My little family of three got the privilege of going to the Portland International Airport last week. I got the privilege of a migraine as a thank-you gift.
We live on the Coast of Oregon and I am LOATHE to leave the seaboard in summer. Often, when it’s 62 degrees in Newport, it’s 105 in the “Valley,” where the Valley People live.
But sometimes, it can’t be avoided, and we need to trudge over to the Willamette Valley and go to the airport. Only 3 hours away! Don’t believe Google Maps. It’s not just 2.5 hours away.
Last week, my sister-in-law, Kristin from Duluth (that’s her actual name), flew in for a visit. We decided, hey, let’s go up to Portland few days early and do stuff!
Two nights in a hotel, what’s not to love! 😹😹😹
Why do these ideas present themselves as GOOD IDEAS? We should’ve just minded our own business and driven straight from Newport to Portland and back again, saving five hundred dollars in the process.
I am definitely cheap, which is why this would’ve been preferable.
The lengths we must go to just to leave the house are amazing, but somehow we made it out.
I had a pain on the right side of my face. Allergies I wondered?
After a day and a half of doing Portland-stuff—I don’t even remember what now, there was a museum involved, we were off to the Portland International Airport!
People love this airport. They call it PDX.
“PDX is like a mall,” they say.
Okay, first things first: nobody wants to go to a mall anymore. This is well established. Most of the malls around here are bankrupt. So how in God’s name is this a positive thing??
But we weren’t there to go to the mall at the airport. We were there to, I guess, get screamed at by a parking cop at Arrivals, in the loading zone.
The Arrivals area at PDX is in a cavern. An undercroft. Bright-vested parking cops yell at you if you park for more than 24 seconds. “Get moving, you dumbass!” is what we were told. Nice. So I jumped out, and my wife-partner, K.L. Rockwell, went searching for a spot.
There was a nasty crash right at the entrance to Arrivals. A fender bender, but the people were out in the sun crying. I’d be crying too. It’s probably why the parking cops were all up in arms.
After finding Kristin from Duluth, we were off! Only a three-hour drive back to Newport. Honestly, we seriously need teleporters. We really do. Then we wouldn’t need airports. Or parking cops.
On the way home, the heat crept up almost to 90. Ninety!! I can’t do 90!! The “gals” decided to go U-Pik dahlias in Canby. I had decided to wear all-black Adidas jogging clothes—to really ensure heatstroke.
And then, on Highway 18, just next to the Federal Corrections Facility of Sheridan, my body decided to revolt.
It decided enough was enough.
No more Valley. No more lollygagging.
I was looking at the car in front of us and, even with sunglasses on, couldn’t figure out why the sun was reflecting so brightly. Was it going supernova? And there were rainbows everywhere.
It was weird.
I didn’t know what was going on.
Until I realized…
… I had a migraine.
A sneaker migraine.
I get these sneaker migraines every once in a while. I’m sure it has NOTHING to do with anxiety, or eyestrain, or riding in the back of our CRV on a windy, windy mountain road.
Luckily, nowadays I get to travel with migraine medication. Nothing says, “You’re doing great!” like always having a Sumatriptan in your pocket.
So I popped the pill and the visual aura swirled like the universe was cracking for a half hour.
Good news? I didn’t completely freak out. There’s a first time for everything. I only mildly panicked.
About an hour later, we were back home. I felt like I had been in that fender bender and wanted to cry right along with the “victims.”
This is the first thing I’ve written in a week. But don’t blame me. Blame my overloaded brain.
Now off to a nap!
