Run, Forest, Run
THE PIANIST’S HANDS are dancing up and down the keys, the guitarist is aggressively strumming chords to match and the crowd are singing along like they’ve known each other for years. While you could be forgiven for thinking I’m at the type of local bar where ‘everybody knows your name’, this is, in fact, the scene on a Sunday afternoon at Portland International Airport.
From the moment you land in Portland, the hipster capital of the US, if not the world, you’re treated like a local. Everyone is welcoming, friendly and looks like they’ve just stepped Woods-inspired shoot – even the arrivals lounge feels like you’ve stepped into a forest cabin and should be wearing plaid.
