Moitessier, Major League Baseball & Roger Federer

An interesting subject, I know. 

This afternoon Alex Rodriguez admitted that from 2001-2003 he was taking steroids. I'm not about to throw my hat into the  ring and debates whether or not he's a good person for admitting or a bad person for taking drugs in the first place. ESPN will have plenty of people to debate that ad nauseam all week. I'm concerned with how the rest of the world is going to react to Rodriguez, sports and life in general.

So how does this relate to sailing? Bernard Moitessier once said something to the effect that once technology as it relates to sailing (fancy navigation gear, carbon spars & composite rigging, kevlar sails, etc.) gets advanced enough, people will be overwhelmed, and will desire a return to the simplicity of old. With technology, he argued, we lose exactly what we set out to achieve in the first place - communion between man and boat, boat and nature, man and nature. Technological sailing becomes just another distraction in a daily life filled with them.

I read a fantastic article in the NY Times the other day about the beauty of sports and how the tennis great Roger Federer embodies athletic beauty in the modern, "power baseline" game of tennis. According to the article, Federer has evolved both from the finesse players of the good old days and from the power players of recent history, combining the best traits of both, to become simply the greatest player ever. And yet the only way to accurately describe his game is simply as "beautiful."

Baseball, tennis, Moitessier...? A common theme runs through each one of the above examples - simplicity & elegance. A-Rod testing positive for steroids and admitting it  is going to change baseball, and more rapidly and completely than the trial of either Barry Bonds or Roger Clemens.  A-Rod has not simply opened the door for others to come forward. He's offered the fans the "blue pill," the opportunity to see the truth in baseball. And I believe that given the choice between 500-foot homeruns by men who knowingly cheat, to the small-ball, elegant game of finesse, fans are going to choose the latter. Finesse equates to skill, equates to beauty in sports.

Similarly, once witnessing Federer's five-shot setups on the tennis court, or for that matter the way Tiger can punch his "stinger" two-iron 260 yards down the fairway with only a slight draw, the player that relies on pure power seems much less interesting. 

When it comes to sailing, I believe Moitessier was right. Where is the joy in sailing when you're pushing a button to trim the jib? Where is the joy in sailing when an electronic device tells you where you are, while the wind, the stars, the coast lie outside your realm of understanding, yet remain only a glance away out of the cabin ports? Where is the joy in sailing when you drop all canvas two miles from the entrance to a harbor, chugging into a quiet anchorage under an iron genny?

And the joy of life's endeavors are not the only thing lost. What of seamanship when all your career you've fired up that iron genny only to have it fail on you when you need it most? Could you sail onto that mooring ball at the end of a narrow channel, upwind? Could you make it back to a safe harbor single-handed? Could you plot a course accounting for the set of the current without your trusty GPS? 

I may be optimistic, but I believe that we are approaching a tipping point in society in general, at the very least in the sporting world, and that in the future elegance will be admired, not pure power. Knowledge will be rewarded not with accolades but with personal satisfaction. And beauty will once again be the motivational force behind our enjoyment of sport, both as spectator and participant. 

When Mia and I first take Arcturus offshore, we will leave behind many comforts that the modern cruising sailor would not dare leave sight of land without. I'll have my sextant, we'll have our safety gear, and our mechanical wind vane will steer us toward the unattainable horizon. We'll have paper charts and old-fashioned plotting tools. And we'll enjoy our journey not for speed and power, for we'll be making a scant 4-5 knots. No, we'll enjoy our journey for simplicity's sake. We'll enjoy our journey because when we finally make landfall and sail into the harbor of our dreams, it will have be elegant. It will have been beautiful.

Standards

I've long believed that the standards that people generally adhere to in everyday life are incredibly low. From the food we eat to the entertainment we watch to the things we create, what's considered acceptable is laughable.

I encounter this phenomenon daily. And I'm not just blaming America or Americans - this is a worldwide issue. 

My biggest complaint is, obviously, the things that most people accept as edible. And not only edible, but enjoyable. I'm aware that I am in the very small minority when it comes to food and what I consume on a daily basis is a far cry what even healthy people consider 'normal.' But in general the food that people accept and enjoy regularly is atrocious.

Take 'The Flaming Pit' for example. I went there two nights ago with my grandparents. Upon entering, it was immediately apparent that this was not going to be a meal that I would be enjoying. I scanned the dining room that looked like it hadn't been updated since the 1960's, and at least 90% of the clientele had white hair or no hair. I glanced to the right and noticed a younger couple seated aside who appeared to be their grandparents, and I immediately sympathized with them. We walked towards the back of the dining room. I observed an elderly man, not more than 120 lbs, with the tanned and wrinkled skin of a lifelong snowbird, absolutely devouring a deep-fried chicken wing, the grease dribbling down the left side of his chin. He was actually smiling. My attitude at the outset of our meal was not exactly positive.

We were seated at a table for four, directly behind the salad bar. This was no ordinary salad bar. It haad the requisite salad fixins for sure, but it also offered pasta, meatballs, fruit salad, pudding, a variety of hot vegetables and an enormous dessert selection. And of course no olive oil. How in the world can a restaurant not have a bottle of olive oil in the kitchen, the basis for nearly every single meal I cook in a day!? Standards are low indeed; this was not a good sign for the main course.

I ordered the salmon, which I planned to place atop an iceberg salad from the aforementioned smorgasbord. When it arrived, the fish was absolutely tasteless. Undoubtedly this piece of fish was cut from the body of a fish who spent his entire life in a pen likely no larger than a small swimming pool, and fed corn on a daily basis until he was plump enough to be killed and served to me, the unfortunate diner. I simply cannot understand how anyone could think that piece of fish tasted good, let alone tasted like anything at all.

My wine was atrocious as well. I ended up sending back the glass of burgundy I'd ordered and instead getting an entire bottle of Yellow Tail Shiraz, the pinnacle of the lackluster beverage selection. I drank two glasses and brought the rest home, which I consumed while talking to Tiffany on gmail last night.

I'm sick of mediocrity. 

I thought I had more to say on this point, but I'm decidedly uninspired at the moment, have been for a while. I can't write well unless I have something exciting to write about, and though I'm enjoying myself here in Florida, I still feel like I'm treading water. I'm advancing my career by going to school (I hope), but after that I'll be working as a taxi driver on the water, which will be fun, but living with the g-rents is not exactly what I look forward to coming home to at night. I cannot stand that television, and it is on constantly from 4pm-11pm every single day. 

I'm stealing this idea from Tiffany:

Now Playing: Coldplay, Yes

The Barista at my New Cafe

I found a new coffee shop in Ft. Lauderdale. Finally. My search for a place to relax that had internet that is not my grandparents living room with the TV constantly blaring (I loathe you Bill O'Reilly) was fruitless. Starbucks' are everywhere (of course), and they have the freaking nerve to not only charge $4 for internet, but also have partnered with AT&T. Yet people still go there.

My new cafe, Cafe Rustica, is next to an old movie theatre, has big comfy couches, an authentic proprietor who really knows how to make coffee, free internet, and fantastic music. 

So I'm relaxing here now, talking to Mia on the computer and lamenting the fact that I have one more shot at perhaps the biggest test of my life tomorrow, one that I cannot study for, but must leave to fate. There is one thing about myself that I cannot change - how my freaking eyes see color. Tomorrow's my last chance to pass another color exam. I'm confident.

Today was Day Three of my Yachtmaster Offshore course at MPT. We spent the morning continuing with chart plotting, set and drift, tide tables, etc. I love that stuff...it's high school math class all over again with a real-life application, and my brain is absolutely alive when solving this stuff. 

The afternoon was spent on the boat, a 48' motor yacht / trawler type thing that was way bigger than I expected it to be, way higher, and way more complicated than any boat I've ever driven. Yet it was incredibly simple. Two engines make quite a difference. I'm going to do well in this class.

My Bill Simmons-esque Running Diary of Amtrak Train #91

1:38 PM: Welcome to the past…I feel delightfully old-school riding the rails, this the longest journey of my US travel history. It's much bumpier than I imagined (though Mia warned me of this – she is, after all, experienced in the ways of the Unites States' railway system). We're already an hour in, which means only 27 more to go! That big bag of pistachios Kaitie got me will be long gone by then.

1:41 PM: I'm sitting in the lounge car, having staked out a two-seater table on the starboard side of the train. It's got a cushioned seat, ample legroom, a panoramic window view and a plug for my computer. My golf clubs are securely checked in the belly of this iron beast of yore, my backpack is filled with books and food, and I just loaded up my iPod with 10 cd's worth of new music. I'm in for the long haul. Travel does not get any better than this.

1:42 PM: The couple to my left just finished eating something that did not look edible. They purchased it from the lounge snack bar, which I can see half a car-length in front of me. In fact, the woman is back at the bar, though for what reason I cannot imagine after smelling their lunch. The man is seated facing backwards, wears smart-looking square, frameless glasses and has a very long ponytail, yet is balding in his forehead region. A stupid grin is plastered on his face, though I imagine that is what I looked like when I first boarded. I love the train.

1:47 PM: There is a woman seated at the table directly in front of me, another two seater on my side of the train. Oddly, she is facing backwards. She's old but not old, and is drinking a glass of orange juice. She's seated alone. Is she traveling alone? She seems much too agreeable to be traveling alone. Maybe she's meeting someone? Her thick-framed glasses suggest that perhaps she is a librarian. Perhaps not.

1:51 PM: We've just emerged from a long stone tunnel and are now passing another train that is going very slow on our right. I'm not sure where we are. The sun is lower now, and the overcast grey of this morning has been replaced by blue sky, puffy clouds and apparently some wind, as the ripples on the river indicated. The train is stopped now, presumably at a station in Delaware, though I cannot be certain. It just occurred to me that I will never be able to keep this writing pace up for 26 ½ hours.

1:56 PM: Holy shit, we're in Baltimore already?! That went fast.

2:33 PM: In DC now. Only two hours outside of Philly? Impressive. They are stopped now, and changing the electric engine over to diesel – which means my computer just lost power – so much for this thought.

3:45 PM: We're rolling on diesel power now. The café is back open, and the train is buzzing with activity. People are up and moving about, drinking coffee, drinking beer, talking with their families. Women discuss whatever women discuss in the booth next to me. The sun is shining through the café windows, and just now were floating over a narrow bridge, surrounded on all sides by water. What a marked difference to the lifeless monotony of an airplane flight. Though I would be in sunny, warm Florida by now, I would have missed the journey. Right now, I'm enjoying it.

4:14 PM: The train is lively, indeed, and it's also assumed a very "colorful" vibe. The café car is full now, and I'm engrossed in Malcolm Gladwell's latest book Outliers, which I can't yet pass judgement on – just the other day I denounced it and thought I'd never read it, yet today I'm again intrigued. There is an elderly gent sitting at a table for four. He's alone, reading the paper.

4:55 PM: We're deep into the South now, literally rolling down mainstreet of an unknown Virginia town. Large white houses with pillared verandas stand tucked in the trees. I cannot emphasize enough the irony of the two black women in front of me gawking at the very houses their ancestors probably toiled for.

5:04 PM: Richmond, Virginia. A designated "smoker's stop." I will not partake.

5:34 PM: The line at the café is growing longer again, after the initial wave of early-diners subsided for a while. I'm increasingly convinced that train travel is something entirely different from air travel, or even traveling in one's own car. Flying or driving somewhere is truly about getting from point A to point B. While I have this romantic notion that train travel actually might be about the journey itself, I get the impression that the others on this trip might just think so as well.

            People are talking to one another, meeting one another. Earlier a middle-aged couple sat and chatted for a good hour to a silver-haired elderly man, each party very much enjoying themselves. Just now, a young hippie-type wearing a red and yellow beanie on the top of his wiry framed body snapped a photo for a couple women seated next to me of foreign origins. There is a communal atmosphere aboard the train, like were riding along in one big hostel, and I'm at the center of the action, the lounge car, soaking it up.

5:44 PM: The silver-haired elderly gent has attracted another middle-aged couple, and just like the last, the man is the only one doing the talking, because the old dude is quite deaf. Inadvertently, the entire lounge car is now involved in the conversation, at least passively. It would make an interesting social experiment, to sit at a large table in a crowded, public place, just to see who sits next to you.

5:50 PM: My train-bound community theory has taken root in the table to my left. The aforementioned foreign women (now confirmed to be Brazilian), have accepted a slim black man as their tablemate who reminds me of Shorty, wearing an Obama inauguration t-shirt. They speak, the women in thick Portugese accents, and are very jovial.

5:52 PM: It's nearly dark outside, but out my window in the lounge car, I can see the last orange glow of daylight melding into the deep blue of a clear night on the western horizon.

5:53  PM: The black guy ("Boogie") with the Obama t-shirt on is sipping a Heineken and has just popped the top of a mini-bottle of Tanqueray.

5:54 PM: Holy moly. "Boogie" is apparently the base-player of Parliament Funkadelic. This is a strange train ride.

6:13 PM: I'm much more comfortable now, with my half-bottle of merlot from the lounge car snack bar. Listening to Boogie trying to talk with these Brazilian women is an indescribable exercise in unintentional comedy.

6:41 PM: "George Clinton & The P-Funk Allstars Paint the Whitehouse Black 2009." The back of "Boogies" t-shirt. More on my lengthy, bizarre conversation with the man will come later.

7:43 PM: 20 hours to go…Boogie is still in the lounge car, now enjoying a Bud Lite and another Tanqueray. Amazing. I'm back in my windowless bulkhead seat with the fat family pushing on my seatback. After that half-bottle of merlot, these things are starting to irritate me. Braveheart is now showing on a laptop near me.

8:51 AM: Sunday. We're in Florida now, which means I successfully slept through two entire states. Which is a shame, because I was looking forward to Savannah, though it was probably 2AM when we rolled in, and I was oblivious. I sacked out in the lounge car, able to fully stretch out on a too-narrow vinyl seat. This after altering the alignment of my spine while trying to snooze in my actual seat. I was amazed that no one else had thought to stretch out in that ideal little spot that I found – when I woke up though, 2 others had joined me. And I woke up often – always to the bright "mood" lights on the ceiling of what appeared to be, in older times, the smokers lounge on Amtrak #91, but which now might reasonably be dubbed the loungers lounge. After the fifth or sixth wakeup call, I felt reasonably rested, and reached for my phone pleading with it to be past 6AM – it was, so I rose. And found a seat at the table with that aforementioned old deaf dude, and we enjoyed a coffee together, the first early risers enjoying the empty café.

9:50 AM: Winter Park, Florida. I know nothing of the place…

10:00 AM: "Ten minutes to Orlando, ten minutes!" Unfortunately, we're  heading west to Tampa after this stop, not south to where I need to go. I'm sleepy, my head hurts and bit. 20 hours down, 7 to go.

1:04 PM: Lunch of more leftovers and another avocado. I stepped off the train in Orlando at the "Designated Smoking Stop" to stretch my legs for the first time in over 24 hours. Orlando's station is old, white, and reminiscent of a Spanish villa circa 1880. Napped for a while, which is a good thing, because I needed it badly.

2:26 PM: An elderly gent (another one) has joined me in the lounge car to charge his iPod on my computer, which I'm more than happy to do. I'm busy editing the latest Spinsheet article for the March issue. I think it's good. 2 ½ hours and counting.

An Evening with Wine in Hard Bean Cafe, Annapolis

The girl that served me wine is sweeping, no mopping, the floor in front of the counter. A guy who thinks he's smarter than he probably is, is speaking far too loudly for the atmosphere right now, to his pony-tailed companion, about politics and things that smart people discuss. I'm sitting up against the window in the front, drinking a glass of Zinfandel while a girl sits three seats to my left peacefully reading a book. I'm intrigued by the girl's presence - she seems utterly content and completely oblivious to the annoying couple at the far window, espousing about Jack Kerouac. He's wearing a freaking corduroy blazer, the douchebag. Dave Matthew's plays on the radio.

Unfortunately, my glass of wine is now but a glass, and as the clock strikes 8:15pm, I'm debating on going home and going to bed, for lack of something better to do. I enjoy coming here to read and write (and copy cd's onto my computer, which I'm doing now), and was thrilled to learn that Hard Bean is now serving select beer and wine. For better or worse, my evening yerba mate tea has now turned into a glass of vino, which helps with my writing, I think.

I quit the Examiner last week - I'd rather write for myself, especially if I'm not getting paid, and I felt like I was selling my soul to something I don't believe in, namely finding internet travel deals for other people. I need to write about experiences, not about plane tickets.

Decision Time

Still not 100% sure what I'm going to do in a week and a half when my employment officially ends here. TEFL in Germany? Will Par give me a job in Sweden? Yachtmaster in FLA? Hmmm...

In the meantime, check out my Examiner page. 

Hong Kong

I did it again. Back at that crossroads where I feel like every next decision is going to make or break the rest of my life.

I left the Woodwind winter maintenance job on Saturday, with regret. I've worked there now for the past three years, on and off, and I credit my current aspirations to what I've learned there over that time. But for whatever reason, my brain raced every evening as I froze my ass off in the cabin of my boat trying to sleep, and I realized that just wasn't it. 

So what is it? I'm getting closer to figuring that out, I hope. I'm stuck between doing exactly what I want to do and doing something that might be good for my so-called 'career.' If I could do anything right now, I'd return to Sweden and figure it all out from there. Instead, I feel stuck, obligated to so many people, so many friends and family.

I always said that if I didn't have the family that I have I'd be off on some adventure like that dude from 'Into the Wild' - just hopefully not dead. But because of, not in spite of my family, I've had the opportunities to see a lot of the world while being able to return to people who care about me and my well-being. It's a double-edged sword really. It's almost too easy to come home. And it's too difficult to leave. But I'd never give that up either. Can I have both?

Tomorrow starts the countdown of my final two weeks working for Woodwind, maybe forever. I will always return to Annapolis, that's for sure. But in two weeks, I'm off again, for bigger and better adventure, to save my soul, to find myself...? 

I've got one option already. I had an interview today for an adventure travel company in Hong Kong, to lead a program for kids for six weeks starting in February. It's a short contract, I fit the bill for instructor pretty ideally, and it's a chance to see a part of the world I may have otherwise never even considered. Then there's the dozen or so TEFL jobs I've applied for in the past two days...waiting to hear about what happens with that.

The crossroads I'm at is whether I want to have a 'career' in something, or whether I want to continue trying to figure out how to pay for myself while doing what I really want to do. I went to Prague last year to get that TEFL certificate, and I excelled at it. I liked it. The reason I went there in the first place was because I wanted to sail around the world and teach as I went. Why am I suddenly abandoning that? Forget the idea of crewing on a yacht, I learned long ago at the country club that I don't like kissing ass to rich people. All of my heroes I continue to read about have written not about their 'careers', but about their passions. Why can't I do the same?

I think I will...

Day One - Redux

So that little commitment about working out everyday until the marathon lasted exactly one day. With my adventure in the big city eliminating any chance of exercising yesterday, I had to take a mulligan and start over. So today, again, is officially Day One.

And I almost missed today too. After waking up in West Chester, Kaitie drove us home, where I packed up the farm truck with all the crap I needed to take back to the boat - clean clothing, Christmas gifts, wine - and lots of food. We ate lunch at the Ranch House with Scotty and Dad, then I hit the road, in the rain, cinderblocks holding down the tail end of the truck, headphones in my ears. You see, the old pickup, reliable as it is, has no stereo.

So my workout began tonight around 8:30, after spending almost 3 hours at the coffee shop updating my blog, writing on my Examiner page, and furiously revising a Spinsheet article at the 11th hour. I'm still buzzing from the 12oz. latte I guzzled at the Hard Bean. It stopped raining just in time, and I started out on the dock, in the dark, swinging around my kettlebell while I rocked out to the Flaming Lips and gazed out at the harbor. The kettlebell, essentially a cannonball with a handle, humbled me after so long a layoff. It was wet and cold, after spending two hours in the back of the pickup in the icy rain this afternoon. It energized me as well, however, and after 100 one-arm snatches I galloped off into the night, running a short loop around the historic district. 

Stockholm Marathon: T-minus 144 Days and Counting.

Examiner

Check out my new website, examiner.com, where I'm writing nationally as the "Exotic Travel Examiner." Pretty cool.

NYC

I am so fucking bold.

I'm riding the rails baby! Bound for Exton en route from NYC, the Big
Apple, Gotham City, The City That Never Sleeps. This is the first time
I've enjoyed travel by train in the good ole USA, and it's a dose of
relief for the ills of the soul...

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack. Though I hear this sound, the ride is
surprisingly smooth. Sitting near the rear of the train, the sound of
the horn is distant...the horn of a train, the loneliest sound in the
world...

Why am I on this train? Because I had to save my soul. Or because I
sold my car to a Haitian dude named Johnny, while parked in the middle
of W 39th St., about 5 blocks from the Garden and the Empire State
Building. But I needed an adventure, I wanted to sell my car anyway,
and I've accomplished both today in the span of about 3 hours.

Johnny from Haiti first called me last week, responding to an ad on
Craig's List. I will never understand people who buy vehicles off of
this website. This is the second car I've sold via The List of Craig,
and both times the buyers lived quite far from where the car was
listed. Yet both deals went through without a hitch, despite the
distinct feeling I was a drug dealer. ANYWAY, I drove the 3 hours to
NY today after hastily unloading the beast into my childhood bedroom
at home. Originally it was Johnny's idea...I immediately said "no way,
you can come get the damned thing yourself." I reconsidered.

I crave adventure right? Crave the unknown? Suddenly I had the perfect
opportunity to experience both. So fuck it. I went.

It began snowing while I unloaded the last of the crap off my boat
into the basement. A sudden and intense fear struck my gullet, the
fear of wondering "what the hell am I getting myself into?" I've
experienced this fear before...before leaping 450' off a cable car
with a rubberband strapped to my ankles; before hurling myself out the
door of a wonderful airplane, 15,000 feet above New Zealand; before
setting sail in a blizzard last week attempting to leave Oxford; and
before my first big triathlon two summers ago. The outcome? Those were
some of the best experiences of my life, and the sense of dread at the
outset only made the outcome that much better. "Without the bitter,
baby, the sweet ain't as sweet."

I forced myself to get on the highway, put some distance between
myself and my out, before calling anyone to tell them of my plans. By
the time I reached Allentown I was committed, and upon hearing the
news, Dad responded as I expected: "Are you nuts?" Well, yes, I
suppose.

When I emerged from the darkness of the Lincoln Tunnel, I burst smack
into the center of fucking New York City, with all the lights, tall
buildings, people and traffic wreaking havoc on my driving skills
while filling my senses with awe. I'm a kid in a candy store when you
put me in a big city, especially behind the wheel. It's rather
ridiculous, actually. In the city, I am so far removed from my element
that it's almost a wonder I don't just stand and stare like a
dumbfounded idiot, paralyzed. I drove the Rover around town for a bit,
joyriding for one last go in the last vehicle I hope to own for a very
long time. Actually I was simply trying to find Penn Station, naively
thinking it'd be a nice big train station with a gloriously empty
parking lot in which I would have my choice of wide, cozy spaces in
which to complete this wild deal of mine. Poor country boy I am.

All of the streets in NYC are one-way, of course, and I happened to be
driving on them at precisely 5pm. Perfect. Finally, with a little help
from Nate, who is a much more savvy city-goer, I found Penn Station at
the corner of W 33rd & 8th Ave, which unbeknownst to me, is also the
location of Madison Square Garden. And of course, parking was nowhere
to be found.

I ended up pulled off the side of 8th Ave, in an apparent "commercial
vehicles only" zone, which the not-so-friendly police officer angrily
informed me of, but not before issuing me a $115.00 ticket. We'll see
if I pay that...Me and the beast then made our way to 39th St, which
felt like a seedy back alley, enhancing the feeling that I was here to
deal in the deeds of the ill-willed. I waited in the car for Johnny
from Haiti, regretting that I was alone and didn't have someone like
Dane at my side to protect me from the unsavory characters that roamed
the streets of NYC.

Not long after I parked, making sure I was legally allowed to be
there, a white sedan pulled up behind me, and two dark-skinned,
well-dressed men emerged, followed by a knee-high little boy. His
presence simultaneously made me feel at ease and like I was about to
be shot. Half of me assumed they had brought him along precisely to
make it easier to kill me. "He'll never suspect anything with this
little boy here!"

I had already prepared a hand-written (in pencil!) bill of sale,
signed away the title, and packed up all my things to be ready for a
hasty departure as soon as I saw that $1200.00. For one, it was nigh
on 5:15, and my train was scheduled to leave at 6:30, the last one out
for the day. Moreso, however, I just wanted to take the money and run,
scared of getting stabbed on the way to the station. I got out of the
car and greeted Johnny from Haiti and his incredibly brawny
driver-friend whose name I could not understand, and both men were
very pleasant. Johnny very briefly inspected the car in the waning
daylight (for $1200.00 I'd hoped he wouldn't utter a peep of protest,
and he didn't). I gave him the title, the three keys, retrieved my
cd's from out of the back, and walked as fast as I could toward the
train station. My jacket was now worth $1200.00, for I'd stuffed a
massive wad of twenties in it's inside pocket. The deal was done.

The further I got from W 39th St, the slower my gait became. My
confidence soared after a successful adventure. Almost. I still had to
get home, yet the hard part (the scary part) was over. I descended the
escalator into Penn Station, sauntered over to the Amtrak counter and
picked up my ticket which I'd so thoughtfully reserved in the car on
the way up (I was determined to leave NYC by train. If it came to it,
I was prepared to leave the hulking beast on the side of the road,
remove the plates and leave a nice little note offering the car to
anyone who wished to have it). Ticket in hand, I had an hour to spare,
so I hit the city.

Mia and I made a pact on the way back from Lake Placid to never again
buy a coffee from Starbucks. This will be an easy pact to adhere to.
Of course, as is the case nearly everywhere else, there is a Starbucks
on every street corner in NYC, but I resisted, wandering further
downtown in search of the local cafe, or at least a charismatic Irish
Pub. That I did find, but passed up in favor of some fancy looking
coffee house that was not a Starbucks, and I sat down and enjoyed a
latte that was finally hot enough for me. The barista certainly earned
his 50 cent tip.

Back on the train now. It's raining outside, but I don't have to worry
about that, because I'm not driving the train. I'm not driving at all.
I'm traveling via my favorite method, enjoying the conclusion of my
adventure, and savoring the notion that I'm now free from the burden
of the automobile. Free from the financial burden, yes, but also free
from the burden it places on my soul. While my life may not be as
convenient after today, it will certainly be more interesting, and
that's exactly what I crave.

Day One - 51.07

Decided I'd start a new challenge today. With the Stockholm Marathon looming in May, and me in the worst physical shape I've been in in years, it's high time for one.

Originally, my goal was a sub-3 hour goal. After checking in with John at the Annapolis Running Shop, we decided 3:30 would be slightly more realistic, especially considering the limited time remaining to train. Today that went out the window. 

Instead of 3:30, my new goal is now back to the sub-3 hour mark. In light of Lance's comeback, I've committed to a comeback of my own, and will strive to set his sub-3 hour mark from his first NYC marathon. I've ridden bikes with Lance, now I'll try to run like him.

Additionally, I've committed myself to exercising in some form, every single day between now and the marathon, on May 31. I never seem to be able to follow through with half-assed challenges, so maybe a bigger, more ridiculous one will better suit. Here's to Day One.

My Cinnamon Girl

Neil Young is echoing in my head on this early morning. I'm enjoying my second cup of coffee in the frigid cabin of Arcturus. I put some cinnamon in my coffee today, which I expected would remind me of this past summer, because I put cinnamon in my coffee everyday this summer. But no, it reminded me of Sweden instead, and I like that. Perhaps because it's dark outside, which is almost always is this time of year there. Or maybe because I'm wearing my puffy coat despite being indoors, and it's chilly. 

 

The Death of a Dream?

I'm reading the BBC website this morning about the 'invasion of Mumbai', as one author called it. I haven't seen any news of this as yet - too busy with Thanksgiving and football to even watch the news, and what I've seen has been mostly focused on Black Friday and Thanksgiving. 

The front page of the BBC website shows a slideshow of images from the attacks in Mumbai, followed by several articles discussing what's happened/happening. As I looked at the photos, a strange feeling overcame me, a feeling of sadness for what's happened, but in an interesting way. I couldn't quite pinpoint it at first; I kept going back to the photo of the Taj Mahal Hotel billowing smoke from it's top. The Hotel presented a gorgeous site, unmistakeably mid-eastern and exotic, and was framed by a crystal blue sky, not a cloud in site, save for the black smoke pouring from it's windows. And if you covered your thumb over a small fraction of the photo, the Hotel looked perfect, almost inviting.

The feeling that I got was one of loss, almost akin to losing a family member that died when you were too young to appreciate their company, like my grandfather who I never got to meet as an adult. The middle-east is high on the list of places I'd like to visit, maybe even teach in someday, to really experience. And those images of the Hotel intact are the sort of images that draw me into a place like that, with romantic notions of traveling inside a culture, experiencing it from the inside out. 

Mia bought me the Lonely Planet Travel Book last year for my birthday, which lists every country in the world, and includes some incredible photos accompanied by small facts about each place. We look at this book quite often, opening it randomly and reading about a country we may have never thought about. And we plan our travels this way.

Today, when the images of the Taj Mahal Hotel included black smoke and open flames, I felt profound sadness. Sadness for India, sadness for her peoples dreams and expectations, and, selfishly, sadness that I will never be able to visit the India of last week. 

Just like I selfishly wish I could bring back my grandfather to meet him as an adult, listen to his stories, learn about a man I never got to know, I now wish that these terrible things had never happened for the sake of myself as a traveler, and for the other travelers out there who may have lost their dream. The world is no longer an explorers playground; wars are not confined to the military anymore; increased technology and increased security fueled by increased paranoia, real and imagined, has simultaneously created a world in which it's easier than ever to travel, yet nearly impossible to find innocent authenticity once you arrive.

Roots

On the plane home from Tortola last Friday, I thought about the traveling I've done in the past year. It feels like a lifetime ago; but less than a year ago I was actually in Prague, enrolled in that self-awareness class disguised as a TEFL course, created solely for my generation of post-grad twenty-somethings trying to 'find' ourselves. Prior to that I'd embarked on my first journey to Sweden, where at the time I thought I was actually going to settle down and live. After Prague came Ireland, where Michael and I climbed the highest peak on the Emerald Isle, an adventure that remains at the top of my list of un-planned, extremely rewarding experiences. Then back to Sweden for a few months, home, off to the Caribbean, to Blake's in Charlotte, back home, down to Florida, home, to Bermuda and back, and finally to Tortola via sailboat and back again on yet another plane ride. Added up, I think I took close to 20 different plane rides in the span of less than a year...

Have I arrived? Since my first trip to Costa Rica back in college, I've dreamed of making a living somehow through travel. I've certainly got the travel bit down. Now I have to figure out how to make the living part of it work out. I'm on my way. This last deliver (which I did for free) was excellent experience, and a great addition to my resume for future trips. I'm supposed to leave for the Bahamas on another boat next week, this one paid(!), then what? A winter in Annapolis, returning to my roots, to the job that started all this sailing nonsense, back working with my friends at the Woodwind. And my fingers are crossed that this spring's plan will work out - I'm off to Sweden again, this time with contract in hand to deliver sailboats around the Baltic for a charter company. After that it's back to the Caribbean to sail from St. Martin to Trinidad with a dozen kids in tow.

So maybe it's finally starting to take shape...? I've secured a column in Spinsheet, where each month I'll get a full page to write about, well, whatever I want to. I'm going to focus it on adventure travel, with an obvious tilt towards sailing. But I want to write about more than just sailing, because I believe that people are also interested in just reading good stories. I've got a lot of them up here in this head of mine, and they're all true. I'm finally finding out that there might be an outlet somewhere that could even be worth my while.

But as for this blog, I'm taking a cue from Tiffany, and writing about whatever I feel like without thinking about it. It's funny, because even as I'm writing this, my mood has lifted, I've started dreaming again, and the words are writing themselves. I sat down yesterday to write January's column for Spinsheet and stared at the screen for 10 minutes before typing a single word. And then each word had to be wrestled from my head, and the whole process of writing 850 words was excruciating. The finished product, after much editing on my part, is pretty good I think, but it wasn't easy. This is easy. Thanks Tiffany.

she's not so usual

I have a friend named Tiffany, who has a blog (http://tntalsma.blogspot.com). I was reading it today and decided that I miss my friend, but I also decided that it's nice to read something that has no pretensions, no self-serving motives, no polarizing opinion. I like Tiffany's blog because it's honest, and it's her. I've been trying so hard lately to write things in the attempt to get them published, that I've neglected to simply write for the sake of writing whatever is on my mind. This is what Tiffany does so well in her blog, and what I want to start doing again.

I Don't Sleep

The Wolf Parade is rocking my world. 

It's Tuesday afternoon and there is nothing to do, so I'm drinking wine. 

And the World Holds it's Breath...

My girlfriend Mia is sleeping at a friend's house tonight in Stockholm. They are waking up at 4:30am to watch the news to get the results from the election for the next President of the United States of America. 4:30am, 4 hours before Sweden will greet the new dawn as the fall becomes darker with each day. This is not because she is dating an American guy...this is because, whether we like it or not, the World is watching.

Stockholm

It's finally beautiful in Stockholm. This morning the city was shrouded in thick fog, and when we disembarked the train to head back to the apartment, you could only see about 100 yards in front of you. But the sun has burned it off, and it's warm and nice now, at least 60 degrees and the best day in a string of good weather that we've had since Friday.

Swedish for Beginners

That's the name of a band that a friend of mine I met this summer told me about. His name is Anders, and he is friends with said band. We at Broadreach nicknamed him the 'Dirty Swede,' for his affinity for watching Shanon shower with a bucket when she had a stitches in her knee. I digress. 

I'm back in Sweden now, right about where I started last year when I thought I'd be living here indefinitely. Well, that didn't happen. So much has happened in my life since I was last here, yet things are about the same on the other side of the world. I'm enjoying it more, that's for sure. 

Last night Mia and I, and her old swimming friends Ida and Anna went to Globen Arena (incidentally, we live right next door), and saw Coldplay. I'm a casual Coldplay fan at best, and generally don't even listen to them unless someone else puts them on. Sometimes I think it's a bit gay to be a Coldplay fan, no? Last night was not gay. 

Ida and Anna came over around 6pm, and since we only had a two minute walk to the Globen (which, resembles and enormous white golf ball), we had some dinner first. I prepared the finest curry I've ever eaten, and redeemed myself for my lackluster effort at Mia's friend's house the week before with Ryan. They girls supplied some wine. The three of them chatted in incomprehensible Swedish while I lounged on the couch looking at photos from New Zealand and wishing I could go back there, like now. 

The one and half glasses of red wine I drank merely put me in somber, sleepy mood, and I spent the first half hour of the opening act (who happened to be the drummer from the Strokes - pretty sweet), yawning my brains out. As usual, there was about a 45 minutes delay between sets, and Coldplay finally came out around 9:30. Someone, Ryan maybe, or maybe Nate told me that they put on a good show - it didn't disappoint. 

Chris Martin must be one speed or something, because he didn't sit still for the entire concert and was full of boundless energy. Even playing his piano he was jerking and gyrating around. The band truly looked like they were having an immense amount of fun. The songs were played with enormous energy, second only to Dave Matthews and his namesake Band in my opinion. In hindsight, it was probably the best 'stadium' concert I've ever been to. Well, maybe a close second to U2, my first concert in Philly with Nate and Dane. But anyway, it was surprisingly awesome. 

And the audience was insane! They sang along to every song with remarkable clarity. During the brief intermission before the first encore, they were chanting and stomping and the whole place felt like it would cave in. Quite impressive.

At one point, the whole band ran off the stage and sprinted across the floor towards the back of the arena and proceeded to climb up the stairs to the lower level of seats, just under where we were seated. According to Martin, "We can't fly all the way to Sweden and not come visit the back!" They played two songs from right in the audience, and both included a harmonica.