Pearl District pilgrimage: Has Portland turned too hip for a hometown girl?

As I tossed my overnight bag into my sister's back seat à la "Thelma and Louise," she eyed me suspiciously. I was giddy with freedom as only a mother with an overnight pass can be.

Carolyn and I were headed south to Portland, our hometown, nothing on our agenda but food; drink; and a requisite visit to Powell's, bastion of books. Our destination was the Pearl District, which has somehow morphed since the time of my youth from a smudge of derelict warehouses into a chic urban hot spot. Carolyn, chic and urban herself to my frayed and dated, reserved us a room at the Ace Hotel, kin to Seattle's Ace and as "now" as its name. We carried no guidebook, only a favorites list from Carolyn's friend's sister, a certifiable Portland foodie who frequents the Pearl.

Known for little more than the Blitz-Weinhard brewery and Powell's 20 years ago, this area and its then-cheap, spacious lofts began to attract artists in the 1980s. Investors leapt at the chance to buy up neglected square-footage. Art galleries, design stores, restaurants and bars multiplied. The district's moniker is attributed to local gallery owner Thomas Augustine, who likened the drab building exteriors to oysters, which belied the unexpected interior "pearls" of artistic inspiration.

It was clear from the moment we walked into the Ace that Portland had upped the ante on cool since I'd last visited. Entering the retro-sleek lobby off Stark Street (a convenient block south of the Pearl) is to stumble onto a style-section photo shoot. Mod intellectuals, defined by their tattoos, slumped over couches; several sported tiny dogs on hemp leashes. I live on Vashon Island, where dressing up involves a comb, lip balm and polar fleece.

Chic-to-chic

I fled to our "junior deluxe" room to rifle through my duffel in search of any clothing remotely happenin' (clearly, I was in trouble). The room was Zen-vogue, with a bed outfitted in organic cotton sateen sheets. Even the soap chips wrapped in waxed paper were more fashion-forward than me.

Donning my faded jean jacket (I know, I know), I followed Carolyn out into the Pearl, passing a few more tiny dogs — a curious ubiquity for which we developed the code name: TD!

We luckily happened upon Buffalo Exchange, a secondhand clothing store playing '80s music, where I hoped to eke out some salvation in fabric. Before I could embarrass her by singing along to another Eurythmics song, my sister forced me to exit — but not before making me buy a folky cowgirl shirt for which I'll be forever grateful. I snapped it on and felt my street cred jump a few notches.

Carolyn and I were content to aimlessly peruse the Pearl's eye-candy shops, dipping in and out of Sur La Table and Design Within Reach (some have to reach further than others). At happy hour, we stumbled upon The Vault, a martini bar with drink descriptions so verbose you need a double just to get through the thumb-thick menu. I asked our waitress to cut to the chase and ended up with a pineapple, habanero-infused concoction ("Mama's getting hot! Mama's going wild!" — I read this sassy epigraph a little too late). Mouth afire, I envied my sister's lemonade-like mix.

It was only 7 p.m., and our dinner reservation wasn't until 9:30, so I whiled away the time in the Ace's business center, where two Mac laptops hum 24-7. Flipping through Zines I didn't understand, I sneaked peeks at the elegant but edgy folk descending the stairs. I had to quell a chameleon urge to run out and buy a baby-doll dress or get a quick tattoo.

Snooze, booze, shoes

A few blocks east along the city's park blocks (TDs! and BDs!) sits the Park Kitchen, a tucked-away treasure with romantic lighting and sassy waiters. Carolyn and I were transported by their watermelon and yellow beet salad with guajillo chile dressing. The desserts looked equally titillating, but we'd filled up on too much "good olive oil with house-made crackers" (think pie crust).

Full and sleepy, we were content to turn in before anyone else in the entire hotel. But we might as well have gone out dancing, since neighboring Scandals Lounge seemed to pump bass directly into our dreams. Waking abruptly to "You spin me right round baby right round," I applied the high-thread-count pillowcase to my head and went back to sleep.

Early the next morning, properly caffeinated by Stumptown Coffee Roasters (latte with your TD?), adjacent to the Ace lobby, we made a beeline for Powell's to see who could keep from buying a book. (We didn't even make it past their first-floor sale racks.)

A few blocks away is the Everett Street Bistro, another of the friend's favorites. This little Montmartre-esque eatery (renowned for its European meats and exotic cheeses) sports a full bar for those who were dancing at Scandals the night before. The tables sit close together, encouraging patrons to eyeball others' food before ordering — or notice that your own breakfasts were accidentally delivered to your neighbors.

Languorously full of wild mushrooms and eggs, we made two more stops before checkout: a store called Cargo, with beguiling Eastern artifacts and furniture, and Imelda's Shoes, where boots were beckoning.

On our short visit, we barely cracked this oyster of intrigue, but the Pearl's shining possibilities make for a sure return trip. Next time I'll come packin' a henna tattoo and someone's tiny dog.

Oh, and my new shirt. Thanks, Carolyn.

Freelance writer Kathryn True of Vashon Island is a regular contributor to Northwest Weekend. Contact her through her Web site: www.kathryntrue.com