The Ins and the Outs

Whooooooo. Breath. I awake today with a rather nasty hangover, something I haven’t had for some time, so forget the flowery speech—we’ll see in what manner things come out of my head.

Ouch. Drink of water. Sigh. Ok.

These last few days have been a whirlwind. Hmmm, a whirlwind. No, I take that back. More like a roller coaster with a lot of disquieting ups and downs. At best, I have been profoundly moved by the beauty here. I have breathed in the incredible panorama of greenery and sea, my lungs full of salt air and romance. Turn around, and not one second later I have been saturated with ugliness—palpable, sharp, and distressing. I gravitate towards thoughts of never leaving, of working my way into this society, buying a little apartment and building a life. Then, before another second passes, I am shaken by the disorder, the traffic, the sharp division of the people. It is an interesting thing to taste, these intensities. But could I do it all the time?

Things all and all have been fun...but…wait.

Ouch. Drink. I don’t think I have the patience to do this in length. It’s like this:

High Moment—running around with my friend Ayda, meeting lots of people, eating amazing, amazing, unexplainably amazing food. Fejoida at her mothers house. Wow.

Low Moment—getting in a car. I have driven a lot. Ayda feels especially generous with her car after she has been drinking. This was fun, like barreling down a race track with no rules. Stop Lights, Pedestrians, cordiality? Mere suggestions. While I feel better behind the wheel than as a passenger, I still feel each and every time that I am going to die. And fuck man, people are sooooo, ahhhh, wtf. It’s quite possible.

High Moment—heading to the beach outside of the city. Eating crab, and little fish balls, and fried fish French fry like thingies; jumping into the warm embrace of the South Atlantic, staring in awe at the almost unimaginable scenery and the beautiful people that embrace it. I don’t know what god was thinking when he/she/it crafted these people, but they’re faces, breasts, pictorials, bodies, lips, smiles, etc, etc, are really quite unfair. I don’t generally feel unpretty, but at the present moment I feel kind of shafted.

Low Moment—getting locked out of my apartment. God made these people beautiful, but not very practical. Why does nothing work? Why is every fucking door fitted too loosely or too tightly? Why when things break do they tend to stay that way? Why, when a nice gringo gets locked out of his apartment (door jam) will the neighbors not help? Actually, I know why? Divisions. Safety. No one would open a door for some strange guy, cause in this society, it’s safe to believe that he is not very safe. Understood. But fuck, what’s a neighbor for if not that.

High Moment—having one of those beautiful interactions with Ayda’s young niece and nephew. One of those special moments, sitting around the living room playing guitar, talking about American and Brazilian music, laughing at the way things come out of each others mouths. When you are in a tribe (close kinship or social circle, going to write more about this later), you are really in. Friendship, kisses, hugs, it’s amazing.

Low Moment—why does everything cost so much? Gahhhhhh. I hate you George Bush.

High Moment—Brazilian hospitality. Like nothing you had, are, or will experience again. My cup is always full of beer, my plate a constant mass of piling food, it is incredible. In terms of welcoming a guest (again, if he is one of the tribe), they are masters. Simply put.

Low Moment—ok, sigh, last night. I have been never been so in the culture and yet so very separated from it. Now I hang with Brazilians, which is great, if they have the patience to interact with my shat ass language skills. But fuck, I have just put myself light years away from the savvy socialite play on words poet that I claim to be. I am Fez, on “That 70’s Show”, but not funny or likable. So I went out with a bunch of ridiculously beautiful and chic 20 somethings, clearly the “we are way cooler than you crowd”, and just failed miserably at being a relatable human being. I know how to play this crowd back home, have made a study of them because shoot…I like pretty ladies. But wow, the group ended up having a house party and I became that quiet guy in the corner that stairs at people and probably creeps them right the fuck out. No language skills = No interaction skills = No communication skills = Next to no flirting skills = A seeming lack of confidence = Beta, Beta, Beta = Why would I want to sit next to you let alone have your babies?

I hate not playing alpha. Hate, hate, hate, hate. Sigh.

Drink. My head hurts less. I’m going to get something to eat.

Getting Settled

As the days move on, the sensory assault of my arrival has begun to diminish, at least in force and frequency. Naturally, as the first week still lingers, life continues to drift in an unpredictable course. I awake each morning to the sound of traffic, of movement outside my window, and beautiful sing song from the neighborhood birds. Sleep here is difficult, as I was given a minimally present quarter inch thick mattress and an old dusty pillow to cuddle up to. My allergies have protested and are persuading me to purchase something a bit more accommodating. Despite these discomforts I do sleep, and quite deeply, my brain flooded with new things to learn and in need of a good reorganizing.

The owner of the apartment, Badega, is a quiet and relaxed guy, and has been very hospitable in his welcome. He has allowed total access to the apartment and food, insisting that I cook and shower and do as I want. This is quite a wonderful thing, as I was barred from kitchen access and house life with my last host family. As I understand it, we will be sharing the cost of food, the maid, and internet access (which is getting installed next week!). I am paying him $350 reis a month (about $200) and sharing the cost of added utilities. This is quite a reasonable price, I think, though not without the pressure to find a job and earn extra income.
The neighborhood, Brotas, is typical working class Salvador, with lots of foot traffic, little grocery stores, hospitals, and the rest. As anywhere in this city, it can be dangerous at night if one isn’t careful. Here I feel more pressure to fit in—to try and combat my foreign skin and unfamiliar look. Just before I left the US, I bought a stylish little watch to grace my wrist. It was a dumb idea….it now stays at home.

As I found out yesterday, transportation to an from a neighborhood like this can be a difficult and frustrating thing. Badega left on a sailing trip yesterday, and I was left to my own devices. Before long, I became bored sitting at home and decided to venture off into the city. I hopped on a bus to Porto da Barra, the more touristy beach front next to the city’s own historic light house. Putting deep sours into my soft American feet, I ran around the neighborhood visiting old friends, and breathing in my last trip to Brazil. Walking down the beachfront, I was to my everlasting gringo shame the whitest person on two feet. This can be a dangerous and annoying thing here, a target for insistent vendors, thieves, and street kids asking if you want marijuana or blow.

After drinking a cold beer and dipping in the sea, I decided to make my way home before the sun cascaded past the sky. It took me two and a half hours, grrrr, and is apparently damn near impossible to catch a bus back home. I sat at three bus stops, waiting, straining to read the bus signs for a familiar road. Each person I asked about getting home told me something different. With the sun going down and my pallid glow becoming ever more pronounced, I finally gave up and took a taxi back home. Twas’ an expensive conclusion and one that I dare not repeat too often.

Culture Shocked²

Holy Sweet Jesus I’ve done it again. The gauntlet has dropped and my head strains with the weight and noise of it. Monastic Oklahoma life, in all of its solitude and insulation has quite literally passed away—a swelling and triumphant discorporation leaving me twirling on my callused little toes. For the second time in two years I stepped off the plane with butterflies, rightly anticipating a swathe of verdant greenery and a heady cascade of summer air. Flying into Salvador by day has its charms, with the South Atlantic dancing on the right outside wing, and the white sandy beaches beckoning to the left. As soon as your foot steps off that plane everything changes. Not only does your language and familiarity pass away, but so too the steady cascade of inputs feeding the machine—those patchy variables of everyday life that function with hardly an upward glance. Once in and onto new land, it truly feels like a sudden rebirthing, and all one is left with is to look and feel and touch anew.

Upon my arrival, things got started right and proper with a meeting of my Denver friend Ayda, who in her jubilant and expressive manner so typical of Brazilians picked me up from the city airport. Her brother Ciao took the reigns of the car, but only after a difficult round of Tetris where we tried with great difficulty to fit all three passengers and my luggage into the most mini of miniscule iddy biddy cars.

As we drove through the city, running errands to this place and that – picking up things for the apartment, visiting friends and relatives – my how my foreign eyes slowly began to adjust (or at least attempted to). To those denizens accustomed to first world living, what could be more shocking than a transplant into this.

This city is fulllllll of people. And I mean full. I had to cringe every second or two thinking our car was going to nail some poor passerby making their way down the street. Lines of people, parading every task and masquerade of greater humanity, vibrated as we passed on by. Every bus stop, every city corner, were like mini solar systems, full of groups and assemblies and clusters of stars.

Now, if one were so inclined to play creator, grab up a number of these clusters, hold them in your hand, and then loose them onto this world. The chaos that would ensue, from forces of gravity and boundary, like some great cosmic marbles game, is exactly how I would describe the movement of the city (and especially the traffic). On the road, people cut lanes, slam on their breaks, run through crowds, and completely ignore speed limits, street signs, and polite gestures. How strange that on a social level, I find Brazilians to be the most friendly and helpful of people, but on the street all laws of opposition somehow come into affect. At one point, Ciao got in a fight with Ayda over some petty matter, and decided running red lights in heavy traffic was sound and justifiable. Not to mention, drinking in the car is no big deal, and we all had a couple of beers (albeit light) full and twirling in our bellies.

Yes, life here is indeed inconceivable. One just has to experience it first hand. The poverty here is so endemic, so deeply entrenched; it is hard to picture the city any other way. Hanging out with working class true to rank Brazilians is so different than life in the green tourist zone. Had my maiden voyage to Brazil unfolded as it did yesterday, driving around the slum areas and in full unabashed traffic, I think it would have scared the living shit out of me.
But this time around, things are different. I want to take the authentic path—to live, and love, and learn as a Brazilian, to truly get a handle on what life is really like here. This requires some level of acceptance, and courage, and an ability to forget position and first world ideals. This, I feel, is my path—to be a cultural warrior and combat my scrappy hold on normality.
In just one day, my first day here, I felt more challenged than in the whole of my year and a half return to comfortable living in the United States. Such things are overrated (at least for me, for the time being), and I look forward to this narrow path and the wide array of challenges that now lie ahead.

Departing the Oklahoma sub suburbs.

View outside the living room window. Yeah green!

Cafe da manha

Thought this was such a great subtitle, had to snap a photo.

My bedroom. The mattress is thin, and the air hotttttt, but I call it home.

As morenas do Brasil. Sigh. No caption necessary.

Destination Brazil

The journey begins. I stand facing south with the wind to my back,
unseen tendrils caressing, dipping and diving, moving past my body
and on to the arid plain. Freedom it whispers, movement and song,
a smile past my ear that flies up and onward—a stretch that looses
farther, and farther, and farther away.

First to the ancient metropolis of the Wichita’s,
to the bayous of Louisiana, to the turquoise waters
of the Gulf Sea. One tip and toe onward it flutters,
first to embrace the priestess and her voodoo cry.
Then comes drag of both fire and smoke, the breath
within a word, and the gift of sound for plantation cane.

Slowly, at destination she materializes.

Where upon...

and hither to...

A terra do vera cruz.

In green majesty and splendor. Great forest and coastal water. Colonial kingdoms born anew.

She turns…

She beckons…

And in concert must I yield, to smile and step forward,
to follow, right, onward, and ever through.

Pubwished

So I am finally, ever so finally, an officially published author. Way back in 2003, when I spent my days crawling around archaeological sites and old dusty libraries, I submitted an article to Michigan History—the most widely circulated history publication in my home state. This particular project was a result of my efforts as the lead researcher for the Southwest Michigan Black Heritage Society (picture little white boy me, driving around the rather segregated city of Kalamazoo, looking for leads). I got the job through my good friend Donna, who I worked with at the Kalamazoo Valley Museum. She maintains, to this day, that I am the best writer and researcher she has ever had, which is a complement to be sure.

This particular article was on the Underground Railroad in Kalamazoo County, and local abolitionist leader Henry Montague who ferried slaves furtively throughout the district. It was a fun project, and one that deserves a spotlight in Kalamazoo’s divided climate. Only thing is, the magazine reduced the size of my article almost by half. Taking out that many words pretty much butchered my own hovering authorial voice—kind of like King Solomon actually chopping the proverbial baby in half, instead of just pretending he was going to do so. It was hard to see my baby go.

Anyway, fast forward five years and they’re finally ready to publish it. I feel somewhat inspired, and would really like to publish more. Maybe some travel material perhaps, something on the history and current life of Salvador. Maybe a love story or two. It’s good to finally be pubwished, and for the rest we shall see.

Cemeteries. A historians wet dream.

Grave of Henry Montague and his wife of more than 60 years, Abigail Kingsley.

Waiting

Current ETA: 20 Days. Life moves in cycles. I am now back at Black Rocks Ranch, spending the holiday with my folks and the remaining days before I leave for Brazil. Just as last time, this place is the calm before the storm--a secluded and isolated bubble that requires a closer connection to nature and a weakening of my socialite city habits. It is in some respects a difficult place for me to be, disconnected from the noisy chaos of Boulder life, and a good number of weeks away from my South American adventure. The place has it's beauty, it's monastic like perks, but still. 20 Days. I continue to work, to wish, to wait.

Black Rocks by Dusk.

Paintball with the boys.

New Years in Norman. I hopped a couple hours away to spend the
holiday with Ben and Micha, welcome compatriots in the search for
good American fun.

Snappity hoo! New Years in the 70's is freaky flash and fun too!

After raiding the parents closet.

Beer shotguns for good measure (p.s. I don't recommend them)

Dancing and Miami Vice.

And all around pretty people and good times.

Down and Out

Ughhhh. Christmas. Generally the holiday fills with me joy, gaiety, and a renewed faith in the human spirit. This year, Santa put aside the candy cane surprises and decided to bring me a virus for the holiday. I have been completely down and out for Christmas eve and Christmas day, watching the family run about enjoying one another's company, and shared activity. I'd love to share more, but I lack enthusiasm, my head hurts, and I'm going back to bed. Ughhhh.

A Fond Farewell

Capoeira Boulder – my how I will miss you. You taught me to stand on my head, to walk on my hands, to show gravity who’s da boss. You taught me that it is ok to wear white, to tuck in my shirt, and kick some major ass. Yes, how I will miss you.

I discovered one of my old leather bound journals as I was packing up my room yesterday. Thumbing through the well traveled pages, I came across this entry dated

July 24^th, 2001:

“…One of the best experiences I’ve had on this trip happened a few days ago when my half cousin Laurent took Alec, I, and a few of his friends to a jazz festival in Fribourg (Switzerland). The festival ended up being a kind of Brazilian themed street party, with tons of great music and food. I experienced my first Brazilian concert huddled in a mass of Europeans in the middle of the city square. For hours I danced and sang, listening to the rhythmic beat of Chico César. It was an experience I definitely want to relive.

…After the concert, I watched a group of Brazilians perform one of the most beautiful martial art forms I’ve ever seen. It is a kind of dance where the combatants mimic punches, kicks, and other various strikes—all driven by a dance like stance and accompanied by many gymnastic feats. Most of my free time is taken up with martial arts, and this form known as Capwayda (yes this is how I spelled it) is definitely the most beautiful and one I now feel inspired to learn.”

Amazing how things come back into your life. I completely forgot that I ever had this sentiment, and find myself – years later – living that tucked away desire. I fully admit to a love for this sport, and truly look forward to more rodinhas in the Black Rome of Brazil.

I Am

The personal life deeply lived always expands into truths beyond itself. This is my crux and cornerstone. I am a life lived with profundity and passion, a myriad of personas expanding free into this beautiful world. I am many things to many people, a shard of glass reflecting the color and complexity of the outside within the in. I am a lover and a poet—someone who enjoys the taste of creativity, and the muse that wakes it from its slumber. I am a warrior and a fighter, strength unwavered, a rock born solid in the torrent of the sea. I believe in the search for truth, and the humility to recognize that my path is not the only way. I believe in embracing my masculinity, without apology, and living up to the King that I am. I live what I love, seek that which I will, and expand to what is and what will be.

Stream of Thought

I am sprawled out on my bed in the basement of the Yale house. Winter is upon the Boulder community, and a hoodie, socks, and my thick roupas da cama are necessary to keep warm. I woke late into the morning today. There is something about a cold bedroom that keeps one huddled under the blankets, unwilling to face the present and ever so blistery looming day.

I am a tight little maelstrom of emotion. It feels odd to approach my departure date, to say goodbye to this little mountain town. In the year and a half that I have been here, I have met, cuddled, and produced a number of satisfying relationships. I have run the path of wild abandon – both animal and human – through mountain streams, flowered pastures, savoring little scenic delights of the Colorado countryside. I have discovered chai tea, Nepalese cuisine, Capoeira Angola. I have enjoyed a diverse form and function of living.

I am, albeit slight, a delicate vibration, a person conflicted. I am struck with two wayward directions—the desire to remain, to stay, to build; and the desire to go—to throw off my shackles of routine and stability, to see and taste and feel all of the world.
I know that my time looms to settle down, invest myself in one job, one profession, and one place. I know that for financial success, this is necessary.

But the time is not now. Not quite now. Half of me resides in another world. A world of palm trees and chaos, acarajé and vitality. The world is full of abundance, of culture and thought, and I am swept up in it. The walls are just too big to build my house.

On work….wow, how crazy it has been. I got a call yesterday morning that Aspen Grove – the online grocery business I have been employed for – is finally going under. I knew this was coming. The place is a quagmire of dysfunction. I have watched, grinning in puzzlement, the big cheese owner make one silly decision after another. I have watched a man, with years of higher business education, fail at the most basic business principle--connect with people. The guy is a social moron at best, with little personal or marketing skills. Not only was he incapable of properly connecting to our customer base, but he had an uncanny ability to drive away his employees as well. Really drives the point home that learning how to deal with people is the most valuable skill I can learn.

One benefit to the shutdown, free food, in abundance, on a level never heard of before. About a week ago our work freezer lost power and got up to 40 degrees. The food was not spoiled, but due to liability issues we were unable to sell. That means free food for me! In the last week, I have brought home over $5000 in gourmet steaks, Alaskan cod, salmon, fruit pies, organic frozen dinners, over 50 pizzas, etc. My brothers and I made an emergency hardware run, buying and filling two massive storage freezers in the garage. Friends, roommates, everyone stands to benefit. And the funny thing is, I get hardly ounce of it! I’m leaving in two weeks and will never even get a chance to sample all the food! Haha, oh well. At least its good to feel patrimonial.

So leaving. Yeah, I am excited. I dream of Brazil every night. I will be staying with a surfer, and look forward to a little romance with my favorite goddess of the sea when I arrive. I have been buying a number of educational materials on business, hoping to increase my vocabulary on the craft of making money. Brazil will indeed test these skills. I hope to get work in a language school or as a private English teacher. God knows that I am a verbal kind of guy. And wouldn’t it be nice to actually use a bit of my brain on a professional level again (menial labor bahhhhh. No more!).

And tattoos….oh the tattoos. Yes, I am in love with ink. Good ink. People that are smart, whose intelligence and creativity in this world are reflected in their tattoos. I believe that the more time you put into a project, the better it will come out. Quite a natural thing really. Most people put little time in their tattoos, and the quality reflects that. Each of my projects I have spent months on design, redesign, body placement and style planning. Like a good piece of writing (this one notwithstanding), it takes draft after draft to produce anything of value. Witness my next project, Borneo Tribal Dragons on my arms and upper pecks. Borneo Tribal Polynesian is my favored style. It is bold, simple, easy to maintain, and a testament to a remarkable indigenous craft. My next ink session starts in January, at Bingha tattoo in Brazil. God I can’t wait.

So enough of random thoughts.

Work in Oklahoma coming soon. Then Brazil. Then more life in all of its glorious splendor. Until then.

Ah minha cidade, here I come!

Pic This! -- Halloween and Michigan Treats

So I discovered something this year. Halloween--amazing! Somehow running around as an adult with eye makeup and red britches proved more fun than the childhood pursuit of candy. Witness a couple of pics of me as Papa Satan and my gang of little red devils.

Yale House, Party in Hell. We are getting big.

And limos. Mix with caffeine, olives, and vodka, and you've got a sure fire mix for a rockstar.

After Halloween, I finally took the much anticipated trip
back to Michigan--to see old friends and jump around the well
aged haunts yet again. The trip, on the whole, felt
rather surreal. Running around Plainwell, Kzoo, and
our favorite back country portals, I admit
to a strong and palpable stirring of remembrance,
fond or otherwise. It was an amazing venture,
to stare into the eyes of old ghosts and strengthen memories
before I leave for Brazil.

Bests friends since middle school, Eric and Jonathon, my forever companions.

And who could forget the woods, fertile playground for my youngest memories.

How nice to run around and remember. J-Dog and Me in the Daniels Woods.

The Gravel Pit. Nuf' Said.

Eric and I finished off the trip with our Green Top, Ol' Style, Drunk by noon day.

And so many lovely visitors. Liza and the rest.

Truly good show. And great way to say goodbye for a time. I remain
on the path of a unpredictable and unknown future. I continue to wander,
unbound and unbidden, a ghost explorer in this world.

Ring of Fire

Here’s one for the books.

So I hike up to my mountain cabin with my good friend Jessica last night. We both were happy to get away from the rat race for a day, and were looking forward to a night out in Dream Canyon. After running up and down the stream, and exploring bits and pieces of the property, we decided to settle in for the night. Struck with a bit of post supper munchies, we grabbed a pack of Ritz Southwestern Chips and started chowing down. A few minutes later, as we were sitting and talking in the loft, we both were struck by a strong burning sensation on our lips. Out of no where, Jessica suddenly screamed and grabbed her face with her hands. Something from the chips had gotten in her eyes. She started to freak out, and tried desperately to grope for the ladder leading down from the loft. I was taken aback by her hysterics, but helped her get outside and pour water into her eyes. She continued, for a good twenty minutes, to cry and scream and grab her face. I didn’t understand why she was freaking out the way she was and didn’t know what to do.

About fifteen minutes later, after things had calmed down, I too suddenly started to notice a burning sensation on my hands, my face, and in my eyes. I felt, almost instantly, that someone had hit me in the face with a bat. I suddenly lost my vision, couldn’t open my eyes because of the searing blinding pain, and grasped desperately trying to find my way outside. For twenty minutes, I poured over a gallon of water in my eyes. I literally was unable to see, and was panting from shortness of breath. The pain calmed down a bit, and we both sat back wondering what the hell had just happened. But before long, another round hit us and we ran outside again. This second burn was even worse from the first, and we both were incapacitated.

Finally, after a good 30 minutes, we decided to try and drive home and get in the shower. Waiting until I could see somewhat properly, we got in the car and whisked our asses back into Boulder. Parts of our body – our faces, hands, arms – continued to burn. Anywhere my hands had made contact with my skin started to turn red and swell up. When I got in the shower, the oil or whatever the substance was continued to spread and I fought another fitful round of burning and pain.

So yeah, true story. I woke up this morning with a nasty headache and parts of my body stilled burned. I have no idea what was in those chips, but it was certainly something beyond your everyday pepper. I wrote the company a quick email explaining our reaction to their product. Hopefully they will look into the matter. I can’t begin to imagine how a child would respond to this material.

And really, while I’m on the subject…

I swear to god, something is in the air this week. I got rejected by graduate school, got ousted by my soulless boss in trying to get Rockies tickets, and got seared and burned by a bag of chips. I’m starting to think that maybe I shouldn’t go outside.

Devil Chips -- "They're to die for!"

Whiplash

So wow. Yeah. Happy day. I just found out that my application to graduate school was rejected. After dropping a thousand in cash, and working my ass off for the last three months, all of my efforts were for not. I was stunned when I read the email today. I didn’t know what to think. I grabbed the phone and called the admissions director, and she proceeded to look through my materials. Oh, yes, she said, you have a much higher GPA than our other applicants. Oh, yes, your résumé looks nice with good recommendation letters. But, you are about 10 points short on your entrance exam score. Ten points. Ten points. If I had gotten like two more questions right, that would equal ten points. I mean, I knew that my GMAT score wasn’t stellar. I scored almost perfect on the essays, and high in verbal, but the math was for shit. That’s what happens when you ignore the subject for a decade. But still, yeah a low score, I still thought my other materials would balance it out. You know, the whole Magna Cum Laude bit, and top of the class thing. I was wrong.

So now. Now what. My plans are scattered. I could take the GMAT again, could reapply in April, but do I have the cash, the patience? I am going to Brazil, this I know, but minus the structure? Without school. I am already second guessing this whole business thing. An mba is quite useful in the corporate world, but will I ever go corporate. Is it more practical to learn this knowledge on my own, to apply my energies toward a money making enterprise, instead of dropping 3 years and 50 grand.

I don’t know. This one fucking hurt. Time to reevaluate. I’m so confused.

A Cold and Quiet Day

Not much to say here. Not today. Just enjoying the
quiet of the first snowy day. Been stuck inside
watching movies, working on my next tattoo,
relishing the energy storage of all things sedentary.
Many announcements coming soon. Michy trip, move
to Brazil, all of it. And until then, here are some random
pics from my central hub.

Scruffy Me.

Somehow, me and J trying to be socially potent with ab shots and obscene gestures.

Not sure how you made it onto my blog Lisa.

Gotcha Steph. (Yes, I realize I am not supplying context)

Sophistication. Wine, Europe, and Me.

Happy 80th gramps!!!!

Eric. Yeah. You too. Somehow slid into the blog. Don't we feel proud.