Unless you love to eat, drink, read and hike, Portland really isn’t a town for tourist. The touristy attractions are limited to handful of beautiful gardens, OMSI, the Tram (?), and Powell’s. Brewery and distillery tours we can do. Long hikes in the Gorge, no problem. But we have (thankfully) no Fisherman’s Wharf, no Pike’s Place or Space Needle and no Disneyland. We have gorgeous bridges to gape at, dense forests to get lost in, micro breweries, and restaurants like no other town can boast of. And we have ghosts.
Portland has a seedy underbelly of a history, with Shanghai tunnels hidden below city streets and bars, and hundred-year old buildings where spirits wander the halls, move things around, and generally go about their business along side the living. I’m sure many of you don’t believe in ghost, and that’s OK. No one will judge you. I, for one, do. I’ve had my experiences, but mostly it comes down to that feeling in my gut. A sense that I’m not alone and feel a definite vibe or presence when entering a room. A feeling I had yesterday when wandering the rooms and halls of the historic Pittock Mansion with Adam’s family.
I’ve lived in Portland for five years and this is the first time I’ve stepped foot through her doors. The rooms were beautifully decorated for Christmas and there were lots of people milling about and exploring. This house is simply beautiful. Built between 1914 and 1919, Henry Pittock was a pioneer who sought his fortune in Oregon where he met is wife Georgiana. Read more of their history here.
Yesterday I was drawn to the details of the family and their home. Their photographs and paintings. These may give you a tiny glimpse into their worlds, but I intend to go back (I’m a bit obsessed with it now) when there are fewer people there and when the house has shed its Christmas wrap.
Hopefully the ghosts will welcome me yet again.