I was talking to a woman at work about how I arrived in town. She’s a life long resident of Portland. I told her it took about a week for me to get an apartment, and how I stayed at a scuzzy hotel. She asked which one, and I told her I had stayed at the Motel 6 on Powell.
And she FREAKED OUT. She told me it’s the most dangerous hotel in the city. All the tweekers and drug dealers and criminals hang there. The place is on the news all the time.
Huh. I do remember there was a dedicated parking spot just for the police.
I mean, it quite obviously WAS very scary. Plus I had my nice shiny car with Hawaii plates, filled to the roof with boxes and worldly possessions. I slept lightly every night, waiting for some creep to pound on the door. And I worried through the night that I was going to hear shattering glass and my car alarm. But nothing happened. I survived.
This woman looked at me and marveled. She said it was a miracle that I wasn’t assaulted. Another woman who was listening to this conversation nodded in agreement.
So in a roundabout way, it makes me kind of bad ass, doesn’t it?