GETTING BENT IN BEND, OREGON

I’ve always considered myself a chameleon.

I can change my appearance based on my surroundings. 

The keyword here is “appearance”. I don’t change my identity, or even my personality. It’s simply how I appear—or am perceived—in any given context. 

Whether this is an intrinsic characteristic of mine, a result of solo travel, or some combination of the two, I always thought this chameleon-ing to be a strength. I find it cool, interesting, that these varied layers, flavors, textures of my self, all feel authentic.

I also assumed everyone thought that.

The other week, I learned otherwise. 

—

I came to Bend, Oregon to spend some time with a travel friend. Someone I barely knew, yet enjoyed my brief time with, who kindly offered to host and show me around for a week. 

This is always a calculated risk—one I’ve taken a few times already—for the exact reason I just said: I barely knew them. Still, I (and most travelers) would argue it is 100% a risk worth taking. If you’re not clicking, then you go your own way. You never see them again. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

This was always a variable, so I had no expectations… except we always say that, we humans. Do we not? I expected nothing in the long run. But it’s true I did expect what had already been discussed. I expected we take a hike or two. Drink some beers. Drive around the state some, as we had planned.

So… no. No, I did not expect to be told to leave after just one day.  

“Get bent” is an expression originating in 1960s American slang, used as a rude dismissal—similar to "go away" or "get lost”.

This is how it feels to get bent in Bend. Ha. 

My writing practice has been nonexistent for the better part of a year. Turns out it only takes some wordplay (and some particular weirdness) to give a gal like me no choice but to start writing again.

—

I will never know what went through this person’s mind to cause such an immediate 180 of their opinion of me. And believe me, I’m well aware that part of it is a them problem, not a me problem. 

But one piece of tea got caught in the strainer of aftermath, and so I’ll share it.

In our less than 24 hours together, the aforementioned chameleon anecdote came up. We were still getting to know one another, after all.

So naturally, I was doing my chameleon thing as I got to know Bend, too: a small, green city of 100,000 outdoor enthusiasts, set along a river in the gorgeous Cascade Mountains of the Pacific Northwest. It tracks then, that as we pulled up to a park to meet some friends playing “Beer Die” (picture a highly athletic Rage Cage/Stack Cup, with two die and four cups…), I decided to change out of my leather jacket and into an oversized sweatshirt. Everyone was wearing athletic gear, and I just felt I’d be more cozy sitting on the grass this way.

Later, I learned something fascinating through the tea strainer. 

Apparently, this is weird.

Adapting to your surroundings? Weird.

Choosing something that makes you feel more comfortable? Weird.

It’s been about two weeks now since this strange scenario unfolded, and I’ve stopped writing slowly, but also intentionally. I wanted to make sure these words were not coming from a place of defensiveness. 

They are not.

It’s simply curiosity.

Because I still cannot—and will never—understand how one thinks changing from a leather jacket into a sweatshirt is weird.

And this is why we travel, dear readers. To experience new things. 

— 

I left Bend, got a rental car, and embarked on the first proper road trip of my life: 1,000+ miles (1,610 kilometers, for my metric friends) that brought me west to the moody, misty Oregon Coast, down Highway 101 to the California Redwoods, and back north through the center of the state with its many mountains covered with spruce trees as far as the eye can see, up to Portland.

The road trip was always part of the plan. Instead, I would be rolling solo. What’s new? So I spent a lot of time with myself, in the depths of my murky mind, as I so often do. But this time, in a particular way… one which I had enjoyed in several years.

Driving, for me, is at points peaceful, at points anxiety-producing—for various reasons (iykyk). This dynamic was fueled as I sped along spectacularly beautiful, winding mountain roads and battled a recurring intrusive thought regarding what had just happened: the desire to text this person and attempt to clear up whatever the miscommunication was. 

It’s a tad ironic I suppose, that considering my chameleon-isms, one of my biggest pet peeves is being wrongly perceived. 

I know we cannot control what others think of us—and more so that we should not care—yet this is sometimes difficult for me to swallow.

So no, I reminded myself over and over again. I do not want to spend any additional energy on a person who thinks changing your outerwear based on the situation is weird.

The other recurring thought?

Thank God I’m me.

Me, who is far more used to being alone in unfamiliar places than with another. Me, who has been traveling without a set plan for years, and who is used to pivoting at a moment’s notice. Me, who finds humor in absurdity.

Thank God, I’m me—because I had a wonderful week. An inspiring trip. One that got me writing again.

All thanks to getting bent in Bend.

There’s a metaphor, somewhere in here, about getting lost to find yourself again. 

No matter that the getting lost part wasn’t my idea.

ONWARDS,

Maggie