Category: Uncategorized

A lot can happen in seven years.

Since my last post, the one with the tears, I’ve changed jobs several times, gone back to school, bought a house, and most importantly found someone willing to go through life with me.

Side note: I am beyond blessed and thankful for my wife’s willingness to put up with my day to day quirks. She deserves an award and it has only been three years.

So life changes…

I’m not sure why I’m back writing, but know this is something I must continue pursuing.

When I am telling stories, mine or others, I find the most joy and am able to get beyond myself.

This is a space for story.

Stories of happiness, brokenness, and everything in between. I am reminded daily of the stories that have shaped my life and hope to offer some bits of wisdom I’ve learned through them.

So I’m back. I know everyone is leaping for joy and the overwhelming buzz created by this post might actually crash the internet, so let’s keep the excitement to a respectable ‘golf clap’ level.

This site will also archive my short lived journey post-college traveling, so a least that will offer some good laughs. It’s amazing how much perspectives change in just seven short years.

Here’s to hoping the next post isn’t seven years from now.

I stood in the doorway fighting back tears, trying to regain my composure.  As I stood there watching the reunion, I realized the impact my job and my skills could make.

I have traded in my plane ticket for a job working in the nonprofit world. My adventures ended sooner than I would have liked but I enjoyed where I was able to go. It has been a while since the days of airport life but I’m glad I’ve grown up a little.

Doorways were opened and others were closed. It is pretty amazing to have gone from traveling the country to doing public relations for a nonprofit. I will never try to understand how things have worked out for me so far, but I have no complaints.

I work for a nonprofit known as Bryan’s House and have enjoyed what I do only slightly less than traveling (probably more but I have to stay office friendly). Bryan’s House from its beginnings was a care facility for children affected or infected by aids. It shifted its focus in 2006 to specialize in childcare for children with special needs.

I have gone from world traveler to desk job in downtown.

I’m lucky to have this job and do not regret for a second working but today helped me realize just how much Bryan’s House really means.

Bryan’s House started in 1988 after a Lydia Allen lost her son, Bryan, to HIV/AIDS; he was less than a year old. Lydia gave her son AIDS because during her first pregnancy was given a blood transfusion with infected blood.

Lydia made it her mission to help children affected or infected with this disease.

I had the fortune to meet and hear the story of an original resident of Bryan’s House. Unfortunately, the organization was a hospice care facility for children dying of the disease. They helped any kids with HIV/AIDS but in the beginning most of the children would die during care.

However, some made it.

I watched as he stood looking at his own portrait and the faces of the children treated during the early years at Bryan’s House. I could see the sadness in his eyes as he realized that out of eight, he was one of two left.

He stared at the ground not wanting anyone to notice the tears that were beginning to fill his eyes.

It has been fifteen years since he left Bryan’s House and he knew that was too long.

He began to tell me why he had to come to Bryan’s House, about how he was born a hemophiliac and one transfusion changed his life forever.

It was there I began to feel the knots in my stomach and the lump in my throat.

He talked about the fun he had and shared about how he got his sister in trouble by making a big mess during a balloon fight.

Now he is 28 years old with three children of his own, but here he was back to the boy unaware of what tomorrow would bring.

We walked around the facility and every step became harder and harder. Several of the teachers are the same from when he was living at Bryan’s House and their reunion was something words cannot explain.

As we walked into the classroom, he began to shake from nerves and the tears began to flow from his eyes. His old teacher ran to embrace him and kissed him on the cheek. Asking him questions about his life since leaving back in 1995.

I stood in the doorway fighting back tears…

I wanted to try something new with this blog entry. I uploaded a video blog to change things up.

I met a man today who is 76 and grew up in Boston. He and I talked the entire flight discussing everything from football to WWII battle tactics. He was a very interesting man and I learned a lot from him.

One thing he kept saying was “That’s a true story, you can look that up,” and I was intrigued by that comment. He was constantly reassuring me of what he was saying and didn’t want me to doubt his word.

I’m from the south and have grown to take for granted the whole idea of southern charm. The northeast has helped me establish a new appreciation for charm.

I’ve been on several flights ranging from one to three hours, with all sorts of people sitting next to me. I usually am easy to talk to and can converse with the best of them. I can use my southern charm most of the time to warm up the people around me.

On a thirty minute flight to Boston, I failed.

The final doors closed and the flight was going to begin its taxi out of the gate. I was unfortunately stuck in the middle of a three person row. With a girl on one side and a Brit on the other, this trip was going to be a piece of cake.

The flight attendant had an eerie resemblance to Stan Lee but with a hint of orange due to bottles of fake tanning cream. He was pretty funny and said laid a few corny jokes on us before the instructional period of the flight began. It was a fun flight already.

I casually turned to the girl next to me, who was flipping the pages of her book with only her left ring finger to show off the glacier she was wearing, and asked why she was flying to Boston. A simple conversation starter, but the response was quite cold and caught me off guard.

“I’m from Boston,” she said. I proceed to say that’s pretty cool and was about to asked a follow-up question when her response was felt by everyone on the plane because of the arctic chill flowing from her seat.

“Not really,” she said with a flip of her hair. She then turned her entire body into the aisle while putting on both head phones.

My attempt for casual conversation was dodged by the coldest shoulder on earth.

Unaware of how to respond, I responded to her cold shoulder by… facing forward… I had nowhere to escape. Usually I could retreat to the window, but the Brit sitting next to me was watching a rerun of Reno 911 cackling louder than a pack of hyenas. He continued to watch his TV without acknowledging presence on his left.

So for thirty minutes I sat quietly between an iceberg and hyena, not what I expected from a short flight.

Southerners are given bad reputations for being ignorant but at least they know how to carry on a simple surface level conversation that’s all I’m asking for. I’m going to appreciate being back in the south.

Having said all of that, I loved Boston. A city I would recommend for anyone looking to take a trip. Boston is a wonderful place.

It’s said that everyone is exposed to advertisements at nearly every point of the day. This is especially true at Time Square in Manhattan.

I’ve been to Time Square before but I guess overlooked the amount of advertisements that go into such a small place. The two block area is completely saturated with billboards, window designs and ads that stretch as far as the eye can see.

Now pictures don’t do this place justice because no picture can capture the overwhelming amount of advertisements in this place.

I have a hard time not appreciating this small area of New York. I think it is incredible how the mind works and the way people can capture emotions through colors and words. Advertising is an underappreciated art.

Police officers are treated like celebrities, constantly being asked to have their pictures taken. Numbers of human billboards follow the crowds down the street encouraging “Haircuts by Charles” or bike rides around New York.

A three-story Toys R’ Us sits in the middle of Time Square inviting children (and me) to come explore every facet of the store. Just outside the toy story, costumed people are walking around dressed like the Cookie Monster, Elmo and SpongeBob Square Pants.

The news is continuously being updated on each building’s stat tracker.

A stage sits in the middle of the area on a blocked off road for daily shows and a place to relax before exploring more.

I considered setting up and performing some street theater in front of the stage. I could dramatically recite (in a Scottish accent) Isaiah 58 or perform some skits I know all too well. My better judgment won out and I did not become just another crazy street performer. Although, I probably would have been discovered right there and offered a contract to be some big movie star.

The thing most interesting to me was that people work in the buildings around Time Square. Everyday businessmen and women work their way around crowds of people just to work their regular jobs.

Tourists travel across the world to see Time Square and some people walk by every day. It’s these people who interest me. The ones who have made their homes blocks from Time Square.

I don’t know what it is but to live so close to that area intrigues me. Ordinary people living in extraordinary places, places I wouldn’t want to live.

I walked through SoHo and Greenwich Village, places I understand wanting to live, but Time Square?

There is something about New York City that draws people. I like the place to visit but I don’t think I could move there, especially somewhere like Time Square.

New York is a world unlike anywhere else. I was able to see more than most one day visits, mostly because I walked 100 plus blocks and over five miles, but the experience away from the big city is what I’ll remember.

From riding on the subway to eating take-out fish tacos, New York cannot be fully appreciated trapped with tourists where the only real though is whether this advertisement induced headache will ever go away.

New York is a huge city and tourists never get to experience all this place has to offer.

As I sat on the corner of Coney Island and Cortelyou in Brooklyn eating my authentic Italian New York pizza (made by a Hispanic), I wondered if anyone really gets to see the real New York.

I’ve been to New York City once but stuck to Manhattan following a tour bus ride into the city. What I experienced was completely different from any tour bus could have shown. I was able to experience a small piece of New York that is often overlooked.

Today, I navigated my way from JFK airport to Brooklyn using the New York subway. It was a very unique experience nearly impossible to put into words.

There was an overwhelming smell of urine that filled my nose as I waited for the A train from the airport. Not what I expected. I’ve heard stories from people about the smell of the subway but always assumed it was an exaggeration. I was wrong.

The smell, however, was just a small part of my experience. I was one of only a handful of passengers leaving the airport that spoke fluent English. The melting pot of cultures I experienced from the airport to Brooklyn was amazing.

My first train was filled with dozens of European tourists who waited for their stops.

It was on my second subway car that I really began to see the true side of New York I never expected. The number of minorities was eye-opening for me. I know New York is a diverse place but I did not understand until I was on the C train riding into Brooklyn.

Orthodox Jews sat with their yamakas upon their heads quietly as the train passed along the way. Numerous African-Americans filed on and off the trains. A woman from India held tightly to her grocery sacks waiting for her stop.

What I experienced was a different world.

Millions of tourists travel to New York so they can catch a glimpse of Lady Liberty or take a picture from the Empire State building but never truly see New York for her true self.

While eating my pizza, I wondered if I could ever appreciate such a place. I talked big game about riding the subway but honestly I was terrified from the second my plane landed. I did not know how to find my way to Brooklyn and due to that, I was uncomfortable my entire trip into town.

I was reminded of the episode of Seinfeld when George Costanza posed as a tourist from Little Rock to gain the affection of a girl. She told him New York would eat him alive if he ever considered moving. George was obviously offended because he was a New York native and wanted to prove her wrong.

On my way to New York, I kept replaying this episode in my mind and though to myself, “this city will eat you alive.” I honestly believed I would be eaten alive by this city.

I was uncomfortable and out-of-place, but once I sat down for a slice of pizza I really began to appreciate my surroundings. So many people have come together and continually share their cultures with those around them. From a 24-hour fruit stand to the Hispanic making my authentic pizza, New York is a place where community is built.

I never appreciated the idea of New York before, too many people in such a small place, but I understand that can create a good thing. I know crime comes with such large groups of people but more than that is the community.

I finished my pizza, said good-bye to the guy behind the counter and was given a second chance to look at the city I was convinced would try to eat me alive.

How are airports real?

I have adapted quite well to the life of a frequent flyer. I can have my shoes, belt and pockets emptied in less than seven seconds, and can have my laptop out of my bag in one fluid motion. I know which lines will be the quickest (I’m almost George Clooney in Up in the Air).

Quick side note, I had a pocket knife in my backpack for the last two months and was somehow able to get past four security checks before I realized it was in my bag. I checked it today but that doesn’t necessarily make me feel safe.

One thing I still am having trouble adjusting to is my general assumption that airports are not real places.

I know they are “actually” there but the idea of an airport still boggles my mind.

How can a place be completely void of social norms?

I’ve noticed in an airport no outside rules apply. If you want a cocktail at 7 in the morning in the real world people would judge you and assume the worst, but here in an airport 7 a.m. cosmos are not only accepted but encouraged by the number of bars in each terminal.

I watched a kid at 8:30 in the morning down a double cheeseburger and large fries. Outside the airport not allowed, but in the time void known as an airport completely allowed.

People are curling up for bed on the floor and running indoors. Where else in the world would this be allowed? Even for children.

Airports have their own pharmacies, restaurants and shopping. An airport is a giant flea market but without the stigma associated.

One big factor that has helped me conclude airports are not real places is the currency exchange. I’m not talking dollars for Euros type of exchange but instead dollars for goods exchange. Something about airports and the subculture that exists in an airport makes it completely acceptable to pay $9 for a Big Mac. In the real world this mark up would not be tolerated but no one bats an eye.

I nearly bought an iPad today. I have no money but since in the airport world iPads and electronic devices are sold in vending machines; I assume they are the same prices as an average bottle of soda (minus the $3 mark up on goods in an airport).

Appreciation for this world must be understood however. Although airports are overpriced free-standing countries, they are somehow continuing on the road of success. Visitors are okay with paying top dollar in this land.

The ground can be a welcome relief to a long day and terrible flight.

Airports don’t judge someone for wanting a cheeseburger at 9 a.m. nor do they judge you for that PSP purchase out of the Best Buy coke machine.

It’s weird that airports exist but somehow everything is understood and no one asks questions about pricing or societal norms here because all is good in the true land of the free.

I am stunned by downtown Washington D.C. From the Lincoln Memorial to the Smithsonian Museums, history can be seen on every corner.

With numerous memorials and monuments, I wanted to see them all but knew that was not going to happen. The main places I wanted to visit were the war memorials. Having never served in the military, I am humbled by the number of men and women to have served our country and respect their service. I had to see these memorials.

It was at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, I met David.

David is a parks guide for the monuments and has been working for the parks for 15 months. He leads tours around the memorials and today he was at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Filled with the knowledge of the memorial, David guides tourists and answers any of their questions.

David, however, is not like the other guides. He is blind.

Led only by his white can, David shares his knowledge of the memorials and is able to navigate his way around hundreds of tourists while continuing to answer questions.

Born and raised in Wyoming, David followed his father’s footsteps by becoming a park ranger. His father worked in Wyoming for the National Parks. Fresh out of college, he decided to come to D.C. and become a park guide for the national monuments.

He stands near the flagpole of the memorial asking everyone who passes their name and where they are from, able to quickly respond with a fact about their home state or country.

I was amazed by David. Not because he was blind but because he packed up everything to pursue his passion. Something I don’t think I ever could do.

David is my age and was willing to relocate across the country. He guides strangers everyday and I was no different.

My tour was over but I couldn’t help sitting near David as he interacted with those around him. I was intrigued and jealous of his courage.

I want to be like David. He had a passion and was willing to do everything he could to make it happen. He moved away from his family and friends to live in a new place so he could be a park ranger.

I need a passion like his.

The tour ended but his guidance was still felt.

I watched as they walked hand in hand down the terminal to the baggage claim. Slowly making their way together each shorter from years of experience and I could see the love after 32 years together.

Mel, 85, and Betty, 87, have been married for 32 years, each on their second marriage, and have lived together in retirement for 21 years. Settling in Boca Raton, they joked with me about the politics of their retirement village and the notoriety gained from Jerry Seinfeld. Mel assured me he kept his nose out of the politics.

I was lucky enough to sit next to this couple on my journey from Ft. Lauderdale to Washington D.C. Mel one seat away and his bride across the aisle. Mel offered Betty the seat between us but she reassured him, she liked the space.

They reached out and held hands as the plane took off.

Standing no more than 5’5”, Mel had lost most of his hair and shuffled as he walked. His black Nike shoes where the only thing out-of-place.

Mel and I started talking just before takeoff and continued the majority of the flight.

They were on their way to visit their niece dance at the University of Maryland; she is a professional dancer with a traveling dance troupe. The incredible part of the story was their nephew, the dancer’s husband, is actor Bill Pullman. I was stunned.

We talked for a little about their nephew but for the most part about Mel and his life.

Mel fought in WWII after his freshman year of college at Vanderbilt University and returned home to finish up his schooling following the war. He was a gunner for the 8th Air Force and bombed Germany during the war. The Gregory Peck movie “Twelve O’clock High” was based on what he did during the war.

He heard I was going to D.C. and told me I had to visit the World War II monument and the dedication to the Air Force. He hadn’t been able to go but requested I visit for him. I know it was a casual request but I’m going to see the Air Force memorial for Mel.

We talked about sports and his career as a jeweler before retiring as our flight passed. He was interesting and had very heated views on the Colts move from Baltimore to Indianapolis. He had season tickets for years before the team was moved in the middle of the night.

Shortly after taking off, Betty asked Mel to adjust her air because she was cold. Without complaint or hesitation Mel stood up (before the seatbelt sign was turned off) to adjust Betty’s air across the aisle.

After returning to his seat, Mel informed me that Betty had been in poor health recently and they had to move into an assisted living center. His demeanor was uncomfortable talking about her health because it showed how much he cares about her. He quickly changed the subject to prevent tearing up and feeling more venerable around a complete stranger.

Thirty-two years is a long time. Mel and Betty have been retired nearly as long as I’ve been alive. I couldn’t imagine loosing someone I’ve spent a lifetime with. I was enamored with Mel and his constant support for his wife. If she needed anything he didn’t hesitate to make her trip more comfortable.

We talked for nearly two hours but Mel taught me more through his actions. He demonstrated what it meant to be in love and to be a good husband.

As we filed out of the plane, Mel grabbed Betty’s hand and together they walked unaware of the rush all around them. All that mattered to them was staying together as long as they could.

Miami is a very weird place. I’ve heard that from people but was unable to grasp the concept until I spent a day here for myself. The conclusion I’ve reached—Miami is a weird place.

It’s hard to believe that a place like this actually exists outside of the Star Wars galaxy. I’m almost 90 percent sure I saw a wookiee on the streets of South Beach one night. I met and saw some the most bizarre exhibits of people but the most interesting didn’t say a word.

When you pass her by you wouldn’t really think much of her because you would think she was a statue. A woman completely painted in white, this street performer sits still moving only to reposition herself while spectators are scarce.

I was terrified when I first saw her because like most assumed she was a statue, but it wasn’t until I saw her eyes blink did I realize she was an actual person. I had to talk to her.

She, however, did not have to talk to me. In fact she was nice and more than willing to have her picture taken by tourists, but not willing to break her character. She did not speak.

A silent street performer had a story and was able to humbly tell it without saying a word. I understood there she was not begging for money but instead was an artist completely dedicated to her trade. We hold in such high regard a paint brush and canvas but what this woman was doing is considered strange or weird.

Why is what she doing considered weird when she is completely dedicated to her trade?

She did not break character and was completely painted white. She would make origami cranes for those who stopped to stare. This woman was not a beggar but instead an artist ignored by the pretentiousness associated with the art  community. Unfortunately since her art was on the streets it will never be fully appreciated.

Art has many forms but the display I saw on South Beach was an example I will never forget.

Miami is still a very weird place.