I woke up on Sunday morning in Oregon.
On the couch.
No domestic troubles. After all, no domestic arrangements. Just me. Not even a dog.
I am sleeping on the couch because my bedroom (the home of my extremely comfortable Italianate bed) is upstairs. So far, my experiences with my broken ankle is that Steve, crutches, and stairs can be a volatile mix. Each stair is a performance art awaiting an Americans with Disabilities Act resolution.
My airplane trip north was a bit more difficult than I thought it would be. The crutches limited what I could carry in my hands. That is, if "nothing" can be considered limiting.
But I thought ahead on this one by deciding to limit my luggage to carry on. I have a small case that zips together with a backpack. It is great for a week trip. And, when it is full, it is heavy.
So, I did not fill it. Even so, I could not carry it with my crutches.
Getting through security in Manzanillo was easy -- as it usually is. Someone was always there to valet my luggage onto the plane.
In Los Angeles, a wheel chair was waiting for me. My good friends at Homeland Security decided I needed a lot of hands on searching. Understandable. I have that lean and hungry look that so worried Julius Caesar. Assuming Shakespeare was not being too literal.
But I made it to Portland and off to Salem. All with the help of some very kind airport staff.
And I have settled in.
As you can see by the photograph at the top of this post, I am no longer in Mexico. I had lunch at my favorite burger place in Salem on Sunday: Rock-n-Roger's. Nothing like a chili burger to welcome me back to The States for the next six months.
But "home"? I don't think so.
Soy de Oregon. Vivo en Villa Obregon.
