Donut City

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I’m not hungry. I will not have a donut. I do not need a donut. I had a large breakfast (mostly pizza and beef jerky) and I am a reasonable person. I do not need a donut.

We step out of the car in front of Voodoo Doughnuts and the smell wafts over me. OK. Maybe a bite of a donut. Half a donut?

Dammit.

I give in, but I at least show some restraint in my choice of a Mcminnville Cream, a standard sized cream donut with maple glaze. It must’ve taken an entire pound of sugar to make, but at least vaguely resembles a standard breakfast item. My girlfriend goes all out and orders the signature Voodoo Doughnut, a Gumby-shaped figure that appears to vomit multicolored frosting as it is impaled by a pretzel stick, causing a gooey red jelly to ooze out.

It’s magical (as promised on the sign), but it’s too much. We need to wash the sugar out of our mouths, and what better way to do it than with beer? We make our way to a local brewpub and order beer flights. In total, I taste nine different beers and ciders in the span of minutes, an idea that seemed fantastic at the time, but doesn’t agree with the donut and pizza already churning around inside me.

So just as you put out a fire with water, you put out donuts with french fries right? Poutine is ordered, and like so much of this day is terrible in retrospect.

We stumble out and wander the streets, trying not to let the locals think we’re the drunken, gluttonous Floridians we really are. It’s hard, but aside from ogling the pretty autumn trees and the signs advocating public transit, we manage pretty well and actually start to feel good.

I get a recommendation to visit Coava Coffee, so we head over the river to find it. It feels less like a Starbucks and more like a shrine to craftsmanship. It’s warm, quiet, and the coffee is phenomenal. In the waning hours of our vacation, it feels like the perfect ending.

Thanks for the fun time, Portland. I hope you stay weird.

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