The farm is best in the late afternoon, with the sun angled low in the West, illuminating Mt. Hood’s snowcap to the East. Children dance through the rows of corn, tomato, and squash on a guided tour while their parents are elsewhere, occupied with a drink and a tamale. On the front lawn, a band plays through a Warren Zevon standard. The singer is gruff, but pleasant enough. The farm feels timeless and we’re fortunate to be here.
The ride home takes us through East Portland. The asphalt is cratered and moon-like. We slide past rows of unregistered RVs and vans, congregated illegally on the shoulder, derelict and lived-in. At the stoplight, a woman walks past the idling cars, a sign held to her chest: “ANYTHING HELPS GOD BLESS.” She’s missing teeth. I barely notice her. She’s just a part of the cityscape, an accepted feature of life here.
Portland, Oregon exists in a pretzel-like, seemingly unsustainable juxtaposition to itself. Golden hour moments of pastoral perfection, in the shadow of mountains, at the banks of rivers. Afternoons in coffee shops and art museums and concert halls. The best food in the world. Meth psychotics, stalking the pavement, screaming at the sky. Homeless camps that sprawl. Emergency responders too overworked to respond. The city offers both paragon examples of urban living and seeming proof that western civilization has failed—often within mere blocks of one another.
While paradoxical, the conditions on the ground aren’t mysterious, or arbitrary, or altogether externally-driven. The conditions are the logical end-result of explicit policy, a reflection of legislative and executive priorities. And no program is as emblematic of those choices as the Portland Clean Energy Community Benefits Fund, known as “PCEF.”
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