Watching Over The City

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The clear, ice blue sky set an elevated mood for the day. Rays of bright sun floated down, gracefully illuminating even the most unsavory aspects of downtown Portland. Driving down the congested city streets I began my adventure to a part of my city still unfamiliar to me, but an essential part of its history; Pittock Mansion. Seeped in nostalgia and a true showcase of the city’s growth, I was surprised that I had yet to explore it. Slowly letting the sun beat down through my unwashed sunroof, soothingly warming the top of my head, I started to emerge from the part of Portland that I truly called home. Traffic dispersed, the buildings lining the sides of the road began to turn into grand trees, the rays of sun scattered through the branches, as I turned onto Pittock Drive. The dust kicked up, momentarily creating small tan clouds that seemed to freeze in the sun and hang around my already dirty white car. As I turned into the parking lot, the mansion itself was quickly overshadowed by the crowds of people milling around, traveling in large groups, completely unaware of their surroundings.

Cars stopped and started trying to avoid these gaggles of tourists, as well as each other. After finding the last space in the lot, I prepared for the main attraction. I made my way through the congestion of the lot and onto the grounds, and the beauty of the place finally hit me. The massive building appeared delicate but powerful against the back drop of the perfect blue sky. Immense windows glistened, and the flutter and chirps of birds filled the clean air. It truly looked like spring, lush deep green grass surrounded the light grey pathway, the pink of the dogwood highlighted the great trees secluding the building from the rest of the world, and small yellow flower buds had begun to emerge from the well-kept flower beds.

I sauntered up the walkway to the large oak door, grabbed the smooth, cold, brass handle and stepped inside. Once inside I entered a small, well-lit foyer with a cash register, and quickly paid the clearly labeled volunteer manning the station. I then walked through a small archway and blended into the crowd just beginning the tour. A new kind of dust lightly entered my lungs; unlike the dust thrown angrily into the air by my tires earlier, this dust seemed as old as the house, the kind of musky dust that will always be there. Once out of the foyer, the grandeur returned to the building, opening up into a magnificent marble floored staircase, with a three story high wall of tastefully paneled windows adorning the back side of the house. The tour guide quickly gave a little background information on the house, her voice matching her tiny frame. She softly described that the house was set up as a period style house, each room reflecting a different design period, and then quickly shuffled us away from the staircase and down a hallway leading to the library. The library smelled wonderfully of old books, like walking into Powell’s on a sunny afternoon, but was much smaller than I had expected. Dark wood bookshelves covered the walls, and surrounded a welcoming fire place. Even with the sun shining through the one large window, the room still appeared dark. Through the muffled “oohs” and “ahhs” of the other tour goers, and the cries of children too young to appreciate the excursion, I heard the guide quietly urge us onward to the next room.

The music room was almost blindingly bright in comparison to the library. Half the room was crystal clear windows looking out onto a low, cement patio area, and onto more of the perfectly groomed grass. Picnickers could be clearly seen setting up spots to enjoy lunch in the sun. The room itself was entirely French. Fancy and sophisticated, complete with a harp, and an exceptional Steinway Grand Piano, it was easy to imagine the music that would have spilled from the curved walls of that room, and into the rest of the house. It seemed almost wrong to fill it with the modern chatter of curious tourists. We continued to tour through the rest of the main level of the house, each room allowing me to picture what it would have been like to live there, seeing it full of the people that it was built for.

The examination of the main level lead us back to the amazing staircase, as we stood in awe waiting for our guide’s next set of instructions. After being directed to the second floor, the clacking of shoes began up the marble, as the more fragile group members waited for the old elevator. Even through the stamping of ten pairs of shoes moving quickly up the staircase, you could hear the moaning of the old elevator, working to transport the rest of our group up to the next stage. Finally, with much effort, the elevator door opened, and we were on our way through the rest of the house once again. Our guide, voice cracking with the creaking of the building, took us through the bedrooms, quickly explaining who used to reside between the walls.

The tour ended with a quick walk through the bottom floor. A large empty room, with a sign explaining its availability to be rented for social functions, suddenly reminds me that it is no longer someone’s home. The grand room, that once was the focal point for social gatherings, now holds historical facts behind plexiglass partitions, and local children’s sloppy coloring book pages, further solidifying the fact that it is now just a museum. The bottom floor, which mirrors the floor plan of the main floor above it, echoes with the voices of the unfamiliar tourists, and groans under the weight of our heavy feet. The mansion seems to exist with a hint of beautiful tragedy, and regal sadness.

After the tour I walked back out into the clean fresh air to explore the grounds, and see the mansion the way it was intended to be seen, from the front. The front of the building truly showcases its greatness and looks out over the city, the city that was truly built around it, the city that feels like it was built for it.