The return train from Portland was on time and mostly took place in the dark. Internet was intermittent, but I had the NY Times Sunday crossword and Faulkner’s Light In August as detours.

At Chapter 6 I noticed Faulkner’s increased use of compound words, such as “cinderstrewnpacked,” “childtrembling” and “parchmentcolored.” There were more, many of them gender- (“womansinning,” “manshape”) and race- (“womanshenegro”) specific, but I will leave it at that.

Portland is a white city. I brought this up with Matthew and he said two things: first, that the KKK has had a long presence there; and second, that Portland was built on what many believe to be a site that is not recognized as the site of a former aboriginal settlement -- implication being that history begins with its settlers (unlike Seattle, which, prior to contact, was the site of a stratified Salish village). Something Matthew did not tell me, something I learned while hitch-hiking in the 1980s, was that Oregon was the last state in the union to encourage tourism.

Although I did not see all of Portland, I could not help but notice a number of bookstores and DIY publishing outlets in the downtown core (one of which was Matthew’s Publication Studio). I noticed also a lot of people in restaurants and cafes reading, which is usually the sign of an advanced interior life. Portland does not have a contemporary art museum, though it does have a Contemporary Craft Museum, the emphasis on “craft” over “art” being a deliberate one, I am sure.

After my last trip to Seattle I came away with a description of the city as a cross between Chicago and New Westminster. To apply a similar comparison to Portland, I would say that it is a cross between Brooklyn and Prince George -- if it were not so blindingly white.

Yesterday’s 6:40 a.m. train to Portland had me up at 5:00, drunk with fatigue. Seems the difference between 6.5 hours sleep and 7 is everything, though I think it was more like 6.

My last trip on Amtrak was to Seattle, in September, 2009, for Dimitri’s sentencing. What has changed since then, besides wireless internet, is the tone, with staff performing more self-consciously, as if their scripts were dramaturged by the ad agencies behind WestJet and Alaska Airlines. I laughed at their jokes until it started to feel like 5:00 a.m. again.

Around Bellingham it began to snow, and further south, evidence of past snows. A backyard ride through the United States had suddenly turned Zhivago, and I was starving. Amtrak makes a big deal out of their “green” campaign, yet the food in their “bistro” is straight out of the 1970s. A plastic wrapped cinnamon bun looked like an organ from an alien autopsy.

One of the hallmarks of fascism is the punctuality of its nations' trains, and I was relieved to arrive fifteen minutes late. The United States is more comforting as a Weimar Republic than what followed. At the same time, the “downturn,” like Portland's NO PUBLIC WASHROOM signs, are everywhere.

After checking-in I was met by Matthew Stadler, who took me to Andina, subtitled “Novo Peruvian Cuisine”. A pisco sour for me and a surf ‘n’ turf medley to share. Locally sourced Willapa oysters, octopus, and the ultimate turf – beef heart. (I can still feel the iron coursing through my veins.)

Matthew is the reason I am in Portland: to celebrate his new book, Chloe Jarren’s La Cucaracha, a novel that borrows its narrative structure from John le Carre’s A Murder of Quality (1962), and to talk further about his Publication Studio, which has invited me, along with a dozen other authors, to make books using material posted on Wikileaks. For those in the area, Matthew’s launch is at the Publication Studio storefront, 717 SW Akeny St., 6 p.m.