Ode to Oregon, Introduction

I’ve grown up telling people about the place I call home. Month-long childhood summertime visits to the grandparents in muggy, flat Wisconsin were an introduction to the glowing wonder of fireflies but also an opportunity to correct relatives’ incorrect pronunciation (“It’s not called Ore-Uh-Gone!”) and extol our mountainous, green tree-filled world where warm summer days were merely hot, not humid.

The view of Oregon's Mt. Hood rising large above the landscape
has always taken my breath away and symbolized "home."

When I first travelled to Puebla, Mexico, in 2004 (my sophomore year of high school), I’d tucked picture postcards into my carry-on – visual aids to pass out to new friends, to show the children where I lived. Over the 8-day trip, dusty vistas and graffiti-covered walls changed to tropical vegetation and sharp drop-offs, muddy foot paths where we carried bags of sand and stone bricks half a mile down a mountain…and then back up the other side. I encountered bugs bordering on Tolkien-size proportions and ate virtually none of the native food as I counted down the days to the packaged – sterile – products awaiting me “in the States.”

As a kid, though, I took the wonder of my home state for granted. Of course, we’d go snowmobiling in the winter: loud, gas-smelling machines shooting along pristine white mountain paths to one of many frozen lakes, solid glasslike surfaces sparkling in the cold, cold sunshine. And weekend trips to the beach were, naturally, par for the course: chewy salt-water taffy sticking to our teeth while the real salt water shimmered underfoot, toes turning blue in the cold, cold surf.

One of my favorite spots to spend a summer day is Pacific City, Oregon.
Climb the infamous dune for this outstanding view of the ocean's expanse.

Sometimes we’d drive over the mountain to Eastern Oregon, a wide dessert expanse, brown and dusty in summer and snow-packed with delight in winter. Kah-nee-tah was always a favorite destination, the warm hot springs-fed pools a treat even my mom enjoyed. Other times, we’d head north to the Columbia River Gorge, its majestic waterfall-lined walls laced with hiking trails and jaw-dropping vistas over the river below.

Growing older, I caught the travel bug, loving years where I’d fly multiple times to other states for college volleyball tournaments, journalism conferences or family reunions – and eventually, I’d move abroad for a couple years, relishing the time where riding trains rushing across country borders was nothing extraordinary. All around the world, cities and countryside have stirred my heart. I’ve visited important historical landmarks, reflected on buildings broken and left as testaments to the carnage of war, and stood incredulously before intricate castles and ornate cathedrals that existed centuries before Lewis and Clark even discovered the Pacific Ocean.

Nowadays in my small-town Germany English classes, I like to tell the students that Oregon pretty much has everything: ocean, deserts, waterfalls, mountains, lakes, rivers. And whenever I flip through calendar brochures or travel guides, I always exclaim, a little longingly, “It really does look like that!” Splendid sunsets, glowing mountain peaks, cascading waterfalls – all within reach, all part of the package. I’ll even take the dreary rain, inherent to the West Coast, wet but nonetheless endearing.

Even on grey days, the Columbia River Gorge is beautiful, and breathtaking
vistas make the winding drive along the old Scenic Highway worth the trip.

Sometimes, I’ve asked myself why I ever want to leave, though honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever stop being amazed by the beauty of the world – the lure of adventure and exploration is a hard urge to silence – but even though my heart has been enraptured by global stimuli, its permanent earthly residence is unmistakably secure: Oregon – the end of the trail, a place for dreamers, home.

On Layovers

WARSAW, Poland – Warsaw Chopin Airport is a desolate place. Perhaps its somber mood is accentuated by my demeanor upon arrival – as my last layover of the day, an almost 3-hour pause before take-off to Berlin, Warsaw is less than a choice destination – however, the atmosphere does little to redeem itself. Narrow grey corridors slide seamlessly into windows slanted obtusely outwards into more grey, the cloudy skies smoldering into charcoal while I wait.

Gate 45, Warsaw Chopin Airport. 

The grey areas of life, those muted tones between black and white, right and wrong, if only they were as easy to navigate as the deep orange accents and scattered posts where bold white numbers label the gates. Although maybe these color bursts would be as offensive in my moral consciousness as they are here, breaking up the otherwise monotone scheme. I’d rather move like the clouds, slipping softly through smudged skies, grey like the walls and rows of metal chairs whose polka dot design is illusion – the punched-out holes only show through to drab carpet beyond.

Of course, being situated at the very last gate, the fingertip of the airport’s spindly arm, adds to the isolation. As I lug my 25-lb. baby blue Jansport backpack down the long corridor, the advertisements for duty free purchases, snacks and, naturally, the omnipresent McDonalds leap off their posters, loud English letters attracting international consumers. But when I acquiesce to their offer, my exchange with the barista at Empik Café proves less than accommodating to my non-Polish speaking self.  I utter barely three words: small black coffee, simply wanting something to stave off the fatigue that has followed my flight across the continents. She seems dissatisfied with my request, stringing together words in Polish as I slowly shook my head.

“With milk. Café Latte. Americano?” she queries, voice heavily accented.

“No, just coffee. Black.” I repeat. And “small,” when she asks again about the size. “Oh, and can I pay in Euro?”

“Yes, but I give you Polish zloty for the change.”

When my coffee rings up under €3, I pull a half liter of sparkling water from the cooler in front of the register, using the single €5 bill tucked in my wallet to cover my purchase and hopefully provide enough caffeine-induced energy to propel the last leg of my 20+ hour marathon journey.  Mostly because the Polish change is irrelevant to me, I toss the remaining cents onto the tip plate and carry my dripping cup of coffee back down the hall to the still empty gate.

In A Year in the World, Frances Mayes wrote that travel allows release because “you are insignificant to the life of the new place. When you travel you become invisible if you want […] When travelling, you have the delectable possibility of not understanding a word of what is said to you.”

Perhaps I’m not as seasoned as Mayes in navigating countries and tongues; perhaps I’m still too fresh from the coddling comfort of Christmas break at home in Oregon. Nonetheless, insignificant and invisible are not normally attributes I strive to achieve. And not understanding what is being said usually proves more frustrating than liberating.

But perhaps travel itself is somehow separated from the limbo of layover – this strange in between of times and places, whose experience, yes, aura, is so closely connected to what awaits after the next flight but also to its present location.

In Chicago, for example, I was happy to play the obsolete observer, though the bustling crowds were upbeat, and my cell phone kept me company – a last round of texts fired off over the hour before the device would hibernate for the next six months.

Now, however, the silence is not soothing. Far from loved ones, I crave connection, not anonymity. If pure waiting is purgatory, I am relieved there’s an end. If separation is Hell, I am beyond thankful for Heaven and, more so, for the One who has promised to never leave, even when a journey is solo or an airport lonely.

Slowly, the differentiation between exterior and interior has heightened – artificial lights steadying the hue at Gate 45, while outside details disappear into darkness. I’ll be on my way again shortly, headed this time not for another round of waiting but at last for arrival, the journey complete.