Berries, Babe.

It took me one full year and ten months to realize that my alley is a copious farmland. I’ve always enjoyed watching the squirrels chitter and skitter about the fence and yard surrounding my house. But I never realized that there is a definite explanation for their glee.

A few weekends ago I was shut down by my roommate Mitch.

“Wanna go berry picking today?” I asked him, with the biggest puppy eyes and front-teeth baring grin I could muster.

“Mmmmm…..” he said, stroking his faintly stubbled chin, closing his eyelids over his pale blue eyes contemplatively. “No.”

I was sad. It was early enough in the morning that my hair was still standing up all over the place and I was wearing running shorts and a T-shirt — perfect attire to sadly return to my bed and nap the day away. I wanted to go pick blueberries so I could make blueberry salads with goat cheese, and blueberry tarts and blueberry muffin oatmeal. But how depressing would it be to go to a U-pick farm without a gaggle of family or friends? There are a lot of things I don’t mind doing alone, but showing up at a farm and picking berries just for me to eat? That prospect just sounds too sad.

Instead of going back to nap immediately, I wandered barefoot across the alley — Orchard alley — behind my house. At the end of a thirty foot wall of blackberry bushes that I had also previously ignored because of the spiders that like to weave their homes on top of the juice pregnant fruits, I saw some suspicious looking little white berries. I squatted closer to see the bluer berries I thought I saw lurking underneath. I picked one, to make sure it wasn’t some scare-berry that was faking to be a blue berry. Nope — just a sweet, tart, perfectly burstable blueberry.

It’s unclear to me who owns the berry bushes. It could be the semi-sketchy neighbor directly across the alley, who works for the University of Oregon Maintenance crew and has several “caretakers” come and “visit” him once a week. It could be the often absent Japanese family that own the house next door. Or, they could be unclaimed vestiges of what this neighborhood used to be: a spread out, orchard-populated, dominantly white, connected community.

Without a full plan of what I was going to use the berries for, I found myself several feet deep in the  bush. Blackberry vines intertwined in the patch, so my legs were fashionably bloodied by a few sneaky thorns. My fingers turned purple. I filled a recycled yogurt container.

I want to die a little bit for every box of blueberries I’ve bought in the days since I’ve lived on Orchard Alley. First of all, the ones in my alley are free! Second, they taste better, even if mostly just because they’re warmed by the oppressive sun. Third, everything is always better when you put a little bit of your own labor or work or blood or thought into it before you consume it.

I could go to a U-pick farm and be embarrassed about being alone for a little bit, and then come home and stress out about the mass of berries and inevitable other produce I’d acquired. Or, I could do as the squirrels do. Go pick a handful of berries and shove them straight into my mouth, and then get on with the day. I don’t have the time to deal with a bunch of berries right now! And I don’t have a family, or a bunch of carefree friends and time!

I love my alley. I know it’s okay with having me here, too, because it patiently waits for me to keep discovering what it has to offer. As an outsider to Oregon, perhaps I am naively gleeful. But everybody should appreciate what’s free in your backyard, one handful at a time!

The back of my house on Orchard Alley

Besides blueberries, discoveries of this year include cherries, persimmons, domestic strawberries, three different types of plums, raspberries, at least 4 varieties of apples, mint, lemon-mint, apricots, and some anonymous neighbor’s tomato bush in the middle of the traffic blocker in the middle of Orchard Alley. And that’s just what’s edible!

Sharkey’s Pub Will Make You Feel OK, I guarantee it.

 

            “I’m just gonna warn you,” the bartender says as I plop down on a comfy, padded-backed black stool.

Oh god, I think. She knows. I don’t belong here.

            “There is a couple sitting here. You don’t have to move right now or anything… they’re smoking.”

            I smile and say I’ll see her on the other side of the bar. She stands in the middle of an island. The bar wraps around a wide area, where cash registers, hard alcohol, pint glasses, TV’s lottery tickets, and a Jagermeister shot machine lay on various tables and cabinets. I walk over to face the seat I almost stole from the invisible couple.

            “Alright, what can I get you?” the bartender asks. Her long, blonde hair has a few artificial curls left at the ends, and she wears a black pinstriped dress accented with pink roses.

            “I need a second,” I say. My brain is still shaky from a seven hour shift running fancy food to semi-fancy people.

            “All right, I’m just gonna go flip a burger,” she says. She strides back to the kitchen and I can’t help but notice how tight her dress is. As she goes to flip the burger, I watch her arm jiggle slightly. Her white skin is tinged red, and she cooks without a smile. She returns, and I order a whiskey ginger, unadventurously.

            “Okay. I have seven up and bitters for ginger ale, is that okay?” she asks. I have to repeat the question to fully understand.

            “Yeah!” I say, somehow turning my shock into unabashed enthusiasm. It takes her less than sixty seconds to place the ice cold drink in front of me. It tastes like a whiskey ginger, if I wasn’t thinking about how the ingredients have nothing to do with ginger.

            Outside, Sharkey’s pub advertises that they have the “Best burger in Lane County”. They are hidden in a small strip mall deep in Springfield, OR. On the mall’s directory sign underneath Payday Loans, theirs reads (picture of shark) SPORTS BAR.

            “I was planning on double fisting all night,” says a bald, heavily tattoed man who’s just sat down a few seats next to me. Another mustached man in a grey T-shirt has just ordered a pitcher, and is trying to decide between Pabst, Coors Light, and Bud Light.

            “Well, I brought you a pie,” the bartender says.

            “You know where I live,” the tattooed man says. “You can just drop me off on my porch.”

            The two men decide on Coors Light, the tattooed man on a bloody mary for the other fist. It’s hard to figure out what to pay attention to. Everything is medium-well lit, and three different TVs have sound going. Two people have come up to the bar in the last ten minutes with winning lottery numbers. The bartender has to count out their winnings in ones.

            Sharky’s is hardly tropical-themed except for the few sharks hanging from the ceiling and a few surf boards on the wall. They look like they came free in a promotional shipment from KONA brewing company. There’s a huge map of Hawaii framed on one wall, again emblazoned with the KONA logo. Dispersed between the corporate signs for breweries (Hop Valley to Corona Extra to PBR), are a few vestiges of somebody’s almost realized genuine sense of humor.

            “Free beer! Tomorrow” one sign reads. Another says “Show off your rod. FISH NAKED.” I would never pay attention to these signs if I weren’t trying to get the full experience of this bar. It reflects a philosophical sense that a bar is a place to be when you need one of the following: a place to relax after work, a place to drink your sorrows away, a place to bet on some small sense of hope you have in totally random chance, a place to see a girl that you know, a place to watch videos on your iPhone, a place to build a habit.

            At 11:47pm on a Wednesday August 6th, three people trickle away from the video lottery machines, leaving just two lonely players. One wears a white t-shirt and khaki pants that indicate his profession is something in construction, or something close to the dirt. The only others in the bar are the two with a ¾ full pitcher of Coors, and the bartender.

            “Lets play some John Mayer, like we did the day before,” says tattooed bald man.

            “Shut up,” the bartender says. It’s weird that she’s not drunk, and the guys drinking next to me seem to be able to drink consistently and still engage her in a conversation she seems fine to be involved in.

             A mere two minutes later, faster than I can keep up with, the tattooed man is talking about watching someone shoot himself in the head (a video, not real life). But, it’s someone from the bartender’s hometown, or at least something “close to home”. Suddenly, all sound is silent. It’s intimate time. The jams are about to be chosen from the juke box in the corner, and I have no idea what closing time is. I have never felt more accepted at a bar in my life.

            Jackie (I’ve learned the bartender’s name, now) definitely just snuck a Red Bull from the fridge, and chugged it in the back. I ask her for the WiFi password. It’s their phone number.

            “Can I get you anything else, before I step outside?” she asks.

            “Nope,” I say, with a smile. She’s going to go smoke outside and leave me with the lottery players unattended?

            This bar is too tight. I am so confused.

Sharkey’s pub is open every single fucking day until 2:30 AM. Show them some love – 4221 Main St. Springfield OR 97478.

De-Mystifying the Salsa Lady

            There’s something about summertime mornings in Eugene that makes me — morning curmudgeon and all — happy for no reason. On a regular Tuesday morning, I would grudgingly get out of bed, throw on running leggings and a sweater, and burn my tongue on the coffee from my travel mug as I clumsily pushed my way through the junk to sit down in my car. But on this Tuesday , I throw my covers off, eagerly egging goosebumps to pop out of my skin. The few cool minutes of the morning are refreshing and fleeting, and I eagerly shower, don a fully composed outfit, and plod outside to greet my worthy steed.

            A steed in Eugene Oregon is not a horse, but a bike. I cruise from my house near the University on my pink and purple “Hard Rock Specialized”, pedaling slow enough to breathe through my nose but fast enough to feel a breeze. A mere fifteen minutes, and I reach my destination, armed with my uncharacteristic good spirits. The Eugene Farmers market! A place I have been before, a place where I know people, a place where I know exactly what I want.

            Before heading to the farm stand with fresh purple garlic and pattypan squash, I finally plucked up the courage to go and ask the salsa lady why she puts her face on the label of all of her salsas.

            “I wanted to make sure everybody knew that it was made by a real Mexican lady,” she says, in perfect unaccented English. She’s wearing a baby pink top, adorned with small cloth roses. It reminds me of ads for authentic Spanish fiestas in New Mexico. Underneath, she wears cut-off jean shorts. She looks exactly like she does in the picture on all of the tubs of salsa in front of her: long brown hair, bright white teeth surrounded by big, red lips. Her eyebrows are neatly groomed and she is smiling. “Salsa Garcia” is what she calls her product line. Her full name is Patricia Garcia Rogers, and though she calls herself Mexican, she quickly and honestly notes that she’s actually from “Mexicali” — on the American side of the border.

            Garcia put out samples of salsa in small plastic cups as we talked. Eagerly, I picked up the salsa verde. In high school in New Mexico, there was a burrito and taco shop that my friends and I would go to after class got out. They had a fresh salsa bar, and I began a lifelong habit there of eating salsa straight. No chips, no taco, no tortilla. As Garcia’s Salsa Verde hit my tongue, I wondered where she bought chiles in a place so stereotypically non-diverse and generally spicy-averse as Oregon.

            “Oh, usually Cash and Carry,” she says, casually. “Because I make such big quantities, it’s really hard to go organic.” It’s funny that she brings up the organic issue without me even asking. She has obviously been asked about the sourcing of her products before.

            Salsa Garcia is smack in the middle of the market. To her left, a jewelry crafter waits patiently as a few people mingle and peer at her silver and glass bracelets and necklaces. To her right, a woman selling blueberries and nothing else deals with a line of customers, the ones in front quizzing her about the specific varietal of berry, harvesting procedure, and carrying containers. No line moves fast at this market. It’s a place to ask questions, to let your eyes wander, to run into people that you know.

            I spent $7.50 on a tub of Salsa Verde before proceeding to buy my veggies and explore the few places that offer samples multiple times. I fork over the cash, more than happily, because Garcia is honestly, calmly, and systematically trying to play for profit in the real capitalistic world. She’s selling her ethnicity, selling her small-town-ness, selling her beauty. But, she’s also selling some salsa that is particularly tasty when it’s accompanied with sautéed pattypan squash, fresh garlic, and farm-raised scrambled eggs. And because she’s situated in Eugene, where all of these things are available, it makes her product totally compatible. You have to be flexible in your moral standards somewhere, even in the so-called hippie haven of liberal Eugene.

The Black Forest, Downtown Eugene.

It looks like this place has been closed for at least a year. The windows outside are dark, and a man and woman were lingering outside when I approached. The man’s face is tanned, dirty, and his red shirt was almost brown.

“How you doin’?’ he asked, as I locked my bike to one of the ample bike racks in front of the bike store next door. I note his appearance and decide not to respond. Instead, I pull open the wood-covered door.

“You should describe this place as dank and musty,” Alec says, after I dutifully explain that I am here to write a travel blog about downtown Eugene. He has short blond hair, blue eyes, and a snarky, over-confident nasal voice. It seems like he screams “chemistry major” from every pore of his body, but I think that happened only after I found out what he was majoring in. He’s quiet until you ask him one question that he really thinks he can answer. (Topics vary from drugs to chemistry formulas, Israel to the Onion).

“I come here because of Sasha,” Thomas says. He sits in the stool to Alec’s right, and I take the one next to him. His black hair is in a messy bun, his gaze firmly fixed on the fish tank above the bar. Sasha is the big catfish — approximately one foot long — swimming lazily back and forth along with two other fish half her size, and a few smaller ones more along the normal fish-tank-fish size. The name “Mickey” is written in pink across the front of the tank, but none of the fish are actually named Mickey.

“Can I see you’re ID, hon?” the bartender asks, after Thomas finishes quizzing him about the fish’s livelihoods. As usual, I fumble with my wallet to pull out my ID. Someday, I’ll get a wallet with an ID sleeve that’s easier to maneuver. But as long as I’m living in Eugene, and going to bars like the Black Forest, the amount of shame I feel at wasting a bartender’s time is not motivation enough.

Some kind of 80s music is playing at a medium dull hum, just a little bit louder than some lady at the bar’s yells. I realize I first saw her outside the door — with the man who in split judgement mode I would call Sketchy. She wears a clean white blouse, and her hair looks like it was done in elegant curls a few days ago and then slept on. She is trying to sing along to the music, but her voice is painful to listen to. She is not in the same mental space as the rest of us. Alec, however, orders another shot. He’s headed her way.

“Mickey’s dead.” Alec says, suddenly passionate enough so that I hear his voice over the bar din. I’ve missed some conversation, because not many people are used to talking over someone else trying to put together a cohesive story while they hang out at a bar. Thomas and Alec had reverted to talking about the fish tank again. They have now concluded that Mickey’s name is on the fish tank because his body is there no longer. He hit the toilet bowl, and is for now memorialized at the Black Forest.

There are exactly 20 brightly lit screens that make the Black forest not so black. Keno machines enliven the black bar counter, video lottery screens brighten the hallway to the bathroom. The bathroom’s alcohol-intense pee smell drifts occasionally out into the rest of the dark bar, but never in a constant enough draft to be absolutely unpleasant. A band is beginning to set up, but Alec and Thomas say it is time to go.

“I only come here for the fish,” Thomas says. I wouldn’t believe him, but I know that he’s telling the truth because the Black Forest hardly ever even advertises the bands that they host in the Eugene Weekly. And the Eugene Weekly posts advertisements for “Yoga with Dave!” and “Overeaters Anonymous”. Bars like this are only good to come to if you need some serious introspection, some serious self-removal, or have some really weird friends.

 

The Black Forest is at 50 East 11th Avenue, Eugene, OR 97401.