find.
You leap at the chance to live with a couple of the line cooks when a room in their crumbling flophouse opens up, but things get weird after you rage-quit halfway through yet another nightmarish Sunday morning shift. All is forgiven when you end up finding one of them a slightly better gig at your next shitty-yet-well-paying restaurant job, which becomes a vortex you realize 90% of your friends and acquaintances are forever stuck in. This is not the Portland lifestyle you were sold on, but you convince yourself (for what’s likely to be the first of a million times) that it’s still better than living back in Nowheresville.