First Thursday in Portland: I moved from New York City to Portland, Oregon, just last summer. When I got the assignment to write a Weekender on my new hometown, I was excited about the chance to share my favorite discoveries. On my arrival, I’d barely unpacked when I agreed to meet some friends for early evening cocktails. As I pedaled over the Broadway Bridge across the Willamette River toward downtown, I noticed that what I’d thought to be dusty, forgotten warehouses were glowing with warm yellow light. For block after block, I coasted past propped-open doors and the most unlikely assemblage of people I’d ever seen—from tattooed bike messengers to well-to-do art patrons. They crowded the sidewalks, weaving in and out of galleries and studios, while sharing glasses of wine, conversation and laughter. Since I was a bit early to meet my friends, I gingerly stepped into an open photographer’s studio, ready to be ousted as a crasher. By the time I finished the beer someone handed me, I’d learned that this strange congress had a name, the First Thursday Artwalk—held, as the name implies, on the first Thursday of every month. I’ve scarcely missed one since.

Portable Pie and Home-Grown Takeaways: The first time I walked under the shady fir trees that ring the Portland Farmer’s Market and wrapped my fingers around a warm peach “hand pie,” I fell in love with this place. As I strolled the crowded booths with a flaky portable pie, I picked out the biggest and plumpest black cherries ever, and sweet green figs so fragile and ripe they didn’t stand a chance of making it home. When I saw the chest-high mound of fresh morels, I nearly collapsed. Since arriving in town, I’d been hoping to learn the mushroom-hunting spots rumored to be nearby—a secret, I’ve come to understand, that’s not readily divulged. Here, in a ridiculous pile, were fresh, pungent, rare and beautiful morels—enough, it seemed, to feed the whole city. I gawked. “Not from around here, are ya?” asked another shopper, tossing the little brown jewels into a paper sack. I muttered something about being a newcomer, all the while contemplating the New York City street price for this extraordinary heap of wild mushrooms. “Well . . . welcome,” she said, and handed me a brown bag.