In the past couple of years, we’ve made several trips to San Luis Obispo and Paso Robles for wine tasting since it is only a few hours’ drive from Los Angeles. For some reason, we were under the impression that the drive from Los Angeles to the Bay Area is over 8 hours. In actuality, we made the trip in about 6.5 hours.

On the way, we encountered a few vicious squalls as we drove through the pancake-flat Central Valley, but traffic was light until we reached Silicon Valley. Even driving through the newly developed suburbs around San Francisco, we made good progress and arrived in Napa just as the sun was setting. Before checking into the hotel, we stopped at the grocery store for provisions, intent on making our visit to wine country as affordable as possible. Our plan to cook for ourselves was further boosted when we checked into the hotel and were upgraded to a one bedroom suite. The suite featured a full kitchen, dining area, two bathrooms, two flatscreen TV’s, and a large balcony overlooking the hotel pool. The hotel upgrade was to be the first pleasant surprise in a string of good fortune we experienced during the weekend thanks to Napa being virtually deserted during the offseason. Throughout our entire stay, traffic was non-existent, barely anyone was with us in the tasting rooms, and the hotel was sparsely occupied.

On Sunday morning, I went out for a cool morning run around the charming town of Napa. Although I had been warned that Napa was fairly developed and lacked the charm of smaller places like Sonoma, the parts of town I saw appeared quaint. Following a substantial breakfast, we set out for vineyards by driving north along Route 29. The south portion of the road is an expressway that gradually slows to a divided highway with occasional lights before morphing into a more scenic two-lane road. Similar to the character of the road itself, the vineyards along Route 29 follow a similar transformation. They start with the large, well-known wineries that boast palatial buildings and change to medium-sized, premium vineyards as you head north before completing the cycle with smaller, less-known wineries at the north of the valley.

Our first stop was at St. Supery, a medium-to-large sized winery that was highly recommended in the books I researched prior to our trip. The winery is best known for educating visitors and is supposed to boast a tour featuring some slightly hokey teaching instruments such as a smelling tube that helps to identify aromas in wine. The building itself is somewhat modern and nondescript. Either the educational facilities were closed during our visit or we missed them entirely. Instead, we proceeded to the tasting room, where a couple of other visitors were cozied up to the bar. After reviewing the tasting options, we settled for the less-expensive, less-exclusive tasting that allowed us to share four wines. At first, we felt neglected, but after a couple of sips and some probing questions the gentleman behind the bar opened up. Soon, Joe (his actual name) was peppering us with jokes, lecturing on the unique aspects of St. Supery’s wine, and recommending other wineries that we should visit. Over an hour later, he was providing us with samples of the reserve wines and talking football. Overall, the wine was superb and it was an educational way to start our wine tasting, even if it wasn’t the type of education we were expecting.

Next, we drove a couple hundred yards north to the Grgich Hills winery. I first came to know this winery through my uncle Bruno, who shares a Croatian heritage with the winemakers and has been generous enough over the years to introduce me to their highly regarded wines. Grgich also became famous due to the movie “Bottle Shock,” which recounts the rise of Napa wines to prominence and describes how a Napa wine (made by the founder of Grgich) beat out the best of France in a blind tasting. Fitting of a famous winery, the tasting room was crowded and we needed to wait for a place at the bar. When we finally did get served, we were granted only limited attention and were largely left to ourselves to discover the wines. When we did have the opportunity to speak to the pourer, he seemed uncertain of the winemaking process and lacked confidence discussing the biodynamic method Grgich referenced often in their literature. Our continuous questions probably did not encourage the server to hang around any more than necessary. As for the tasting, the white wines had a unique mineral taste. I enjoyed the Cabernet Sauvignon, but was underwhelmed by the other wines we tasted.

Following our tasting, we enjoyed a light picnic in the Grgich parking lot. Eating in a car can rarely be considered elegant, but on a beautiful day with endless vineyards stretched out as far as the eye can see it seemed quite refined and our apple, bread, and cheese certainly seemed to taste much better than it should. After lunch, we drove further up route 29, passing through quaint towns and numerous vineyards. We drove as far north as Calistoga, a small outpost at the north of the valley that has a decidedly different feel from the southern part of the valley. The town seemed more rugged, but quaint in its own rustic way. Initially, we tried to visit the Calistoga Geyser, but were turned off by the egregious $10 per person price tag, a steep ask considering the geyser only erupts once every 10 minutes and there is little else to recommend the site. Instead, we proceeded to the Castello di Amorosa, where we had scheduled a tour of the faux castle. The tour took 90 minutes and gave an overview of castles and winemaking. It didn’t help we toured the castle with a large group, but the castle had the artificial feeling of Disney with little in the way of substance. To be fair, it was an attractive castle and I would love to have such an impressive wine cellar, but even after an hour and a half neither Megan nor I was sure why the castle was built. Our best guess is that some rich guy who owns another winery (V. Sattui) decided that building a castle in Napa would be a profitable attraction for visitors who wanted to do something different than wine tasting. At the end of the tour, there was a wine tasting, but after St. Supery and Grgich, the wine tasted like colored water. For Megan, the highlight of the visit was a friendly cat named Guinevere in the tasting room, although even in this case our guide only told us the cat’s name and didn’t deem it necessary to tell us whose cat it was or why the cat was in the winery.

Our second day in Napa was equally enjoyable and the wineries were even less congested. Our first stop was at Cakebread, one of the famous wineries in Napa everyone recommended we visit. To be honest, we were wary since they are known for high-quality, high-cost wines, which only meets half our criteria. Still, the beauty of a wine tasting is it allows you to sample some wines that would be otherwise unaffordable. In this case, we made a reservation and were provided a private tasting with Bob, an extremely knowledgeable veteran of Napa. He was a wealth of information, providing in-depth explanations of the winemaking process and describing the history of the region. He explained how when Cakebread first started that Robert Mondavi, who already had a thriving vineyard across the street, stopped by to offer assistance and lend some equipment to the burgeoning enterprise. Every wine we tastes was sublime and if only it was affordable then we wouldn’t need to drink anything else. After the great tasting, we drove up to Rutherford Hills Winery, where we ate lunch while overlooking the Napa Valley.

Next up was Honig, a small winery recommended by a friend and located slightly off the beaten path, on a side street off Route 29. The pourers were much younger and obviously enthusiastic about wine, although the wines paled in comparison to the other vineyards we visited. The wines were average even though the prices were still consistent with better Napa wines. The only one we liked was an odd Late Harvest Sauvignon Blanc. The thick, yellow wine tasted like a less-offensive dessert wine. Overall, we were disappointed with Honig and couldn’t leave soon enough.

Following a slightly disappointing tasting, we moved on to Goosecross, another winery off of Route 29 that Megan remembered as being good. We arrived just as a couple of people were leaving and were once again treated to having the tasting room all to ourselves. The pourer this time was an affable Texan, Matt, who patiently explained the in’s and out’s of various wines. As with other wineries and nearly everyone we met in Napa, he displayed a passion for wine and was eager to educate us. Our tasting diverted from the normal flight and he generously added several different vintages for us to compare and some special reserve wines that were transcendent. In addition, he explained the differences between the various appellations and was happy to share recommendations for good wineries and local restaurants. He encouraged us to explore the Silverado Trail, a less popular road running parallel to Route 29 and has a vastly different culture.

With the light waning, we managed to fit in one more winery before closing time. We proceeded up the Silverado Trail to Mumm Vineyards, which specializes in sparkling wine. The setting is more like a restaurant and we sat down at tables on an enclosed balcony overlooking rolling vineyards bathed in the late afternoon sun. We were provided with tastes of three different sparkling wines, each of which were dry and tasty, although felt more appropriate for a wedding than for everyday sipping. Just as we were ready to leave, an older woman came over and offered us a taste of a special wine. Compared to the others, this wine was clearly superior. It was at this point, that the heady mix of wine and general exposure to the exorbitant prices of Napa finally wore me down. Up to this point, I had been responsibly moderating my purchases, only buying bottles I truly loved and seemed to be at least moderately good values. However, my practicality wavered and I splurged on a special sparkling wine, a purchase I immediately regretted since I have had a decent bottle of prosecco sitting in my refrigerator for the past few months.

Our wine tasting in Napa completed, before heading home, we went out for one wonderful meal. While it was nice to eat in our hotel room and enjoy simple picnics in scenic surroundings, it would have been shameful to leave Napa without eating out for one nice dinner. Fortunately, we had plenty of recommendations and we opted to follow the advice of our host at Cakebread, who suggested Bistro Jeanty. It was not a decision we regretted. Located in Yountville, the small little bistro had a cozy feel and we were seated next to the fire in the back. Several people had told us to order the tomato soup and we supplemented this appetizer with the escargot in garlic pastis butter. Both were amazing, but the tomato soup with a tasty puff pastry soufflé draped across the top was one of the best dishes I have ever had. For the main course, we split a deconstructed beef stew with mashed potatoes, buttered peas and carrots and steamed mussels in a red wine sauce. Again, both dishes were divine. To cap the meal off, we had a chocolate mouse crème brule. The calorie count for the whole meal probably topped 3,000 calories per person, but the buttery dishes loaded with crème were well worth however many years were shaved off my life.

Thus ended a memorable weekend in Napa. Both Megan and I marveled at how lucky people are to live in such a beautiful location. The weather was perfect, the wines were excellent, and everyone we met was extremely knowledgeable and helpful. Visiting during the offseason suited us perfectly since it allowed us to linger at wineries and savor the wine while we learned about the interesting process and unique history of the region. We are certainly fortunate to live within driving distance of such a fantastic place and we hope to make it back soon. As if the wine were not enticing enough, the tomato soup alone is well worth the trip.

When I was married in July and Megan moved out to Santa Monica, two diametrically opposing backgrounds converged. She had always had a pet (at times, several) and couldn’t imagine life without a furry companion. I was amenable to the idea of a cat, but needed to find one that wouldn’t upset my allergies. So, after 32 pet-free years, Megan and I adopted a beautiful Siberian kitten on December 29^th. My first foray into pet ownership has not been without its challenges. Although we’ve only had our cat for less than a month, I’ve already learned the following valuable lessons:

Cats are nocturnal. Having a kitten is similar to what I would imagine it would be like to have a child. During the first week that our cat spent with us, it would sleep most of the day, then go crazy between 9:00 pm and 10:00 pm. It would race around the apartment chasing ghosts, jump aimlessly at the wall, dart under furniture, and just generally act like it was nuts. This would be followed by a down time that provided us enough quiet to go to sleep. After a couple of hours of sleep, we’d often be woken around 2:00 am by the cat licking our faces and trying to climb under the covers to play. At first, we would take the kitten out and play with it until it went back to sleep. Obviously, this was unsustainable, so we kept it out of our bedroom. Unfortunately, the little bugger has already figured out a way to slide through the crack in the doors. The final indignity occurs around sunrise when he again sneaks into the bedroom looking to play. The upside of this experiment is that it is painfully clear that we aren’t ready for kids.

Kittens have boundless energy and always want to play. No matter what the cat is doing, at the sound of a bell it comes racing toward the noisemaker and leaps at the toy without any thought for where it will land. Luckily, the cat seems to be indestructible. Shockingly, the cat can play for hours chasing a stick with a bell and feather attached to the end. Long after I’ve lost interest, he will still be scrambling intently after the cheap toy. I’m hopeful that the cat will grow out of this phase and be as beaten down by life as the rest of us, but it is showing no signs of letting up.

Cats are great climbers. Our cat likes to be up high and it is constantly scanning above for a foothold. Whether the foothold is stable or not, if it leads to a higher place, then it is worth a jump. Even spraying the determine alpinist with water does little to deter its upward intentions. Of course, it doesn’t help that our kitten seems fond of water. We will often come home to see it perched in the sink. If the bathroom door is left ajar, the cat will hop into the wet shower, and the little creature comes rushing to the sound of flowing water. Unfortunately, the cat doesn’t seem aware when it is sopping wet and strolls around the apartment looking like a wet rat.

Cats are curious creatures. The world is a fascinating place when viewed through the eyes of a cat. In the morning, it follows me as I open up the house. It waits patiently while I take a shower, then inspects the bathtub afterwards for clues. It observes me brushing my teeth, never taking its eyes off me. It stares intently as I eat breakfast. It angles for a view as I wash my dishes. No task is too trivial. Every new item brought into the house is a new opportunity for discovery. Every smell requires more research. The curiosity is literally endless. This is cute in the morning and endearing in the evening, but downright annoying in the middle of the night.

In short, having a cat is a great deal of work. Megan carries most of the burden, making sure the thing is fed and doing whatever needs to be done with the litter box. My responsibilities mainly include playing with it and trying to tire it out so that it sleeps through the night, a role that I have not played to much acclaim thus far. Still, despite the challenges of taking care of this attention-craving cat, there are plenty of times when it is completely tuckered out and is just puddy in my hands. During those rare peaceful moments, it will curl up with me and emanate such a sense of contentment that it is impossible not to share the feeling. I can only hope that as the kitten grows older those times will become more common while the crazy moments will become less frequent.

The year began in Palermo, Sicily. I joined my parents and brother in touring Sicily for our Christmas vacation. On New Years’ we were firmly ensconced in the well-appointed apartment of a ballet-loving Sicilian who generously included us in his New Years’ festivities. Joining us were an eclectic mix of ballet aficionados – young and old, rich and poor, English-speaking and hand-gesturing Italian. We drank well and ate well, shifting from sipping champagne on the roof with a dramatic view of the Palermo skyline to munching on some delicious Italian cuisine with a rapt audience watching an old video of an apparently classic ballet performance. The year was off to a good start.

The old town of Siracusa

For me, 2009 can be clearly divided into two parts: Before Marriage (hereafter to be referred to as “BM”) and After Marriage (“AM”). The first half of the year was spent anticipating a July wedding. While the preparations for the wedding were largely completed by my wonderful fiancée, Megan, and her helpful mother, I was in no way prepared for all of the planning that went into a wedding. Even after making it through the event, I’m amazed at how much work goes into a single day. The preparations begin harmlessly enough with a whole range of options available. It is pleasant to imagine getting married in different places, envisioning different sorts of parties, and thinking of being surrounded by friends and family. Soon enough, decisions need to made and some of those options are eliminated. In our case, we opted to get married in Omaha, where Megan is from and where much of her family is located. This made sense and undoubtedly simplified the planning (at least for me since Megan was working in Omaha up until the wedding while I was 1,500 miles away in California). After a brief search, we settled on the Joselyn Art Museum, which is a beautiful setting and was conveniently located close to the charming Old Town section of Omaha.

During the first few months of 2009, while Megan drove the wedding planning forward, I divided my time between travelling for work, short weekend trips to an assortment of destinations, and enjoying my last few month of bachelorhood. For work, my role helping POM Wonderful expand to Asia meant regular trips to Korea, Japan, and China. While these forays abroad mainly meant shuffling between office buildings and hotels, I did have the opportunity for a few side excursions including an early morning trip to the Tsukiji Fresh Fish market in Tokyo and a disappointing Friday night in Macau. At the fish market, we arrived to see dozens of enormous frozen tuna being slid across the floor, along with hundreds of stalls selling every imaginable type of seafood along with a few that are best not imagined. After watching the end of the morning trading, we found a small shack that served up some delicious sashimi – definitely one of the better ways to start a day. Later, while spending a weekend in Hong Kong, a couple co-workers and I decided to take the high-speed ferry to Macau for a Friday night. We had heard that Macau was like Las Vegas on steroids and we were prepared to be impressed. When we arrived a soft drizzle turned into a driving rain and we hopped in a cab to shuttle us to the Venetian. The 15-minute cab ride allowed us to observe the massive casinos under construction that did in fact look like larger versions of those found in Las Vegas. However, it seemed that most of the construction had stopped and it was hard not to be amazed at how few people were actually in the casinos. At 9:00 PM on a Friday night we went to the busiest bar in the Venetian and for a while we were the only table in the entire bar until a couple wandered in. A couple of other casinos proved to be the same and we eventually admitted defeat and returned to Hong Kong unimpressed.

Aside from business travel, most weekends meant either flying to Nebraska to visit Megan or travelling elsewhere for short escapes from LA. In April, I flew out to Cape Cod to visit my dad, my brother, and my grandmother. It was nice to be back in a place so familiar and to spend a pleasant weekend with family. In June, my brother and my cousin, Eric, flew out to LA and we made the pilgrimage to Las Vegas. During a short weekend, we managed to cover most of the strip and avoided losing too much money or jeopardizing my marriage. Also in June, Megan and I met in Kansas City where we spent the weekend with my cousin Randy, who was preparing to officiate our wedding. We spent the weekend discussing the institution of marriage and answering an assortment of questions meant to assure that we were prepared for the significant commitment we were planning to make. Apparently, we passed the test since Randy would eventually conduct our marriage ceremony.

Unquestionably, the biggest event of my year occurred on July 11^th, when Megan and I were married in Omaha, Nebraska. After all of the planning and preparations, it was great to finally have our family and closest friends gathered together to be a part of such a special occasion. I flew out to Nebraska on my birthday and met my parents at the hotel. My brother arrived the following day and throughout the week each day brought the arrival of more family and more friends. Each day was full and the time seemed to fly by. It was so nice to have so many loved ones in a single place, but it was difficult to have enough time to spend with everyone. On Friday, my parents hosted the rehearsal dinner at Rick’s Boatyard Café overlooking the Missouri River. It was a fun night and provided a nice opportunity for our two families to get to know one another. The following day, the wedding was beautiful. My cousin Randy officiated. My brother Brian was my best man while Megan’s sister Chris was her maid of honor. We were married in front a large glass sculpture by Chihuly. Megan looked stunning and we managed to get through the ceremony without any noticeable snafus. Following the ceremony, the reception took place in a magnificent indoor courtyard with a fountain in the middle. The months of planning and hard work were rewarded by a gorgeous evening.

Following the wedding, Megan and I departed for Los Angeles, where we spent a day at our apartment before continuing on to Australia. For the next two weeks, we explored the east coast of Australia, beginning in Sydney then flying to Port Douglas and the Whitsunday Islands. The time was spent relaxing, eating well, enjoying the local attractions, and generally enjoying each other’s company. Some of the highlights included a tour of the Sydney Opera House, holding a kuala, snorkeling in the Whitsunday’s, hiking through the Daintree Rainforest, walking along the beach, seeing crocodiles in the wild, and feeding dingoes and kangaroos. It was a terrific way to begin our life together and our only regret is that the honeymoon didn’t last longer.

Thus began the AM portion of the year. After the honeymoon, Megan moved out to Santa Monica and my day-to-day life experienced a substantial upgrade. Instead of subsisting on a bland diet of pasta and rice, I began coming home to real meals. Instead of surfing the internet during dinner, I have actual conversations. Instead of talking to Megan on the phone every evening, I get to go for a nice walk along the beach with her each night. Even the apartment has undergone a surprising transformation with complete sets of dishes, knives, and silverware replacing the mishmash of random kitchenware that I had become accustomed to. In general, my daily changed from simple and minimal to slightly less simple and much fuller (in a good way). On weekends, the difference was even more pronounced. Rather than spending time sitting in airports, we could explore Southern California together. We could go camping or to a museum or even just out to eat. Just about everything became more enjoyable.

Perhaps the only drawback of married life is that we are faced with the unenviable choice of where to spend holidays. Naturally, we want to spend this time together, but we are also accustomed to spending them with our families. The best possible solution would have been if we were cousins and we shared the same family, but this would seem to carry its own challenges. This year, we opted to spend Thanksgiving with my family in California and spend Christmas with Megan’s family in Nebraska. So, in late November my parents and brother journeyed out to California for roughly a week of vacation. It was a fun week that included a trip to Santa Barbara for wine tasting, a drive north to Fresno to tour the POM Wonderful pomegranate facility, and a traditional Thanksgiving meal at our apartment (fortunately, we could use all of the great wedding gifts we received to finally host a dinner).

Likewise, the week spent with Megan’s family in Nebraska was thoroughly enjoyable. We traded in the never-ending summer of California for the extreme winter of Nebraska. During the five days that I spent in Omaha, the accumulated snowfall must have exceeded 18 inches. While the inclement weather precluded traveling too far from the house, it was wonderful to be able to play in the snow for the first time in years. After years of spending Christmas in the tropics, it was nice to experience a white Christmas and get at least a taste of winter.

So, after a memorable year, the end of 2009 finds Megan and I comfortable and happy in Santa Monica. It is difficult to foretell what the future holds, but we are fortunate to be together and we can only hope that 2010 proves to be as enjoyable as the past year.

Travel has dominated the past months for a number of reasons. For work, I travelled overseas to Korea, Japan, Hong Kong, Beijing, and Shanghai. While the strip was predominantly business, I managed to sneak in a few fun activities. In Tokyo, I met up with my good friends, the Eguchi family for an enjoyable lunch. In Hong Kong, a couple of co-workers and I took the ferry to Macao, supposedly the “Las Vegas” of Asia and “Vegas on steroids.” Despite visiting on a Friday night, what we found was a depressing ghost town. We strolled around the palatial Venician where a smattering of Chinese tourists marveled at the artificial canals. We drank by ourselves in an empty bar before moving to an equally desolate restaurant. It quickly became apparent that the casinos had been overbuilt in a wild frenzy of overly optimistic expectation. Instead, after a disappointing few hours, we hopped on the ferry back to Hong Kong. In Beijing, our hotel was only a few blocks from Tiananmen Square. After running the gauntlet of prostitutes, it was possible to stroll up to the Great Hall at the entrance to the Forbidden City. However, as with my last visit to Beijing, I was once again thwarted in my attempt to see Chairman Mao’s preserved corpse. This time, the mausoleum was closed for regular renovations and maintenance that just happened to coincide with the 50^th anniversary of the invasion of Tibet.

The Eguchi Family

Aside from business travel, I have been shuttling back and forth to Omaha on weekends when Megan isn’t visiting me in LA. Weekends in Omaha typically involve exhausting amounts of wedding planning while weekends together in LA usually involve little, if any, mention of the wedding at all. In mid-March, my mom visited the U.S. from Italy and flew to Omaha for the weekend. Since it was her first visit to “the Gateway to the West,” she got the frantic tour of the area. This tour was naturally heavy on wedding-related destinations including the wedding venue, rehearsal venue, hotel, bridal shop, courthouse, jewelry store, shopping malls, restaurants, and just about anything else remotely connected to a wedding. It was a busy weekend, but it was nice for her to be able to meet Megan’s family and to see Omaha before the wedding.

The following weekend, I took a redeye flight to Boston and spent the weekend in Onset visiting my dad, my brother, and my grandmother. It is always wonderful to visit Onset, especially in the off-season when it is quiet. We enjoyed a relaxing weekend, occasionally venturing outside to play tennis or throw the football, though mainly camping out inside watching soccer and basketball on TV and feasting on chocolate chip cookies. On Sunday morning, we made the regular pilgrimage to the Daniel Webster Inn in Sandwich where we savored a delicious breakfast buffet. Our family has had many memorable meals at the Daniel Webster and it was nice to add another one.

After a couple of months of frantic travel nearly every weekend, April was intended to be a month of regaining stability and getting back into a normal routine. However, these plans hit a snag when I unexpectedly was laid low by a medical issue. Megan was in LA visiting for her Spring Break and on her second day here I began to feel sick. After nearly 8 hours of vomiting, it became clear that whatever I had wasn’t going away, so she drove me to the emergency room at 3:30 in the morning. I was soon admitted to the hospital and an NG tube was promptly thrust down my nose into my stomach. A couple of years ago in Atlanta, I experienced similar symptoms and was hospitalized due to a blockage in my small intestine. Eventually, the blockage resolved itself without surgery, although apparently the same issue had returned. This time, I was given a CT scan and moved into a shared room. Fortunately, the NG tube relieved the pressure in my stomach and prevented vomiting and thankfully the steady flow of morphine dulled the pain. In the afternoon, I completed another CT scan, this time with a liquid injected into me to monitor the flow. Only a couple of hours after the results of this test came back I was rushed down to the operating room to prepare for surgery. When I woke near midnight, the surgery was completed and I was informed that the blockage in my small intestine was due to Meckel’s diverticulum. The offending portion of the small intestine was removed, along with my appendix (to reduce the risk of infection). A roughly four inch scar ran up my stomach, wrapping around my belly button. Initially, the scar was jagged and looked like I was the victim of a shark attack, although it has straightened out over time.

Aaron in Emergency Room

Following the surgery, I remained in the hospital for four additional days. The first day I could barely move and I was told that the small intestine basically falls asleep as a result of the anesthetic used during surgery. It wasn’t until the third day when I was allowed to drink liquids and four days before I could begin to consume soft foods. Oddly, despite not eating or drinking anything for an entire week, I still didn’t lose any weight at all. Fortunately, Megan stayed with me in the hospital and we passed the time reading, watching TV, sleeping, listening to our annoying roommate, and going for short walks. While walking around was encouraged to aid in a speedy recovery, the walking course was less than stellar. Our short stroll around our floor of the hospital took us past one room where two security officers stood guard on an unquestionably disturbed looking patient – Megan and I spent a good deal of time speculating on his crime, although we never gained closure through a confirmed answer. Further along the course, we passed a series of rooms marked with signs warning that patients inside the room carried airborne viruses. Nurses entering the room were covered head to toe and donned masks. Still, they often left the doors open and occasionally let those patients out for a walk, so we did our best to hold our breaths and avoid that section of the floor. Really, I cannot recommend a stay in the hospital on any grounds. The food isn’t very good, the rooms aren’t very comfortable, and most of the people are sick.

Aaron returning from a walk

Eventually, I was discharged and allowed to return home. However, I was instructed to remain on soft foods for a few days and to avoid any exercise. I was not allowed to lift anything over 15 pounds, I couldn’t run, and I wasn’t allowed to drive since I was prescribed vicodin. Thankfully, Megan extended her spring break and stayed for an additional week. During that time, she pampered me and took care of me far better than any of the nurses at the hospital (actually, even in the hospital she usually got what I needed). At times, it was slightly embarrassing to have her carrying bags of groceries or piles of laundry while I shuffled next to her carrying nothing (or her purse). Each day, we would go for a short, slow walk around the neighborhood and I gradually began to feel better.

The recovery continues and I am not yet entirely back to being able to eat, drink, or exercise as I would like. However, each day the pain lessens and I get closer to a full recovery. In retrospect, I was fortunate that the incident happened while I was in the U.S. and that Megan was around to take care of me. The upcoming couple of months look to be busy and full of more travel, so even the timing worked out pretty well. Considering how busy and eventful the past few months have been, I’m eager to see what’s in store for the next few months.

Siracusa was founded by Greek Corinthians 2,700 years ago and quickly became one of the most important Greek city-states. Cicero described Siracusa as “the greatest Greek city and the most beautiful of them all.” The city still maintains its charm and is overflowing with history. The ancient old town was made even more dramatic during our visit by the strong wind that blew in from the north. Huge waves battered the walls of the city and the narrow alleys transformed into fierce wind tunnels. As the town endured the adverse conditions, it was hard to imagine the Greeks landing in the relatively unprotected harbor. Certainly, the few boats tied up in the marina were rolling violently and I was happy to be staying on dry land.

Being the offseason, the town was relatively empty and it was easy to spend hours strolling through the maze of streets. Although Siracusa has crept further inland, the ancient walled city is contained on a small island no larger than a couple of miles around. Like most Italian cities, there is an impressive church, a main piazza, a wealth of inviting restaurants, and a disproportionate number of fashion boutiques. After struggling to navigate the impossibly narrow streets that were obviously not intended for cars, we eventually found our bed and breakfast, which was a spacious loft in the old city. On the ground floor was a courtyard and some Jewish baths.

Our first night in the city, we enjoyed a fine meal of traditional Sicilian food. Brian opted for pasta drenched in the ink of an octopus, while the rest of us experimented with less black food. Afterwards, Brian and I explored the city in search of an elusive wine bar and finally settled on an intimate restaurant on the corner near our hotel. The next morning, we drove inland a few miles to view the ruins of both a Greek and Roman theatre. Built next to a quarry, the theatres were remarkably well maintained. In the shape of a semi-circle, the Greek theatre was built into a hill that focused on the stage. In contrast, the Roman theatre resembled a smaller version of the Coliseum and the stadium seating surrounded a larger oval in the center. The highlight of the quarry was a large cave known as “Dionysus Ear,” so named because the acoustics allowed the slave driver to listen in on the conversations of prisoners from a distance. It was from here that workers mined the quarry for the enormous stones that would be used in the theaters.

The rest of our time in Siracusa was spent exploring the old city. The narrow paths between leaning old buildings reminded me of Siena while the seawall and proximity to water called to mind Venice. In the morning, we strolled the fresh market that offered an astonishing assortment of colorful fruits, unrecognizable vegetables, and peculiar creatures from the sea. Near the piazza, we savored calorie-packed canolis. Not content with one desert, we then washed it down with Italian Hot Chocolate, a rich drink so thick that it could be eaten with a spoon.

After a couple of nice days in Siracusa, it was time to head west across Sicily. On the morning of our departure, we found the car covered in salt spray and foam from the sea that had managed to fly over the imposing seawall and across the street to coat our car. The wind continued to howl as we departed the city and we began the roughly three hour drive across Sicily.

The drive across the interior of Sicily was scenic. Rolling hills, remote villas, and the occasional traditional village made for a lovely landscape. The peaceful surroundings quickly gave way to the bellicose urban squalor of Agrigento. Traffic ground to a halt, rundown apartment buildings appeared in every direction, and the overwhelming sense of corruption was inescapable. Agrigento is famously a hotbed of mafia activity. Even without this knowledge, a few minutes in the city made it obvious that this was not a place where one wanted to linger.

For our part, we stopped in the city proper long enough only to grab a slice of pizza and then we drove to the outlying suburbs that offered an astonishing array of Greek ruins. Situated on a series of hills, there were six or seven massive ruins spread along a ridge known as the “valley of temples.” Never having visited Greece, I imagine that these impressive structures are common in that country. The first ruin we visited was a well-preserved temple that resembled the Parthenon. We furiously snapped pictures from every conceivable angle and marveled at how intact the temple remained after 2,500 years. It helped that there were very few visitors and it seemed as if we had the place to ourselves. This is one of the advantages of visiting Sicily in the off-season. The obvious drawback is that it was bitter cold.

Next, we hiked a quarter of a mile to a similar and equally well-preserved temple. Again, we sought to capture the majesty of the structure through the perfect picture. Walking further down the path, we were greeted by yet another temple. Then another one and then another one. Gradually, our amazement turned to apathy. Each temple seemed slightly less impressive and we picked up the pace as we moved from one temple to the next. By the end, we clicked a couple of pictures and kept walking.

Having been satiated on the ruins of temples, we hopped back in the car and drove another hour to a quaint bed and breakfast in Salinute. Owned by an English woman who lived on a working olive farm, we were the only guests for the night. The cozy rooms each had their own kitchen and bathroom and we opted to stay in for the evening to enjoy a simply dinner.

The following morning, we visited another series of ruins, this time in nearby Salinute. These ruins were equally impressive and even less crowded. We literally had acres of ruins to ourselves. Even more surprising, these ruins were completely open and visitors were welcome to walk among the fallen pillars and columns. Having taken the obligatory pictures, we proceeded to climb among the ruins, scrambling over massive stones. Similar to the ruins near Agrigento, the ruins in Salinute spanned a couple of miles and we meandered through impressive temples overlooking the rugged coast.

After a hearty lunch in downtown Salinute, we drove north along the coast to our final destination in Sicily, the capitol and largest city of Palermo. In Palermo, we would spend New Years’ Eve.

The journey began as all epic journeys must, in a long line on Christmas morning with an irritable mob of angry travelers. Contrary to my naïve expectations, many people do in fact travel on Christmas day. I left my apartment at 7:30 am on Christmas morning, boarding the shared ride van that cruised through the eerily empty LA streets and arrived at the airport in record time. The lack of traffic and overly cautious shuttle schedule resulted in my arriving at the airport four hours before my flight. This proved useful as I was immediately confronted by an appallingly long line. Apparently, US Airways had too few people working the counters and the resulting line wrapped 100 yards out the door. People stood helplessly as they missed their flights due to the airlines incompetence. Any traveler brave enough to walk to the front of the line to ask a question was berated by the people who suspected the encroacher was trying to cut the line. Eventually, after an hour and a half, I made it to the counter and had plenty of time to reach my gate. I was then whisked to Charlotte, Frankfurt, and, finally, Bologna, where my smiling family was awaiting me.

Having spent Christmas Day flying across the Atlantic, I arrived in Bologna on December 26^th . My brother, who arrived a day earlier, gleefully reported on a delicious Christmas meal that my mom cooked for his arrival. Fortunately, my family celebrated a belated Christmas and had another excellent meal before exchanging gifts. For this meal, my mom prepared a traditional Italian Christmas dish called “stinko” (sp?). Despite the off-putting name, it was in fact very good and an always reliable Brunello provided by my dad only enhanced the dinner. Despite the presence of tasty food, transcendent wine, and good company, jet lag took its toll and I found myself nodding off in the middle of conversations like a doddering, senile old man.

The day after I arrived in Italy, we woke early and began the long drive from Bologna to Sicily. Considering how tiny Europe is, it was with some surprise that I learned that it would take about 12 hours to drive from northern Italy all the way to the heel of the boot. The drive was scenic and my still confused body spent much of the trip drifting in and out of sleep. We alternated drivers and the long journey didn’t seem too bad. Just after sunset, we finally embarked on a ferry that carried us across the windy strait to the island of Sicily as rain clouds lurked on the horizon.

Still, we had another hour of driving through a torrential downpour before we reached our destination of Taormina. After eventually finding our hotel, my father and I then spent the better part of 30 minutes figuring out how to get the spacious BMW to fit in a parking spot several inches shorter than the length of the car. The answer was eventually revealed to us when a passing Sicilian pulled one of the poles marking the end of the spot out of the ground and leaned it against a nearby wall.

Taormina is perched on the side of a hill overlooking the sea and is considered an affluent resort town that offers stunning views of Mt. Etna. Befitting the alpine personality of the town, our Swiss lodge felt like it could have been somewhere in the Alps. After checking into the hotel, we secured a recommendation for dinner and walked through the quaint downtown to a non-descript pink restaurant. Small and cozy, we were fortunate to have a reservation as waves of would-be diners were turned away due to lack of available tables. Hardly larger than a decent sized dining room, the patrons all seemed to know the wait staff and everyone appeared to be a regular. Celebrating our arrival in Sicily, we dined on the fresh seafood accompanied by local wine, followed by some delicious tiramisu. This proved to be the best meal of the whole trip.

Still suffering from jetlag, the next morning I awoke before sunrise and ventured out into the damp predawn. The town was empty and I was free to stroll the quiet streets as the light slowly changed. Cobblestone streets and narrow alleys snaked throughout the small village. I ventured up a well-trodden path towards a remote village that appeared to float in the clouds. Hanging on the side of a cliff, the village clung to the mountain and watched over the rugged coast below. After encountering an insistent dog that urged me to turn around, I took heed of the advice and headed back to the hotel for a mediocre continental breakfast.

Since it was Sunday, my mom seemed to feel that it made sense to attend church. Since this was Italy, there were plenty of churches, although they seemed to specialize more in the displaying of relics and on the struggle to remain standing than in the conducting of religious ceremonies. We wandered through several churches and walked through a maze of high end shops before being caught in a downpour. The rain was unrelenting and we finally ran back to the shelter of the hotel. While the city was beautiful, the weather did not seem encouraging. With another drive ahead of us, we decided to move on to Syracusa.

Having not seen Mt. Etna, we left Taormina charmed, well-fed, and wet. Next up, Syracusa.

As I should have expected, Audentes was exactly where I left her. Similarly, as expected, she was filthy. A thick layer of dirt had settled on the hull. After obtaining a ladder, I climbed aboard and surveyed the topsides. Again, everything was dirty, but otherwise unchanged. Unlocking the hatch, the cabin was musty and cluttered, but not nearly the disaster that I had anticipated. In my frequent nightmares, I pictured some vicious animal (perhaps a javelina) running roughshod around my cabin, wreaking havoc and defecating with little regard for my belongings. All in all, I was pleased that nothing was missing or damaged. Of course, the teak was badly faded from the sun and I expect that some hidden items such as wires had suffered corrosion. The engine was never my most reliable companion and I doubt that the time apart has done much to improve the relationship. However, considering that the boat had been neglected for two years, I was pleased to find everything much as I left it.

After the initial wave of relief, I began cleaning. Since I was only staying for a day, I wasn’t able to thoroughly clean the boat or even clean it to the point that I would have liked, but I did manage to make it at least livable for a night. I aired out my sleeping bag, drained the bilge, and dusted around the chart table. It was tempting to try to tackle the cockpit and to get the boat to the comfortable condition that I am accustomed to, but the realization that I would soon be leaving and that the work would be wasted led me to instead focus on going through my stuff to bring back a few items to the US. While space was limited, I managed to pack away some books, movies, a calculator, sunglasses, my surfboard, and my foul weather gear. Sorting through closets and drawers felt like Christmas morning, as I remembered all of the personal items on the boat.

Even during a short visit, it was easy to shift back into my former lifestyle. Projects that seemed so daunting from the U.S. suddenly appeared manageable. I started lists and found myself planning how long various projects would take and how much each piece of equipment would cost. Even being back close to the water, surrounded by other boats and a stunning landscape brought fond memories of my years aboard Audentes flooding back. Yet, after only a day of being back on the boat, it was time to drive south to the airport to catch my flight to Sydney.

Despite the short duration of the visit, it was sad to leave the boat. The difference between my life aboard Audentes and my current lifestyle was made even more apparent when I arrived in Sydney. A day after sleeping in a dirty, cluttered boat, I found myself relaxing in my posh hotel room in the Shangri-La overlooking the Sydney Opera House. The contrast was jarring. I began to feel like a polygamist, leading two completely separate lives. In one life that is centered in the South Pacific, I am an isolated sailor living on a shoestring budget and constantly battling to maintain an aging boat as I drift from one tropical island to another. In my second, completely different life that is based in Los Angeles, I’m a corporate striver trying to peddle POM Wonderful pomegranate juice. In one scenario, I’m a loner battling the elements in an exotic land; in the other, I’m engaged to a lovely woman from Nebraska. The more I considered my divergent lives, the more I wondered at how I could bring the two seemingly opposite existences together.

Fortunately, I didn’t have too much time to dwell on the dichotomy that is my life as I was busy in Australia launching POM Wonderful in the land down under. Aside from meetings with importers, retailers, and demo reps, I was able to visit a number of the stores selling the product to get feedback and to see first-hand how the juice was moving. It was also a nice way to see Sydney and I was immediately enamored with the beautiful city. Certainly, it is a sailor’s paradise with plenty of wind and countless lovely coves. It seems as if the entire city is on the water and each night we dined at a different stunning harbor.

My last day in Sydney, I signed up to climb over the Harbor Bridge. After forking over $200AUD, passing a breathalyzer, and clearing a metal detector, I was outfitted with climbing gear and harnessed in. The climb itself was a nice way to see Sydney and our guide gave an entertaining and informative tour of the city from above. At certain points, we could peer through the grating straight down to the harbor below. While most of the climb was sunny and warm, a dark cloud did pass over and for about 15 minutes we endured hard rain and winds in excess of 25 mph. Reaching the summit, we were regaled with stories of various Aussies who chose the top of the bridge as the appropriate place to propose. In one story, the gentleman fumbled his ring and watched in agony as the expensive rock tumbled into the abyss. In another anecdote, a woman rejected the proposal and the poor man was subjected to several hours of being roped right next to the vile woman with no chance of escape.

Returning to the US, I had little time at home in LA before I was again on the road. This time, I headed east to Nebraska where I spent Thanksgiving with my fiancée and her family. In addition, we were fortunate enough to have my brother Brian join us in the Midwest. Brian provides a good account of the weekend on his website, which can be reached at the following link: http://www.thecookblog.com/thanksgiving-in-nebraska . There is little that I can add to my snarky, 1920’s-hat-wearing brother’s description, so I simply say that, as usual, I had a wonderful time with Megan and her family.

And so, the past couple of months have been a whirlwind of travel. Instead of slow, plodding progress with a tropical breeze at my back, my recent mode of transportation tends toward the frantic hustling among the throngs and masses. I have spent more time huddled in mobbed airports than I would care to recount. I’ve endured numerous layovers in Denver, Phoenix, and Auckland. I’ve been coughed on, elbowed, bumped into, and generally jostled at all altitudes. I’ve dropped an astonishing amount of money on cabs, rental cars, and parking garages. I’m tired, weary, and there is no end in sight. Yet, I am happy. I like my job. I’m in love with my fiancée. I can tolerate LA. Although things aren’t perfect, all in all, they are pretty good.

The trip was delayed from the previous weekend, as New England’s autumn weather proved more suited for fireplaces and drawing rooms than beach towels and foredecks. Still, sailing season was slipping away, and we all agreed that Sunday, October 5 was the last logistically feasible weekend day where we could expect some sun. So it was that our group made its way to Newport from Connecticut early in the morning in order to squeeze every drop of sailing out of our sunlight hours.

As it happened, there were no sunlight hours. A drizzle began before we even reached Rhode Island, and it only intensified as the day went on. Moreover, the wind was light and variable, meaning that we had the trifecta of ingredients for a miserable day out: cold, wet and windless. Still, we had a boat, and that boat had a stove so we made some hot chocolate and waited for a while to see if conditions would improve. They did not, and so west cast off from our mooring at 11 AM and made for Narragansett Bay.

The boat was pleasant and clean, if lacking a bit in character (and stodgily named Summer Wind). I was shocked to find that nothing was broken, and even more shocked that we broke nothing during our few hours of use. This, I believe, settles the question of which Cook brother was the catalyst for Audentes’ many complaints.

With the capable help of Messrs. Ian, Andres and Canz, as well as Mlles. Ali, Kristina and Kerry, we safely motored through the mooring field and successfuly avoided a junior regatta thanks to some evasive maneuvers. Once we were far enough out, we raised the main sail, unfurled the jib and, cutting the motor, were moving only under the glorious power of wind. Elated and soaking wet, we headed for Newport Bridge at the respectable clip of 2.5 knots (slightly less than 3 mph).

Before long, what little wind we had was nearly gone. Still, it was probably for the best as everyone got a turn behind the wheel of our almost-motionless vessel. My pipe was filled with toasted Cavendish and eventually lit, so that the crew took turns puffing on it, assuming salty expressions and posing for pictures at the helm. We gradually crept forward and slowly passed under the bridge, the falling raindrops mingling with the gasoline-spiked runoff of the car parade above. The temperature continued to drop and the rain intensified, and we finally decided to turn back to seek food and warmth.

With the youngsters’ regatta still cluttering the harbor, we again picked our way carefully through the boats and moorings and found our own, which we picked up without difficulty. It was shortly after 2 PM, bringing the full time of our sailing experience to about three hours. That still proved to be enough for everyone, and we hit downtown Newport in search of a place to eat and warm ourselves. We settled on Buskers, a dark and cozy Irish pub, ordering enough Irish coffee, beer and grub to pleasantly warm ourselves.

It being Sunday, some of the group headed home, while the rest of us went to yet another Irish pub, which proved to be the best decision of the day. Stepping inside, our senses were washed with the delightful scene of a quintessential public house. In every corner, merry patrons in cable sweaters and tweed trousers leaned over worn tables and glowing candles. Brilliant light and heat emanated from the potbelly stove in the middle of the room, illuminating the circle of a dozen musicians playing Irish folk songs. We found a table near the stove and hunkered down, enjoying the beer, the music and Ian’s stories of Madchester in the 80’s late into the night.

We’ve been told to plan another sailing trip in the spring, and on the strength of this one, I’d love to return to Newport. Its deep links with the sea and its small shops and pubs made it a perfect destination for this trip, which offered some of the misery and lots of the joy of sailing.

Considering the benefits that I have experienced with running, competing in triathlons seemed like a natural extension – a way to cross-train and to avoid some of the burnout that runners inevitably suffer when they notice a plateau in the miles run and speed attained. The attraction has only grown stronger recently as I have become more interested in biking and I have enjoyed my close proximity to the bike paths in Santa Monica. Yet, the reluctance to take part in triathlons has always been due to my weakness as a swimmer. Although this may be surprising for someone who grew up close to the water and has spent so much time on a boat, my swimming is largely limited to getting from one place to another or lazily floating in place. Speed, efficiency, and good form have never been my strengths in the water. In fact, I generally sink like a rock and it takes all my energy to plow forward before the ocean swallows me whole. Due to this limitation, I have been in no rush to attempt to swim a distance that I am uncertain of whether I can actually complete all while being kicked in the face and pummeled from all directions by other swimmers. The worst case for biking or running is changing a flat tire or having to walk. The worst case for swimming is drowning.

Still, I am nothing if not a glutton for punishment. When I received an e-mail at work inviting employees to participate in the LA Triathlon, I recognized an opportunity to give triathlons a try. While I might not be practical, I am realistic and I wisely opted to commit only to the sprint distance that is made up of a .4 mile swim, a 20 mile bike ride, and a 3.1 mile run. The course would begin near my apartment in Venice. After swimming around a few buoys in the fetid waters of Venice Beach, the bike portion would be a winding course to downtown Los Angeles. The run would be hilly course to Disney Hall and back to the Staples Center. Between the proximity to the start, the generous corporate sponsorship, and the support of knowing co-workers were in the same boat, it seemed like the ideal opportunity to take part in a triathlon.

Unlike a marathon, training for a triathlon does not seem to be clearly structured. Training plans vary and the mix between swimming, biking, and running is more of an art than a science. In any case, my lackluster training was less planned than opportunistically improvised. One would think that since swimming is by far my weakest discipline that I would focus primarily on becoming a more efficient swimmer. One would be incorrect. To be fair, I did join a gym with a pool. Unfortunately, the three lanes at the gym pool seem to be occupied at all times. Instead, I had to content myself with laps at the hotel pool during my frequent business trips to Fresno. Hardly larger than the size of a big Jacuzzi, my training at the hotel pool mainly improved my ability to push off the wall and turn around – not essential skills in an open water swim. After investing in the least expensive wetsuit available, I did venture out to the beach a couple of times to test out my new purchase. Even at the time, I realized that swimming alone was not intelligent and I was cautious about heading too far out beyond the wave breaks. Instead, I mainly plunged through big waves and body surfed my way in. I did notice the towering waves and the strong current running southwest, but these “swims” did little to build my confidence about surviving the first leg of the race.

Undaunted, I took solace in the parts of training that felt good. I enjoyed the bike rides and runs that took on more meaning since I was now training for a race. Although I didn’t rack up many miles, my focus was primarily on speed and dropping some weight before the event. To this end, I began to be a little more careful about my diet, cutting back on desserts and counting calories. At one point, I went on a daylong water diet that was meant to purge my system of toxins, but just made me hungry and irritable. The one thing that training for a triathlon has taught me is that I have become soft since returning from the boat. My time of going days without sleep or food appear to be in my past. During the roughly five weeks I spent preparing for the race, I somehow only managed to drop a couple of pounds, although I did at least feel better and convinced myself that I looked thinner.

While my training remained mired in the general fitness phase and never progressed to the important build-up phase, the date of the triathlon quickly snuck up on me. Suddenly, I found myself only a few days from the event without any confidence as to my ability to complete the swim. In one of the few team events that our company held before the race, we met up for happy hour after work. Holding court over the gathering was an employee who has completed many triathlons and is a member of the board for the LA Triathlon. She patiently answered our questions and provided a plethora of information on the event. Unfortunately, pretty much all of the information was bad news. For starters, we were instructed to arrive by 6:30 on the day of the race despite our wave not starting until 8:15. From my experience in marathons, I know that waking early and waiting around for the start of a race can be draining and is not something that is encountered in training. Once in the water, she told us how we should be prepared to be kicked in the face. When I asked if it was acceptable to do the breaststroke since that is my strongest stroke, she warned me that the motion of my kick would likely annoy other participants and that it isn’t uncommon for racers to elbow or punch other swimmers in the stomach resulting in the wind being knocked out of a competitor. In addition, we learned that the bike and running courses were extremely hilly. Finally, we were advised of the many rules that are strictly enforced in the triathlon. No drafting. No biking on the left side (considered blocking). No iPods. There were others, but I stopped listening, demoralized. The whole event sounded like a forced death march.

The day before the race, Megan and I went to the expo to pick up my bib and chip. Located at a hotel, the expo was poorly organized. After paying $10 for insurance on the day of the race (required), we wandered over to pick up a swim cap, complimentary t-shirt, and some course information. We perused a couple of tents peddling triathlon gear and decided we had had enough. On the way out, we saw a long line and were instructed that was where we should drop off my running gear that would be waiting for me at the second transition area. The sense that I was probably missing something important was hard to shake. Still, I tried to quell my fears and organized my stuff as best I could. That evening, I carbo-loaded on pasta and tried to get to bed early.

On Sunday morning, I woke early at 5:30 am. Gathering my belongings, I peddled my bike over to the start area in Venice Beach. After having my number written on my arm and my age drawn on my calf, I deposited my bike at the appropriate rack and waited. In preparation for the start, I went in the water to try to acclimate and watched the earlier waves to see how the start would work. I commiserated with a few co-workers and tried to limit my excitement to avoid wasting energy. The start of the race was anticlimactic. Everyone with the same color cap was herded into the corral. There was no countdown or warning, just a fog horn that was sounded to signify the start of our wave. Trying to stay towards the back and out of the way, I jogged to the right side of the start and waded into the water. The tide was out, so I was able to wade almost 30 yards from the beach. The waves were crashing and lifeguards floated nearby calling out every time a particularly large wave rolled in. The waves were taller than me and each time one approached I dove through the bottom. A couple of times, other swimmers would be thrown back into me. Eventually, I managed to get past where the waves were breaking and swim up and over the onrushing surges. As expected, the water was congested and I was constantly kicked from all directions. Limited in space, I was forced to thread my way around swimmers using the breaststroke, which surprisingly seemed to keep up with swimmers doing freestyle. Thankfully, my position on the outside proved a good decision since the current was pushing us south, towards the first marker. The competitors who attempted to swim the rumb line were pushed below the marker and had to fight their way back. I was gradually sliding towards it and eventually drifted by. On the second leg, the current was at our backs and I altered between breaststroke and freestyle depending on how much space was available. Every time I changed to freestyle, I would surge forward and be blocked by a line of swimmers. After turning the second buoy, we were forced to fight the current and I utilized freestyle most of the way, again swimming on the outside to avoid swimmers and attempt to use the current. Finally, I passed the last buoy and turned for the shore, body surfing the waves as I was thrown head over heels in the crashing waves. Exhausted, it was a tremendous relief to feel land beneath my feet and I shuffled out of the water and up the beach. I completed the swim in 18 minutes and 31 seconds.

The transition area was chaotic with competitors running in all directions while other participants not yet in the race waited in line for the bathroom or milled around. With a towel, I brushed the sand off and shed my wetsuit. I put on my socks, bike shoes, and helmet before sucking down a packet of energy gel. Next, I grabbed my bike and jogged it out of the transition area, having changed in four minutes and 30 seconds.

Once on the bike, I felt great. The tailwind helped, as did the fact that my slow swimming meant that I was passing a lot of people. The first half of the bike was relatively flat and I raced along trying to make up time. Knowing that the swimming was behind was a great feeling and I didn’t hold back. I figured that since running is my strongest event that I didn’t need to leave much in the tank. This proved short-sighted. Still, on the bike I managed to pass nearly a hundred people while only being passed by one or two. The second half of the bike course was brutal with some long, steep hills that sapped what little energy I had left. The bike portion finished with a steep downhill that I cautiously rode the breaks on, sacrificing valuable seconds for the sake of personal safety. Having passed Disney Hall, the unique building designed by Frank Gehry, I arrived at the second transition area. My time for the 20 mile bike ride was one hour and 50 seconds.

The most infuriating part of the race was the second transition. Rows were marked by numbers, so I looked for my number, 2509. However, one row ended at 2499 and the next row began at 2600. I raced around looking for my row with no luck. Finally, I found a volunteer to ask and she informed me that my row was in the relay section, completely separate from the rest of the racks and out of sequential order. I quickly shed my bike helmet and shoes before putting on my running shoes, then hustled out of the transition area in a woeful two minutes and 42 seconds.

I should mention that part of the deal of our company sponsoring us was that they would provide triathlon jerseys. The jersey featured all of the products owned by Roll International. Originally, I chose the short-sleeve jersey since it looked like a bike jersey, but I decided to change to the sleeveless version since I thought it would be more comfortable during the run. Big mistake. The jersey looked awful. I can’t pinpoint exactly what makes it so terrible – the awkward collar, the zipper that run the entire length of the front, the effeminate design, or the general cut of the shirt – but the one thing that is certain is that I look like a rejected member of the Village People when I wear it. Fortunately, by the time the run began I was unconcerned with my appearance. Frankly, I was dragging. I didn’t save any energy and was spent. Also, since it was after 10:00 am, the sun was up and it was hot. Adding insult to injury, the running course was straight up the same steep hill that I chose life over success on the bike. I shuffled through the first mile and then walked up most of the hill. Although walking is pathetic, at that point there was very little difference in speed between jogging up the hill and walking. At the top of the hill, I resumed my plodding progress and then glided down the hill as I made up a little time. Finally, I jogged towards the finish line as the first semblance of a crowd surrounded the finish area. My time for the 5K run was 23 minutes and 11 seconds bringing my time for the entire race to one hour, 49 minutes, and 43 seconds.

Thus ends my first triathlon experience. Going in, I set the goals of (1) finishing, (2) having fun, and (3) completing the race in less than two hours. In retrospect, I was able to accomplish all three goals. Still, there is plenty of room for improvement. Looking back, I should have paced myself a little better during the biking portion to leave more energy for the run. In the transition areas, I could have been more efficient. Most importantly, I could have trained more to avoid the shortfall of energy towards the end. Yet, despite the mistakes, I could envision triathlons becoming addictive in the same way that I became obsessed with improving my marathon performances. There is always more that can be done and improvements that can be made. Hopefully, if I can improve my swimming form and increase my endurance, I can begin looking forward to my next triathlon when I can go farther and faster.

I have known from the very beginning that this was the person who I wanted to marry. It seems odd that the right person for me would be stashed away in Nebraska, but here we are.

The proposal took place on our trip east to visit my family. We first flew to Ohio, where we attended my cousin John’s wedding. This was Megan’s first opportunity to meet my mom’s side of the family and they seemed to take to her as quickly as I had. After less than two days in Ohio, my brother drove us to New England, stopping in a backcountry town in Pennsylvania to take in the European Championship final. (Despite nearly being shut out by the Nascar-loving burg, we eventually found an empty Italian restaurant that was kind enough to change the channel and to allow us to linger for the full 90 minutes.) Following a pleasant night at my brother’s apartment in Connecticut, my parents, who had flown into Boston, picked us up and drove us on to Cape Cod. In Onset, Megan was introduced to my dad’s side of the family and once again impressively rose to the challenge.

On Tuesday, as a break from the attentive curiosity of my family, Megan and I drove down the Cape on the scenic Route 3A. We stopped at the Cape Cod Canal, the Edward Gorey museum, and generally enjoyed the charming towns that drifted past. Our final destination was Nauset beach, where we found a secluded spot for a picnic. The romantic setting was quickly spoiled by an assault of tiny bugs that harassed us until we finally folded up the picnic and went for a walk along the beach. Combing for attractive rocks and seashells and far from any other beachgoers, I decided to spring my surprise and dropped to one knee. To say that Megan was surprised is an understatement. It seemed like an eternity between when I asked and when she finally said “yes.” Fortunately, the answer did eventually come back in the affirmative and, with shaking hands, I slipped the ring on her finger.

The initial shock lingered and, on the ride home between excited calls to family, she burst into loud exclamations of surprise. For dinner, my brother drove up from Connecticut to celebrate at the Daniel Webster Inn along with my parents and my grandmother. The meal was a nice end to an extremely memorable day.

At this point, we have not yet decided on a date or a location for the wedding and we plan to begin addressing the many details over the next couple of months. For now, we are enjoying the newness of calling each other “fiancée” and are spending the summer together in California.

Over the past year, I have been fortunate to have met such a special person, lucky to have had the chance to get to know her, privileged to have “holidated” with her on weekends throughout the country, and blessed to now be able to be engaged to such a wonderful person. I am excited for the many adventures that we have ahead of us and am thrilled to have someone I love with whom I can share the journey.

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