Day 22: Back in Beaverton with Bees
I checked out of my Airbnb in Vancouver, WA and crossed the bridge back toward Portland. I wanted to stop in the Pearl District and find a dog-friendly spot for brunch. A few years ago, I’d been to this amazing farm-to-table restaurant with outdoor seating and incredible food, and I thought maybe I’d stumble upon it again. If not, I had a backup in Slabtown that I’d bookmarked.
I couldn’t find the place I had been to , but the the place I bookmarked was tucked near the railroad tracks, beneath a freeway overpass. It had the kind of charm that made you want to linger inside and soak up the decor, but with Max in tow, I was limited to the patio. I ordered at the counter just before the lunch rush, and when my food arrived, it was so good that within five minutes, bees started swarming me. Oregon apparently trades California’s flies for bees! I laughed it off and sipped on a strawberry lemonade—something I wouldn’t usually order, but it was so refreshing I may have been converted.
After lunch, Max needed a potty break, and I wandered the neighborhood searching for a trash can. All I found were locked private dumpsters until I came across a few guys unloading rugs in a warehouse. I asked if I could toss Max’s bag in their dumpster, and one of them kindly said yes, even thanking me for asking instead of sneaking it in—apparently that happens a lot. While he grabbed the keys, I chatted with his coworker for a few minutes. Those little, random conversations with strangers are some of my favorite parts of traveling.
The next couple of hours I spent meandering through Portland. I tried to find Rack Attack, where I had an order waiting for a hitch swing, but after twenty minutes of driving I arrived only to see a big sign: We moved. That was the end of that errand. I headed west toward Beaverton, stopping briefly at a park to test out a new gadget I’d picked up. It worked, but with a few glitches that meant a software update was needed. The day was heating up, so I decided to just check into my Airbnb.
The host had been gracious enough to offer early check-in, so I pulled in around 3 p.m. The tiny home was in a neighborhood called Sexton Mountain—technically Beaverton, though it felt a little tucked away. The space itself was charming, though it sat on a fairly busy road. I couldn’t help thinking how loud the cars might get at night.
I spent part of the afternoon on the phone with REI, trying to sort out why my orders kept getting canceled. The rep suspected it had to do with my home address conflicting with my pickup location, since I’d been bouncing around Oregon and Washington for the past three weeks. She kindly placed the order over the phone and even flagged it with their finance department to make sure it pushed through. Fingers crossed it finally works.
Dinner that evening was at a dog-friendly patio restaurant by a lake. Parking was a small adventure: I thought I’d been clever parking Ashley next to a van with sliding doors, but another car squeezed in beside me at the last second. The husband assured me, “We’re not going to hit your car,” but I still moved Ashley to a safer spot once they left. With that settled, I enjoyed a peaceful lakeside dinner, and of course, several bees had to join me within five minutes.
Back at the tiny home, I settled in with a hot shower and put on some Netflix. I found a show called Siren—half-watching, half-drifting—until I fell asleep.
