Welcome, Hoss, to the Too Much Information Tour. I, too, will be returning to Portland at some point during June/July. I'll be stopping by the grave of my belurved aunt, who won prizes for her poems about kinfolk murdered in the Holocaust, who taught me about prosody when I was but a mouthy centipede, and who happened to die on Thursday, May 26, 2005, at 8:45p.m. Since Jews don't believe in embalming fluid, her remains are rapidly decomposing in the Neveh Shalom Cemetery (the grounds of which, I'm told, are blissfully free of fangtards).
I'll also be visiting Oregon City, which is in certain ways the most disquieting town in America. Its cliffs, deserted stores, drunken municipal elevator attendants, misanthropic citizens (who often ask strangers, "what are you doing here?") and split-level personality have fascinated me for decades.
I might revisit the photo-ready Multnomah Falls for cathartic reasons. My father's behavior on the bridge above the Falls is responsible for my fear of heights. A sample of his Jacksonian dangle-tot patter: "Don't worry, son. You can sit right on the edge of the bridge and I'll hold you. No, you're not close enough. Get right to the edge. [Letting go momentarily] Oops! Saved you! Hahaha -- only kidding! [Letting go momentarily] Oops! Saved you again! Hahaha [repeat until kiddie vomit speckles the rocks below]!"
I also recall snagging tomes at an excellent independent book store in the Pearl District close to Powell's, though I can't conjure the name. (Was it called Oblation? If anyone else knows the answer, please prestidigitate.) Said store was reputedly the only place in the States to carry a certain hardcover of paintings by Trevor Brown.
I can also attesticle to the Columbia River's beauty, as I used to stay there in my father's boat house during the summer.
There used to be decent hiking trails amid vines, micro-wetlands, wooden footbridges, mossy underpasses and other oxygen-rich bio-scenery in Mary S. Young Park (in West Linn, near Lake Oswego); they might be there still (he said, stroking his gray frotee). I recall exploring same with a goggle-eyed 'lescent who later went insane and threatened his psychologist father with an axe.
You might want to visit OMNI and the Portland Art Museum; you might also wish to jaunt over Washington Park to squint at the synthetic roses that inspired the novel Geek Love, by Katherine Dunn. (You might also enjoy the park's Mozartean colonnades.)
My knowledge of Portland's bars and clubs is incredibly dated, since my last brief visit took place in 1998. Everyone here will direct you to the Rogue Ales Public House. Hoofever, I believe fervently and with salivating muzzle that the Horse Brass Pub caters to those who crave rare Oregonian beer-fare. (Rogue's Brutal Bitter was created for this pub.) I seem to recall liking the atmosphere and on-tap selection at the Rose and Raindrop (though that might not be the name). No, I haven't been to Lucky Labrador Brewing Company, but I've read good things about it and might make it one of many excuses to rediscover Hawthorne Street. (I've read that it's possible once again to sashay above the Willamette River in green leotards, which sounds inviting. When I last visited, construction prevented my rediscovering that splendid but dangerous pedestrian's diversion which all call the Hawthorne Bridge.)
What I miss most about Old Portland: the pre-ozone-shifted weather, which was overcast and far less sunny, and which seemed to cultivate mordant humor in seasonal depressives. Percentage-wheeze, I encountered more grim-witted foonts under Portland's gunmetal skies than in New York.
I'll know of posher spots after my return, o' course.
