Heartbreakingly Blind to Blatant Beauty

Sometimes people who live in small towns spend hours daily dreaming of escaping the dull confines of underpopulated living. They spend 48 weeks sitting behind their desks planning and imagining the fun they'll have on their 4 weeks they'll be given free as a reward for their invested time. They label someone who has travelled beyond the next two towns as unique, bold, and mysterious. A soul simply plagued with wanderlust is an intrigue, and treated as such. They coral the bold adventurer and fire question after question about experiences. Which place was the best? Where were the people the most eccentric? Why did you go to THIS country, why did you visit THAT one? Were they racist there? Did you drink the water? How do you FUND this? Aren't you scared to travel alone?

They quip about the doldrums of small town living. They scoff at the scenery from their windows saying things like, "There's nothing worth seeing HERE," "You must have cabin fever being stuck in THIS little town after the things YOU'VE seen," "You'll NEVER find a view as beautiful as (insert random vacation resort/country here) in THIS shit hole." Day after day the adventurer listens to their complaining, all the while wondering why, if they are so discontent with their surroundings do they insist on remaining there in said small town? Is it the town with which they are truly dissatisfied or could they find flaws in paradise? The adventurer is perplexed, as her presence in this hole in the wall forgotten oasis was a deliberate decision, and over 3,000 miles had been driven solely to be there.

Further confusing the adventurer is the reigning dissatisfaction with local culture among certain individuals. The adventurer enjoys the friendliness of the young people working at the local cafe. After two days, they'd ask upon her arrival if it would be the "usual" or something different for the evening. She has been recognized as an out of towner, and accepted by the older community as well. There are not only many friendships to be had, but also many trails to run, hikes to take, rivers to see, mountains to climb, slopes to ski, movies to watch, salsa to dance, open mike nights to attend, and potlucks in which to participate.

Moments after being told how there were no beautiful sights, the adventurer walked outside and experienced an incredible sunset. The sky, set ablaze and chilled simultaneously in blazing crimson and icy blue, beckoned her to run back inside and grab her camera to return snapping away frantically at the sight. The vibrant pastels that followed made her want to climb a mountain and shout out to the world, "OPEN YOUR EYES! THE BEAUTY IS RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF YOU!"

You see, to the adventurer, the world is inherently beautiful as people are inherently good. There is a moment in each day that will take your breath away if you open your eyes and allow it to touch your heart. There is beauty around each corner, in each day, each morning, each evening.

Look up, look around, turn off your phone or computer, and smile at somebody or something tangible. Guaranteed, it will make you appreciate your life more, and you might even find yourself inviting somebody to visit the newly discovered awesome town in which you live.

Hardly Hindering Happenings and the Hitchhiking Hoodlum

I left California twelve hours later than originally planned. It's ok. I know. Typical Rita. Got it. I found myself procrastinating, not wanting to leave without saying goodbye. I took the dogs to a dog park where they romped, drooled, and rolled in everything I had hoped they'd avoid. I did laundry. I walked. The warm sun was a welcome change to Seattle's dreary skies. Finally, when I found the strength to leave, I began my trek east.

I popped "Why We Suck" into the cd player, and proceeded to laugh spastically for the next several hours, replaying choice pieces of unfiltered truth about Americans, politics, kids, and fat people *see aforementioned Americans. Satire. I love it. If you haven't read it or listened to Why We Suck, go buy it. Now. Really. It will make you laugh until you cry, or if it applies to you, maybe just cry. Either way, it will be a teachable moment, one to remember and hold dear. Go buy it. Really. Go. Right after you finish reading this...even simultaneously, if you have Itunes. :)

I got sleepy before I made it to Flagstaff, and since I hadn't done my homework and made plans there, I decided to pull into the darkest spot I could possible find to spend the night. You see, last night was the Geminids Meteor Shower...something I refused to miss. I sat, mouth agape as 63 blazing balls of rock and fire burned their way across the midnight sky in absolute silence. A concept so grand, so otherworldy, it rocks my world to consider. I stared into the abyss that is space, trying to wrap my mind around the distances and speed, the raw unadultured beauty of a night alone with two furry friends in an unrecognized land. Finally, I let my mind rest on the events of the day, and I drifted into a dreamless sleep with a slight smile playing on my lips.

I awoke yet again to the soft pastels of sunrise this morning. There is no way I'd rather do things than opening my groggy eyes to the promise of warm rays of light on my sleepy face. Both of the furballs had crawled into the sleeping bag with me. I maneuvered to the front seat as Corky scowled at me for having disturbed his beauty sleep, and started the car to thaw the windows...Yes, it was frigid last night in Arizona.

I watched the sunrise as I continued east. I considered detouring to the Grand Canyon for a spell, but I promised my mom I'd be back by my birthday, and faced with a temptation like that, I'm not sure I would have been able to make it even if I had told myself, "Just for a few hours." I played with the idea of the sun resting its rays softly on my forehead, my nose, my cheeks, and as I reached with my neck towards the source, opening my eyes to the vast openness. The Grand Canyon is magical. The scene played, teased, tempted, but I had the strength to stay my path. For this, I am proud.

I drove, sipped tea, sang a little, but mostly played tag with a tan sedan for hours. When he pulled off the road to a rest stop, I was a bit disappointed. Nobody else seemed interested in my game of pass and be passed. Suddenly there was a car approaching, gaining, gaining.

Shit. A cop.

If you didn't know, it's illegal to drive faster than the speeds posted in bold black letters on the dingy white signs along the road. Apparently, driving over 85 anywhere in Arizona is grounds for arrest and a mandatory court hearing. So, 95 in a 75....well, you see where this is heading. I had just driven past a sign that said "Purple Heart Trail." Surely that would work in my favor. If a $125 fine is in my favor, then yes, the tags worked with flying colors. HOWEVER, I AM writing this from my car in Amarillo, so I didn't spend the afternoon in jail. I don't have to return to Arizona for court, and my ticket says 84, so I have to grin for small victories. Although, now that I think of it, I could have gotten that on a smile and a polite apology. My plates were slacking today. There's always next time. :)

I continued my drive chuckling about how wasteful that was. I could buy 3 tanks of gas for the price of that ticket! I promptly put on cruise control, lest I should begin to feel my foot hardening into a lead stump again. I pulled off after having seen a sign for Red Rock Park. Red Rock. Sounds fun. I was looking for a place to run, explore, scramble, and that's what I found. I decided not to change into running clothes, just to change into my trail shoes. I began my jog/trek/scramble with the pups, having no idea what to expect. I trotted down the sandy path with my furry friends, stopping occasionally to pull Russian Thistle from their paws when they strayed too far from the path. We climbed slippery slopes, jumped across small crevices, we ran, walked, huffed, and puffed. I forgot about the elevation out here.

After a few miles I turned around and barrelled back to my car as hard as I could. I reached the vehicle, had some gorp, a swig of water and got ready to leave. I checked my center console for my important things, i.e. id, credit card, cash. The id was there, but the card....

Ah. Must be in my pocket.

Nope.

Oh. Well, maybe it fell between the seats.

Nope.

Crap.

I trotted back to the trail head, braving gusting winds and stinging sand at this point.

Nothing.

Bummer.

I walked up to a security guard and he directed me to the lost and found, just in case I had dropped it in the parking lot before hitting the trails. Nope. He seemed hesitant to let me leave, and offered food. Now, as I had walked into the convention center where the lost and found was located, the smell of tortillas, beans, rice, salsa, and pork had invaded my senses immediately. I was probably noticeably salivating. Apparently, the Navaho were having a banquet and had prepared food for 900. Only 400 showed. After convincing me it would indeed be free, I followed him into the kitchen and grabbed a steaming plate of amazing. (Yes, that was the end of the sentence. Amazing is a noun in this case. :D)

I lost my card on a road trip with a quarter tank of gas in the middle of nowhere, and I had the biggest grin on my face as I returned to my "house" to choke down the plate as fast as I could. It was classy. I'm telling you, minutes after I put the empty plate in the trash, I felt behind me just to be sure the card hadn't slipped between the cushions of the seat, and I found....a piece of tomato. I ate that, too.

As I turned the key to the ignition, I looked up. The moon was staring back at me. A half moon. I took the moment as a sign. A pivotal moment in life. Is the moon half full or half new? I chose the former, and chuckled at my silliness. Life is good.

The first stop I made was a gas station to sweet talk the cashier into allowing me to use my checks. The next stop was to pick up a hitchhiker, dressed in all black and looking like a thuglet. I laughed as I pulled over. Black clothes in my car. Cute. We started driving east together. Mike was his name. We spoke of experiences, life lessons, travels, education, and close calls. You see, Mike was raised in Arizona, but was sent to Chicago as a tween. He got involved with gangs there, and began a meth lab. He finished school at 14. I was impressed.

With a GED?

No. A diploma.

WOW! How'd you manage that?

Everyone has a price. I was selling meth, making over 5k a week. I bought my principal and teachers. Paying their rent and shit..

Hmmm. *Inwardly I thought...No. Not EVERYONE has a price.*

His stories were intense. Forty something fire fights, 20 something injuries, his heart stopped twice after overdosing on meth. He was better now. But the kicker? He is 18 years old. EIGHTEEN!!!!!!!

I had to admit, he was the coolest person I've picked up thus far. Usually, my hitchhikers are just kids like me, wandering the world in search of light, love, and beauty. Not that that's not interesting, but having died once, woken up, kicked the doctor's ass, then died again? Really?! You can't make up stories like that!

My lesson to you *things to be gained from today's blog*

Speed limits are suggestions...except in Arizona.
Live free, laugh loudly, and love with everything you have.
If you see a rock, climb it.
Wake up outside to a sunrise. There's nothing like it.
A half moon is ALWAYS half full.
Pick up hitchhikers.
Learn something from a stranger today.

Now go buy that damn book. :)

Survival School

When I first heard I had received the scholarship to attend the Boulder Outdoor Survival School 28 day Field Course, I was curled in the fetal position in a lower end motel in North Central Mexico trying to keep down the scant fluids I struggled to sip all day. I had spent the day in a 15 passenger van with 17 other people travelling over 6 hours. It was the day after having run the Copper Canyon Ultra Marathon, and my body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder, twice. I shivered under the dingy comforter with gaudy pink flowers that smelled slightly of stale ashtray as the automated almost feminine voice barked at me, "Four new messages." The first two were mundane (sorry if you left them). The third was different.

As Jenny Stein's voice came over the line, I found myself tensing muscles I thought were completely spent. When she uttered the words, "Offer you the scholarship," I found myself out of bed screaming like a tween who was just told she was going to get a limo ride with the young Jonathon Taylor Thomas. I spun around, gave a little whoop and a jump, then slowly and methodically returned to the bed, tucking my knees into my sternum again, wishing I hadn't spontaneously shaken up my stomach.

You see, the BOSS program was something I dreamt of doing, and the scholarship would allow me to attend the $4,000 plus course for free. After having turned down the opportunity to take a nice cushy office job sheltered from the elements using my security clearance and no natural instincts, the prospect of travelling miles on foot over rugged terrain for 28 days with no comforts was music to my ears. When I received the paperwork, I chuckled at the wording of the physical waiver I had to get my doctor to sign. “Is this person capable of going without eating for at least 4 days while walking 18-30 miles daily on rugged terrain?” Sure. Why not? Maybe on a swollen ankle, or one sneaker and one flip flop. Throw it at me! I’m ready!

I spent the summer in the sleepy town of Haines, AK floating down the mighty Chilkat River daily, chatting with my passengers about the approaching survival school. Some looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language that they not only did not understand, but thought sounded incredibly stupid. Others smiled at me like I was a ten year old expressing my desire to become a professional ball player in adulthood. Others yet mused that they wished they could do it, too, but I didn’t feel anybody truly understood my need to do it or I would have seen them, too, on the 26th of October in the equally sleepy town of Boulder, Utah.

Only one person who told me they truly understood why I wanted to go did I believe fully and without reservation. Dave’s mother. Dave had died on the second day of the BOSS 28 Day Field Course in 2006, and it was through his death and her generosity that I had the opportunity to participate in the course in the first place. She told me that she could understand why her son had felt the need to join the course, but she now understood. There are some things in life that are outside of your normal comfort zone that just need to be done.

I arrived in Boulder expecting nothing. I had not read too deeply into the instructions or the course description. I wasn’t even quite sure where Boulder, Utah was located. As a matter of fact, most of the people with whom I spoke in Provo were also unsure of the town’s location. One of the first things I was told upon arriving was to get rid of my expectations, and try to accept the class with an open mind. No problem.

There were seven of us. All from different financial backgrounds, with different stories, different accents, different experiences, and different fitness and skill levels. All with at least one thing in common. A desire to fully experience the experience: 28 days in the canyons, learning while going without eating for at least 4 days while walking 18-30 miles daily on rugged terrain. And that we did. All seven of us made it through, spending the first four days without food while covering 18-30 miles daily on rugged terrain. We learned the basics about survival in the outdoors while lugging around our gear wrapped up in a blanket on our backs. We made friendships that will last a lifetime, and all learned at least one important previously unknown fact about ourselves.

We also did the complete opposite of smart survival. Often. We saw a nasty storm coming and continued to climb in elevation until we reached what we half jokingly named Mordor, all the while being pelted by hail, torrential rain, and finally snow. We camped in recently flooded flash flood zones several times, where trees were strewn haphazardly through the slick mud, reminding us constantly of the potential for raging river water to come through and sweep us away. We arrived almost daily in camp moments before dusk, only to be greeted by long, duff concealing shadows. Maybe that was part of the learning experience as well.

We spent the month dreaming up new recipes, new baking techniques, making grocery lists, thinking of what snacks we’d have upon regaining our freedom to choose. I even saw a chocolate chip cookie on the trail we were hiking. I still stand by my cookie sighting. It was a portion of a Chips Ahoy. I swear! I’m sure it was stale and would have crumbled into dust when I picked it up, if I could have found it after I accidentally stepped on it and kicked a pile of sand over it. The other students swore it was a hallucination, but I know what I saw: a half eaten chocolate chip cookie in the middle of the desert.

I learned a bunch of practical skills, like how to make fire if you have nothing but a cord and a knife. I learned what plants to eat, how to make traps, how to bake bread in a sheep’s stomach, but aside of the simple survival techniques, I walked away from this class with an even more in depth understanding of what truly matters and what doesn’t in this life. I had already decided to sell all of my furniture upon my decision to move to Alaska. I had opted to get rid of the bulk of everything I owned for profit or peanuts, as long as it would not be mine anymore. Still, I brought too much with me, and I never used half of the things I toted along in my little Rav4 to the Frontier State. I’m going through yet another cleansing now, taking droves of clothing to the thrift store, giving away non essential items. How liberating...the second wave of purging life’s inanimate burdens.

This road trip will be much lighter. The best part about it is the final destination. I’m heading home to Pennsylvania. It occurred to me in survival school that I know lots of small towns around the world pretty well. When I return to Monterey or Haines, there are people around that know me and greet me warmly. I can give you directions to get around Alcoi, Riobamba, Copperas Cove, and Watertown, but I don’t know the lady that works at the café across the street from my parents’ house in Annville, PA. Essentially, I’ve grown to know people everywhere but home.

It’s time to slow down for a few months. It’s time to have a home base. It’s time to cook for my parents, finish selling or giving away the last of my things, and finish up Call Me Stupid. I guess chapter four of freedom will be called Reconnecting with what Truly Matters, Family.

Soul Separation

I walked away numb. It wasn't real to me yet. I'm still in Germany. My lips still taste of his. My hand is still warm where he had been holding it. He had turned to walk away and so had I, but it felt like any other time we'd parted ways only to fall into each other's arms hours later.

It was only as I neared the subway station that I realized that this is it. My time with him is over, and we won't be meeting for dinner, dancing, or even a cup of coffee this evening. I passed a busy intersection where a dark man with messy curls and a mischivious grin played the acordian. He was playing quite a melancholy song.

Something about the music made me stop in place and turn around. I couldn't leave yet. I needed to feel close to him for a few minutes more, so I crossed the same place where we had crossed hand in hand both yesterday and today, and entered a cafe to enjoy the sullenly sweet sounds of the acordian.

As I entered, I realized I had gone into a Portuguese cafe where I could get by in Spanish as opposed to the ever difficult frantic hand waving and mumbling I've tried to pass as German. Aventura's "I'm sorry" was playing softly above me as I sat down in front of a wide open full length window. I felt a part of two worlds as I sat motionless at the small square mohoghany table listening to both a heart wrenching bachata and acordian simultaneously. Spanish here, German there. I felt a pressure building in my throat, and a single tear made its easy escape, leaving a sleek trail of remembrance on my cheek. I smiled though my heart was in pain.

And so, here I sit, at the Delta Cafe in Hamburg, living with one foot in each world for the moment. Inside the walls is warm and well taken care of. The floors are swept, the tables spotless. Portuguese and German flags hang from the ceiling. A giant red lobster perched unflinchingly on the yellow wall seems to be watching me from his one remaining plastic eye. Maybe he's empathizing. Is his love on another wall in the restaurant that he can't reach?

Meanwhile outside the acordian has stopped. The musician is walking around with a small, broken plastic container requesting coins for his music. Across the street is an entire brick wall covered in street art. Grafiti of all colors, of all styles. There are several sleeping bags strewn about in chaotic order. There are three sets of old, torn shoes sitting on a step, placed carefully, heels touching, toes all facing forward, and a few dusty young men sit nearby idly chatting through shattered teeth while passing a cigarette and bottle of cheap wine.

My heart is not breaking. It's not broken. It hurts. It's bursting. It's happy. There is so much positivity and not enough space. There is perfection, and although he had turned to walk away and so had I, he remains with me in every moment, in every action. Every sound. Every smell. I've known him for lifetimes. Maybe then I was his husband and he was my wife. Maybe I was his dog or he was my cat. I can't help but smile through my tears at the thought of being a dog in a former life. As I sip my cafe con leche y mucho mucho azucar, I remember how as a child, I used to believe I had been a dog in past lives. Maybe he was my master then, my equal now, my soulmate forever.

A calm comes over me, as forever is a long time, and as long as we walk this world it will be hand in hand, in whatever capacity. I've found a home in his arms, and although I feel a bit homesick, I've got a bit of work to get done before returning to where I belong. And so, I smile through these tears of happiness, contentment, and assuredness of fate. I smile because our paths will cross again in October, and until then, we will be apart, but only physically.

Totally Trapped Attempting to Toss Tomatoes

They push. I push back. It's thirty to one. We are all feeling desperate to gain ground. Every inch is recognized. Every inch appreciated. I spread my feet and lean forward for a stronger position. My palms are flat against the sun warmed metal. My arms are flexed, but my hands are only inches from my chest. My back is aching from the strain. If I lose, I could be easily be crushed by approaching rubber. I'm looking left and right, all the while pushing with everything I have. I can't feel angry at those pushing me forward. They are only trying to gain space to breath more easily. The tire is a coming. I crinkle my toes and try to slide my feet back, if only a centimeter. There are pieces of rotten tomatoes roasting in the sun. They are everywhere. (They're in my raccoon wounds!!!) In my hair, on my face, between my toes, and on the truck. Little pieces of rotten fodder.

For a moment, I consider releasing a hand to snatch at a tomato. I momentarily envision grabbing the semi-fermented fruit as I'm simultaneously pushed helplessly under the truck. Needless to say (or maybe not if you know me better than most) I didn't go for the tomato.

I guess your next question is how did I end up so close to the truck, right? I had been in a nice, tight spot with a comfortable 3 or 4 feet between myself and the path of the tomato bearing dump truck when suddenly the girl who had been standing behind me fell. La Tomatina is a grand festival in Buñol. The last Wednesday in August, people from around the world come together to take part in the largest food fight they've ever seen. It's ultimately a combination of a lot of alcohol, not a lot of sleep, a lot of heat, and a lot of people in not a lot of space. There are times where you struggle to stand straight because so many people are pressed against you. I saw several people break down, flailing about to get free from the unforgivingly dense crowd.

That being said, this girl fell unconscious, and her ailment could have been any number of things, heat stroke being my main concern. I cleared a path for her, leaving my place on the secure sidewalk and helped bring her to the truck, where I was able to ensure that she was going to get medical attention. The problem with that was when it was time to return to the side, there was nowhere to go.

So, I'm now inches from a dump truck, pressing against the sides as hard as I can to avoid being pushed under by the people behind me having trouble breathing. I thought of my tombstone: Survived OIF/OEF but not La Tomatina. I smiled through a clenched jaw. Then I laughed, a quick, impulsive, high pitched, nervous laugh. I found my laugh so odd that I laughed even harder. The truck rolled by, and as it did, I was nearly pushed to the ground by the hordes of people gasping for air behind me.

The fight continued. I was hit in the head once, twice, three times, but now I was completely surrounded by bodies. There was an elbow in my breast. I asked the woman to my right if she could manage to shift her weight if only a little to alleviate the pain.

Suddenly the crowed surged back like the tide crashing to shore, guided by gravity. I was pulled with them. Then front. Then left. Then back again. My chin was digging mercilessly into a young man's shoulder, but I couldn't move it. Someone stepped on my left flip flop as the throng moved back again.

Is everyone trying to follow the last tomato truck?

Now, with my left foot bare, I searched with my toes for my sandal.

OOH! I got it!

The crowd moved left.

Damn, I lost it.....

Wait! There it is again!

The crowd moved forward.

I guess not.

A woman appeared in front of me. A frantic apparition. She was crying, screaming, flailing her arms this way and that. Her elbow connected with a faceless body, her hand hit another.

"I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE!!! LET ME OUT! I CAN'T BREATHE!!!!!"

Her voice faded into the cacophony of distressed non lethal combatants. A man shot a glance at me. Our eyes connected. His face was painted crimson. He had an unnaturally crooked nose.

How incredibly uncomfortable the next few minutes were. I found myself taking slow, shallow breaths because the pressure on my chest and back was so great that I couldn't expand my lungs but a little at a time.

"Survived OIF/OEF but not La Tomatina."

And then a mortar.

Wait. A mortar?

I flinched as the sound resonated in the crowded streets.

Instantly the pressure was lifted. I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity. Tomatoes continued to fly through the air after the fight "ended," but the intensity took a skydive in a matter of seconds. I quickly scanned the streets for my rogue flip flop, but when I was sure I had walked past the place where I lost it, I settled for what felt like a men's size 10. Royal blue. Awkward.

I worked my way out of the labyrinth, wading through ankle deep gazpacho. Everything in sight had a red tint to it. The air reeked of vinegar, sweat, and vomit. Or maybe it just smelled of 14,000 people throwing over 25,000lbs of rotten tomatoes for an hour on the last Wednesday in August. I laughed randomly as I was hit in the shoulder by a flying camiseta. I tossed it across the street at an unsuspecting blond.

SMACK!

A girl next to me was hit in the head with a sandal.

Anything that was loose and able to be picked up was fair game. Soaked hats, towels, shoes, even pieces of tomatoes that clung to the sweaty folks heading towards the locals with hoses. Even from those heading away from the foul smelling tomato sauce covered streets.

I moment later I found myself jumping around, waving my arms at a twelve year old girl, trying to entice her to PLEASE hose me off with her garden hose. I couldn't help but laugh at myself. I flew to Spain for a FOOD FIGHT! I survived OIF/OEF AND La Tomatina! However, I've got a bone to pick with a greasy pole, a ham, and 25,000 lbs of tomatoes.

Watch out Buñol.

Next year, you may rest, but La Tomatina 2012, here I come!

Shared Silence

A mist sat over the water, making the mountains’ reflections on the silent surface a shadowy neutral as if the world had been sketched in detailed gray scale. It looked like it was going to be a chilly day. I sat on my porch a while longer watching the tide subtly rise, moment by moment. It was nearing time to head to work. However excited I was to head to a job I enjoy, I was hesitant to leave the perfect secluded silence of my sanctuary. My home. I slowly stood, called the dogs, and started my day.

Things began normally enough on the job. I look forward daily to groups of cruise ship passengers interested in seeing Alaska from a different perspective. Some crowds are told that I was a veteran before they meet me, some are told I’m a salsa teacher, some are told I have a purple heart, some are told I’m Rita, wearing a shirt in red hot Latin flavor, but this group had been told my name was Karl, and I was tall and funny looking. They definitely walked past me at the dock, and seemed thoroughly confused as I reeled them in. I tried to convince them that they were with the right person, and the jokes ensued.

No. My name is not Karl.

Yes, I’m funny looking.

No, I’m not tall.

On the river, I had seven on my raft. There was a family of four in the front, including two daughters 21 and 23, an older pair of sisters in the back, and a single woman from Pennsylvania that sat directly to my back left. Inevitably, as I introduced them to my office, I was asked what I was doing in Alaska if I’m from Pennsylvania. I gave an abbreviated version of my story. I told nobody about my service, about my purple heart, about my passing up jobs for freedom, nothing. I said simply that not everyone has as much time as they think they do in life, and so why wouldn’t I spend mine in a place as breathtaking as Haines, rowing down a calming river with magnificent views like that as much as I could?

I then turned the question on them. The family in the front responded with a simple, “Why not Alaska?” The sisters in the rear said that they wanted to get there before they ran out of time because they were tired of waiting. But it was the lady from Pennsylvania that truly caught my attention with her response. As soon as I cheerily asked her for her story, I realized that subconsciously I already knew the answer. There aren’t many reasons an elderly woman would be found alone on a cruise ship and alone on a rafting tour of the Bald Eagle Preserve in Haines, Alaska.

“My husband and I always wanted to come to Alaska. He, too, realized he didn’t have as much time as he thought. He would have enjoyed this so very much,” she nearly whispered with tears welling, “This trip is for him.” She looked into the distance. The boat went silent. For several moments, nothing was heard but the soft rustle of silt against rubber, the soothing sound of the river gently caressing the bank, tempting it to let go, tumble down, and be swept away, and finally a quick slide and a splash. A small shelf freed itself from the confines of structure and embracing freedom, riding the current in a million separate particles. There was nothing to be said. We all understood. I understood better than they could ever have imagined.

I fought back tears as my mind raced through memories of friends who would never again get to see something so incredible as the Cathedral Peaks, Kicking Horse Valley, or a twelve pound bald eagle shredding and devouring a salmon within feet of the raft. There were four young men that came to mind instantly. The picture used at their memorial still weighs on my mind. Four bright eyed, healthy men…boys really, who loved each other like brothers, always insisting on being in the same truck with one another, posing for the camera in different tough guy positions. One with both hands in the air, looking to the sky seemingly asking for deliverance, another with only his right fist in the air looking diagonally away from the camera. All four of them radiating youth and promise. All four of them no longer on Earth. Their truck was barely recognizable when it was towed back to the FOB and left in the “graveyard.” A young father who lost his life two weeks from before seeing his newborn son for the first time over mid-tour leave. A boy, now over five years old who never had a chance to meet his father. A boy shot by a sniper through his temple on his 20^th birthday. A boy next to whom I sat, discussing how lucky he was to be coming to our FOB as opposed to his COP. I told him he was lucky to get to work with the CIED team. It sure would beat his other job. Days later he was crushed under the vehicle when it hit an IED. A group of young men burned alive inside an MRAP. A boy who thought he could stop a truck from tumbling down a cliff and keep himself out of trouble, but ended up going down with it. A suicide towards the end of the road with less than a month left in Afghanistan. None of these guys will ever be able to celebrate life as we can. They can only live on in our memories.

“I need to travel more before I, too, run out of time,” my passenger from Pennsylvania told me as she stared in awe, mouth slightly agape, at the small salmon stream that opens up into a view unparalleled of the vast alluvial fan and towering mountains capped with fresh snow. “I need to do many things.” We all do. Many things need to be done.

Everybody dies. Only a handful of people truly live. This woman from Pennsylvania cried for her husband as I cried for humanity. She touched my heart as I can only hope to touch others in time. We shared a moment on the raft, eight of us, contemplating the beauty of being capable of living each day how we choose. It is truly a gift to live, and that day everyone with me understood that. Embrace each moment as is it’s your last, as you never know when the last may come.

Success and Sexy Secretions

I began by eating a bagel. Toasted. Butter. Strawberry jam. Perfection.

Hot chai.

Fair time!

I arrived to hear Swing Set play in the middle of the afternoon. Barely anyone was dancing, but the music was live, and I couldn't help myself. As I swayed, jumped, and kicked I was approached numerous times.

You're a celebrity!

Nice article!

Wow, and I thought you were just a NORMAL person!

I guess you never know who you are talking to, huh!

Huh.

At least the age old, "Have you ever killed someone?" wasn't thrown at me.

I ate freshly picked cherries, danced my last song, swaying to the base like a willow in a hurricane (no, really) before jogging rapidly to my car to speed off to work.

Not to work. To pay while I play.

After I got off the river, I picked my friend up at the airport and promptly returned to the fair, dressed in a smile so large my cheeks ached.

Debauchery ensued. Much dancing, some drinking, much socializing. Around 1:00, I thought I should go to sleep. I was going to race the next morning. Then I thought about the live music at the bar downtown. I quickly made the right decision.

Music it is.

More dancing, a little more alcohol, a lot more socializing.

The night (morning) ended at 4:30.

The half marathon started at 7:30, and I wasn't registered yet.

I had two people in my bed, two upstairs, and I slept on the couch. Couchsurfing's great.

I woke up at 6:30, and nobody else wanted to come out in the dreary, grey Saturday light to watch me start and finish. Surprising.

Race time.

A cool misty morning, a slight breeze, and NINE HARD CORE runners. None of us had a watch. None had a GPS. None had competitive spirit. It was cool, raining, grey, and somehow absolutely perfect.

The town was still sleeping as we trotted from the starting line in response to a commanding, "On your mark, get set, GO!" I felt OK for the first 2 miles. They were on pavement, and I convinced myself the alcohol and burrito from the evening prior would sit well in my stomach.

Sneakers slapping the pavement, small sprays of muddy precipitation were sent each and every way. I felt water on my toes.

Blisters?

As I hit the trail, my feet got comfortable pounding on the soft leaves and slippery mud. I simultaneously forgot the blisters and remembered the alcohol and massive burrito.

Uh oh.

I looked around anxiously. I stepped out of the way for a few runners to pass. I swallowed. Chills ran up my spine, my neck tingled, my hands felt numb. It was coming.

I gave in after powering up the mountain just a little bit more. I felt better thinking I was contributing to the environment. I'm convinced I fed a bear a yummy beef and bean burrito that morning. Although, I may have encouraged alcoholism in that same bear. I prefer to think only the former. Negativity's not my style.

I like description when I write, but I'll spare you the details of color, consistency, and smell.

Once wasn't enough. I made another mile marker/bear donation about a mile later.

Then I lost the trail.

Laugh it up. I've never been great with directions, so why wouldn't I have my head down, duck under a fallen tree, jump over another, climb part of a mountain, and then suddenly realize I'm in waist high brush with no trail in sight?

I queasily backtracked, never once regretting the fun I had the night prior, and eased (gracefully I might add, I just about face planted on a root) back onto the trail.

By the time I hit mile 8, life was good again. The last 5 miles were spent cruising. I skipped over rocks, ducked under branches, gained new scrapes and scratches, chafing my inner thighs on my running shorts while I continued to pick up speed, but I still didn't see anyone. I'm sure I didn't finish last, but I'm not sure I was even in the first half of finishers! Percentile-wise, it may have been the worst race I've ever run in my life!

It was THAT AWESOME!

The day was spent dancing, eating, and laughing at that morning's race.

More of the same:

Hey, celebrity!

You're famous!

I've lived here 7 years and haven't gotten my picture in the paper! You've been here FOUR months and got a front page article!!!

No. I've only been here for THREE months.

Thank you for....you know.

I do know.

I'm not sure if I've been able to adequately express the positivity gained from knowing people are supportive. I try with words, but it's hard to capture the true gratitude in recognizing true gratitude in others.

I tried that day to get that point across. I may have succeeded, but one thing's for sure.

I danced.

Before I knew it, it was 6:15. I told myself I'd be on the road to Whitehorse by 5:00.

Typical Rita.

8:30 - Finally, on the road. Kerouac would be proud.
2:30 - Arrive in Whitehorse
3:30 - Fall asleep
6:30 - Alarm rings. Time to get ready for the race!
7:00 - Finally coherent enough to eat breakfast
7:30 - On the road to the starting line (no directions)
8:00 - Stop at a gas station to get directions to starting line
8:01 - Find I accidentally went the right way
8:15 - Arrive at race start to pick up my goodie bag with PLENTY of time until the start.
8:26 - Returned to the starting line with my number pinned, bowels emptied, no watch, and no GPS
8:30 - The gun fires, and we're off.

I forgot about the gun. Oops.

I had no idea what I was facing course-wise. I did know that I had ABSOLUTELY NO alcohol in my system at the start of this race, although I worried a bit about the coffee I downed in order to make the drive to the starting line. I tucked in behind a group of slower guys. I was convinced I was in the WAY back of the pack. When they asked me if I'd like to pass them on the single track, I politely refused.

No passing anyone not walking in the first 10 miles.

That was my rule.

There was an impatient girl behind me. I asked her if she'd like to pass. She scoffed at my pace and said she would. She sped down the trail. I smiled and told her kindly I'd see her in a few miles.

It didn't take that long. A mile and a half later I passed her. (She WAS walking.) I didn't see her for the rest of the race.

Around mile 13 (kilometer 21), I started to get a little bolder. I felt pretty good, and knew I could pick up the pace. That's where things can get dangerous in a marathon. As I jogged up to the rest station at the midway point, I told the volunteers I was out for a Sunday jog, and would prefer they didn't tell me how I was doing.

They complied.

Around mile 15, I realized I had chafed my thighs again. Not super important, but uncomfortable.

A few more miles...

Then it happened.

I've read about it happening. I've laughed about it happening to other people. I've seen horrifyingly embarrassing video clips of it happening, but I'd never experienced it myself.

My bladder let go.

Don't judge me.

It wasn't an all out pee a quart at a time, but it was a decent flow. Enough that it ran down my legs to about my knee. Down my chafed legs.

The stinging brought me to an abrupt stop.

I stifled a scream of disbelief and utter pain. I started to jog again after a few seconds of contemplation.

OH HOW IT BURNS!!!!!!

I sucked some water out of my camel back, put it on my hands, and wiped down my legs a little. It seemed to help, if only slightly.

I kept running.

I stopped thinking about the little "accident" after a bit.

Then, at a crossroads....

It happened AGAIN!

This time with more flow, and merciless burning on the inner thighs.

Hmmm...I just pissed myself in a marathon. THAT JUST HAPPENED! TWICE!

I thought it would be a good idea to "pull over." Luckily I had toilet paper in my camel back, because all at once, my gut gave me a telltale rumble, and my "situation" became an emergency quite quickly.

I handled it as fast as I could, then got back to the trail. I only had another 5K or so left in the race.

This time I didn't forget about it as quickly as I had the first time because I could smell it. I knew if I could smell it, so could whoever else was around. I was a bit embarrassed. I was preparing my response. It went something like this:

"So, have an accident?"

"Yeah, I pissed myself twice...What? Wanna fight about it?"

That's it. That's all I could come up with. :)

Another random thought that kept running through my mind as I finished the race (other than, damn, another hill!? and Damn, measuring the race in Kilometers makes it seem longer) was the episode of Family Guy where Peter gets mauled by the raccoon several times and then his outhouse is tipped with him in it.

He screams, "It's EVERYWHERE! It's in my raccoon wounds!!!"

I thought about screaming it, but the low chances of random trail runners in Whitehorse getting the reference dissuaded me.

I rounded the last turn, and the finish line came into sight. I started to pick up the pace, trailing my scent of triumph behind. If anything, I thought it might prevent other runners from closing the gap. I finished, hard, and in that moment, I had a revelation.

Most of the run was next to a river.

I hobbled to the water, and proceeded to sit down in the water. I casually wrung the material in my shorts, all the while icing my legs.

HA! They'll never know!

And they didn't. At least nobody made a visible yucky smell face in front of me, and that makes me smile.

Nobody would have known my humiliation because I handled it so quickly, so I thought it was definitely necessary to share this on the world wide web. I know it will bite me in the butt when I go to publish my book.

When it's all said and done, this weekend was a great success. I placed 2nd in the open female division at the marathon. I got a trophy, and a finisher's medal (that my couchsurfer proceeded to break the next morning), but most importantly, I earned raw inner thighs, and memories that will make me chuckle for the rest of my life.

I hate to tell you, but If you haven't run to the point of sexy secretions, you have definitely been cheating yourself out of an epic experience.

Posthumous Potluck

The first row of cars came into view around the tight bend. Cars, trucks, and SUVs lined both sides of the road as far as could be seen. Some were parked off the road, some at dangerous angles in the trees, others halfway into the oncoming traffic lanes.

How many cars are there?

Around the next bend they were crammed anywhere they could fit for another quarter of a mile. At least ten people were walking. Some this way, some that. Some smiling, some staring ahead blankly. All carrying plates of food under aluminum foil.

Approaching the beach took longer than expected. Close to the middle of the queue of vehicles, where they were most haphazardly parked, was a trail entrance. An older gentleman emerged, stooping over his plate of steaming halibut, carried idly in his left hand. When asked how he was faring, he looked up, fatigue in his eyes, and replied breathily, "I'd be better if I didn't have to climb all of these steps!" He shuffled past, towards his car, that way.

Down a cleared dirt path, down a flight of stairs, past an open window looking into an immaculate kitchen, across a deck with a beautiful set of wind chimes, down a second flight of stairs, and all the while with the quiet roar of a waterfall guiding the way. Suddenly, the beach appeared.

It's one thing to see so many cars, but so many people! They must have carpooled, maybe some cycled in, maybe some walked from neighboring houses.

What throngs!

At that moment, the sound of a banjo broke through the serene pounding of plunging water.

This is the place.

The first table beyond the path was covered in a light cloth, a picture of a middle aged man smiling out at the beauty of the world placed carefully next to an open notebook and a wrapped box with a slot labelled "Donations" in loopy letters.

"Love and light. - Jen Reid," was written on the exposed page.

Should I?

The second table called loudly. Round and full, almost crowded, it was obviously the desert table. Unmatched tupperware containers of moist brownies, slices of sweet pies, batches of homemade cookies, and full loaves of beautifully baked breads beckoned, teasing and tantalizing tempted taste buds. An array of fruits, cakes, crackers, and muffins asked to be eaten.

The next table was rectangular. It was longer, covered in a white cloth, and equally filled to capacity with treats, although on the non artery clogging side. Salads, pastas, hummus, salmon dips, unnamed side dishes, and store bought cheese platters were strewn about lazily. Some containers had been scraped clean, others were getting there quickly.

Just past this table were two large grills. The smell of freshly caught and grilled salmon and halibut played in nostrils, making the hungry salivate. Norman smiled, asking if anyone wanted some more fish, fresh off the grill.

Could I say no even if I wanted? Probably not.

More spectacular than the food, than the path, than the rock riddled beach, were the people. The sheer amount of people, milling about, discussing this and that. The smiling man in the picture on the first table clearly brought smiles to their faces. Some smiled through tears, but mostly, they just smiled, laughed, and danced.

A banjo, a guitar, a base, some drums and a trombone. That's all there was, and that's all it took. The Fishpickers played their hearts out in the name of the smiling man, spreading the contagious energy he had given them before his sudden and unexpected death. The energy was spread through the crowd, and it could be seen. The energy in the air was so thick it was nearly tangible.

This could be taken and spread to folks who couldn't make the festivities.

Festivities is an odd but appropriate word.

Tommy strutted through the crowd, boasting happily of his books. "Small book, big story." He repeated this at least four times.

In wonder, a passerby expressed without lamentation, "We were just having coffee at Mountain Market on Wednesday! Now he's gone."

The music softened, then quieted. A grizzled man who looked older than his years approached the microphone. He started, "Mike wrote this........." The crowd laughed hysterically at the poem about a polar bear that hitched a ride on a fishing boat, ate the crew's fish, and then dropped them on a dime when he saw a female polar bear waiting for him at his destination. It was noted that the polar bear and fishing crew had a lot in common.

A member of the band grabbed the microphone and told a bit of a story about how silly Michael had been before he gave a gruff, "Shit, ah never mind, let's just play some music!"

As the band played, the beginnings of a rainbow peaked through the overhanging clouds that had engulfed the towering peaks across the Lynn Canal. They parted enough for the colors to break through, and everyone took it in at once. Rainbow Glacier earned its name yet another day.

In that glimpse of light, of color, the moment reopened. Sure tomorrow would happen without Michael, but today; that's what really matters. A celebration like he would have done it.

The band picked back up, playing two waltzes. Two older women danced together, roughly swinging each other one way, then the other, truly enjoying the moment. Pushing and pulling, giggling, and making silly faces. Laughter lit their eyes, and years plummeted from them in their merriment leaving nothing but youth and happiness.

By the calm canal, a single woman wearing a soft crimson sweater with a flowing black skirt stood watching over her little boy play by the water. Her dark hair danced in the wind, as if trying to reach for the adventure of the silent, still, snow capped mountains opposite the celebration.

The crowd was thinning. As if on cue, mother nature sent a visitor from the sky. Swooping in cautiously a bald eagle attempted to sneak some fish from the nearby rocks. Sensing the crowd's shifted attention, it retreated, only to attempt again in a few minutes. The game of chicken, better yet, eagle, continued for close to a half hour.

The spirit of a small fishing town in Alaska was brought to light by the death of a remarkable man. Signs had been put up on storefronts, bulletin boards, and invitations were passed around by word of mouth as well. His beauty needed to be celebrated, shared, and through that he could continue to live.

I did not know Mike Saunders before his memorial potluck, but in seeing the effect he had on the town and the people, I sure wish I had.

Indecently Discarded

Before I get tons of questions, no, this is not a personal experience. I was just sitting in a bar this evening musing about the way people treat one another. How often this happens. I got a little carried away. Read on.

Her: Driven, ambitious, quirky, light hearted, and in love with nature, outdoors, fun, and experiencing life. She's soulful; someone who has experienced more than her share, more than she should have for her age. She's 27, and what people tend describe as exotic. Almond eyes, white smile, dimple, olive skin.

Him: Driven, ambitious, accomplished. In love with adrenaline, people, and improving the community. He's attractive, open, spontaneous, and family oriented. He's something of a legend in his community, and has made an impression on the world. He's 44, and what people tend to describe as ruggedly handsome. Laughing green eyes, distinguished, weathered.

The two met by chance, through both of their passions, live music. He caught her eye, bouncing around to the music, travelling the floor, making his presence noticed with less than no rhythm. She sat back for hours until finally asking him to dance. He complied. They laughed, drank, danced. They loved their moments together.

A short while later, the two bumped into each other again, and the chemistry was undeniable. Their concern for people brought them together. They understood each other. They talked for hours, tiptoeing around the obvious age difference, the potential between them. They enjoyed each other's company, and it didn't seem to matter.

He commanded her attention, she commanded his. They found ways to see each other, even for a short bit. A 15 minute smoothie break, a short jaunt by the docks. Their time together was a complement to each.

They chased the moon hand in hand down the center of an empty road, with the sounds of the sea at their backs.

They idled in the dark, chatting, laughing, until there was a rustle in the brush that could have been a bear. They picked up the pace a bit more, laughing all the while.

They kayaked together to a secluded beach, sat against some drift wood, and fell asleep in each other's arms.

He had her over for dinner, and in moments of passion, they became one.

They weren't prepared for each other in this life. He had almost given up on her existence, and while she knew he was somewhere, it didn't cross her mind that he'd be found in a town of 2,500, in a small bar in Southeast Alaska.

They had a serious conversation. He hadn't been with anyone in years. He thought she was incredible, and he had even told his mother. She met his brother. He invited her to have Thanksgiving with his family. He showed her his dreams. He shared with her his fears. He told her how good he made him feel, so good, in fact that he felt as if quitting smoking could be possible. She embraced them, him, his faults, and his passions.

He offered her undying and endless support, told her he'd be there for her, and even offered her a drawer in his house to encourage her presence in his life. He set the pace. He offered his home. He told her to make herself at home, but she couldn't just move in completely.

Then one day, she noticed a change in the weather. Something so abrupt, she didn't have time to react. Suddenly there were no more smoothie breaks, no dinners, no time together but time after work. He still wanted her to come by the house, but their time together seemed loveless. They were no longer one when together, just two people, one driven by lust, one by the hope love would return.

Eventually, she didn't want to visit the house anymore, but she complied because it was their time together. She hesitated to go home with him one night after a particularly cold evening together. She felt used. Sex is nothing but an annoyance without love.

When he ran into her in public, he seemed irritated that she would approach him. He avoided her. Refused to acknowledge her in front of his old friends, and refused to introduce her to anyone new. He even went so far as to turn his back on her upon her approaches.

She was confused. Her heart pulsed, felt as if it would burst out of her throat in a violent gush of tears. After several days, she pulled him aside, and demanded he explain to her the change.

His only response was, "I need to slow down. We can't live together. I'm confused. I need time."

She wanted to scream at him that HE set the pace. HE cleared the drawer. HE pursued her. HE entered her world. HE promised trips, time together, family, future. HE took her by surprise. HE broke her heart.

But she only responded with a quiet, "I'm not in a rush, but you could have handled this better." He had made her feel worthless, like a bother. Like the problem was hers.

They decided she would pull her things from his house, and after that they didn't speak. She decided to wait for him to come around, but he didn't call for several days. When he did, he offered a smoothie break, and some support. She believed him, and he stood her up. The third week in a row.

She started to doubt what she had to offer. She started to doubt her strength as a woman. Did she do something to push away this man? To make him embarrassed enough of her in public that he felt it necessary to ignore her? To cut communications? Was the hunt the only exciting part for him? Was she not a good catch?

She had seen this happen to others. This was the first time she experienced it first hand. She realized in an instant she had become disposable. A toy that had become a hassle on top of other responsibilities after an initial enjoyment.

She lamented. She had sleepless nights. She cursed him. She cried. She laughed at him and herself, but eventually she wished he would just speak to her like she was a human being. He treated dogs better than he treated her. All she wanted was acknowledgement, a sort of truce to become friends, because at that point there would be no reconciliation on a romantic level.

She lives by the saying, "When somebody shows you their true self, believe them." There would be no convincing her he was a better person than he had shown her. She had made that mistake before. He had lied to her, filled her head with empty promises, and decided he could drop her like a bad habit. Or maybe not. He had a MUCH harder time quitting smoking than he had quitting his time with her.

The part that made the hot tears stream down her face when she was alone was how worthless he seemed to think she was.

She recognized what was happening, as in one of her lesser proud moments, she had treated somebody the same way. In private, she had been one with a man that she was embarrassed of in public, and one day she cut him off completely and suddenly with a shoddy excuse of needing time to herself, being confused, needing to think, etc. She had truly enjoyed time with him, but one day things changed. She refused to speak to him because he complicated things in her head, the worries, the stresses. She didn't give him the respect he deserved because it was an inconvenience to her. She had treated him as if he was disposable. He had cried, written her letters, and pleaded with her to talk with him. He even threatened her. She couldn't be bothered. She didn't answer his calls, and was dismissive to his cries. She thought her problems were worth more than his ego. She figured he'd recover, and just wished he'd disappear instead of making her feel bad about the way she was treating him. She just wanted him to move on, and leave her alone.

In that moment of realization, she felt bad for both men. The man who she had stood by and dismissed her without a thought, and the man she had dismissed. She wished with her entire being that she could rescind her wrongdoings, hug him, make a friend of him, and take away his pain. For people are beautiful beings, not objects, not toys. Emotions are not disposable. It is not right to just drop someone because they have become an inconvenience. It's not OK to ignore someone completely. Simple explanations, honesty, and a little courage is all it takes to mend relations, yet we tend to cut them so crudely. It's instant gratification. It's a loss of values over generations.

It hurts. Nobody should have to experience it.

People would be kinder to one another if they could empathize with the feelings of the indecently discarded.

Corner Cry

It's hard to put pure emotion into prose. Capturing the true excitement that burns, the overwhelming need to smile at something, anything, anyone, in words is a challenge. The past week has been incredible. I've shared moments with people where in unison we've express that "This is one of THOSE moments that can't get any better."

I spent an afternoon running through a glacially fed river that only went waist deep in 80 degree weather with friends and a dog, grinning like an 8 year old. I laughed at myself as I stumbled over silt bars, slipped, tripped, and leapt through the refreshing goodness.

I followed this with a trip out to a dock to watch the full moon rise over the mountains. The clouds played a lazy game of hide and seek with the light that rested on the rippling water like a luminescent kayak while I turned up the radio and drank in the enticement of night with a side of Irish rock.

I took a morning hike out to Seduction Point, and set up a lunch on the hot, black rocks overlooking the water. I watched two pods of porpoises play carelessly. I witnessed a young eagle being chased by a raven, and after about a half hour of soaking up the sun, I was privied to the spectacle of a humpback whale doing what experts call tail slapping, but I choose to believe was a temper tantrum. This big baby was lamenting his girlfriend's decision to go out to dance instead of staying with him to watch television. He repeatedly lifted his tail out of the water and slammed it down with all the force of a man scorned, sending up what seemed like tidal waves in his wake. The sound thundered like a freight train against the jagged rock and glaciers, echoing like spirits calling to me to stay forever.

I sea kayaked to Battery Point and fell asleep on a beautifully secluded beach while the rest of the town "Beer Fested." The moment was spectacular. Serene. Sanctified. Satisfying.

I've met people who make me smile. It's refreshing to be surrounded by friendly, unassuming folks who share my thoughts about the general public: Everyone is good. Patience is all it takes to see that, and if you wait enough, inevitably a person will surprise you with their goodness.

I am bursting at the seams with what I can only describe as a lightness of being, not unbearable in the least. I finally, truly understand the overwhelming longing to discover a way to bottle it and inject it into the soul of the world. I wish with all my being that everyone could feel as great as I have recently. I wish so hard that it aches.

It seems unfair that it isn't understood as universal. Some truly believe their destiny is to be satisfied, not happy, but complacent. If they could only experience true happiness; liberation from the chains of mediocrity, they'd never return to the lifestyle of the sedentary soul.

I shed more than a few tears today. Every Memorial Day I sit down in a corner and cry like a baby until the hurt seeps away in a flood of salt, leaving only grainy streaks of white on my swollen cheeks. I sob until my shoulders have no more energy to rise and fall. I ask myself, the world, anyone who will listen, "Why?"

Today I didn't get to lose myself completely in my corner cry. Instead, I went on a flight through the mountains, and in complete awe of the jagged peaks surrounding Haines, I shed a discrete tear. I took a walk through the town and wore sunglasses to hide the evidence. I had a wonderful lunch under a gazebo by the water, and used my napkin to wipe the salt laden drops cascading towards my neck.

I remembered. I cried. I had not the chance to sob, but my heart broke nonetheless.

When I was a young Sergeant, a mother sobbed uncontrollably on my low quarters when I worked the funeral detail for her 19 year old boy, and it still haunts me. I hear her wails when I least expect it. The sound of pure agony and loss. A parent who has outlasted their child. A realization that nothing will ever be the same. An awareness of the unfairness.

The memorials haunt me. The empathy for the families, who surely don't celebrate with beer and burgers, but with a longing for the beautiful person who has left behind an empty seat at the picnic table, breaks my heart.

I wish for them to be able to feel my excitement. I want to spread it, pass it around, getting as many people infected with liberation from misery as I possibly can. I want them to be able to smile through the day with positive memories after a good cry, because we all know the cry has to happen in one form or another. Maybe a corner cry, maybe just a tear on a small plane in the mountains of Alaska. Cry. Let it all be flushed out. Then take the day to celebrate life instead of mourning death.

As Gen George S. Patton said so eloquently, "It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather we should thank God that such men lived."

Selling Sweet Solitude

I'm single. I chose to be single because I didn't like the man I was with. I felt I loved him at a point, but when it came down to it, he beat the like right out of my heart. He worked long and hard at it as if training for a marathon. Day after day, moment after moment. He worked at it like he was otherwise unemployed. Eventually, in order to gain space, I told him I needed him to leave. I needed time to figure out what I truly wanted, because in my heart I knew it wasn't him. He made me second guess everything that came naturally for me, down to how much space I used on a counter top when I cooked, and how I taught MY salsa lessons. He told me the things I did for him didn't matter, that he didn't care about my side of discussions. He told me all sorts of things, and the bottom line was: I didn't like him anymore, and by the time he decided to change, all of my energy had been spent.

I liked to hear from him, but I didn't like having a conversation with him. I always felt like I needed to console him. Like I was playing a role. Like he didn't really want to ever hear the truth. I knew he didn't like my sense of humor, and I made efforts to tone it down. He didn't like my approach to life, so I toned that down, too.

Essentially, I became a watered down version of Rita. I was Rita .05.

He was handsome, although his self esteem was low enough that if I didn't tell him that, he would constantly doubt it. He was a very bright man, although he got upset with me because his intelligence was what he called "behind the scenes," while mine revolved around tangible concepts for most. Languages, excitement, life.

I'm not sure why I stayed as long as I did. Maybe it was the "He understands what I've been through" syndrome. Or maybe it was because I wasn't sure I'd find someone else faster than me. Even now, I'm not sure.

I asked him to stop contacting me, because I found myself wanting to hear from him, but not wanting to talk to him. I wanted a way out, and I found it. It was that easy.

I haven't felt more whole than I do right now, without him in my life. I thought I'd miss him dearly, want him near, want to hear from him, but I rarely thought of him. I took the alone time to turn on my voice recorder, record my thoughts, and really dig deep into myself. I decided to take the time to try to find the demons that haunt my dreams, and sometimes cause my insomnia. I wanted to find it, nurture it, feed it, and understand it.

I've decided to write a book.

Some of you have known this for a while. Some of you haven't. There it is. I'm actively working on a book. That's all you get. :)

Recently we have dropped the Facebook friends thing. I told him goodbye over email, our first contact since the beginning of April. He responded that he thinks I'm lying to myself. I'm not really happy, and that I'm self destructing because I'm trying to "sell" my enjoy life mentality to anyone who will listen.

My feelings were hurt for a moment, because I don't believe that is true at all.

Then I thought about things for an evening. Before we split, he told me I'd be better off without him, happier, and life would be more fun for me. He told me that I didn't need him like he needed me, and he was probably holding me back. I told him that wasn't true, although there was a nagging need to tell him otherwise. I held back because...well, I'm not sure why.

But he was right. Without him, I've been free to think as I please, embrace people from all walks of life, shrug off the confines of societal norms, and truly enjoy life in its separate moments. The more I look at it, the more I feel encouraged to live that way, for returning to the lifestyle I led prior seems entirely too confining.

I'm not claiming to be healed. I have nightmares. I can't sleep some nights. Sometimes I have to laugh at myself because a crack or pop will make me jump so high out of my seat that people back away with that wary look in their eyes that's specially reserved for crazies.

Three times I've been in a situation where I've relaxed every muscle completely since I've been in Alaska. A yoga/dance class and two separate wellness/yoga classes. Each time when I completely relaxed, I was being blown up again, as clear and vivid as if it was happening THAT moment. It's there. I recognize it. I'm not feigning being cured or blissful forgetfulness.

I am, however, curious of the origins. I'm curious of the demons I have, and excited about the prospect of dealing with them one by one. I've taken my voice recorder out with me on runs daily. I have hours of thoughts recorded, and day by day, I put them into writing, and get closer to my answers. Closer by immeasurable distances, almost unnoticeable, but closer, nonetheless.

There are two ways to deal with this. Every day I could lament the 8.5 years I lost to the government, the nerves that have been frazzled and frayed by close calls, and the loneliness that is being by yourself in a foreign land (in this case, Alaska). I could spend my days sulking in my room worried about my past, my future, my savings, my mortgage, what people think of me, my faults, my scars, my shortcomings. OR I can seize this as an opportunity to enjoy the vistas, the solitude of river and running time, the differences of the locals, and the possible exploration opportunities in the local mountains. I could take the time to explore my heart, my mind, and my soul in positive ways instead.

I'm beyond beginning to enjoy being alone. It's addicting. Solitude is indeed something to be celebrated at times. Quiet moments that can be appreciated instead of suffered are something to smile about.

I will apologize to anyone who feels I'm trying to "sell" them on my happiness. I know I'm happy. I break into random smiles when I'm alone. I feel the euphoric high I used to associate only with dancing and running randomly throughout the day. Sure, I have moments of discontent, but again, MOMENTS. There are many moments, each with its own beginning and its own end. I don't have time to let a negative moment bleed into the next which could easily be the opposite.

I'm satisfied with my place in life. Sorry, it's not for sale.

Camping Con Crazy Kids

A favorite saying of mine is "Age is finite, immaturity is forever."

My soul is soaring. I'm smiling. I'm nodding my head visibly to a tune in my head that I wish everyone else could hear, and I can only guess my eyes are sparkling.

Youth.

An old track coach of mine once told me to come to practice excited because excitement is contagious. We all have off days, but that one "You can do it," super excited smile, or pat on the back may be the catalyst necessary for an amazing day.

The beauty of youth is how easily that excitement comes. Get a group of young kids together and the giggling commences almost immediately. Nicknames are made, like the girl, Tessa, who was nicknamed Jeff because she had 2 older brothers. Apparently this meant that she had an 88% chance of being a boy when she was born, so logically her nickname would be that of a male. Then there's Amanda, who has the other boy name, Merv.

That one's explanation eludes me.

A stranger who was deemed as "cool" comes through on her promise to visit at their campsite, and it's nothing but cheers all around. Hugs, laughs, and stories. Pictures are taken, jokes told, and memories made.

Two different generations, completely different backgrounds, different nationalities, different color skin...all come together on a public campground in Haines, Alaska. Come together, like long lost siblings.

There was a game introduced to me in Lake Tahoe called Kung Fu. It's essentially a way to play twister from a kung fu stance, with a bit of competitive edge. It's all about hitting hands, fluid motions, and getting caught in silly positions.

After being begged for salsa lessons, I chose to introduce this game to the kids. We played for 2 hours straight, chopping, jumping, and falling. We laughed so hard I got side stitches. I fell so hard, I have new bruises on my elbows. By the end of the evening, even the reluctant, "too cool for school" kids had caught the excitement.

Excitement seeps into your spirit, lighting everything along the way. It radiates from your eyes, your smile, and your soul. Jokes become hilarious, opportunities seem endless, and everyone around you becomes your friend in some way or other. It's incredibly easy to tell if somebody around you is excited. Generally it creates a smile on your face, and no matter how hard you try, your worries seem harder and harder to hold close.

You should watch sometime as outliers get pulled into a game. They sit on the outskirts, grimacing, judging. Then slowly but surely, their interest is piqued. They start to see humor in the silliness, and then suddenly, they are in the next game laughing as hard as they have all week.

Tonight, every single child and teacher was involved in my game. Every single person radiated excitement. Passersby stopped to watch, laughing at the ridiculousness, readily coming down with serious cases of excitement.

It was an evening I shall never forget. I gained 30 siblings, 30 friends, 30 fellow immature individuals. I caught acute excitement and spread it as quickly as I could.

I'm contagious. It's time you get infected.

Frantic Food Frenzy

I've been in Haines, AK for a little over two weeks now. It's a small, cozy town where outsiders pick up their mail with the address "general delivery." It's a town where the gas stations close at seven, but the liquor store is open until midnight. A town where there are absolutely no chain restaurants, one bank, one post office, and per square foot, more animals than people. I love this place. It's 9:22 pm right now and it's bright outside. Haines is a town that has 3 times more bald eagles than people in November. I used the ONLY photo printing machine in town on Thursday, and 8X10 prints were almost $7 a piece!!!

There is one good pizza restaurant, 2 bars, and several small coffee in a box type food stops. I hadn't eaten out yet... Until today, that is. For the past two weeks, all the guides have been ranting and raving about has been this little burger place called 33 Mile. When I asked them, they told me 33 Mile had the BEST burgers in South East Alaska, and they bake their pies on Tuesdays. They told me I HAD to get the "Triple Threat," which is a burger, shake, and pie.

I rose to the challenge, of course. The only catch is, 33 Mile earned it's name because it's located on mile 33 of the Haines Highway. That means it's 33 miles from the center of town, and 34 miles from the guide house. The price of gas out here is over $3.50 per gallon. I drive as little as I can. In fact, I've been riding my bike a bunch lately because the folks I normally give rides haven't been giving me gas money in return. Easy fix.

So, I thought I'd earn my food today with a 34 mile ride out. Easy enough.

I started off with a smile on my face, and "Blessed is this Life" in my head. I waved at every oncoming car, sang, hummed, and gawked at the five bald eagles I saw before even leaving town. There's something about the national bird that will never get old to me. Maybe it's the combination of majestic, snow-capped mountains against a brilliantly blue sky, all reflected in the glassy pools of the Chilkat. Add a giant raptor, and I'm in love.

I made it fifteen miles out of town when a friend of mine passed me in a car. He looked puzzled.

Around 21, things started to hurt a little. I started to doubt my sanity, and started to consider hitchhiking home. (After I ate my burger, of course!)

After what felt like 5 hours longer, I finally saw the 1 mile until food sign at mile 32. 33 Mile is only 1 mile away!!! I tried to pick up the pace, but all I could do was plug along sluggishly.

Man this is rough!!!

When I finally arrived, I was FAMISHED!!! I went in and asked for the triple threat, which only earned me puzzled looks from the employees. Apparently, there's no "triple threat" on the menu. It's just something my friends made up. So, I cautiously asked for a milk shake. She told me the machine wasn't working today.

CRAP!

I made up for the lack of sugar by ordering two cream sodas instead. Then I ordered sweet potatoe soup, a cheese and mushroom burger, and fries. I took Love in the Time of Cholera, along with my two sodas and water to the tables outside to relax and eat when 30 sixteen year old students from White Horse came up on bikes.

CRAP!

So much for a quiet meal.

I had the pleasure of sharing my table with 10 sixteen year old girls. The waitress promtly came to me and told me they were also out of sweet potatoe soup.

CRAP!

Beef and noodle it is.

I got to chatting with the girls as my food was being prepared. We began to compare Canadian and American stereotypes. They think we are fat with no manners. Oh, and Bush messed up a bunch. :D I thought that was cute. I started to point out their funny way of saying about, pasta, and their completely unnecessary interjection ay at the end of EVERY FREAKIN' SENTENCE.

We laughed, ate, and laughed more. Their program has them travelling with their teacher for the next 6 weeks, learning along the way. They rode 60 miles today as well, plan to camp in Mosquito Lake (better them than me), will hit Haines tomorrow, go swimming at the pool for 2 weeks, hike to Battery Point, and then stay at Portage Cove in the evening. I made plans to meet up with them at their campsite for more laughs.

My food was amazing. I got my burger as they were just starting to order. They looked just as famished, so I offered some of my food. (Did you really believe that? You know me better than that!) What really happened is as follows:

Me: Are you guys hungry? (nodding towards my food)

Girls: (In unison) STARVING!!!

Me: Sucks to be you! (Shoving the burger in my mouth, looking up into the sky in ectasy, and making a show of having food.)

HA! The consensus at the end of our dinner was "Rita's really cool."

I could have told them that if they had asked.

Reluctantly, I left them at the restaurant after about an hour and a half of banter. I got back on the road and realized why things had been so hard on the way up. It was the way UP. Mile 4-33 is pretty much ALL a gradual uphill!!! Some of it wasn't so gradual. So, my ride back was cake. It was so gradual that I needed to pedal the entire time, but not nearly on as low a gear. So, I think I made good time. I'm not sure. I don't have a watch.

Now I'm sitting in a bar, using the wi fi. I'm waiting until 10:00 so I can listen to some live music at the other bar in town.

I'm well fed, hydrated, and happy. I've earned my food, and earned the right to drink a little this evening as well. :)

"Blessed is this life, oh, and I'm gonna celebrate being alive!"

Testing Trust

Two things happened yesterday that inspired me to write this blog. First, I single handedly reaffirmed my faith in people, and second, I decided I absolutely don't want to be around those who do not readily trust others.

The long and short of the former is this: A couple from France contacted me on Http://www.couchsurfing.com two nights ago telling me that they needed a place to stay last minute. I had previously discussed couchsurfing with my manager, and was under the impression things were good as long as they were only there for a day or two. So, I checked out their profile and told them I'd offer a place for them. No problem. I told a few folks, and they were excited about the idea.

Another said, "As long as they don't steal my shit." We'll return to that later.

The bottom line is, I brought them to the house, but it was not allowed for them to spend the night.

I tried to find them a different place to stay, but nothing worked out. When it came down to it, they'd end up camping. That's when they asked me if it would be ok to use my car. Without hesitation, I told them it would be perfect.

I pulled out my seats from the back, removed everything, layed down some thermarests, some sleeping bags, and set out a candle. Voila, instant cozy room. I decided to safeguard nothing. I left over $150 in cash in the front, $4,000 of gemstones in the change dispenser, 2 Ipods, my credit cards, and my $3,000 camera and lens in the car. I gave them the keys and full reign.

We set up a time to meet up in the morning so I could take them to the road to continue their journey, and then could continue on to training. When I went to leave the house to walk to where we parked the car (it was deemed they couldn't sleep on the property at all) I was surprised to almost bump into Clo and Le Beun, my new couchsurfing friends from France. Not only had they cleaned everything they left behind, but they went out of their way to be at my door before I went to them!

I took them to get some coffee, dropped them at a decent hitching site, and bid them farewell.

I still have my car, my $150 in cash, $4,000 in gemstones, 2 Ipods, credit cards, and my $3,000 camera and lense. In this, I reaffirmed that people are indeed good. They are to be trusted, and to think otherwise is to cheat yourself from what could be a fully enriching experience in life.

Onto the latter issue. I was fully disappointed in 3 of my housemates. A rule was posted that visitors are allowed, i.e. you can head downtown and bring home a girl that night without reprisal. Somebody you meet downtown can stay for days, but verified and vouched for members of a respected online community cannot. I'm having a hard time understanding, appreciating, and accepting this.

This reaction was part of why I left everything of value in my vehicle. Today, people have become untrusting. The fear of opening your home and heart to others is overriding our humanity.

Today I made the semi calculated decision to move out of guide housing within the next month. This month is rent free, but on the 1st of June, rent is $175 a month. The digs are nice. There's a great kitchen, nice back yard, decent sized rooms, and hot water. I like my roommates, but since the couchsurfing "incident," I've noticed some tension between the live-in managers and myself. I feel like a guest in their house instead of at home.

And so, I've decided to camp out this summer. I'm looking for a place to stay, be it tent, treehouse, or vehicle. I might ride out this month, as I'm working on a scrapbook that needs some type of cleanliness to be successful, but as soon as the book is finished, I'm gone.

I think it's been too long since I've used my burners, tent, and propane. (Not together, of course!)

Open your hearts, open your minds, people. Regain your humanity and become in touch with each other! Scary movies aren't real. All people are not out to get you! Challenge yourself today, and start a conversation with a stranger. Sit down with a homeless man, and learn something about life.

Close Calls

Driving down the highway, the rain's intensity continued to increase. Turning down Jack Johnson's strumming, I focused all my attention on the road ahead. I was poised to react to hydroplaning. I was tense on the steering wheel. My knuckles were white, and my forearms began to ache along with my shoulders and traps.

This is how I drive when I'm not on a clear, clean highway on a bright, sunny, windless day.

I tried to switch to the far left lane, but I realized it was flooded. I tapped the brakes and returned to my lane. Moments later a small, dark sedan impatiently passed me on the left. I began to think that maybe the conditions in that lane had improved, and maybe I could also switch back. 20 seconds later, that car spun out of control. I saw headlights facing me then turning swiftly to my left as the tail lights of the SUV in front of me started swinging to the left. Faced with the broadside of an SUV in my face, I had two options, try to brake before I slid into it at 65 MPH or cut right after barely breaking.

I chose the former.

I pumped the breaks and realized quickly there would be nowhere near enough time to stop before broadsiding this vehicle. Panick started to well. I abandoned my choice quickly for the latter. I moved to the right after releasing the breaks, holding my breath, both hands on the steering wheel. I maneuvered onto the shoulder, and passed the SUV by inches, just as I heard a sickening and deafening crunch to my left.

The car behind me hadn't been so lucky.

Everyone says we are here for a reason. Things happen for a reason.

What's "A Reason?"

It's a way to legitimize sad circumstances. We laugh off decisions we made that helped us avoid close calls by saying, "I knew it had to have happened for a reason!"

I've started counting my close calls. I've been in 2 serious car accidents, a hairy climbing situation, struck an IED in Afghanistan, was shot 3 times through my backpack in Afghanistan, and just barely missed a pileup on I680 N heading up to Lake Tahoe last weekend, which I just described. I chose breakfast with my friend from Washington instead of cliff diving with friends in Big Sur, and it just so happened the water was too low. My friend died hours later of brain death, right around the time I was having my midday snack at a Latin and rock festival downtown. Knowing me, I would have taken that first jump. My mother was a drug addict, and didn't think it was necessary to go cold turkey just for something as silly as a pregnancy, and lastly, I tumbled down the U-Haul stairs as a toddler, landing squarely on my head. Cold, hard concrete against soft, bloody skin.

So, what's a reason?

Why was I the one dialing the 911 call, shaking, and unable to relax for hours? Why wasn't I the one strewn across the highway in the torrential downpour, staring up through glistening raindrops and distorted beams of light with the realization I'll never walk again?

Hoping for a quick, painless, quiet death.

What's a reason?

I'm searching.

Searching hard.

As soon as I figure it out, you'll be the first to know.

Moments in Monterey

I'm currently in Monterey, CA, for those of you who are interested in following my windy, nonsensical path through post military life. The last day I spent here was in June of 2008. Driving down here from Sacramento, I could barely contain my excitement in my car. I sang, I laughed hysterically, and I'm sure I looked crazy from the outside looking in through the windows of my blizzard torn Rav4 as I tossed my head around frantically to Luis Enrique.

I got in on Tuesday afternoon, heading straight to Marina to switch out my broken GPS and pick up my cargo carrier. (My GPS died after 3 days..I'm a slave driver!) Then it was straight to Monterey. The first night was great. Dave made some fettuccine, and I just hung out, relaxing, and planning for the next few days.

Yesterday was even better. I woke up to birds chirping through the mist. The mist. I forgot about the fog and the mist of Monterey. Misty blue. No. Misty grey. I stepped outside and could almost taste it. It's a wonder anyone can walk through it. It's opaque, almost solid. I wanted to scream down the desolate, wonderfully manicured road leading to the bay, "THERE'S SOMETHING IN THE MIST!!!"

I didn't. But I seriously thought about it.

I drove to Palo Alto, and in the process, left the heavy mist of Monterey in my rear view. I stopped at Nisene, parked, and proceeded to run without direction or worry. The only thing I brought with me was my voice recorder, a smile, and an uncannily peaceful feeling. I pounded the earth with Mizunos. The damp leaves were pressed into soft mud, leaving little prints in my wake. Every hill I encountered was approached with a renewed vigor, every downhill the same. I cruised around corners, onto little overgrown paths, back onto large, semi cleared trails. I ran, I lived, I smiled.

I hit a river, dropped my shoes, and soaked my legs a spell. Refreshing.

Back on the trails, I ran out of the park by mistake. After exploring a nearby neighborhood, I regained the path. Up and down, left and right. Around redwoods, over rocks, under boughs, through the most vivid greens and deep mahoganies.

I love running. I love Cali. I love life.

When I finished, I attempted to enter a nearby bike shop. Luckily for me and for my checking account, it didn't open for another hour. I took that opportunity to head to Santa Cruz. I had a 12:00 appointment at the Well Within. I stopped at a quaint bagel shop along the way, ordering a scramblewich (yes, that's really what it's called) and a tomato bagel. Yum.

I entered my room at the Well Within, stripped down, showered, and immediately entered my spa. I melted on the spot.

"Brrrrrrrrrruja, Bruja, Brujita! Tu me hisiste brujeria. Brrrrrrrrrruuuuuuuuu, demonio!"

Sorry, I digress.

Salsa. YES!

Back to the Well Within, salsa to follow.

A spa, a sauna, a zen garden, a shower. An hour of pure bliss. Pure recovery. Pure pleasure. An hour of being alone with my thoughts, my voice recorder, and myself.

I needed it. I took advantage of it. I left smiling and excited for the rest of the day.

When I returned to my car, I realized I had a little more money left on my meter, so I added another quarter, and took a walk down to the Wharf. I ran into a pack of homeless folks. I gave them the change I had and sat down on the bench with them. I learned about their stories, and why it was better to be homeless in Santa Cruz than anywhere else in the world.

After my stint with the homeless young people, I took a round about route back to my car. I drove back to Monterey, and stopped downtown for some Jamba Juice. Of course that ended with the purchase of a new toy (not THAT KIND!!!).

A tripod!!!

Not for a weapon. Never will I have one again.

For my camera! YAY!

I returned from my wanderings, stopped to visit with Melina in PG, then proceeded to Cat's place. Debauchery ensued.

The wine bottle was mostly empty by my arrival, and I guided myself in by her laughter. I started yelling in the street, "I HEAR YOU, CAT!!! WHICH ONE IS YOUR APARTMENT!!!?!"

We sat around laughing about the past, lamenting about things lost, and sharing stories of the present. Ideas for the future. I love these people. We followed dinner with 2 hours of salsa. I haven't danced like that since before my deployment! I forgot how much I missed it.

There's something to be said for a moment on the dance floor. Unlike life, when you have a million things going on at once, a moment on the dance floor has one. Just one. The music. Nothing bothers you, nothing CAN bother you. It's as if your troubles are flung from your person in a head whip, a hand flip, a kung fu dip. So simply, so carelessly, they spring from your outstretched fingers as they extend. They are tossed from your hair as it slices through the air. Gone.

Then you have a clean slate.

I have a clean slate.

After my cleansing, we went downstairs for greasing of the wheels, some artery hardening, some pizza. I had two bites of a piece donated to the unemployed, homeless salsera fund. We stayed there for almost two hours, playing live percussion, awakening Cannery Row.

Steinbeck would have been proud. Maybe he was dancing in his grave.

We played, we sang, we laughed, we lived. It's a moment that is lost in the past. A moment I can never live again. A moment I will remember for the rest of my life.

A moment that defines why I love my life.

Viva la salsa.