The restroom at Powell’s City of Books is not the dirtiest public facility I have encountered.
Actually, given the volume of foot traffic trouncing about the labyrinthine literary vault, the bathroom at Powell’s is relatively clean. At least it was when I visited the lavatory circa 2012.
It all started across the street at Stumptown Coffee.
My soon-to-be wife and I had made the trek from the San Francisco Bay Area up to Portland. We sought to relocate to Oregon and were on a long weekend scouting expedition. Any visit to the City of Roses would be incomplete without a stop at Powell’s, which bills itself as “the largest used and new bookstore in the world, occupying an entire city block and housing approximately one million books.”
We exited our hotel on a sunny spring morning and sojourned downtown to satiate our bookish thirst. Upon arrival we spotted a coffee shop across the street from Powell’s. At the time, Stumptown Coffee was not a member of my caffeinated vocabulary, but it became a fond fixture in the coming years. We both ordered a cup of pour over. Whoa—this was good stuff! The brew was rich and complex, while at the same time bright and flavorful. And, best of all, it was strong. No bitter brown water or tea-inspired java, this was a cup of joe to get you moving!
Thus, about 15 minutes later, I reluctantly unfastened the door to the Powell’s water closet and was pleasantly startled by its sparkling interior. Maybe the scene appeared different around sunset, but at that early morning hour taking a seat on the throne in Powell’s was far from a vile experience. I have known the filthy confines of Starbucks washrooms near Seattle’s Pike Place Market, replete with indigo mood lighting to prevent vein hunters from injecting their drug of choice. I have endured myriad gas stations and rest stops along the interstate. I have hurriedly slid my t-shirt above my nose upon entering fusty pit latrines at campgrounds and state parks. I have braved portable privies on the Sunday afternoon of a weekend music festival. Compared to all of these, Powell’s offered an ivory marbled Taj Mahal emitting a perfume of bleached tiles and cheap paper towels—a proper resting place.
And the books; yes, the books. Powell’s is truly impressive. A rainy day, a mug of dark roast, and hours wandering Powell’s is bona fide Pacific Northwest porn. Floor after floor, color-coded room after color-coded room, shelf after shelf. For lovers of novels, biographies, historical monographs, signed first editions, obscure periodicals, and various literary ephemera, 1005 West Burnside Street is the place to be. Over the course of a couple of hours we each selected an armful of used paperbacks and departed the emporium eager to delve into the sundry new worlds awaiting us inside our weighted tote bags.
We eventually moved to Oregon in 2013 and day trips to Portland and Powell’s became a regular affair. Unfortunately, I recently read that Powell’s has had a rough time during the pandemic, which makes sense given the importance of in-person browsing to the store’s appeal. In the weeks and months to come, I sincerely hope the City of Books gets back on its feet and continues to provide its visitors with the ultimate transcendent bookstore adventure. Indeed, some hot French roast and a hunt for the few Paul Theroux tomes I have yet to crack open is likely in my immediate future—I just pray the restrooms will still be fresh and tidy.