Grayteful

The rain dots the morning sky, trickling down seemingly without end. When it does let up, the sky remains a shroud of gray hanging above the city. The streets and sidewalks, cement, are slicked with water. They too are gray. I drive into town and steely concrete buildings tower ahead, filled with untold offices, business, apartments.

I navigate the downtown streets, trying to remember which avenue runs one-way and in which direction, peering at signs - green street signs, flashing neon business signs, parking signs filled with what may as well be hieroglyphs. I've almost driven past when I see it: a parking spot! It's a Sunday morning, yet the three lanes around me are flush with vehicles. I scrutinize all of my mirrors before rapidly shifting into reverse and backing and filling into a spot at the curb. I find the curbside sign with the appropriate information for the spot I have chosen to see if I need to pay a meter.

I don't (they're free before 1pm on Sundays - how generous), so I scurry about my business. The raindrops have increased slightly in tempo, so I grab my umbrella. Most Oregonians stubbornly refuse to use umbrellas, preferring instead to blend into the drab scenery with sweatshirt hoods up, squinting into the rain, their canvas shoes and bookbags drenched. I never understood this phenomenon before, and I understand it even less now. Instinctively, I pull my hood over my hair; then, I proudly hoist my aquamarine umbrella into the sky and scurry about my errands.

Later, the sprinkle has momentarily subsided, so I fold my umbrella. The city is as gray as ever. The streets are busier than they were an hour ago. I wait patiently before merging into traffic. On this drive home, I don't miss a single turn. I even remember what lane I need to be in, and successfully change lanes amid busy, flowing traffic. As I drive to southwest Portland, I look over and see the Willamette River. Barely discernible blue mountains are shrouded in clouds and fog. I can almost feel the mist spraying up from the river.

Grumbling to myself as cars speed around me, I reflect on a piece I read the other day. The authors talked of how driving in traffic overstimulates the brain because we take in every last thing we see, even if we don't immediately process it. I can vouch for that; my levels of stress and confusion have risen enormously in the two and a half weeks I've resided here. The constant rain doesn't help, nor do slippery roadways, curving avenues, one-ways, streets that suddenly stop and start.

Evergreens line the boulevard on my drive. As I round a broad curve, a curve which my car effortlessly navigates and accelerates out of, I look around for a moment and take it all in. I nudge myself, remembering that I still gasp at the sight of Oregon license plates surrounding me on the streets. My little car and I, who not long ago idled lazily every day through a small town in Ohio, we have made it here. Here, to the monochrome west, the west of my childhood. This was what I wanted - a month ago, this was all I wanted.

So here I am, in the biggest city in Oregon, overwhelming in its hipness and wetness and greenness and differentness, but I am here because I made a choice. I don't know what the future holds - I hardly even know what tomorrow holds - and so much has changed so quickly. But for now, I am here, and I remind myself to be grateful. Why not?