All summer in a day and other short stories

Greetings from fast-changing Portland. On your right, note the dozens of breweries and distilleries, none of which existed until the other day. On your left, take care not to provoke the bicyclists, who may control everything by the day after tomorrow. If you’d like to feed them, locavore treats and artisan coffee only, please.

And now to today’s postcard picture, just ahead among the hippies and hipsters of the Eastside’s Hawthorne neighbourhood: the Bagdad Theatre & Pub, built in 1927.

The Bagdad is not just a long-time landmark on the less-shiny side of town; it’s also proof of the powers of historic preservation, neon and beer (not necessarily in that order). In a city in love with making things and recycling them, it’s an old postcard with a fresh message scrawled on the back. 

“Bagdad”, by the way, was a common spelling in the ’20s. And somehow, the missing “H” contributes to the whole electrified-ersatz-Islamic-hallucination effect of the theatre’s exterior. But inside, the Bagdad is about movies, beer, burgers and pizza. You can eat a meal and drink beer in the theatre, a concept that’s novel in Los Angeles but old hat here.

This month’s schedule, typically eclectic, includes screenings of “The Great Gatsby” (2013) and “Repo Man” (1984), a panel discussion on Portland in the ’60s and a documentary on elk hunting.

You can also sit at one of the pub’s sidewalk tables, round the corner to shoot pool in the Back Stage Bar or have a smoke at the cigar bar Greater Trumps. All fall within the Bagdad’s domain.

And within a few blocks, you can shop for books at Powell’s, check out old vinyl at Jackpot Records, wolf down breakfast treats from the Waffle Window at dinner time or order at the counter of the merrily chaotic ¿Por Que No? Taqueria.

Do not, however, try to sleep at the Sapphire Hotel near 50th Avenue. Maybe it once was a seedy flophouse favoured by sailors and hookers, but it’s now an elegantly dim restaurant and bar featuring $9 cocktails that threaten to become novellas.

But let’s get back to the 3700 block of Hawthorne, where the Bagdad marquee gleams red and green at dusk and an old vaudeville curtain hangs above the bottles in the Back Stage Bar.

When the theatre went up, America was still abuzz over the discovery of King Tut’s tomb in Egypt, and designers were entranced by all things Arabian. Accordingly, the Bagdad featured a grab bag of Arabian, Moorish and Mediterranean flourishes, including usherettes in harem garb. For the opening, somebody brought a live camel.

But the Great Depression was brewing, “talkies” were coming and silent-movie palaces were about to go out of style. Over the decades, Bagdad owners and managers zigged and zagged, first booking vaudeville acts, later sectioning space off to make a duplex, then a triplex.

And then in 1991, brothers and pub moguls Mike and Brian McMenamin bought and renovated the theatre, returning it to a single-screen configuration. The key innovation was the view ’n’ brew angle.

The history-loving, hippie-friendly McMenamin empire has grown to more than 50 pubs, breweries and hotels in Oregon and Washington. With the many McMenamin successes has come occasional local sniping about bland fare and seemingly stoned staffers.

It’s true that the Bagdad’s barbecue chicken pizza wasn’t my favourite meal in Portland, but it had a nice smoky taste, and the Terminator Stout was on the money. Our waitress was not only sober and pleasant but also miffed by the number of able-bodied young beggars on the boulevard.

Now a change is coming. In late September or early October, the Bagdad will close for one to two weeks for installation of new seats, digital projection and sound systems, a new screen and perhaps a tweak to the menu. The new Bagdad, Flesher said, will focus more on first-run movies.

I’m reserving judgement and clinging to the best moment of this trip, which the Bagdad helped make possible.

It was night. I was standing across the street from the theatre at Powell’s. Tyson Birnbaum, the bookshop’s assistant manager, was at the counter, about to compare his Portland experience to a Ray Bradbury short story, “All Summer in a Day”, about a planet that gets two hours of sunshine every seven years. Just outside the window, a sidewalk fiddle player launched into an improvisation for an aspiring young author who wore a black mask and wielded a VW hubcap shield.

Naturally, Boster stepped up to photograph them. For a moment, the three of them were joined in a circle dance of creation, affectation and documentation, all backlit by those red and green Bagdad lights.

“Now,” I thought. “Now, I’m in Portland”.