thanksgiving, goulash style

It was 4:00PM when the sky darkened from the faded grey overcast the day produced.  It didn't matter that there was no sunset, or sun at all throughout the day for that matter.  As dusk turned to night the lights that blanketed the city and buildings illuminated creating a stunningly beautiful picture.  On this particular night we took a boat ride down the river Danube which divides Buda and Pest, the two areas that make up the city Budapest, Hungary.  The castle that sits atop the Buda hillside was brilliant in it's old world glory while the newer Parliament building on the Pest side seemed to be challenging its beauty with its impressive architecture emphasized by all the lights.

The boat ride was just one highlight of our Thanksgiving week adventure.  My family and I spent our time traversing the city that is still somewhat emerging from the Communist era oppression it endured.  My youngest sister, who is studying abroad in Budapest, was an excellent tour guide, leading us through the public transport system, providing insight into the history of the city and its sights and even speaking Hungarian, a feat I greatly admire.

I found the city to be charming in an undiscovered way.  Although there are scatterings of boxy, nondescript buildings and some of the buildings are covered in dirt, exemplifying remnants of communist era, there still can be found wonderful architecture and a sense that there has been tremendous effort put forth trying to rebuild and restore a city that lost 80% of its buildings in the Second World War.  In certain ways there is a sad aura that is felt about the city that has endured so much in its history.  However, I found there is also a determination to present itself as a city that is no longer under a communist hold and that does not shy away from it's plagued history which is evident in the many statues and tributes scattered throughout the city.

We were fortunate to be there just before Christmastime.  In addition to the lights that adorn the buildings to illuminate them each night, there were even more lights strung above the streets in snowflake and icicle patterns. There was also a large holiday market with wooden booths set up for vendors selling everything from Hungarian made leather products, to ornaments, to tasty food offerings such as giant pretzels, sausages, pastries and endless cauldrons of hot mulled wine.

On that note, what about the food? I had heard a preconceived notion before traveling to Hungary that the food left much to be desired.  In fact, we found the food was delicious, albeit very meat-centric, but filling and just the type of thing we craved in the cold weather.  I thought that goulash was supposed to be a thick, gravy-type meat dish; instead, it is more traditionally a broth based meat soup.  Other traditional specialties include stuffed peppers and stuffed cabbage, all delightfully seasoned with another Hungarian specialty: paprika.

I'm thankful that I was able to spend the Thanksgiving holiday in such a unique and wonderful city with my family who I cherish so deeply.  Although our Thanksgiving day meal did not have any turkey, stuffing, cranberries or even mashed potatoes, and there was no pumpkin or pecan pie, we still all sat around one table together, enjoying each others company and all thankful for the opportunity to see another culture half a world away.

one year is never enough

I am often asked how things are going, how it is living in a "new place" (although now that it's been two years, maybe it's not so new...)  I always try to answer in earnest, that really the last five years have been quite the adventure going from CA to NYC to SC.  I wrote the following last spring thinking I might submit it somewhere but never posted it on the blog.  Here it is now, in summary, my feelings on all the shifting the last five years have brought.

It will only be a year and then I will move back. Turning the statement over in my head, I find myself contemplating the assured tone I once had when saying those words.  Out my window, the traffic rolls by and the sky is swept with grey.  It’s actually a welcomed coolness that permeates the air considering the sweltering heat that will arrive in a month or two and stay far longer than anyone wants.  It’s nice to pause and just think once in a while, but my thoughts almost always come back to how I got here.  I mean that literally, how did I come to live in this Southern city?  I can’t help but marvel at the path that has gotten me to this point; not one, but almost five years have passed by since I left “home” for big city life, which in turn led me back to a smaller town.   

It started when I was twenty-two.  I wanted badly to get out of the “normal” way of life that I knew and was comfortable with.  In a way, I think I was a little scared of being trapped in the same place forever.  I suppose that’s why I took such a drastic leap to change everything about the way I was living.  I had just graduated from UC Santa Barbara, the coastal university in California that I attended after growing up and going to High School in Newport Beach, another southern California beach town.  I considered myself a bona fide beach girl spending summers lounging in the sand on the shore with the constant smell of salt water lingering in my sandy brown hair and a year-round sun kissed glow that I always took for granted.  I had loved the role I assumed, but at twenty-two, things changed.  I wanted to go to a city, live a bigger and faster life with the world at my fingertips.  Nothing fit that description better than New York City.  So I packed my bags and escaped to the Big Apple.

It was only supposed to be for a year.  I really didn’t intend for the getaway to be permanent.  After all, my whole family lives in California; to travel back for a visit is neither easy or inexpensive.  What I didn’t realize is that moving to a new place takes much longer than a year to adjust.  I had to find a job, a place to live, and figure my way around such a massive metropolitan city.  It was an exciting, fun, terrifying adventure and after a year there was no chance I was ready to return to California and my beach girl ways.  One year turned into three during which time I met my now husband.  It was my mother’s fear when I first announced I would be relocating across country.  “You are going to meet someone and never come back,” she would say to me almost with a matter-of-fact tone.  I would roll my eyes or try to reassure her that she was just overreacting.  I now realize two things: that I was insensitive and naïve, and that she was right.  I met an amazing man and we got married after two and a half years together.

As much as I love New York City, I began to resent parts of living there.  The cold winters seemed to stretch longer each year.  The pace of the city was grueling at times where it seemed if you stopped and yelled out in the middle of the street, there might not be anyone that would notice.  These anonymities were what I loved when I first moved there; they were what my twenty-two year old self was craving, but as a few years trickled by it seemed I was ready to search for something else.  It was never supposed to be a permanent move and maybe that thought in the back of my mind prompted me to stir up morose feelings.  Just as I began to manifest these sentiments, an opportunity came up for us to purchase a franchise and move.  This was a perfect solution to feeling the New York itch.  This was a chance out.  There was just one catch, we would be moving to South Carolina.

I don’t mean to make moving to South Carolina sound like a bad thing; it’s a beautiful place filled with delicious food, robust traditions and a leisurely pace, but I had never been there and it was all unfamiliar to me. Frankly, I never thought I would be moving to the South.  The West coast and East coast are very different animals, especially the Northeast.  I was confused that I felt apprehension over the move, hadn’t I just picked up and moved to the very foreign New York City only three years earlier?  My husband and I had spent hours upon hours dreaming up all the places in the world we could live and I always presented myself as up for the adventure.  For some reason, this felt different.  Maybe it was because of that statement I convinced myself of when I was twenty-two.  It will only be a year and then I’ll move back.  Now I was signing up for a much more permanent experience living on the east coast.

The day we left New York, I cried as we drove out of the city.  I hadn’t anticipated such fierce emotion to escape me, but tears rolled down my cheeks and I spent the first twenty minutes of the drive mourning the fact that my adventure in New York was over.  Once I had grieved, I felt a weight lifted and was ready for this next journey in life to begin.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy and freeing as I had thought and throughout the first few months of living in our new home I often felt frustrated and unsure of what my place was in this new life. 

It has now been a year and a half since moving to Columbia, South Carolina.  I will be the first to admit, not all the adjustments have been easy.  After a lot of self-reflection I realized my focus needed to shift from looking for the escape, or for what’s next, or to always be thinking it will only be a year.  When I do that, I am missing out on some of the now, on the world happening and being great and beautiful.  Now that my eyes are open and my attitude is shifting, I am coming to love and appreciate this part of the country: the low country attitude, the graciousness and kindness of people that live here, the amazing culinary offerings and the beautiful and changing scenery.

I’m not sure where we will move next or when that will be.  Sometimes I still feel unsettled, I think about my family cross-country and wish I lived closer.  I marvel that my path in life has taken me to this southern town.  Instead of waiting for the next opportunity to uproot and move again, I want to live here and embrace my life until the time comes to make the next shift, knowing that only a year is never enough.

mud run

Last weekend I paid $37 to be scratched and bruised by tree stumps and covered from head to toe with mud.  Perhaps not one of the wisest uses of funds for me personally, but at least it went to a great cause.  The reason for the insanity was to participate in the US Marine Corp bi-annual mud run.

I wasn't alone in this crazy endeavor.  I was joined by 9,600 other daring people who also participated in the race which consisted of 5.2 miles and 36 obstacles.  You participate in this particular race in teams of four.  It's very much a team activity where you cannot complete the obstacles without your whole team.

Course Map

Our team's start time was 12:23PM Saturday afternoon.  It was a flawless day boasting a beautiful blue sky with scattered puffy clouds.  The sun was shining making it a comfortably warm temperature.  The conditions were perfect.  As we waited in line for our start I felt nervous, anxious at what was ahead and in store for me on the course, and was dreading my inevitable meeting with mud.  The announcer signaled our team's go-ahead and we began with a slow jog so as not to tire ourselves too quickly.

I approached the first obstacle with wide-eyed fear.  There were eight logs lined up in a row atop a murky mud hole.  It was more like mud water than thick and sticky mud.  The task was to duck under each log.  The catch was the only way to get under was crouching down low on all fours and for two or three of the logs you actually had to submerge your head under the muddy water.  My teammates were already halfway through the obstacle when I took a deep breath, closed my eyes tight and prayed I would come up on the other side without swallowing any of the gross liquid.  I'm not sure what is more challenging... running 5.2 miles, completing the difficult obstacles or running and completing the obstacles while weighted down with mud that clings to clothes, hair, skin and shoes...

Click here to see list and description of obstacles

Our team lumbered on through the challenges which included more logs that we had to boost each other over, a 15 foot wall we had boost and pull each other over, rope swings, mud trenches, rope ladders to climb 15 feet up and then down the other side, a creek we waded through, and my very least favorite obstacle the ultimate mud pit.  The pit was one of the obstacles near the end of the race.  I would be remiss if I said this was just a 20 yard mud pool we all had to wade or "swim" across.  This mud was thick, clumpy, had a stench I tried to ignore and was downright gross! At 5'8'' tall, the mud came up to my neck.  There was even one section where my feet unsuccessfully searched for the bottom and I was forced to hurl myself forward just to make progress through the obstacle.  We all emerged out the other side looking like swamp monsters from a comic book.  It took me days to clean the viscous stuff from my ears and fingernails.

Our team tromped across the finish line an hour and half after starting the race.  I was asked if I would participate in the mud run again, as they host the event twice a year in the Columbia area.  I paused, contemplated the question while running through the obstacles in my head, my thoughtful and careful response was "I'm not really sure... I don't think so."  In truth I'll probably sign up again in the future.  It's one of those quite masochistic endeavors that you only partially enjoy while doing, is painful to complete but rewarding in the memories and stories that emerge from partaking in the event.

If nothing else, the money raised is used to support the men and women Marines and their families in the Columbia area who have been wounded or killed while on active duty. The money also goes towards several active scholarships in the Columbia area that were named after Marines who were killed.  That is most definitely a cause I am happy to get muddy again and again for.

learning to swim

I don't remember learning how to swim.  I do remember being about six years old and being plucked out of the group of fellow 5 and 6 year olds at our daily practice.  Coach Ted wanted me to demonstrate one lap of butterfly.  Me??? I don't remember doing that lap in the pool, or what the other kids' reactions were.  But I do remember being very proud of being asked to demonstrate.  Obviously I had teachers and coaches that helped me learn the butterfly stroke.  I'm sure hours were spent while I flailed and splashed through the water in efforts to learn how to "legally" swim down the length of a pool.

Swimming is a skill I think most parents want their kids to learn at a young age if for no other reason than to be safe when near any body of water.  However, competitive swimming is a whole other ball game.  Freestyle, Backstroke, Breaststroke and the often dreaded Butterfly are the four technical strokes in swimming.  You learn them as if you would a pirouette in ballet, a back handspring in gymnastics or how to swing a bat and make contact with the ball in baseball.  Yet when you swim, your body is floating through the body of water, gravity is defied and all you hear when your head is submerged is the swishing of water past you.  In learning the strokes, you must manipulate the water around you, using the force to propel you down the pool, moving your arms and legs, which feel much lighter under the water, with deliberate strength and force.

I started teaching swim lessons several weeks ago to beginner swimmers.  I suit up twice a week, get in the three foot deep pool with my swim students and try to teach them the basic swim strokes.  Most of the kids I teach are about 5-7 years old.  They are eager, full of energy and once they are used to the water and submerging underneath it, generally fearless on all counts.  Their enthusiasm for learning aside, teaching swimming is one of the more challenging things I've tried to do.  I suppose like any other skill or sport it takes repetition, practice and instruction.  Just yesterday, I was explaining breaststroke to the two five year old girls that were in my lesson.

First, I tried to explain how to move your feet,

"Who knows what a frogs feet looks like?" I ask and they raise their hands excitedly.  "Your feet go up at the same time, out to the side and then swooosh together in a glide."  I demonstrate myself in the three foot pool.  "Did you see what I did?"

"Yeah," one of them replies.  "But your feet sank!?"

I blink a few times, smile and then tell them their feet should not sink.  I'm too big for this three foot pool... 

Okay, now it's time to try, I tell them.  Off they go.  Feet kick wildly, every third to fifth time the up, out, together motion is achieved.  They cling to the kickboards willing the foam pieces to propel them forward. Maybe it will be better when we add the arms...  

"You scoop your arms like you're grabbing your favorite treat, take a bite and then push it out to share with your friends!" I try valiantly to explain in a way they understand.  

They copy my motions and I think yes, they get it.  Okay, time to try it altogether.  Off they go again this time flailing, scooping, arms by their side, pushing the water trying to do anything they can not to sink to the bottom.  The feet look pretty good, but the hands are a disaster, at one point I pull each of them up and say "Don't forget to breathe!"  Not sure how far those little lungs can hold the air with all that wiggling about underwater.

Our time together is only thirty minutes, just long enough to cover three of the strokes and I'm thankful we didn't have to try butterfly yet.  We play a quick game of sharks and minnow and I chase them down the pool pretending they are too fast for me to catch.

The lesson is over, they are smiling.  Thats good at least. I'm optimistic that they'll eventually get the breaststroke, that I'm at least teaching them something...  I don't remember how I learned to swim, but I'd like to think I was just as fearless, willing to try (between a few tantrums I'm sure...), and at least liked it somewhat.  Maybe these kids will teach swimming 20 + years down the road, maybe not.  They probably wont remember how they learned to swim.  In the meantime, I'll try to teach them to swim in the three foot pool and we'll all try not to sink together.

 

 

vacation hangover

Confession: I've been sitting, staring at my computer screen for about an hour.  I'm trying to write a short essay to submit for an essay contest but I can't will my fingers to type out anything.  I wish I could blame the fantastic two-week family extravaganza that I am currently recuperating from; however, I know it's not the entire reason for my lack of creative juices.  So instead, I'll just partially blame the fun-filled vacation days for distracting me...

Why is it that vacations can make you less productive? Maybe it's because I can't stop thinking about sand between my toes, of noon-time naps because you can, of the refreshing cool feeling of water when dipping in the pool.  Case in point, there are far too many distractions to think about when experiencing a vacation hangover.

The two week extravaganza started off with my youngest sister coming to visit me in South Carolina.  She stayed for a few days during which we floated the river in big yellow inter-tubes, as she put it "the laziest thing she's ever done", and she has a good point being that we tethered ourselves to the back of the kayak that my hubby was paddling so there was absolutely no work at all involved in our float down the river.  Also on our agenda was floating in the pool on magenta pink floaties (clearly we like to float), indulging in a plethora of bad-for-you food including Southern BBQ, sandwiches dipped in thousand island dressing and at one such dinner, a side of lobster mac and cheese.  It was a glorious few days where we got to laugh, play and just spend time together.

Our visit continued when we picked up my parents from the Savannah airport and headed to Hilton Head Island for a week.  Hilton Head is beautiful with marshy scenery and cobalt blue skies.  The only downside to a trip there in August is the intensely thick humidity that made 90 degree days feel like 104 days.  To us, it didn't really bother much; we wiped away the sweat and enjoyed paddle boarding, swimming in the pool, bike riding, going to the beach, water skiing and once again indulging in delicious Southern fare.  

At the tail end of the trip, my other younger sister and her boyfriend traveled back home with us and spent a few more fun-filled days soaking up the Southern sun.  We once again floated the river with them on those huge yellow inner tubes; this time, actually paddling ourselves for a fraction of the way, an improvement over the first ultimate lazy trip.  We sweated through a walking tour of the town and took part in even more gorging of delicious meals and treats.  I absolutely loved and cherished my time talking, visiting and enjoying my sisters company.  Moments that are treasured.

With everyone gone, I find myself in a state of post-vacation blues.  I close my eyes and think of the sky melting into watercolors of pink and yellow as the sun fades down into the water.  My toes curl under my desk thinking of tanned feet from the perpetual wearing of flip flops.  The one plus I think of is that the smell of sunscreen and bug-spray are actually gladly replaced by the scent of my own sheets and towels now that I'm home.  

personal reflections on two years of marriage

In nine days, my hubby and I will celebrate our second wedding anniversary.  Our wedding day is still vividly preserved in my memory, as I know it will be for years to come.  I can see the chocolate brown of the tablecloths, the bright blue and white of the fresh hydrangeas popping up over the tables in beautiful arrangements.  I can smell the slight hint of salt that the ocean breeze blew inland, and the feeling I had when I slipped on my white wedding gown and zipped it up the side is still richly imprinted on my mind.  Although two years seems to have passed by quickly, I also feel that the amount of time has allowed me to grow and mature, to experience many new things and make new memories.

I remember the night that I first met Eric in December 2006 at my company's Christmas party.  Despite the fact he is insistent I was wearing a red dress, when in fact I was wearing black pants and a black top, we often reminisce about the first meeting that he remembers clearly too.  There are a few slight discrepancies between our memories of that night.  Aside from the red dress debate, he also contests that he was standing at a bar, ready to offer me a drink when I allegedly walked by quickly with only a brief smile.  I continue to argue that if he wanted to talk so bad, he could have gone after me.  The second meeting, in January 2007 can perhaps be considered the real start of it all.  During a Saints vs. Bears playoff game, he asked me out on a first date and two and a half years later we were married.

Aside from the first six weeks of our marriage which were spent living in NYC, the rest of our time has been spent in Columbia, South Carolina.  A place neither of us had spent any time previously.  The move was difficult for me; I always thought I was adventurous, up to live anywhere and ready for big changes.  In reality, it was hard to move from my friends and to still live so far away from my family.  I find myself now very thankful for the challenge.  It gave our new marriage the opportunity to be removed from everything safe and familiar.  We have taken the opportunity to discover the many great things about the place we live, which has even led us to discoveries about each other and our interests.  It has also challenged us to go out and make new friends, to be independent and outgoing. 

The move was not the only huge change we took on post-wedding; relocating coincided with our purchasing a franchise.  We would own our own business.  I think we were both slightly apprehensive of how it would be working together.  It all happened so fast that we really didn't have too much time to worry about it.  I could say luckily I love working together, but I don't really believe it has anything to do with luck.  I think it has been an exercise in understanding each other better, maintaining respect for one another and putting forth good old fashioned effort.  I've witnessed a very commanding, determined, pragmatic and discerning side to the person I married that I'm very proud of.  Working together has exposed our strengths (which oftentimes are different) and our weaknesses.  It has led to a different understanding of one another and a deeper appreciation.  Admittedly it isn't always rosy; sometimes we disagree on how to solve a problem, how to approach a situation, it's all part of working together.

Personally, I believe that love has many different levels, different meanings and different applications.  I love my friends for their companionship, loyalty and fun-loving nature.  I love my family for supporting and loving me back unconditionally.  I have even learned over the years (an ongoing process) to love myself, to appreciate my own abilities and to love other people in return.  In my marriage, I love my partner in each of those different ways.  

Undoubtedly, the next few years will feel like they flew by.  In my twenty-seventh year, I feel self-aware while still a bit unsure of what the future will hold; but as I continue to grow as a person, I know we will continue to grow together in our relationship.  

As we count the passing years and celebrate anniversaries to come, I'll keep close the memory of the first Christmas party, and of saying "yes" to being asked out on a first date.  I'll still recall the intense fluttering in my stomach and rush to my head as I looked at the man before me down on one knee with a ring in his outstretched hand.  An imprint of the sounds, smells and people that were there on our wedding day will remain on my mind and now I also have these first two years of change, challenge, triumph and growing to look back on and cherish.   

Chains do not hold a marriage together.  It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads which sew people together through the years.  ~Simone Signoret  

a proper lowcountry birthday

An owl hooted in the distance, a slight almost undetectable breeze blew through the trees, a blue heron took off down the winding river hoping to escape our boat as it glided through the water.  There was a calm and quiet peace that came from knowing that we were probably the only two people out on the creek for miles.  I imagined for a minute what it would have been like to float the waters during the time of colonial settlers.  The scene was part of my birthday celebration, which I playfully (but in all seriousness) stretch out for at least a week or two flanking the actual day I was born.  Yesterday was the actual birthday, when I turned 27.  I really love birthdays; it provides a perfect opportunity to plan something special, out of the ordinary and truly fantastic which I am lucky enough to say was the case on my birthday this year.

My very wonderful husband planned quite the dichotomy of adventures to celebrate my special day.  The first part was an overnight kayak trip where we paddled down a 7 mile stretch of a creek in the Congaree National Park which fed out into the Congaree River where we camped on a sandbar.  We set off on Saturday afternoon in our new 14 foot camo colored boat stocked with an 8 pound tent, one sleeping bag, two coolers full of water and beer, one Lunchable snack, trail mix, two peanut butter sandwiches, lots of bug spray and our dog, Gunner.  The creek was flanked by dense forrest which thankfully provided tree covered shade throughout our journey.  The water was calm and inviting and our boat glided through it like a knife slicing softened butter.  In many parts around our boat, we could spot garfish swimming through the water, some of them at least three feet long.  The unwelcome animal spotting came when we ducked below a fallen tree, only to notice mid-duck that a snake was lying just inches from our heads...

Unfortunately, we have had some very severe storms in the Columbia area recently, which we did not take into consideration when we planned the trip.  The storms had caused many trees to fall across the creek, oftentimes blocking our path and making it frustrating and difficult to maneuver.  One such time we had no choice but to get out of the boat and walk it around the obstruction.  I swung one foot over the side and hopped out where I promptly sunk up to my thigh in mud.  You can probably imagine I was not too pleased by the encounter with the thick, slimy, brown substance.  The unexpected sinking caused me to lean forward where I all but planted my face in the gooey grossness.  At first I yelled out, then had no choice but to laugh through the ensuing battle with the mud.  I finally made it the twenty feet around the fallen tree, but not after sinking both arms and legs and flailing less than gracefully through the fight, all the while my dog prancing beside me, too light to sink down in the mud... it's good to be a dog sometimes.  When I made it back to the boat, I took one look at my better half and we both lost it in laughter.

It took us four and a half hours to reach the river, at which point we were quite exhausted and ready to set up camp before the sun started to set.  We found a beautiful sandbar and set up our tent beneath the shelter of the tree-line.  Gunner lost no time exploring the small beach, darting in and out of the water which thankfully was clear with a hard sandy bottom.  It was the perfect place to spend our overnight adventure, we sat on that beach with no one in sight and it seemed as if we might be the only two people (and dog) that had ever been to that place.  The peaceful and beautiful night reflected the perfect start to a great birthday weekend.

Part two of the southern birthday extravaganza came Sunday after we had paddled down the river to where our car dutifully was awaiting our return.  The highlight of the river portion was spotting wild boar on the shoreline at two different points.  The first time was a mama boar with her three babies munching away at the grass on the shoreline.  For at least five minutes they were blissfully unaware of our presence; when mama boar did notice us, the babies ran off, she turned towards us and grunted and snarled before running into the safety of the woods.  I was very happy that thirty feet of water was between us and the protective pig.

Once we had carted our gear home, given Gunner a much needed bath and cleaned up ourselves, we headed to Charleston for a night in the charming city.  Charleston is a beautiful town, and this was my third visit.  It's almost like stepping back into Antebellum; the homes have beatufiul wrap-around porches and gorgeous trees that line the streets, many of which are cobblestone or brick.  Upon arrival, we strolled along the bayfront and wound through the streets, admiring the different homes and breathing in the salty ocean air.  Summer has definitely arrived here in the South, the temperature reached 100 degrees both days we were there, so a stroll in the sunshine has taken on a whole knew meaning.

Dinner was a delicious array of seafood (my favorite) at a restaurant established back in the 1800s.  As we sat enjoying the food prepared for us, I thought about how earlier that day I was floating down a riverbank.  Truly two very different lowcountry experiences.  The next day (my bday), we again strolled the quaint streets of Charleston and stopped for lunch at Poogan's Porch where there is a statue of the scruffy canine Poogan with a plaque below it, RIP 1970-1979.  It was a charming old house turned restaurant and we sat on the porch beneath the fans in the 100 degree heat.  It was all worth it the minute they brought out fresh biscuits with sweet butter, followed by our order of fried chicken salad and an oyster po'boy.  Gunner sat panting beneath my chair but I'm certain he felt it was worth it when I tossed him a piece of the buttery biscuit.  Birthdays are great.

The three of us were quite spent from the heat and all the birthday excitement so it was time to depart Charleston and travel back to Columbia.  I loved the contrasting events of the weekend, the time spent on the creek and the river and even in the mud as well as the time spent strolling through the streets of Charleston and eating the delicious lowcountry food.  It was a very memorable birthday filled with sights, sounds, smells and tastes that will be imprinted on my mind for years to come.