Portland Rose Festival

Portland Rose Festival

A couple of years ago I spent a year in the beautiful state of Oregon
on the west coast of America. I went on the pretext of studying for a
year at Oregon State University, but I was really there to experience
America. Live life the American Way for a while. And there is nothing
more American than a parade. Portland is known as the City of Roses,
I'm not entirely sure why, maybe I should've found out. Every year in
June Portland holds the Rose Festival. Two friends from university, Dan
and Matt, and I went to Portland for the day of the Grand Floral
Parade. It's a celebration of Portland's past and present, all florally
depicted as the title suggests. We arrived terrifically early to get a
good spot along the parade route. The day started out sunny and
clement, it being June in the Pacific Northwest. But, as it tends to on
all parade days everywhere in the world regardless of location or date,
it started to rain heavily. My ever faithful Fodor's guide to Oregon
told me that the parade is second in size only to the Tournament of
Roses Parade in Pasadena, California. Portland's parade is spectacular,
the floats are decked out with floral sculptures and are, as everything
else is in America, much larger than life. The marching bands of
Portland's many high schools were spirited and surprisingly good. I've
always thought of high school bands as being bad, but maybe I watch too
much television. The bands were followed by very wet, but still smiling
and energetic, cheerleaders and baton twirlers. Horses trudged along
bearing men in period costumes from America's past wars, who waved
happily to the assembled crowds despite the downpour. Portland's
policeman, paramedics, postmen and any other public service you care to
name were honoured and at intervals men riding little motorised
vehicles and dressed up, usually as clowns, puttered by picking up
horse poop. Only in America could that job be made into entertainment.
America, or at least Portland, outdoes itself where parades are
concerned. Now, I love a British parade; Trooping of the Colour,
Changing of the Guard, all that. There's nothing in the world that
brings tears to my eyes and swells my patriotic heart like the military
brass bands marching by blasting out a stirring anthem. But the
Portland parade was a different experience. Americans are natural
showmen and while British parades make me want to salute and sing 'Land
of Hope and Glory', American parades exude a kind of frivolity that's
completely infectious. Even in the dreary weather, the crowds cheered
and clapped and everyone left with a feeling of light heartedness
that's hard to achieve in this cynical world. After the parade was over
Matt, Dan and I went down to the Willamette River where the Waterfront
Park was host to 'Fleet Week'. The brave boys and girls whose job it is
to protect the American shores bring along their bath toys for public
inspection. Dozens of cutters, destroyers and other assorted craft from
the United States Navy and the US Coastguard jostled for space on the
river. We joined a long queue to board one of the ships for a free
tour. However the parade had made us very late and a sailor came over
to inform us there would not be time for us to take the tour that day.
So, instead we wandered along the dock looking at the ships from the
shore. Snapping pictures of the helicopters and the great big guns
squatting on the decks of the ships. This was well before September
11th became more than an arbitrary date and it would have been hard to
believe, viewing this display of strength, that anyone would dare
attack the US. But they did, and those same boats and their crew are
probably engaged in more serious activities than entertaining tourists
like me. As we wandered around the Waterfront with no clue of the
tragedy to come, I was quite happy to be distracted by gawping at the
handsome sailors. What is it about a man in uniform? Girls? Anyone?