Oregon150

by Elizabeth Danek
Portland, Oregon

The decision was made. After an eleven-year absence, we would move back to the states—to Oregon. I found the beauty of the region and the pace of life a sanctuary. Within weeks, I secured a teaching position in Portland.

“Take only what’s necessary,” I told them upon my return to Munich and opened up six suitcases, reminding my sons to “fill’em,” while I whirled in errands. My husband would ship a few more mementos and join us by Thanksgiving. Ten days later, amid tearful farewells, we said Aufweidersehen—until my older son heard the airport page: “Frau Danek, bitte, an Schalter 7.” At “Desk 7,” officers motioned for me to follow them downstairs.

“Either you have a firearms permit or you can prove these guns are toys.” I dug deep into four x-rayed bags to reveal Disneyland muskets and model German Lugers. We were the last to board and the dour passenger faces told me what they thought of the delay. The boys laughed all the way to London.

At Heathrow we took a bus to the next concourse, only to land in a queue for Abu Dhabi, not Chicago. The clerk in Munich, probably miffed by all the crying, wrote down the wrong gate. Another page: “Passengers…calling passengers…” and again we boarded while agitated faces surrounded us. “Grab any seat,” said a steward.

At O’Hare we regrouped. We passed through customs (no mention of guns this time), though the boys’ belt buckles set off alarms. We survived a spilled coke and briefly lost my 9-year old at a comic book kiosk, then boarded—only to be hit by lightening at take-off. Three hours and several complimentary drinks later, we departed.

Eventually, the pilot announced our proximity to Portland. With twilight approaching, Mt. Hood was visible in a rim of lavender and white, and below us, the vast Columbia. Forest draped mountainsides; neat parcels of land fanned out; sailboats and lights glimmered across the river.

We trudged outside the airport, dragging six bags, three backpacks, and hit the temperate August evening. A small blonde cabbie grabbed our bags and easily heaved them into her van. She punctured the quiet by asking about our trip and the boys started laughing. I cried.

“Heck,” she said, “let’s take the scenic route.” With that, she turned the meter off. Rays of the setting sun splintered over the Willamette. It was several weeks later that I understood her circuitous gift, that I learned we drove through downtown, over the Burnside to view the city, over the Morrison to view the Hawthorne; we wound through neighborhoods, past parks, down Naito Way to see the last group of fountain bathers, and finally swung over the Ross Island Bridge before we headed to our apartment where a low full moon hovered and the waters of a creek lapped at our exhaustion. “You won’t remember any of this,” she said, but I do. With all my heart, I do.