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.

]]> http://www.cooksails.com/journal/rules-of-engagement/feed http://www.cooksails.com/journal/theres-no-place-like-home http://www.cooksails.com/journal/theres-no-place-like-home#comments Thu, 29 May 2008 18:17:14 +0000 Aaron http://www.cooksails.com/?p=175 There is this magical place that I found. The food is inexpensive, the people are friendly, and the bucolic landscape recalls a simpler time. The airfare is expensive and this remote land is difficult to reach, but the inhabitants are friendly and generous and, surprisingly, happy that you have come to enjoy their small slice of paradise. So where is it? (Hint: although cows are numerous, it isn’t India; although the people speak a convoluted form of English, it isn’t Fiji; and although the cuisine centers on beef and football is king, it isn’t Brazil). The answer: this Shangri-La is known as Nebraska.

Located dead center of the continental United States, Nebraska is one of those anonymous patchworks of brown and green field that appear from a plane passing above as an endless puzzle of squares with the occasional circle breaking the monotony. Normally, as I fly over the middle of America, I slide my window shade up just enough to see that we haven’t yet reached the more interesting landscape of the Rocky Mountains or the eerie sepia deserts of Arizona before returning to my book. Yet, recently romance has guided me to explore this seemingly generic hinterland. This has led me to many discoveries and the realization that this often overlooked state is as exotic as anywhere that I have visited.

My most recent trip took place over the Memorial Day weekend. Little did I know that no place more actively celebrates the true spirit of Memorial Day than Nebraska. Growing up, Memorial Day weekend meant it was time for my parent’s boat to go in the water and to open up the cottage in Cape Cod. As romantic as this sounds, what it really meant was frantically fixing things on the boat, throwing on a coat of bottom paint, and then waiting anxiously to see if the boat would float. It always did, although the maiden voyage from the launch to the mooring nearly always revealed some irritating problem, usually in the form of a malfunctioning engine or running aground due to mistiming the tides. By the time we managed to reach the mooring, it was often dark, so we would return to the cold, damp cottage to crawl through cobwebs in a quixotic attempt to turn on the water and power. Needless to say, all of this is nothing like Nebraska. For one thing, the only water we saw in Nebraska was either a cesspool that passed as a river or a bunch of rainwater lying stagnant in a ditch. Seven years of drought have no doubt devastated the obviously tiny sailing community of this water-deprived region. Aside from the lack of an ocean, it also turns out that Memorial Day was intended to memorialize dead soldiers. As a result, instead of scrubbing resilient mold from the cabin of a small sailboat, I found myself on my knees in a cemetery scrubbing bird crap off of gravestones. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The journey from Los Angeles to Omaha is always an adventure in itself. It turns out that it is easier to fly from LA to Tokyo than to Omaha. Not being considered a booming metropolis by the uppity latte-drinking snobs in California, there are no direct flights available to Omaha from LAX. Instead, a layover in Denver, Phoenix, Dallas, or Chicago is required. For this trip, I opted for Denver. With the worst of the winter weather behind us, I hoped that the risk of catching the last flight from Denver to Omaha would not be punished with an unwelcome nights stay in the mile high city. The first leg went smoothly, aside from a roughly one-hour delay for reasons that were not deemed important enough to explain. Perhaps fortunately, after having booked a single hour layover, Frontier Airlines notified me a couple of weeks before the flight that the time of the second leg of my itinerary had been pushed back three hours - instead of arriving at 8:30 pm, I would now be touching down at 11:30 pm. So much for trying to leave work early to get in at a reasonable time. The layover in Denver turned out to be even longer since tornadoes were passing through the area. The flight eventually departed, although we were forced to fly far south of the rumb line to Kansas to avoid inclement weather and, even then, the turbulence was enough that our complimentary in-flight drink was cancelled. I finally arrived in Omaha around 12:30 and my lovely girlfriend Megan gamely met me at the airport.

On Friday, following a morning of work (Megan), sleeping (Aaron), a haircut (Aaron), and teriyaki bowls (both), we began the three-hour drive from Omaha to the small town of Shelton, Nebraska, where Megan’s grandmother resides. The drive took us through a never-ending series of farms, barns, and pro-Jesus signs. While the rolling landscape inspired a quiet calm, the sky overhead appeared turbulent. Dark clouds swirled, hulking cumulus clouds raced by, and occasional downpours reduced visibility to frighteningly short distances. The roadside ditches overflowed and some farms resembled shallow ponds. Approaching Shelton, the traffic became sparse and the already open spaces of Nebraska became even more so. We finally arrived in the late afternoon between downpours to find a quiet little town of charming homes clustered around several blocks. Megan’s grandmother lives in a beautiful home at the center of town. Megan’s mother and aunt had already arrived, so we took advantage of the break in the weather to tour the town. Since the town only extends a mile and a half in any direction, the tour didn’t take long. Driving down Main St was a rapid fire of local landmarks - the library, the new fire station (the old one burned down), the police station, the closed gas station forever frozen at $2.47 per gallon (the owner had a weakness for gambling), the market, and the many houses that Megan’s relatives either owned, lived in, or had strong opinions about. Many of the homes were lovely Victorian buildings that were obviously once beautiful, but that had suffered from lack of adequate maintenance. Bisecting the town were a series of railroad tracks and seemingly every half hour a UP locomotive trailed by an assortment of coal cars, grain hoppers, and container cars would barrel through town. Next, we drove out to the farm that Megan’s family owns. To my untrained east coast eyes, it looked like an expansive field of well-tended dirt, though I’m sure it is much more impressive during harvest. I was pleased to learn that the large metal contraption that apparently irrigates the field is called a “pivot.” The highlight of the farm is a solitary gravestone that was put up along the Oregon Trail that passes through town. The marker was for a woman who perished during the treacherous journey, allegedly due to poisoning by Indians (a fact that is inscribed on the tombstone). According to legend, after the woman died, her husband returned to the east coast - presumably the only place that could make gravestones in those days - and hauled the heavy stone on a wheelbarrow back to the site where his beloved wife passed away. Oddly, several small trinkets were placed on the grave including a miniature Eiffel Tower and a Christmas ornament. Having seen Shelton, we headed into the relative metropolis of Kearney (pronounced “Carney”) for a substantial dinner.

Saturday began with a run around town (literally), following by a tasty breakfast of storts, a German delicacy that is something between crepes and pancakes with the appearance of scrambled eggs. Properly satiated, we set off for “the Arch.” Not to be confused with the shiny eyesore in St. Louis, this tasteful Nebraska attraction is a large red structure slightly resembling a palatial barn that spans the highway. Apparently, the arch that connects one side of I-80 to the other side of the interstate is meant to represent Nebraska’s role as a gateway to the west. A couple of reenactors greeted us at the entrance. Reenactors are creepy under any circumstances and these two men were no exception. One man looked like a gold miner who had been homeless in Santa Monica for the past 10 years. His compatriot appeared to be a civil war soldier who had been struck by lightning twice. Having met up with some of Megan’s relatives, we ascended the escalator and began working our way through the museum describing the history of Nebraska. The museum focused on the convergence of the Oregon Trail, the Mormon Trail, the transit of the 49ers, the Union Pacific railroad, and the Lincoln Highway. Just as Nebraska is now considered a fly-over state, it seems that throughout history Nebraska has served as a place that was passed through to get somewhere else. The highlight of the museum were a couple of windows overlooking the highway. As we watched cars pass below, their speed popped up on a speedometer. We were disappointed that the fastest car was only going 81 mph (the speed limit was 75), but on Memorial Day weekend the state troopers were out in full force and it is possible that drivers were slowing down to take in the monstrosity spanning the highway.

For dinner, Megan, her mom, her aunt, her grandmother, and I went to a local steakhouse called “The Sportsman.” This place was fantastic beyond description. For starters, the walls featured a mingling of model ships and glowing beer signs. Our octogenarian waitress had a thick German accent and the furniture called to mind a cozy hunting lodge. The prime rib came in two sizes - the Ladies Cut (14 oz of beef) and the Men’s Cut (16 oz of meat). This made ordering easy since no self-respecting man could bear the humiliation of being emasculated in front of four women. Each meal came with entry to the salad bar and hash browns, as well as a small bottle of wine (merlot for men and white zinfandel for women). Earlier in the week, I had enjoyed a steak dinner with colleagues from work at Mastro’s, a posh Beverly Hills steakhouse that charged $45 for prime rib, not including sides. The prime rib at The Sportsman was far superior and cost less than $12 apiece. I am proud to say that I managed to finish my entire meal and my dignity remains intact for another day.

Sunday was a day devoted to Megan’s extensive family. The house was full with her grandmother, mother, step-father, uncle, two aunts, two cousins (plus one spouse), four kids, and a dog. Despite the large crowd, the house was well-suited to the demands of such a big and diverse group. Everyone functioned well together and, astonishingly, everyone was able to agree on decisions about places, times, what to eat, and numerous other logistical nightmares that a less cohesive group would have struggled to achieve. If my family were to attempt such a large gathering, alcohol would undoubtedly play a crucial role to sooth over hurt feelings and drown the small stresses that only loved ones can create. Unless they managed to slip away for quick tipples of strong drink when I wasn’t paying attention, the whole weekend was completed without the help of booze - an impressive feat all around.

Yet, as functional as Megan’s family was, we still sought some quiet and escaped to the cemetery to clean gravestones. We began by edging the weeds around the stones and progressed to wiping down the stones until they shone in the bright Midwestern sun. Just as you never realize just how big a boat is until you have scrubbed every single inch of it, cleaning numerous gravestones in that cemetery helped me to realize just how many relatives Megan has in Shelton. Even a beloved parrot found its way into the cemetery. The job was rewarding, if not glamorous, and our good work was completed when we helped to arrange flowers around each relatives plot.

Having basked in the silence of the graveyard and paid our respects to the dead, we accompanied Megan’s uncle and cousins to the farm for some shooting. We stuffed our ears with cotton and then took aim at a couple of empty Coke cans we propped up against a tree. I took 12 shots from a .45 and two from a rifle. Since this was my first time shooting a gun, my results were less than impressive. On one shot, the can fell, although it might have been the result of a strong breeze. According to one onlooker, I hit the cans three times with the .45. I personally couldn’t tell were the bullets went and I’m not even sure that I managed to hit the tree. With the rifle, I was a far better shot and I peppered the church bulletin that served as a target. Despite only wheeling off a couple of shots, Megan is far more of a natural shooter and if anyone ever gets gunned down in our presence, let the record show that I am a lousy shot and she is a crack shot.

On the morning of Memorial Day, the whole family drove over to the cemetery and attended the short ceremony. During the service, the names of all of the deceased soldiers were read, a gun salute was fired, and taps was played. Since we were still in Nebraska, lunch consisted of more meat. In the afternoon, the group began to disperse and Megan and I drove back to Omaha so that I could catch my flight home.

As with all of my visits to Nebraska, the time passed too quickly. Megan’s family was extremely kind and I didn’t endure any of the hazing that I partially expected. The toughest question I got was asking where we were going to be married - an odd question considering we aren’t engaged. Someone else asked what the time limit is for common law marriage, an even odder question since we don’t even live in the same state, nevermind the same house. Still, premature wedding plans are preferable to the alternative.

Aside from being touched by how welcoming Megan’s family was, I was also moved by what a nice small town Shelton is and I can understand why it is such an important place for Megan. In many ways, the closeness and sense of community reminds me of my own experience with Onset, Massachusetts. There is a comfort in being surrounded by family and knowing everyone in town. In addition, the nice memories associated with various places come flooding back when we return. It is comforting to realize that as our lives continue to change, there is a special place that is constant and that will always be there for us when we return. No matter where we go or what we do, it is always nice to have a sense of home.

On April 23rd, I flew from Italy to Tampa, Florida to participate in the 2008 Regata del Sol al Sol. Bob Gruber, skipper of Summerwind, an Allied Seawind 32 ketch, had asked me along as navigator for the race. Bob is a good friend and colleague at Arch Chemicals and I’ve sailed with him on Summerwind a number of times. Thus there was no mystery as to what I was getting into. But I get ahead of myself.

I had the pleasure of traveling on the first leg of the trip from Milan to Atlanta with my wife and this gave me ample opportunity to assure her that we’d take the necessary precautions and would use good judgment during the race. I suspect every sailor tells his girl this, but it seemed the thing to do.

Bob met me at the airport and we drove to the marina where Bob had Summerwind berthed. She looked even smaller than the last time I saw her. At only 32 feet, this is about the smallest boat you’d want to go offshore in. Audentes looks like a cruise ship in comparison. The Allied Seawind ketch is a full keel, solid offshore boat and they have been cruised widely. However, they were never known for their speed and this boat is much older than my grown children. Bob makes do on a relatively small boat budget – part due to necessity and part due to the enjoyment he gets from finding a $10 fix to a $100 problem (although the quality and duration of the fix… well sometimes it’s not what he hoped for). Thus Summerwind is not endowed with the latest electronics, her galley is rudimentary, her engine has a few problems (more on that later), her running rigging is a bit worn, and awhile back the larger headsail blew out and so she relies on an aging 100% jib. Still she is very seaworthy and with a capable crew, she should have no problem doing 500 miles offshore.

Fortunately the Regata del Sol al Sol is as much a group cruise as a hardcore race. You can find more details on the race at www.regatadelsolalsol.org . The regatta has long been known as much for its parties and the hospitality of the Island of Isla Mujeres as the racing. Summerwind had by far the highest handicap of any boat in the fleet at 314 (that is 314 seconds per mile x 500 miles for the race) vs. the scratch boat for the race, a Macgregor 72 which had a handicap of -47. This meant if we finished within 50 hours (that’s over two days!) after the Macgregor we would still beat him on corrected time. Needless to say a high handicap can come in handy, but as all golfers know, the low handicap performer almost always wins.

On Thursday, Bob and I sailed the boat across Tampa Bay to the St. Petersburg Yacht Club, the host club for the race. We had a beautiful sail across the bay and even tried out his mizzen staysail, a sail that he had had up only once since he bought the boat. With the light winds forecasted for the race, I figured we would need to fly everything he had. We got to the SPYC in good time and tied up at the slip just as the other two crew members for the race showed up – Arif Haq, another colleague at Arch and Steve Oday, a friend of Bob’s. We had all sailed together once before for a weekend, so it was good to catch up. The afternoon was taken up with pre-race briefings and meetings. After dinner, as I was the only one with jet-lag, I turned in early while the other three went out to explore the local nightlife.

Friday dawned warm and sunny with a nice breeze out of the northeast – just as forecast. The gap between us and the “race boats” was highlighted as I watched the boat next to us lay out his FIVE spinnakers on the deck to prepare them for the race. These spinnakers were hi-tech sails and probably cost $8,000 - $10,000 per sail. I couldn’t help thinking that their spinnakers cost more than the market value of Summerwind. To add insult to injury, a chef (at least a guy in a chef’s hat and apron) came down the dock pushing a cart with metal containers full of prepared meals – catered food – for the race boat.

The forecast for the start of the race was for the breeze to die in the afternoon as the building sea breeze canceled out the prevailing easterlies. By the time the race started at around 10 AM, the breeze was already starting to weaken. Still it was a beautiful start as 45 sailboats headed down Tampa Bay bound for Mexico. The breeze died completely before we were half-way down Tampa Bay. Fortunately the outgoing tide carried us out under the Sunshine Bridge and a light sea breeze allowed us to finally sail out of Tampa Bay. By that time, we had already dropped to the last boat in the fleet. This was expected, but it was still discouraging to be last after only 8 hours of racing. The boats quickly separated as they entered the open Gulf of Mexico and we would not see any of the boats again until we approached Mexico. We aimed Summerwind a bit more westerly then the direct route to Isla Mujeres, hoping to get a bit more wind and favorable current if we could get away from land quickly.

We began our four hour watches – Arif and I on one watch and Bob and Steve on the other. I’m not sure when Arif made the fateful comment, but at some point he said he only slept about 4 hours per night. This is not something you want to boast about, especially if you have never sailed offshore before. I don’t know if it was the motion of the boat or the fact that he was relaxed now that we were out of cell phone coverage, but during the next five days Arif managed to sleep about 20 hours per day. For the four hours he was awake, he had to listen to endless comments about “four hour Arif”.

The first two days we had nice winds out of the east – strongest at night and weakening in the afternoon. We were making good progress and one watch followed another. There is a nice rhythm that gets established when you are making passages. At each watch change, Bob and I would make an entry in the log with our position and speed. While we had ice in the icebox, we enjoyed fresh foods and cold beer. One of us would cook up a nice dinner just before sunset and that was usually the one time the entire crew sat around for an hour or so and discussed world politics, etc. Then it was the off watch down below to get some sleep.

By Monday morning on the midnight to 4 AM watch, were really flying with good winds and a favorable current. We covered 28 miles in that watch which for Bob’s boat is probably a record. Spirits were high and Bob was determined to beat the highest instantaneous speed I had recorded during my watch of 8.4 knots. I had a hard time sleeping down below as the boat was really moving around and I heard him calling out the speeds as we flew along (I think he hit 9 knots).

By the time the sun rose, we were less than 140 miles from Isle Mujeres. However, by late morning the wind had died and the seas went nearly flat. The favorable current kept carrying us south for a bit longer, but we were dead in the water. Unless you have sailed offshore, you don’t know uncomfortable this can be. It is hot and no air is moving. The boat rocks from side to side and it is hard to read or do anything else. In a race, it is even worse because you’re not sure whether your competition is seeing the same thing or merrily sailing on to the finish. Bob does not have a long range radio, so we had no way to get a new weather forecast. Based upon the forecast we had when we left, this was a bad sign as once the winds died they were forecast to stay almost at zero for the next three to four days.

So we sat for about twelve hours hoping for wind and doing the math. By early evening we decided that it wasn’t worth missing our flights and started the engine. The decision wasn’t that hard to make, after all this was a cruising boat not a race boat. We were out of the race and now the primary motivation was to get there for warm showers, a soft bed and parties on the beach. But Summerwind has a number of limitations and one of them is some sort of problem with her engine/transmission/propeller. You can’t run the engine past about half speed or the boat slows down instead of speeding up. The bottom line is that the boat cannot motor faster than about 4 knots through calm water and if there is any headwind you are in trouble. To get to Isle Mujeres you have to travel against the strong Yucatan current which runs up to 3 knots against you. Needless to say, it was a long motorboat ride and at times we were hardly making any headway at all. We still wondered whether we had made the right decision to drop out of the race, but as the hours turned into days and still we motored on with no wind, our doubts turned to thanks that we were not still back there waiting for wind that would be a long time in coming. In the end, 21 of 45 boats would abandon the race because of light winds. The fastest boats were able to get to Isla Mujeres before the wind died.

On Tuesday evening, the water tanks ran dry and we were down to half a case of bottled water. There was two cans of Dainty Moore stew left, some spaghetti and a can of tuna. Worst of all, the crew was in dire need of showers. It was a good thing we were closing in on Isle Mujeres. At 3 am on Wednesday we motored across the finish line and were escorted to the marina where we would clear immigration and customs. This was a novel way for me to enter a country; at 4 am in the morning we were met at the dock by a guy who gave us a bag containing cold beer and who pointed us down the dock to the government officials who cleared is in – the whole thing took less than 20 minutes!

We then had to move the boat about 2 miles to the marina where Bob had reservation, but about 75 yards after we left dock the engine on Summerwind died and would not restart. Hard to believe after motoring for a day and a half! Bob threw out an anchor and tried to clear the diesel line by sucking on it – all he got was a mouth full of diesel. In the end, our escort had to tow us to the marina; an ignominious way to finish the trip, but we were all happy to be in Mexico and in one piece.

After getting a shower and some sleep, we spent the rest of Wednesday and Thursday enjoying the hospitality of our hosts on Isle Mujeres. By Friday I was tired of hanging out with a bunch of old, inebriated sailors and was happy to catch my flight home. While we didn’t win any trophies, I love to sail and I had a great time. I think the other members of the crew had a good time as well. We finished the voyage with no injuries to the crew or damage to the boat and based upon my experience, that’s a pretty good result.

Megan and I arrived back in Bologna on Sunday night. My parents picked us up at the train station and took us out for our first truly good Italian meal. The next morning my mom dropped us back at the train station and we rode a couple of hours to Venice. Upon arrival, we spent the last of our euros on water taxi tickets and then went to an ATM to withdraw more money. To my chagrin, my ATM card was declined and I was instructed to contact my bank. This is not the first time that Bank of America has proved to be my nemesis. Aside from their inability to get me a credit card for 4 months after I lost it in Panama, they cut me off in Tahiti claiming that my account had been flagged for irregular spending. When I finally was able to get a hold of them, I was scolded for not informing the bank that I would be traveling outside of the U.S. At this point, I had been abroad for nearly two years without returning to the States. In Venice, I suffered for failing to learn my lesson and I was forced to contact my dad, who gamely called up the bank and I was liquid again after only a few hours.

Our first adventure in Venice was finding our bed and breakfast. The quixotic journey began by taking the wrong water taxi and ending up in the seedy side of Venice near the ferry terminal. Standing in the cold as the sun set, we waited for a boat to take us back to the train station. Eventually, we found a water taxi headed in the right direction and reached our desired station. At this point, we relied entirely on the directions provided by the B&B. Following the instructions contained in an e-mail on my Blackberry, we wove through narrow alleys and over little bridges. The directions included vague guidance like “Follow this street until you’ll see a window with books in the corner.” The landmarks cited seemed inexact and prone to confusion – the window containing books was later boarded up. Meandering through the dark walkways, the twists and turns felt like a scavenger hunt. To our surprise, we actually found the bed and breakfast and were buzzed in by the proprietor.

With my credit cards once again active, we ventured out in search of dinner. In the cold off-season, the neighborhood around our bed and breakfast was quiet with many of the restaurants closed. We settled on a small pizzeria, where we splurged on salad, wine, and dessert. Although it was delicious, thanks to the exorbitant prices in Venice and the God-awful exchange rate, the total cost for this meal came to $105. Not surprisingly, we tended to limit ourselves to the free breakfast that came with our stays at the B&B and one meal for most of our time in Italy.

On Monday, we made the short walk from our B&B to St. Mark’s Square. A few tourists were out and we watched several of them buy bread crumbs to feed the pigeons that would swarm to them and climb all over their body in a feeding frenzy. Disgusted by the thought of pigeons touching me, we couldn’t have partaken in this ritual anyway since we still did not have a single Euro in cash. (Note: the selling of birdseed and feeding of pigeons has since been banned in an effort to beautify the square.) We proceeded to St. Mark’s Basilica, one of the loveliest churches that I have ever seen. Enjoying the beautiful buildings and charming shops, we spent a couple of hours walking through the narrow streets and weaving our way through the city. As I had been told, Venice really is a truly unique place and we felt like we could have spent weeks wandering through the city, sampling sweets, window shopping, admiring churches, popping into bookshops, and generally exploring this wonderful city.

After checking out of our B&B, we caught a water taxi to the nearby island of Murano, famous for their colorful glass. Similar to Venice, canals wove through the charming town. Cafes lined the canals and the buildings rose impressively out of the water. In Murano, we admired the glass on display and shopped for gifts for friends and family. After a couple of hours on the island, we tried to catch a water taxi back to Venice so that we could enjoy our nice meal of the day before boarding a train to Bologna. This plan hit a snag when I once again chose the wrong water taxi and, instead of making the 10-minute trip to Venice, we motored out of sight of land. Forty minutes later, we arrived at a sparsely populated island where we opted to disembark. Following a half hour wait, we caught a water taxi heading back to Murano and endured another 40-minute ride. By the time we reached the train station, it was too late for the nice sit-down meal that we had planned, so we contented ourselves with hastily selected sandwiches from a deli washed down with several Bellini’s and a strong “spritz con Aperol.”

Following the frantic rushing and relative stress of Rome, Venice proved to be a nice change of pace. After five days in Italy, we finally eased into the vacation mode and were able to relax and fully enjoy our surroundings. Not that appreciating the beauty of Venice is difficult. It is everywhere and my only regret is that we didn’t spend longer wandering through the maze of bridges, alleys, and piazzas. Venice is the type of place that encourages visitors to linger and it was the perfect place to experience with someone that I care about. Relaxed, enjoying our surroundings and each other’s company, Venice introduced us to the Italian concept of “la dolce vita” – living the good life.

I miei amici (Editor: what?), I packed for this trip envisioning the grand spectacle of a Roman Holiday (Editor: what, again?). I, of course, would be playing the Audrey Hepburn role: a gamine, madcap, princess breaking free of societal pressures to speed about on a Vespa and find love in the Eternal City (Editor: find love?). Of course, this being me, it ended up a bit more like National Lampoon’s European Vacation only with more pizza and less Chevy Chase (Editor: when he was still funny).

The trip commenced in Rome, though the best part of our brief stay there was the train ride in – specifically the food trolley. And only because it reminded me of the Hogwart’s Express (well, minus the Chocolate Frogs and British accents) (Editor: will the obscure references ever end?).

After a three hour train ride, we arrived at Termini Station in Rome where we transferred to the Metro to get to our B&B. In case you’re wondering, Termini Station is exactly like Times Square only shorter, indoors, and everything is in Italian (Editor: also, there are more people dressed like prostitutes).

Our B&B was appropriately named The Rainbow, which one can only assume was in response to the wild kaleidoscope of colors that graced the walls. We happened to get the Yellow room. Not the cheery bright yellow of a baby chick or the early morning rays of sunshine. No, more like the putrid acidity of stomach bile. (Editor: my eyes are still burning) Looking back on it, I suppose this was an omen.

I opened my purse to help pay for the room, and the empty depths of my purse stared back. No wallet. Like a tourist cliché, my wallet was stolen within 15 minutes of being in Rome. (Editor: I still believe this was a clever ploy not to pay for anything) After a bit of pocket searching (not unlike fishing for coins in the couch) we managed to scrape together the room fee, and I spent my first lovely hours in Rome canceling my credit and debit cards. There went my grand plans of upgrading my wardrobe with thigh high boots in the softest of Italian leather. (Editor: the pair she already has are sufficient)

I need to interject here with a plug for Midwestern small-town living. (Editor: Ugh!) Due to the time change, all of this drama was taking place in the middle of the night CST. But Midwesterners look after their own – the bank may not have been open, but someone would wake himself up out of a sound sleep to drive to work to cancel it ASAP. Just try finding customer service like that in Los Angeles, ha! (Editor: Ah, there is no place like Nebraska. Wait, you mean the rest of the country has something called the internet and can magically cancel cards remotely? What is this witchcraft you speak of?)

In retrospect, I have to say the thief/thieves were brilliant. I had my purse slung over the shoulder and cross my body in the manner of a seasoned traveler and they still managed to get the wallet out and zip-up the purse in a matter of seconds without my ever noticing it. (Editor: I was also there and did not notice) While it was inconvenient to lose my credit, debit, insurance, and AAA cards (And God-knows-what-else that may have been stashed in there. That wallet is where receipts go to die. It is probably the final resting place of Jimmy Hoffa.), I think I was most upset about losing the driver’s license. (Editor: I was most upset about her losing her money) Anyone who has ever been to the DMV knows how insanely impossible it is to get a photo that doesn’t make them look like a crack addict on a bender – but in some bizarre twist, that picture was the best photo I have ever taken in my life. (Editor: Oddly, she is a crack addict and she was on a bender at the time of the picture) And now it’s gone. SOB. My new picture is standard-issue crack addict, but at least my eyes are open. (Editor: Damn rehab!)

After the frustration and headache of dealing with the Italian Carabinieri, I have a newfound appreciation for the “efficiency” and civility of American police officers. (Editor: Let’s not go nuts here) I never had any hope I would see the wallet again, but I thought I should report it anyway as a good citizen and to give me some closure. After a bit of arguing and a few hand gestures (Italians love that, you know), I think I fell in love with Roberto, the officer who actually let me fill out a police report. (Editor: huh?) And who said Paris was for lovers?

Of course, there is only one way to soothe a soul who has just lost the only photo that made her look like Gisele: Gelato. Not being fluent in Italian, I made a selection based on color. Hazelnut. Not bad.

Being the type-A planner that I am, I carried 3 different guidebooks with me (which the thieves shrewdly left in my bag) (Editor: for the record, I was carrying two of the guidebooks). Two of the trusty guidebooks suggested a walk to the Spanish Steps to watch the sunset, and gelato in hand, I determined I would have at least one Princess Ann moment! (Editor: apparently, I was just along for the ride) As we sat there catching the last rays of sun, squished shoulder-to-shoulder with the other tourists, choking on the cigarette-laden air, marveling at the dog poop and graffiti, watching trash blow by like confetti after a parade - we broke out the third guidebook. Skip the Spanish Steps at sunset. Lovely.

In the now not-so-trusty guidebooks, it stated there was the most “lavish” McDonald’s in all of Italy around the corner. This definitely lifted my spirits, because there is nothing quite like checking out a foreign Mickey D’s menu for sheer entertainment value. This was no ordinary corner fast food joint, though - the lobby was adorned in hand-painted frescos and decorative water fountains. There was even a coffee bar that served gelato. Mmmm. . . . gelato. (Editor: this was the first McDonald’s to open in Italy)

I wish I could write about all of the meals we ate in Rome, however, owing to what I now refer to as The Wallet Situation 2008, we rarely ate - and if we did it was roadside pizza and gelato. (Editor: To clarify, I did have money, but we were usually too lazy, too tired, and too cold to hunt down food) I don’t think I could ever get tired of gelato. Fat, yes. But tired, no.

We woke up very early to beat the crowds to St. Peter’s Basilica and the Vatican. At that hour, the courtyard is a respite from the crowds – you’re sharing the view with only a handful of early risers and nuns. The magnitude of the basilica itself was unbelievable, though we had no pope sighting as of yet. The Vatican proper was next. Even though it was still early, it was packed inside making it rather difficult to maneuver down the hallways and take in all the splendor, though the Sistine Chapel was beautiful. Then we took a tour bus which drove all over Rome. It was nice in sense that I was able to view many sites and contemplate what color gelato I was going to sample next.

But of course, we stopped at the Trevi fountain to make our wishes. I wished for the hawkers surrounding the site to stop trying to sell me little squishy cartoon heads, to no avail. (Does anyone really buy these things?) And since Rome loved me and I loved Rome, I was hit in the forehead by a wayward coin en route to the fountain. I don’t think that tourist’s wish came true. That, of course, constituted an occasion for gelato and more pizza. So fortified, we hit the deliciously creepy Capuchin Crypt, where the bones of over 4,000 Capuchin monks were made into elaborate art work – lampshades, moulding, clocks, you name it. Of course, we made a game of examining the arrangements and guessing what body parts it was composed of. I was particularly enamored of the arches made of only jaw bones and vertebrae flowers. I’m looking into decorating my apartment in the same style. (Editor: if I go missing, check the light fixtures)

Owing to The Wallet Situation 2008, we skipped pizza and gelato (whyyyyy???) and settled for old breakfast rolls and juice for dinner (Editor: we skipped dinner because we made the mistake of going back to the room and were too lazy / jetlagged to venture back into the cold).

Since it was such a success the day before, we got up early again, to avoid the lines at the Coliseum. It was not quite like Gladiator, seeing’s how there was a dearth of Russell Crowe, but still a “thumbs up.” (Oh, don’t groan. I know you were thinking of the same bad pun.) It seems that the Christian-hungry lions have all been changed into stray kitties lolling about in the sun (Editor: supposedly, the Coliseum was overrun with rats, so the cats keep the rodent population down). Then, after a quick check-in with the-love-of-my-life Roberto (Editor: WTF?), we caught the Hogwart’s Express back to Bologna.

Looking back, I am disappointed I never found a Pope keychain.

Oh, and my wallet was stolen. Ciao. (Editor: By the way, Aaron was also there)

Our Italian adventure actually began in Bologna, where we touched down on Thursday afternoon. Arriving before my parents, we took a cab to our hotel. The plan went off smoothly and we soon found ourselves checked in at the Jolly Hotel in the heart of Bologna. Once we settled in, I rushed to a nearby travel agengy to pick up our train tickets to Rome for the next morning. Utilizing my limited Italian, I stopped several times and eventually found the office just in time to claim our tickets.

On Thursday evening, we wandered the lovely streets of Bologna in search of food. We were rendered incapable of choosing due to the large number of options, as well as the steep prices. The walk itself was pleasant as the young residents of the city were out strolling the streets, window shopping, and meeting friends in the piazza. Eventually, we settled on a self-service restaurant that resembled a cafeteria, where we ate some tasty pasta along with a passable house wine.

The next morning, we rose early and walked across the street to the train station. We waited on the platform for nearly an hour as the smoke from cigarettes filled the cold morning air. Finding our seats on the train, in a small six-seat compartment with three seats facing each other, we settled in and enjoyed the scenic view passing by the window. The train raced through green rolling hills and passed through cavernous tunnels. After nearly three hours, we finally arrived in Rome.

We had booked a room at a bed and breakfast, so at the train station we purchased passes for the metro. We were careful to watch our bags since all three of our guidebooks warned of pickpockets. We rode the subway six stops to our B&B located near Vatican City. The owner of the room met us on the street and guided us through a courtyard and up to the apartment that served as our hotel. As Megan opened her purse in an attempt to help pay, panic washed over both of us as we realized that her wallet was gone. At first, I thought that it might have been misplaced in another of her bags, but we soon realized that it was in fact gone. Fortunately, we noticed its absence within 15 minutes of it going missing since she certainly had it at the train station. She proceeded to call home to cancel her credit cards, but the anger and sense of violation surpassed the loss of the money.

Looking back on how it could have happened, we both agreed that a group of well-dressed high school aged girls were the likely thieves. We were obviously tourists since we were toting our bags on the metro and would have made natural targets. In retrospect, we were dumb to have stood near the doors (there were no seats available) and we shouldn’t have spoken in English. On the crowded metro, people were constantly brushing up against us and, when getting off the train, one of the girls bumped into Megan. When this happened, one of the other girls probably opened her purse and swiped her wallet. The fact that Megan had her purse slung across her chest and that the robbery happened without either of us knowing is impressive. The pickpockets even zipped her purse back up so that we didn’t suspect anything until we arrived at the B&B. Her digital camera which was also in her purse was untouched.

Already suffering from jet lag, the theft sent both of us through a range of emotions. Initially, we both experienced shock that it could have happened. We do not consider ourselves naive and have both traveled extensively. The shock soon gave way to anger. We were frustrated that neither of us saw anything and we were annoyed that we had not had a chance to confront the criminals. This led to plans of retribution. We considered spending a day on the metro with nothing but a mousetrap tucked into a purse and took solace in images of the perpetrator writhing in pain with their hand in a trap. Next, we felt foolish for not being more vigilant and for becoming victims. Finally, we accepted that it had occurred, although we continued to be annoyed and angry that it had happened.

Contributing to our frustration, the police in Rome were beyond useless. We visited at least ten different stations in an attempt to simply report the theft. Some stations were completely closed so that we were never able to talk to anyone. Other stations told us that they were closed for lunch and to come back in a few hours (note: when in Rome, do not get murdered between 12:00 noon and 3:00 pm). In those stations where police did show up for work, we were typically directed to a different station. In the train station alone, we were sent to three different police stations, the last of which a group of portly police officers stood outside smoking. When we asked them where we could report a theft, they instructed us to push a button on an intercom. Following their instructions we received no answer. Each cop that walked out of the station provided the same advice and then proceeded to stand idly by chatting with their fellow keepers of the peace. Eventually, someone inside the station became annoyed enough with our constant pressing of the button that they told us that the station was closed and to come back later. Most frustrating of all is that all we wanted to do was fill out a form – any form – to report that Megan’s wallet was stolen. Partially, we wanted to do this if we needed evidence for the credit card companies and partially we felt that this was the right thing to do. We harbored no illusions that we would see the wallet again. We just wanted to do something and the incompetence and inefficiency on the part of Rome’s finest only contributed to an already frustrating experience. During our ill-fated quest, we met a Dutch couple who had also had their wallets stolen, along with their passports. We took consolation in the fact that we still had both of our passports. Finally, on our last day in Rome, we eventually found a police station that was willing to give us a form to complete. The entire process took about five minutes.

While roaming the city being rebuffed by every police station, we did manage to see some of Rome. On Friday afternoon, we walked along the Tiber River, watching the sunset from the Spanish Steps. For dinner, we grabbed pizza and enjoyed our second gelato of the day. We went to bed early and rose at the crack of dawn on Saturday to beat the crowds to the Vatican. Arriving around 7:30 am, we reveled in having Vatican City almost entirely to ourselves. Without so much as waiting in line, we breezed through St. Peter’s Basilica. Sadly, by 9:30 am, the crowds began to appear and we waited in a manageable line for the Sistine Chapel and Vatican Museums. Next, we embarked on a bus tour of Rome that took us to many of the famous sites. Afterwards, we visited Trevi Fountain. In keeping with our poor run of luck in Rome, after throwing the requisite coin into the fountain, Megan was hit in the head by an errant throw from another superstitious, though inaccurate, tourist. Following a nice lunch of pizza and coffee, we proceeded to the eerie Cappucin Crypt, a short tunnel underneath a church that features several exhibits of thousands of bones artistically arranged. The day ended with the always delicious gelato.

On Sunday, we once again took advantage of jet lag and rose early to beat the crowds. Again, we were rewarded with no lines as we entered the Coliseum. In retrospect, we determined that Rome is a wonderful place without Romans or tourists. After the Coliseum, we walked around the surrounding area and viewed the Forum. In the afternoon, we caught a train back to Bologna, passing the time watching movies.

Looking back on our visit to Rome, we were glad to have seen so many of the wonderful and famous sites that the city has to offer. We often felt overwhelmed by the vast number of historical sites throughout the city. It seemed as if we were rushing from one place to the next in an attempt to see everything. In this way, Rome seemed like an amusement park and the style of traveling represented the kind of tourism that I despise. The theft of Megan’s wallet early on in our trip certainly detracted from our enjoyment of the city and, throughout our stay, we could not avoid holding a strong distrust for those around us. Whenever someone came near us or accidentally brushed up against us, we delivered a sharp elbow.

It is sad that one negative experience cast a shadow over our three days in Rome, but our general impressions of the city – that it is littered with trash and graffiti, that the people are ill-mannered and inconsiderate – was no doubt the result of our frustration with our circumstances. Occasionally, we would break free of our anger and witness a moment of beauty. For me, this came when we were away from the crowds and from the sites that are featured on postcards. Instead, my best memories of Rome are of walking with Megan down narrow, winding streets, admiring the incredible detail of the unheralded architecture, and of knowing that we would have two weeks in this lovely country.

Lexington, Kentucky / Columbus, Ohio

During the first week of December, I flew east to attend a workshop on Lean manufacturing processes. The class focused on processes developed by Toyota and perfected at the Camry production facility near Lexington, Kentucky. I spent three days attending seminars and touring plants utilizing the Toyota process. In between learning about how Lean processes could benefit POM Wonderful, I ventured out into the frigid Kentucky night to explore Lexington. Though I spent nearly eight years of my early childhood living several hours away in Elizabethtown, Kentucky, I had not returned to the state in quite a few years. While the chilly temperature had caused many residents to go into hibernation, I was struck by the beauty of the rolling hills and scenic horse farms.

Following my training in Lexington, I drove several hours north to Columbus, Ohio in order to attend my cousin Eric’s graduation from The Ohio State University. Arriving Friday night, we embarked on an epic tour de force that began with drinking sake at a sushi bar around 7:00 pm and ended with drinking wine at his apartment at 5:00 am. I was pleased that I was able to last with college kids until the early morning, though I have no interest in repeating the feat anytime soon. Saturday was spent visiting family. Eric and I drove over to my Aunt Sarah and Uncle Bruno’s home, where we enjoyed a nice breakfast and spent a few hours catching up. Later, my cousins Maureen and Claire drove down from northeastern Ohio, along with Maureen’s husband, Tommy. We went out for a nice dinner and then spent the evening watching movies. On Sunday, I stuck around just long enough to watch the graduation ceremony before I raced to Cincinnati to catch my flight back to LA.

Albuquerque, New Mexico

Not even taking the time to unpack my bags, the next weekend I embarked on a short flight to Albuquerque, New Mexico to meet my girlfriend, Megan. The obvious question would be why we chose to visit Albuquerque, a seemingly random destination to choose for a short weekend trip. Albuquerque was selected because it was located in the southwestern U.S., somewhat between Los Angeles and Nebraska. The idea being that it would be fairly inexpensive and we wouldn’t waste a lot of time traveling. Further, the word “Mexico” in the name gave the misguided impression that New Mexico would be a warm winter destination. In reality, our poorly laid plans were rewarded with a string of unpleasant surprises. Having to fly through Denver, Megan’s flight was delayed several hours and she didn’t arrive until nearly 1:00 am on Saturday morning. The temperature was a bone chilling 20 degrees, so my expectations of a warm weekend proved woefully incorrect. Still, despite the cruel hand of fate, the weekend turned out to be fun.

We stayed in a nice bed and breakfast (http://www.haciendantigua.com/ha/) in a room that had once been the chapel for a stagecoach stop. The adobe hacienda was comfortable with wood beamed ceilings, red tile floors, and a kava fireplace. Perhaps most amusing was the guestbook that ranged from hilarious to disturbing. On Saturday, we drove out to the mountains near Albuquerque and road the tram to the top. Packed into a cramped gondola, we huddled together with a bunch of loud tourists to enjoy the spectacular views of the surrounding plains. At the summit, the wind whipped up the snow and we retreated to the café for some hot chocolate before riding back down to the only mildly freezing base. Next, we found the American Rattlesnake Museum, which was nothing more than several rooms containing an astonishing number and variety of rattlesnakes. Since I am terrified of snakes and Megan is terrified of heights, we both pushed the limits of comfort during the afternoon.

On Sunday morning, we went to the Natural History Museum where Megan enthusiastically raced from one display to another. We learned about the animals native to New Mexico and hustled through the various exhibits. On our way back to the airport, we stopped at a diner on Route 66 and reveled in the 50’s kitsch on display. The entire weekend raced by and we lamented that we were able to see only a small part of Albuquerque during our brief visit. Still, being able to spend time with Megan and to visit a new place was wonderful and we both agreed that Albuquerque would be worth another, longer visit.

Onset, Massachusetts

For Christmas, I took the cross-country red-eye from Los Angeles and arrived in Boston around 6:30 on Saturday morning. My brother, Brian, and his girlfriend, Angie, gamely picked me up at the airport. Fueled by black Dunkin Donuts coffee, we drove down to our grandmother’s home in Onset. Snow still lingered on the ground, although the unseasonably warm temperatures threatened to melt the remaining slush. The weekend was a relaxing one, spent mainly inside insulated from the relative cold. We did occasionally venture outside for a brisk morning run or for a chilly game of tennis (being careful to avoid the spots of ice). Of course, the four days were full of terrific meals followed by hours of lying around watching movies. My parents arrived fresh from Italy laden with delicious gifts that we savored throughout the long weekend. Despite only being able to stay for a short visit, I always love to visit Onset and it was a wonderful way to spend Christmas. Sadly, on Christmas Day, after opening presents and enjoying a final feast, I headed back to Boston to board the flight home to Los Angeles.

Omaha, Nebraska

No sooner had I arrived home than I turned around and caught a flight to Omaha, Nebraska to visit Megan. One could argue that late December is not the ideal time to travel to Nebraska, but I was eager to see Megan’s homeland and to meet her family. Unfortunately, my arrival in Nebraska was delayed six hours due to weather and I finally landed around 4:00 am on Saturday morning. Megan braved the elements to pick me up at the airport. Following a few unsatisfactory hours of sleep, we began our tour of Omaha by visiting the stellar Omaha Zoo. Despite being a frequent visitor, Megan proved an amusing guide, running with child-like glee from one animal to the next, barely catching her breath to explain some odd tidbit about a particular creature. I had always found zoos depressing with the animals lazily lounging about as if in solemn resignation at their unnatural surroundings. However, after experiencing a zoo with Megan, I have a slightly greater appreciation for the benefits that these places offer. Next, we went to the old Union Pacific terminal, which has been converted into a museum describing the history of Omaha. Before learning about Omaha, we sampled a chocolate soda in a faux-diner. As far as I can tell, it is just a scoop of ice cream floating in tonic water with some chocolate syrup liberally added. The museum was informative and added to my limited knowledge of Nebraska. For dinner, I met Megan’s mother, step-father, grandmother, and aunt. Naturally, they were curious about me and, as we enjoyed a delicious meal at a French bistro, I was peppered with questions about my past, present, and future. Luckily, the conversation was pleasant and I can only hope that they were as taken with me as I was with them.

On Sunday, we went to a movie, apparently the main activity for residents of Nebraska. The rest of the day was spent relaxing with Megan’s family. For dinner, we joined her dad for a good Italian meal and I again parried questions about my wayward past. The following day, Megan and I drove south to Nebraska City, where we checked into a quaint B&B. This particular bed and breakfast was a converted red barn that, though drafty and cold, was a nice place to spend the last day of 2007. For dinner, we drove into town and ate at the Nebraska institution that is Valentino’s Pizza. Surprisingly, we were not the only people who decided to spend New Years’ Eve gorging on the all-you-can-eat buffet. We devoured course after course of salad, pizza, pasta, Mexican food, and dessert. By the end of the meal, both of us felt ill and immediately regretted our lack of moderation. To remedy the situation, we went across the street to a Wal-Mart, where we walked several laps around the store in an attempt to work off some of the foul food rumbling in our stomachs. A liberal dose of medicine and the worst movie that we could find (Michael Crichton’s “Congo”) were consumed back at the barn along with cheap champagne and a tasty chocolate orange. Lacking a working television, we turned in early and neither of us stayed up to ring in the New Year.

On the first day of the New Year, we drove back to Omaha via Lincoln and I was able to get a quick tour of the University of Nebraska, otherwise known as NU (I am told the “N” stands for “knowledge’). The impressive campus featured an enormous football stadium and an equally impressive racecourse for tractors at the Ag school. Back in Omaha, we enjoyed a nice meal with Megan’s charming family, as well as a pleasant lunch with one of Megan’s friends. Early on Thursday morning, Megan took me to the airport and I departed the chilly but welcoming state. Overall, the trip was immensely enjoyable and I was happy to have had the chance to meet Megan’s family. My short stay included a nice mix between seeing Omaha, meeting people, and spending time with Megan. As always, the time passed too quickly. Hopefully, I will have a chance for future visits to Nebraska, although I may opt for a warmer time of year.

Thus ended a busy month of travel in which I spent little time at home in Los Angeles. Despite enjoying my travels, it is always nice to return home. I look forward to spending more time in Southern California in the upcoming months, although I hope that my pleasant time at home continues to be supplemented by memorable trips to visit friends and family.

The festivities actually began a week prior to Thanksgiving when my parents arrived from Italy via Atlanta. They came laden with gifts: exotic cheeses, ripe olives, and fine wines. Although my Mom had stayed for several days with me in L.A. soon after I moved, this was the first time that my Dad had been able to visit. Their visit was made even more special since this was the first time that they had a chance to meet my girlfriend, Megan. Megan was in town from Nebraska the weekend prior to Thanksgiving and it offered a nice opportunity for an introduction.

On Friday evening, after picking my parents up at the airport, Megan, my parents, and I went to Wolfang Puck’s “Chinois on Main,” an excellent Chinese-French fusion restaurant located near my apartment. Eating family-style, we savored an assortment of dishes. Whatever concerns I may have had about introducing a girlfriend to my parents were soon drowned in a steady flow of wine, a series of mouthwatering delicacies, and easy conversation. Following dessert and a walk around the neighborhood, we agreed to rendezvous early the next morning to drive north to San Luis Obispo.

The drive north allowed for more conversation as we admired the bucolic surroundings. For brunch, we stopped at the Cold Creek Tavern, an eclectic restaurant that once served as a stagecoach stop. A rustic wood cabin nestled in the verdant forest near the eponymous creek, we ate a hearty breakfast near a crackling fire. During the second half of the trip, while my parents dozed in the backseat, Megan and I plowed forward through the rolling hills of the central valley, arriving in San Luis Obispo in the early afternoon.

Being in wine country, we immediately set to work exploring the area. The first stop on our wine tasting tour was the Edna Valley Winery, a relatively large, touristy winery. During our tasting the wines on offer varied from awful to undrinkable and we made liberal use of the spit bucket. The final wine, a pungent dessert wine, was actually undrinkable. The only redeeming quality of the vineyard was a large bank of windows that provided an attractive view of the picturesque vineyard and rolling hills.

Undaunted, we proceeded cautiously to the next vineyard. A quick look at the wine list suggested that we best move further down the road. Fortunately, just as we were on the verge of becoming discouraged, we found Domaine Alfred, a small vineyard with a cozy tasting room. Though far less popular and lacking in the frills of Edna Valley, Domaine Alfred proved to have an assortment of tasty wines. An initial run through the wine tasting menu led us to sample a few of the reserves not included on the standard list.

Finally getting into the swing of wine tasting, we ventured to the final winery of the day. As the sun was setting over the sepia hills that my parents found reminiscent of Italy, we landed at Tally’s Winery, an expansive winery with a circular bar and picture windows providing a panoramic view of the surrounding vineyards. At Tally’s we selected a tasting of chardonnays that ranged from good to delightful. The smooth, buttery wines and comfortable atmosphere provided a fitting end to an enjoyable afternoon.

Back in San Luis Obispo, having checked into our Bed & Breakfast, we decided to go downtown for dinner. Opting to take the $.25 trolley, we barely caught the empty trolley as it was preparing to depart. Upon boarding, the driver appeared confused and struggled for several minutes to fasten his seat belt before struggling for several more minutes figuring out how to close the door. Not surprisingly, once the door was closed he struggled to get the trolley in gear, prompting my Dad to inquire if it was his first time driving the contraption. His slurred response assured us that he had driven the trolley once before, leading us to ask how his inaugural trip had turned out. No response. Committed, we held on for our lives as the trolley rattled to life and hurtled down the hill towards town. Ahead of us, a green light turned yellow and then red. The trolley raced forward. Miraculously, we flew through the intersection without causing a catastrophic collision. Looking at each other in bewilderment and alternating between nervous laughter and bemused disbelief, the driver casually interjected that it takes a half block to stop the runaway train. Mercifully, we managed to escape unscathed and we somberly reflected on our adventure over pizza at a local college haunt. Even more shocking than our near-death experience was that we opted to take the same trolley with the same driver back to the B&B on the return trip. Luckily, the ride uphill proved less exciting, although the driver had no recollection of us even though we must have been one of the few customers he saw all night.

On Sunday morning, my father and I went for a run through town, past the mission, and along the deserted streets. The seemingly endless roads traversing the rolling hills seem to lend themselves better to cycling. For a runner, the sensation of running in place is not an entirely pleasant one and the expansive landscape confirms a feeling of insignificance upon an individual. Following the breakfast part of the Bed & Breakfast experience, we again piled into the car and drove up the coast towards Hearst Castle. Along the way, we stopped at Harmony Winery, located in the tiny town of Harmony (population: 18). Now comfortable with the routine of wine tasting, we expertly admired, analyzed, and quaffed the proffered wine. Though isolated from the other vineyards, we found the small winery quaint with some good wines and a relaxed atmosphere. Besides, any time an acceptable opportunity to drink before noon arises, the effort must be embraced whole-heartedly.

After the tasting, in order to kill some time while we waited for my brother, his girlfriend, and her parents to meet us, we hiked along the rugged coast of Cambria. Our initial excitement at spotting a pack of seals was deflated considerably when we realized that the floating objects were actually seaweed and kelp. Still, there are worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon than a pleasant walk along scenic bluffs overlooking the ocean.

Having successfully passed the test with my parents, Megan was next introduced to my brother and his girlfriend. Following a light lunch in Cambria, the caravan drove along the coast to Hearst Castle. Barely arriving in time to purchase tickets to the last tour of the day, we rode the tour bus up the winding hill, through the estate, and to the base of the palatial mansion, enduring the inane conversation of annoying tourists the entire way. The architecture of the castle was impressive, if a bit gaudy. The intention seems to have been to rip off the masterpieces of Europe and, in this aspect, the builders were wildly successful. The views as the sun set over the Pacific were stunning and it was obvious that a great deal of care went into both the detail of the design and the interaction that the structure had with its surroundings. Walking through the rooms, we were continually confronted with an overload of design elements, though the overall effect was certainly one of awe. The group agreed that the place would have been a great place to throw a party.

After the tour, we were shuttled back down to the welcome center and were herded into a movie theatre where we watched a movie praising William Randolph Hearst, a portrayal that would have been unfamiliar to anyone who had seen Citizen Cane. The transparent piece of propaganda made it clear that Hearst had a huge number of friends who were rich, funny, powerful, and beautiful. These friends were entirely subservient to the owner who used his guests for his own amusement and, in turn, they loved him for it. According to the movie, it is really nice to be rich.

Sunday evening was spent with the group eating out at a Moroccan restaurant in SLO before the adults returned to the B&B while the younger generation searched the barren streets of San Luis Obispo. Eventually, we found a subterranean bar that appeared to be part of Pottery Barn. After the Pottery Barn announced last call at 9:00 PM, we wandered across the street to a stylish jazz bar sans jazz band. In a high-stakes contest in which there were no winners but plenty of losers, my brother and I attempted to one-up each other in telling embarrassing stories about the other person. Late in the evening, as a both literal and figurative fog descended, we trudged back up the hill to the B&B.

Megan and I ate breakfast early on Monday morning before taking our leave of the rest of the group. Still four hours north of Los Angeles, we embarked on the journey back to civilization so that Megan could catch her early afternoon flight home. The rolling yellow hills quilted with vineyards gradually gave way to dirt pastures with cows grazing on soil. About half way home the clear blue sky was conquered by a dense fog that threatened to deteriorate into a drizzle. Slowly, rural farmlands were interrupted by patches of outlets and strip malls. Houses became more frequent. Suddenly, we were surrounded by dense suburbs. Passing the Getty, perhaps my favorite museum in the world, we officially were back in Los Angeles proper. As always when dropping Megan off at the airport, it was sad to see her leave. Despite being confronted with an intimidating number of Cooks, she performed admirably and contributed mightily to an extremely enjoyable weekend.

Tuesday and Wednesday were spent back at work while my family spent the time gallivanting around L.A. It was nice to come home each evening to delicious meals prepared by my Mom and the well-stocked refrigerator is a gift that keeps on giving. On Thursday, my Dad and I went for our traditional Thanksgiving run, this time along the beach and the bluffs of Santa Monica. In the afternoon, we drove about an hour north to have Thanksgiving dinner with the family of Angie, my brothers’ girlfriend. The food was delicious and plentiful with an enormous amount of leftovers packed up to shuttle back to Santa Monica.

On Friday, my parents, my brother, and I completed a hike up to the Hollywood sign. Keeping with the theme of quintessential California activities, we then dined out at In-N-Out Burger, and washed the fast food down with Pinkberry. The day ended with a walk through the 3rd St. Promenade before my brother and I sampled a bit of the Santa Monica nightlife.

Early Saturday morning, we drove my brother to the airport, where he met up with Angie and embarked on his trip back to Connecticut. On the pre-dawn drive back to my apartment, we noticed fires blazing to the north in Malibu. In the afternoon, I dropped my parents off at the airport, ending a fun and eventful week.

As was the case on the boat, it always takes a while to transition from living alone to having company, but I find that once I make the adjustment it is equally difficult to adjust back to my life of relative solitude. Having Megan, Brian, and my parents visit was one of the highlights of my stay in California thus far. Aside from there terrific company, exploring the wineries of the Central Valley was a nice escape from my day-to-day life in Los Angeles. As always, my only complaint with the series of visits are that they passed too quickly.