Echoes

To most people, it's just a basketball.  It's a symbol of recreation.  It's for play time.  For me, it's so much more than that.  It's the symbol that I most closely associate with my childhood.  It's passion and pain.   

I come from a basketball family even though most people probably don't know it.  My grandfather and his brother were excellent players.  They played the old style back in the 20's, but growing up I still heard people around town talk about how they could nail it from way out.  All my Aunts were great players, and when I say that, I mean like All-State quality leading scorer type players.  My Aunt Reba for example was one of the best players in the State of Louisiana her sophomore year.  Her team went to the State Championship and she not only started but played a pivotal role.  She may have even been the leading scorer, but I'm not completely certain of that.  Her younger sister Sherron was just as good.  They even played together in my hometown when Reba was a Senior.  I reckon they were something to see.  My Mom didn't play.  Not because she couldn't, in her 60's now, but she can still nail a hook shot before you know what happened.  Most of my cousins… same thing. 

I learned to dribble when I was 3.  I vividly remember it.  I was on my grandmother's carport with both of them coaching me.  Because my Dad was principal of the high school, I also had uncommon access to the gym.  I shot basketball every day after school for at least an hour or two.  I loved it more than anything.  My room was covered in posters of different players and I wanted nothing but to play in the NBA.  Obviously, that was never an option, but a boy can dream,  right?  I could shoot three pointers at 10 from anywhere around the line.  I would play horse with high school kids and win.  I was never a great dribbler or penetrator, but so what?  Last time I checked, they give you an extra point for longer shots and I was better at that anyway. 

At about the age of 11, things took a turn.  I began to play really organized ball.  I was being coached for the first time.  There are people who thrive in this environment.  I wasn't one of them.  This wasn't my coach's fault though.  It was mostly mine.  I was a baby in many ways.  I wasn't used to doing things wrong.  I wasn't use to life not being fair, and having to fight for your position.  I still lived in a fantasy world where people received what they deserved, but that's just not true.  It's just not the way the world works, and a lot of folks would do good to learn that. 

Over time, I lost interest in basketball.  I could always still shoot because I stayed on the team until I graduated.  In other words, I had to play a certain number of hours a week, but my heart wasn't in it.  I didn't try.  I certainly didn't play on my own time.  Why would I?  It was something I felt that I had been born to do, and something I had failed at miserably.  I couldn't see a solution.  It's depressing to think about.  It haunts me.  I wish I could go back and practice all the time.  Prove myself.  Validate my heritage.  I think about it all the time, more than you can imagine.  But for what?  I can't go back.  It's lost. 

Today, I still play basketball.  I shoot as a warm-up before working out, and I can still make it rain from way out.  I like to see how many NBA 3's I can hit in a row, and I admit sometimes lifting gets put aside because I'm having too much fun.  But, there's a flipside to the coin.  It bothers me a lot.  It brings back bad feelings and thoughts.  When I am stressed at work or at home, I don't show it outwardly unless it's a flash of my temper, which I try to control.  Rather, I internalize things.  I guess, I always have.  I'm so extraverted, I don't think most people realize that about me, but it's true.  When I'm asleep at night, I'm defenseless against my inner struggles and that's when I dream.  If I'm stressed, it's almost always basketball that comes back to me in my dreams.  I can smell the gym.  Feel the sweat.  I can't make a shot for the life of me.  Not only that, but I dribble off my foot or throw passes that are easily picked off.  I wake up angry.  Wishing I could change it.  The wound is fresh all over again.   

That's life, right?  It is.  And I often overlook the good things basketball left me with when thinking on the bad.  For example, I don't quit.  Not ever.  Sometimes, to a fault even.  The other thing is that I don't believe in losing.  I hate it.  If there's one thing that I want my daughters to learn from me (other than faith), it's that in this life nobody gives it to you.  You have to take it.  No apologies.  It's me or you, and that's all there is to it.  It's not bad.  It sounds bad but it's not.  It's not even harsh.  It's just how the world works.  You've got to know that and deal with it whether you like it or not.  The sooner you figure it out the easier life will be.   

There's something else still though.  Something deeper.  Something darker.  The Bible tells me that the enemy comes to "kill, steal, and destroy".  I think we often think of that in terms of our property, possessions, or even health, but that's stuff is temporary.  Even my body doesn't really belong to me when you think about it.  It's just a place I rent for a little while.  I don't think Satan cares much about that stuff.  If I were him and had all the power at my disposal that he does, I wouldn't bother with peoples possessions, I would steal people's dreams.  Why?  Because it wounds you far deeper than a wrecked car ever could.  It doesn't just hurt you at the time, but it keeps hurting you over and over and over.  It echoes through your life until you are dead.  There are people who let this destroy them.  People who fill themselves with depression and eventually bitterness over things that have happened that they can't change but they wrestle with on and on.  I think it's natural to relive your life.  To have regret.  People who say they have none are liars.  Sorry, but you are.  But in moments of pain, I need to remember… I have to remember… my birth rite wasn't stolen from me.  My heritage hasn't been lost.  I am His.  He has marked me with His blood.  The Bible says that He comes to bring "life and life more abundantly".  So far, I've been talking about a game, and it's not that important.  On the other hand, what is important?  My grandmother was a mighty woman of God.  My Dad talks about how she would pray for him/me for hours…. literally hours.  He could hear her while he was setting tobacco.  I was five when she died and still.  Hard to imagine.  Her Dad was a minister.  So was his brother.  They planted churches all over the countryside, and undoubtedly led many folks to Jesus.  My other grandparents also had an equally rich heritage.  My grandfather's Dad was a minister as well.  So what?  Lots of people go to church.  Yes.  And it is a big part of the Southern culture.  Sure.  But there's a difference between attendance and conviction.  My heritage certainly has some great ball players in it, and I'm not one of them, but what else it has is worth so much more!  People who had "more abundant" life!  People who passed something down to me that is more priceless than John D. Rockefeller's fortune.  They told me about Him.  They introduced me to Him.  They showed me how to put Him in my heart.  They taught me the sound of His voice. 

So, will I teach my girls how to play basketball?  You bet!  And if you're reading this, you'd better guard them on the baseline, too.  I haven't forgot how to rip that net, and I plan to show them how.  But you know what I care far more about teaching them?  It is far more important to me that they know Him.  Truly know Him.  Somewhere down deep where everything else fades away and it's only their thoughts and His voice.  I want them to feel His presence throughout their spirit in a way that is so real they can't ever deny it.  In short, someday when they write about their feelings, as I am now, I hope they can end it like this…

This world is not my home.    

 

The valley of death and dying

I am not one who is easily moved by the worship service at church.  Having grown up in a very charismatic church, I am very uncomfortable around emotions.  I think growing up in a church where people cried and shouted on a regular basis had the opposite effect on me that it has on other people.  Rather than being comfortable around emotions because it's normal, I'm actually really uncomfortable.  I think it comes from my inability to discern what is authentic and sincere from what maybe in fact me a crazy person.  That said, yesterday in service I felt the spirit of the Lord in my heart during the worship.  Kind of rare but it came from singing a song that elaborated on the 23rd Psalm.  I was struck by the words "In the valley of death and dying, you are with me.  You are with me." 

So many times, I think we as Christians look around us and are perplexed by the troubles in our life.  I know I am certainly guilty of having my spirit yell out, "Where are you!?!"  This happens both on a public and private stage.  Many this past week, were asking "How could God allow the SCOTUS to make this decision?  What is happening to my country?"  I was asking, "My house has been for sale for over 60 days.  We've done everything we can do.  It's rained a years' worth of rain in 60 days… seriously?  What are You doing?  Why don't you send someone to buy it?"  These types of questions are normal for sheep.  My grandfather used to ask me, "Son, what do you think the dumbest animal is?"  I used to respond, "Well, the ostrich has the smallest brain."  He would then often times say, "Nah, for me, I think the dumbest animal is a sheep."  As I've grown older, I've seen the wisdom in his statement, and I've often wondered if we was trying to plant a seed in me.  Either way, if you've spent even a small amount of time around sheep, it's easy to understand why both my Grandpa would think they are stupid and why Jesus would refer to us as sheep.  They are stupid!  Stupid beyond imagination.  They frighten at the smallest things.  This is why a single dog can control a hundred of them.  I look at my life and I see how sheepish I am.  So many times, I panic and freak out because I don't see a solution.  Meanwhile, my shepard must be wondering, "Does he not have any sense?  Have I ever failed him?  The day when he thought he would lose his family, who did he cry out to?  Who was there?  Who saved him?  When he thought the boat he was on would sink?  Who saved him?  When he left that stupid camera bag on a train in Italy, who found it for him?  Does he still not see that I hold tomorrow in my hand?  That I see his future and his eternity, and I've got this?"

 For this reason, I try to remember to ask forgiveness daily for my lack of faith.  I try to remember that God has a plan for my house in San Antonio.  That He loves my children more than even I do.  That He has already picked out their husbands.  That the family circle will not be broken with me.  That He doesn't care anymore about the laws and government of the United States than He cared about the laws and government of the Romans.  That He's got it.  That He's coming back for me.  And that, I shouldn't expect anything from this world but death and dying, but that He is with me.  He comforts me.  He gives me Life, and Life more abundantly.  He doesn't expect me to be satisfied.  He will not leave me here. 

 This world is not my home. 

I know that I know that I know... Wait, what do I know??

One of my favorite movies is Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy.  Don't watch it based on me saying that.  Over the course of my life, it has been made clear to me that just because I like a movie does not mean that anyone else in the known Universe will like it.  As a result, I quit making recommendations. I like what I like.  Enough.  Anyway, at the end of the movie, the protagonist, a guy who will eventually be the head of British Intelligence, engages in a conversation with another character about his counterpart in the Soviet Union.  A guy named Carlo.  Apparently, they had met several years back when they were both junior officers and the protagonist was trying to convince him to defect to the West.  For a moment, he acts out the part.  Like he's having the conversation all over again with an invisible man.  It's a pretty cool scene.  At the end, Carlo, unconvinced or unmoved, gets on a plane back to Moscow.  He is also going, most likely, to his death.  He obviously survives, but the point is he was willing to go back.  Even if, by going back, he would go to his death.  The protagonist then breaks character and says to his companion, "That's how I know he can be beaten.  He's a fanatic, and the fanatic is always concealing the secret doubt."

Growing up in the "Bible Belt", something I often heard, especially at the end of sermons, was the speech against doubt.  You've got to know that you know that you know.  If you have ANY doubt in your mind, you need to come to the alter.  Now, I understand the point of this speech, and I support where they are coming from.  If you don't know Jesus, if you've never given your heart to him, and made an attempt to follow Him; then, yes, you should go to the alter and make it right.  I'm not sure that I like the idea of doing it out of fear.  I think the Christian life is bigger than "not having to go to hell".  I would prefer, that someone see a fuller more rewarding life with some kind of purpose and goes to the alter in search of it, but whatever gets you there, I guess.  I suppose the going and making it right is that important.  Here's the problem.  What happens the next Sunday?  Or week?  Or whatever?  When the emotions wear off, then what do you know that you know that you know?  It is my belief that most people don't know.  Well, most people who have bothered to even think about it probably.  Honestly, just about every time I ever heard that speech I could have gone.  Even today, I am constantly concerned about it.  Am I being good enough?  Will Jesus really stand up for me?  Was His sacrifice great enough to cover ALL my sins?  I guess that's why I'm not a fanatic.  Who needs secret doubts?  I have plenty of real ones. 

Now, I'm no Ted Bundy, but I've got regrets.  Things that occurred in my life that I know, and more importantly knew at the time, were definitely wrong.  Guess what?  Like you, I did them anyway.  I felt bad about it later, and asked forgiveness but it never really felt like it was enough.  There are two schools of thought on that last sentence.  The first side would say that because of my actions, I lost my salvation.  Even the smallest transgression would set me back to zero.  Having been raised in this vein of theology, I would think it necessary to "get saved" all over again.  Of course, because I am or was a teenage boy, I would inevitably fail and repeat the process several times a week.  Eventually, I decided that I was probably just going to hell, and there wasn't a whole lot I could do about it.  I was about 18, maybe 19, and it was not a good time in my life.  As Jerry Garcia said, "I'm going to hell in a bucket, but, at least, I'm enjoying the ride".  Isn't that crazy?  Well, the other side is equally stupid.  The other argument is that it's not possible to lose your salvation.  God's love is so big, that it's just not possible.  If you have been saved, or think you were, and you find yourself sinning all the new, well, that's because you weren't "truly saved".  Now, I've read most of the Bible and all the New Testament.  I have never read where anyone "moaned" for days on end or years even in search of being truly saved.  In fact, I don't think the words "truly saved" are ever even used.  On the other hand, I do see Jesus tell Peter, "Come follow me" and later "You will deny me" and still later the same Peter founding the Christian Faith.  I wonder if in all that time, Peter was truly saved or he wasn't until after the denial or... well, it gets pretty confusing, doesn't it?

Honestly, being a Christian and what I believe is a big part of who I am.  I try to live that way, and I'm sure I fail miserably at it most of the time.  It's something that's always on my mind.  What do I believe?  Am I doing it right?  Am I good enough?  Does being good even matter?  I feel like it is mostly a product of the culture I was raised in.  While yes, I do believe man's search for meaning is real, and is constantly on the mind of everyone, I'm not sure that it is quite as big a burden to folks from other parts of the country.  I know that, because I've lived other places and I've seen it.  Nevertheless, it is a big part of who I am, and as such, I've had to come to terms with it.  After many years, I believe I have, and I think that neither of the two theologies above are correct.  I think that the truth lies somewhere in the middle.  Yes, I do believe you can lose your salvation, but I don't think it happens easily.  Just like attaining salvation in the first place, it's a choice.  I have chosen to follow Jesus.  I have chosen to try and live my life according to his teachings and commandments.  I have realized that the more I try to do that, the more wretched a creature I recognize myself and humanity to be.  I have chosen to believe it is that way by design.  He wants me to see how easily I can attain His love and forgiveness and how big it all is.  Sometimes, when I really think about it, my heart swells up and I feel like it's going to burst because of all the love around me, and in those times I really feel present with God.  It's not every day, but it does happen.  So, no, don't ask me for a list of rules.  I don't keep up with stuff like that.  I don't care what you or your friend or Pastor or Televangelist said about this or that.  If it were about rules, the Pharisees would've been rock stars wouldn't they?  Your business is your business.  Mine is mine.  I've decided it's way simpler than that.  God is love.  He died for my sins.  His sacrifice is so big that nothing else matters but my belief in it.  It's simple.  It's just got to be. 

This is how you list a Harley...

I kind of stole the idea and made it my own, but I've been having trouble selling my Harley and we just had twin girls.  I figured it was time for a change in tactics.  Here's the listing:

First off, let's not kid each other.  If you are one these rice burner super bike guys, and all you want is to go really fast to Walmart to pick up some hair gel while listening to hip hop and being completely unoriginal, then just keep looking.  This bike is not for you.

On the other hand, if you wake up every morning to the Star Spangled Banner, believe that the most important article of clothing you wear is your boots, and drink Folgers's black coffee not some sissified mix of milk and sugar served to you by some guy in skinny jeans who has no idea what a real man even looks like much less is one.... well, sir, first, you are my kind of guy, and second, I'd be proud to pass on this fabulous piece of America to you! 

Why?  Because Harley-Davidson and America go in the same sentence together like BBQ, slaw, and Big Red.  I mean come on!  This is America!  We burn gas for fun around here!  We have one rule and that's to look good and go fast which is something we don't need the Japanese for.  Do you think if George Washington and Teddy Roosevelt were alive today they would ride a Suzuki?  No sir!  They'd saddle up on a Harley-Davidson and head to Big Bend.  This is our country, this is the West, and there's only one way to see it and that's from the saddle of a Harley-Davidson!

This ain't the small model neither.  This is the big boy!  1200 cc's of raw power, and, you should just try to stop this stallion from running!  It'll do zero to 75 so fast it will make your head spin.  That's why I've only filled it up with straight up Eagle Ford Shale produced 93 octane American gasoline!!  I mean if you've got a champion thoroughbred you don't skimp on the hay do you?  No way!  I've wanted to customize this beast a little, but I just never got around to it.  Besides, she was just too much fun to ride as is. 

Anyway, I had a few changes come about and I really just need to get rid of her.  It's tough, but a man's got to take care of his family before himself.  Am I right?  If you don't understand that, you probably quit reading somewhere around the hair gel line anyway so I know you're not offended.  Anyway, it's tough to put a price on such a rare beautiful piece of America on two wheels, but I figure that $8199.99 sounds fair. 

If you're interested, email me and I'll respond with an appointment.

The Battle of Amos and Herman the Terrible

When I was about 10 or 11, my grandfather moved in with us.  He had lived about an hour away, and, regretfully, I barely new him.  He would come over and stay with us every couple of months for the weekend, but it wasn’t till he moved in that I really got to know him.  He was almost completely opposite from my other grandfather, whom I knew very well having grown up across the street from his house.  His name was Amos.  He had lived what might be called a simple life.  He and my grandmother made their living by working in local factories and supplementing with tobacco farming.  For the time and place in which they lived, this was completely normal.  It was a hard life where they didn’t have money for extras but they didn’t complain.  It was who they were and pretty much all they knew.

When he came to live with us, he invited me into his world, but I don’t think he meant to.  My grandfather was a good man and I know he loved me (he would often slip me a dollar), but he wasn’t great at relating to children, something that, from what I can gather, was common among men of his generation.  We did have one powerful thing in common though.  Like all the men from the paternal side of my family, we love history.  Reading about it.  Talking about it.  Listening to others talk about it.  Whatever.  We found a bond over this mutual interest because my grandfather had been a participant in history.  He, like many others from his generation, fought in World War 2, but unlike others, my grandfather talked plenty about it.  He told me all kinds of stories, and through that, I got to know him.  For example, I kept noticing that he was always running in his stories.  Finally, he told me he was a platoon runner.  Basically, he was the guy who would tear out through the jungle completely alone relaying messages back to HQ.  Can you imagine how scary that was?  I mean here’s a guy who didn’t do a lot in his life that would bring accolades, but during the war, displayed incredible amounts of courage.  All of that history would have been lost to me had he not come to live with us.

Of course, the reason he came wasn’t quite so great.  He had been demonstrating the symptoms of Alzheimer’s, and my dad made the decision that it would be safer for him to live with us.  At first, it wasn’t bad.  That was the stage when I got to know him.  Later, he began to hallucinate and descend into dementia.  That was difficult on him and our entire family.  It was compounded by our moving next door into a house we had built.  We could still interact with him, but for large portions of the day, he was alone.  During this time, he would often hallucinate, inventing characters which had no basis in reality.  Of all the characters, which most had names, the leader and chief trouble maker was a guy named Herman.  Herman tormented my grandfather.  He, as well as the others, would put on “programs” in the living room, sleep in his bed, and even defecate in the floor.  Many times, I would come home from a date or some other outing and notice my grandfather’s lights were on.  Instead of bothering Dad, I would go take care of it.  I’d find him talking to people who weren’t there and completely miserable.  Chasing off the ghosts and calming him down, I could often get him to go back to bed but it was only temporary and this went on for months maybe years.  It was wearing heavy on all of us, but my Dad was taking the brunt of it.  Then, a kind of miracle happened.

Our new house, was back off the road a pretty good piece.  It wasn’t a long way, but it was far enough to cause the cable company to charge an arm and a leg to wire us up so my parents declined.  We had “bunny ears”, but it was pretty terrible.  My grandfather, on the other hand, still had cable.  So, from time to time, my brother and I would go down to watch TV.  On one such occasion, my bother went alone.  Sure enough, Herman was there, and he was driving Pepa crazy.  My brother was frustrated that he couldn’t watch TV and finally said, “Pepa, where is Herman at right now?”  Grandpa pointed at a big purple lamp in the window, and Alex simply grabbed it and threw it in the closet.  Now, I don’t know whether the Lord used that or if something just snapped in Pepa’s mind, but I do know it cured him.  He never saw Herman or the other “people” again.

This brings me to the point of this blog…  I’m somewhat known for telling funny stories to my friends and family, and this is the original.  Clearly, what I’ve already written isn’t funny.  It’s tragic.  However, what happens next, is pretty good.  After my brother did this, it brought a certain amount of peace to our family.  My grandfather was still sick, but the worst was for the most part over.  My Dad, who was also stressed at work, was really enjoying the upswing.  So, it was time to play a joke.  A joke, which ironically, my grandfather would have thought was hilarious as he enjoyed that kind of thing.

One day, I got home early from school.  I was sitting in the kitchen watching TV and it occurred to me that I might do a prank call which I did quite often.  For some reason, Pepa popped into my head, but almost immediately I knew I couldn’t do that.  It was just too mean.  It was at that exact moment that my Dad walked in from a stressful day, and I thought, “Well, I could tell him I did it and have just as much fun.”  So, I said, “Hey Dad, guess what I did?”  He grinned because he is also mischievous, and said, “What?”  I said, “I called Grandpa.”  His countenance immediately changed and he said, “What did you do?”  I said, “He answered, and I said, ‘Amos!!  This here’s Herman.  I know I been gone a while, but I’m coming back and bring all them other people with me.  We’re going to put on programs in the living room, sleep in your bed, and poop all over…”  It was at that point that my Dad made his first attempt on that day to slap my head off.  I yelled, “I’m just kidding!  I didn’t do it!!” just in time to keep him from killing me, but it was probably the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.

The Importance of Laziness

I remember when I was a kid.  I thought the world revolved around me.  I don’t think my parents made a huge deal out of it or anything.  I just think that’s part of being a kid.  Your view of the world is so narrow that you really can’t conceive of it being bigger than your own experience.  Honestly, I think I experienced this right up through college and maybe a little after even. 

Then, I turned 30 and my mortality slapped me in the face.

Since then, I have often been troubled by the thought that, “It’s all a big nothing.”  Life, I mean.  In the end, nothing you do really matters.  You work hard, do well, and die anyway.  15 years later no one even remembers anything about you, AND that’s among your own friends and family members.  15 seconds after you leave your job, they move on and you are completely forgotten.
 
After realizing this, I got depressed.  I thought about how pointless any effort was.  Then, I started looking around and realized that I think there are basically two types of people.  The first type are the people who just deny reality.  These are the folks who pretend that their job/career really matters.  That the company really cares about them and that they are irreplaceable.  I have also noticed that these are the people who end up working till they’re nearly dead.  Why do they do that?  Because that’s all they know or have ever known.  It's what fills the hole inside of them. 
 
On the other hand, there are other folks out there.  Sometimes, these people are categorized as lazy or not willing to give everything to their work.  I used to despise these people, but I am finding that there is more to it than I thought.  True, there are those who are just worthless, and I’m not talking about them.  I am talking about the others.  The ones that kind of live outside the normal parameters of their job.  Are they prideful in who they are and what they do?  Sure, but they have the sense to realize that it’s all temporary.  It doesn't matter.  One day you are flush and the next you are bust.  The economy takes a downturn or the business gets sold, they get fired, and it doesn’t bother them at all.  Why?  Because they see it for what it is.  It’s a job.  It’s not life.  It’s not who they are.  It’s a means to an end.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.  So why kill yourself?

I want to be more like that.  I want to live in the present.  To take advantage of every second.  To prioritize my time and spend most of it with Jessica breathing in the free air.  Sure, I want to work hard and do well.  I think that hard work gives something to your spirit as well, but I don’t want to lose myself in it either.  I'm talking about priorities and learning to live with a certain amount of balance.  That's very hard for me, but I want to get better at it.

Croatian scooter riding and the struggle for life - An exerpt from last year's vacation diary

This has been an amazing vacation!!!  Jessica and I have had a blast.  The entire trip has been so non-stop that I haven’t had a chance to blog about it.  Either moving too fast or lack of internet, but either way, it’s just not been possible. While I won’t go into a ton of detail, I will point out mention some of the highlights. 

• The "Rich Hotel", Proprod, Slovakia – Before this trip, I couldn’t have told you the difference between Slovakia and Slovenia.  Now, I’ve been to both!! (My wife would like me to insert here that she is amazing and has changed my life. Both of which are true.) We arrived in Slovakia by way of a night train from Prague, Czech Republic. Slovakia is very poor. It seems it has been left in the same state that the Soviets found it in.  It is like they have been trapped in a time vacuum.  One exception: the hotel we stayed in.  When Jess plans a trip, it's usually fast paced. Our first European trip together (to Spain and Portugal) was an intense, blitz. Because I requested a more relaxing pace for future trips, she slowed down the pace the next year when we went to Italy. And this time, she actually planned out days where we would do nothing but relax. It was a great combo of two or three busy days, followed by one or two relaxing days and then repeat. I couldn’t have been happier.  We stayed in a 5 star hotel for a couple of nights (at the Slovakian price of a 2 or 3 star hotel in the US).  It was just what the doctor ordered.  Of course, I also got a massage… from a man… a little unnerving but not bad.  At least it didn’t move.  As Jerry says, “That’s the test”.

 

 

• Budapest!!  - What a surprise of a city!  It was amazingly beautiful AND  incredibly friendly.  We stayed in an apartment that was owned by a guy in Boerne, TX.  It was very clean and comfortable.  While we saw many interesting things (views of the city from surrounding hills, Horror House from Nazi and Communist Occupiers, etc.), my favorite were the baths.  They were so relaxing.  Several different water temperatures and a wonderful day to relax.  Nice and cool and sitting in steaming water.  Jess and I stayed there for probably 4 hours.

 

                             

• Bled, Slovenia and Lake Bled – We left Budapest for Slovenia, and it was a journey to get there, but it was worth it!!  We went to Lake Bled which is an alpine lake with crystal clear water.  In the middle of the lake is an island with a cathedral.  Jessica and I jumped right in and while it wasn’t the coldest water I’ve ever been in, it was enough to make your belly button pucker up.  Later, Jessica convinced me to book a fly fishing guide.  I did and it was worth it.  The next day we went out to a local river and I caught about 7 or 8 trout in excess of 15 inches.  The highlight of the day was my first brown trout and on a dry fly to boot!  A double first!!!
  
  
  
  
• Rovinj, Croatia – This was just a quaint little Croatian town.  Not a lot different than other towns that we have visited except with one BIG EXCEPTION!!  It has the greatest beach ever!!  We spent the entire day doing nothing.  Sitting on the beach.  Swimming in crystal clear water of the Adriatic.  Sleeping.  Reading.  It was a much needed break.  At the end of the day, we jumped back on the bicycles and headed back to the hotel.  That was the night Jessica got sick and it has been a bit of a struggle ever since.
  
• Plitvice Lakes National Park - WOW - I'm just going to show the pictures.
  
  
  
  

Those were the highlights for me.  We’ve done other things but these were my personal favorites.  The things I would do again if convenient.  Now, while you may not know me, I am known in my group of friends for telling stories.  I thought I would finish this entry with one.

Jessica had been dealing with a GI bug (or maybe food poisoning) for a few days towards the end of our trip. She had gotten mildly (tolerably) better while in Sarajevo and then yesterday for our trip to Montenegro, but our last night in Dubrovnik she started having diarrhea again. Not good - especially considering how we had a long, international flight the next day. She was concerned that she would be even more miserable if she continued to be sick on the airplane home. Well after normal business hours in the US, much less Europe, I decided to see if I could find a pharmacy that was still open, and, to my surprise, discovered that there are actually two 24 hr pharmacies in Dubrovnik.  Can you believe that?  One is in the Old Town and one is in the Port area.  One problem.  They alternate weeks being open all night.  We are staying in the Old Town, and it just happened that this was the Port’s week to be open.  I walked to the pharmacy in the Old Town anyways, hoping by chance I could catch them open, but no luck.  This walk through the old town did have one (awkward) bonus, though.  Game of Thrones is being filmed near by. I had been hoping to run into some of the actors, and was actually wearing my Game of Thrones t-shirt with my favorite character on it (Tyrian). However, I soon regretted my choice of clothing and instead felt self conscious and awkward wearing this shirt as it has the word "Imp" written on it...because instead of  running into the actor who plays Tyrian I kept passing a ton of other midgets (apparently that were there as actors for one of the scenes)...but whatever...  Running out of options, I decided to ask our Hostel owner if he might have a secret stash of antidiarrheals lying around.  He helped, but not in the way I expected.  He offered to ride me on the back of his scooter to the Port and back.  I gratefully accepted.  All I can say is that you haven’t really lived until you’ve ridden on the back of a scooter with a European man at the helm and afterward you don't want to.  He flew without wings.  He pegged the motor out.  We ran red lights.  We weaved in an out of traffic.  We barely avoided rear ending a mini-van that decided to stop in the middle of the road to park.  Luckily, we were able to avoid rear ending it by  swerving between the van and the traffic bollards on the other side (rather than just stopping - because apparently the brakes weren’t functioning to their fullest  capacity). In the meantime, I feared I might be breaking him in two with my thighs... not a feeling I have ever experienced before - or ever care to again. As I clung to life by the small handles next to my seat, he drove one handed in order to free his other hand to smoke a cigarette.  It was a harrowing experience that, while I’m glad I lived to tell about it, I’m not sure I could survive again.  Luckily, God is good.  He has to be because I was pleading with him most of the ride...