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I’ve been in Portland for three days, and already my cups-per-hour coffee intake is up to college levels: three cups between consciousness and nourishment, another two to brave the Outdoors, a shot of something hot and powerful to keep me going, after-lunch, before dinner, after dinner and a goodnight brew.

With this much UP, you’d think Portlanders all moved like hummingbirds or some bright-eyed gaggle of Mongeese; but no! Still the same sleepy town I left four years ago. Still the tight-jeans and faux leather shoes. Still the slicked back grease under a vintage fedora, the horned rimmed funk framing the handle-bar mustaches. Still the threadbare Carharts topped with authentic plaid, wrapped snuggly inside those god damned earth-toned down vests. (vintage, of course). I’m sure you can still find climbing shoes being quietly toted around by the black-haired hipster or ostensibly salt of the earth types (that’s how salty earth types dress, isn’t it?) whipping out the iPhone or Blackberry or perhaps they’re new and can still be caught – gasp! – driving.

If you’ve never lived here, you might think I was complaining.

For a city that prides itself on maintaining the bleeding edge of progressive hip, refreshingly little has changed. I’ve spent the past two days walking, sipping, and writing emails to absolutely everyone in all of the nearby zip codes who may want to give living with me a shot.