It was one of those Portland scorchers where the pavement hums, and my dogs made it abundantly clear that I was personally responsible for this hot, muggy mess. Reaching for my missing water bottle and teetering on the edge of defeat, I spotted something glistening in the distance. I approached cautiously.

There it was: some sort of steampunk-meets-mid-century hydration device, bronze and unapologetically odd, offering its gifts in four waist-high bowls. In my overheated haze, I slid toward it, and in my head David Attenborough whispered: “And here we see the urban dweller encountering the elusive Benson Bubbler in its natural habitat.” Childhood warnings echoed faintly in my ears, but thirst won out. I bent down, sipped—and it was pure, cold, shockingly refreshing.

Beaming, I turned to my boyfriend Adam, expecting him to share in my newfound glory. Instead, I was met with sheer horror. He recoiled as if I’d licked the MAX platform. “You DRANK from that?!” And okay, fair—these fountains don’t exactly scream “clean.” They’ve seen things that would make a motel housekeeper blush. But here’s the kicker: the water isn’t recycled, it’s cleaned regularly, and it flows straight from Bull Run—my inner water snob’s favorite local vintage. Bubbling since 1912, the Benson Bubblers were Simon Benson’s civic offering, meant to lure workers from taverns to tap water. Today, I map our dog walks around them, pop-up bowl in hand, fumbling like I’m aiming a hose with my thumb. A century later, they’re still trickling—gritty, pigeon-adjacent, but gloriously Portland. And every time I drink, I feel like I’ve joined a secret club: the one that wears other people’s shock and disgust with pride.