I’ve been in Portland a little more than 24 hours and in that time I’ve seen, smelled, heard or tasted the following:

Vintage clothing stores can be found on every street corner. If there’s not a vintage clothing store, there’s a Starbucks. Homeless youth can be found en masse in front of both establishments.

All men of Portland have impressive sideburns. All women wear trendy scarves. Both genders sport funky, Über-trendy glasses that say, “I am infinitely cooler than you. Infinitely.”

Sun. Rain. Sun. Rain. Sun. Rain. Sometimes it rained while the sun was out. This town needs to make up its mind. Who does the forecasting here? Sybil?

Everything is sparklingly clean, lusciously manicured and yet rumpled and rough around the edges. It’s like walking around in a Gap ad with a bunch of people recently released from the drunk tank.

At 2:44pm on a Friday, it would appear that not one single, solitary person was working in the entire city. Everyone was apparently shopping, eating, drinking or smoking cigarettes in front of a boutique store.

I’ve been panhandled more in Portland in the last 24 hours than in my entire life. And I’ve been to Amsterdam. Twice. Apparently, transient adults allegedly want money for coffee and transient youth want money for bus fare to somewhere other than Portland.

Asian tourists are in bountiful supply here. On an unrelated note, I watched an Asian man try to parallel park his teeny-tiny smart car for 10 minutes. By the time he finished (unsuccessfully, I might add) there were probably a dozen people completely fixated on his (lack of) parking skills.

The entire town smells like incense. Like it’s being fanned in or something from outer space. Or Seattle.

The mass transit in this city is effective, efficient, immaculate … and always packed.

The city is a mysterious, harrowing maze of bridge after bridge. Some go up, some go down, and most go in a complete circle. It’s like being in an Escher drawing.

Never ask for directions because locals give you the most random, possible way to get there. “Go left at the tree with the barking dog chained to it and then you’ll weave your way up a few hills and past that chiropractor’s place that burnt down in ’94. It’s close by that.”

The tourist traps (of which there are many) all have lines galore. Each is worth the wait. If the locals will wait in line for Cap’n Crunch-encrusted pastries at Voodoo Donuts, then so should you.

I would live in this city in a white-hot … er, rainy-mist … minute. There’s an odd life force here. It’s an energy that’s nearly palpable. Must be all that fresh air. And caffeine intake. And, in case you were wondering, the show “Portlandia” perfectly mocks/emulates the essence of this beatnik city.