Orville Redenbacher, eat your heart out

Waiting for the last yellow line train, about 12:30 a.m. one night last week, after a long shift at work. The typical Portland winter scene. Drizzly. Cold. And I'm almost asleep on my feet.

The MAX rolls up to Pioneer Courthouse Square and I start to lumber out of my less-wet spot under the awning, through the nastiness, toward the car.

Now usually, on public transportation, particularly at the late hour I take it home, there's plenty to smell. Sometimes it's damp shoes. Once in a while it's wet dog. Pretty regularly, especially near the Old Town stops, it's rank homeless dudes. Near the club district and across the river, there's more beer, waves of cigarette smoke and the first hints of cologne -- some designer, some just bad aftershaves, and this being Portland, plenty of patchouli. And, all along the way, it's never a surprise to get a big whiff of pot.

None of that on this night, however. Immediately, as I step aboard, the smell of fresh hot-buttered popcorn overwhelms me. The smell is everywhere. And I'm the only passenger in sight.

No actual popcorn to be found, though. (Not that I would have broken my strict policy against eating things I find on public transportation.) But the smell alone went great with the movie-like drama that is Portland, unfolding block by block, stop by stop, before me on the midnight train home.