Here is not where you might expect to find wine. The route is a concrete and metal mashup of auto body shops, paper processing plants and abandoned warehouses. Used parts are stacked on most street corners, soon to be moved by forklift into dusty spaces where sounds of heavy machinery are muffled by half-open garages. Trains yawn from the nearby rail yard and Portland’s skyline peeks between trees framing the Willamette River. But if you follow the sandwich board signs, you’ll end up at Hip Chicks Do Wine, the city’s oldest still-operational urban winery.