By Madeline Lau 
The Santiam Canyon, while not exactly a bastion of tourism, can be relied upon to produce a few Kodak-worthy, perfect vacation moments.
I am reminded of this during sporadic visits from out-of-state friends who come to Oregon with wild anticipation of vigorous natural experiences, random waterfalls, and fabulously clean air. These visits usually coincide with whenever I start feeling kind of blah about living on the Wet side with our typical Valley grizzle and usually inspire me to appreciate the beauty of the landscape.
One such visit occurred last October, in the deep trenches of rainy season, when a hopeful young man from Chicago by way of Mexico boarded a flight to visit me. This was no ordinary hombre.
Though we had met months ago, in sunnier times at my sister’s home in LA, this mystery man and I had shared less time together than I’ve recorded staring blankly at far-off mountains. We’d spent two dinners laughing and clumsily playing poker together before I was headed back to Oregon, he to a new job in Illinois.
We parted amicably and continued to communicate via emails, facebook, and, very 1892, many handwritten letters. Life pressed on. I moved to Joseph. I started dating a rather lame individual who did not bring me the oodles of joy I had hoped for.
In the midst of this very lackluster relationship I would receive daily text messages from my far-away hombre who, amazingly, shared my love of raptors: “I hope the sun is shining and that you get to see an awesome falcon today at work. Thinking of you!” Wheels in my mind started turning…what if? I took a plunge, dumped the lame dude, and invited hombre to Oregon.
Such nerves I had in preparation for his arrival! Where do I take him? What do I show him? Will he be freezing?
Luckily Illinois has Oregon beat in the cold department and my visitor seemed to weather the weather gracefully. I saw him walking toward me at the airport and felt a massive lump growing in my throat. Toes started tingling. He smiled.
I gulped.
We hugged and it felt homier than my parents’ living room on Christmas morning. “Welcome to Oregon” I chirped weirdly and over-enthusiastically, “Sorry about the rain.”
Over the next week my visitor and I trekked all over the Canyon. Reveling in the mist under Silver Falls, chasing salamanders at Opal Creek, eating cheesy mushroom melts at McMenamins. The whole time I was flying—nervous, confused, but flying. When he left there were tears and, two days later “I love you.” He came back for Thanksgiving—more rotten weather and a whole family introduction—but he handled both well and everyone marveled at how old-fashioned and charming he was.
This second departure was significantly harder.
Always the one to (attempt to) play it cool, I nonchalantly sang out a “see you later” then ran to my computer to book a ticket to Chicago as soon as he was gone. This mysterious stranger and I were really turning into something, I thought, better tread lightly just to be safe.
After a long December road trip across the US with my friend Olivia, I flew my way westward, stopping first in New York City and then, anticipation building, Chicago.
I saw my hombre, tearfully declared love and my intent to be a real couple after significant waffling (playing it cool again), he countered by pulling me in close at 1 a.m. in a crowded nightclub and whispering “You’re going to be my wife.”
We danced our way across the city, I doubt there were any moments our feet actually touched the ground, and I left Dec. 23 knowing he’d join me for an Oregon Christmas two days later.
As many Christmases I can remember, it was dry and grey as opposed to soggy, and I had the chance to take hombre out for many a good time at the shooting range; he was quite a shot with our rifles, I might add, and he was shooting his way into my parents’ hearts simultaneously: I think my dad even had a weird little man-crush on him.
For New Year’s we traveled to Hotel Oregon in McMinnville for a night of craft beer, dancing, and carousing. This is when things got real, real fast.
He looked at me, I looked at him and blurted out “I could be your wife.” He countered, “I could be your husband.”
Tears started again and I was feeling like a goon when, quietly from far away a voice said, “do you want to…be my wife?”
Head started nodding and all of a sudden hombre is grabbing me in the tightest hug and drawing a homemade engagement ring on that finger since we hadn’t planned it and had no rock handy.
Everything that had started 11 months earlier came hurtling into clarity: though we’d been dating for only a month the choice was so massively, obviously clear.
We were meant to be husband and wife, and so we became husband and wife, just a few weeks later, on Feb. 4 at Chicago City Hall wearing jeans and enormous smiles on our faces.
Now, now, I know what you’re thinking (no, I don’t actually, but I’m guessing): Madeline, lover of pomp and ceremony, got married?! At CITY HALL?!!?
You got me.
My hombre, whose real name is Manuel, and I are both old-fashioned and couldn’t wait to be married before we lived together: our real “wedding” and marriage before God and our friends, will be in September in Oregon when the weather will be absolutely perfect.
Until then we’re making our home in Chicago, missing our Oregon amigos, and making up for lost time before we met each other.
– Madeline Marin-Foucher
Madeline (Lau) Marin-Foucher has been writing for Our Town since she was 16, sharing her adventures through high school, college, first job… and now THIS! Her travels remind us that “our town” is really anywhere the people we care about are.
