these weeks in the odyssey
6.14.99 -- 6.28.99
rome, boston, new york

Back In The U.S.A.

Europe can get you down -- the tiny cars, the impressionist paintings, the soccer. Sometimes, you just need to get out, go where a man can be free. Free to go to scenic weddings like Jacek and Loydie's (shown over there at right). Free to eat Taco Bell 7-layer burritos. Free to hang out in oversized parking structures. Free to go down to the mall and gawk at the latest offerings from the I Can't Believe It's A Twelve-Step Program! outlet. Free to sit on the couch in your boxers with a bag of nacho chips watching the day's highlights on Sportscenter...over and over again. Yup -- sometimes you just gotta get back to America.

Originally, we had hoped to just hop on to Bill Clinton's Bridge to the Twenty-First Century for our trip back to America. To really no one's surprise at all, however, we were advised that you simply cannot get on the Bridge to the Twenty-First Century from Italy (apparently, some sort of twentieth century validation is required). So, before we could see nephews and weddings and parents (oboy), we headed back to Rome from Sardinia to spend a day or two of peaceful reflection in the city that had been our home for almost three months and wait for our scheduled flight.

"Peaceful reflection" would have been just great. Heck, we would have even settled for "slightly manic contemplation." What we didn't really want, however, was "volcanic bouts of viral gastroenteritis so utterly debilitating in nature as to remove your faith in the possibility of a life existing beyond pain."

Yup -- food poisoning. We had decided to celebrate one of our two last nights in Rome by going out to our favorite little restaurant near our apartment in Rome. While definitely not the nicest or best restaurant in Rome, it was still our restaurant -- they all knew us by name and would call out to greet us whenever we chanced to walk past. Since I walked by this place an average of ten times a day, this actually got to be kind of annoying after a while. Sample exchange:

"Ciao, ciao, Sid! Buongiorno!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, buongiorno yourself, pal. Now leave me alone."

Now, I'm actually a fairly gregarious sort, enjoying the brief streetside social encounters that the typical Italian day brings you. However, after the fifth identical greeting of the day, I would find myself walking ten blocks out of my way, covering my face with my jacket, or in one memorable instance, crawling on my hands and knees to avoid having to say "ciao" one more damn time. Not very Italian of me, I know, but I had my sanity to preserve after all.

Contributing to my unease was the proprietor's insistence on trying to cheat me on the price of wine whenever I bought una bottiglia to share at our apartment (a not altogether infrequent occurrence). Each and every time, I could count on Josef adding another five thousand lira on top of the price he had just charged me the night before for the exact same bottle of wine. I would point out this minor inconsistency in his pricing scheme with an apologetic nod of my head -- sure, happens all the time, who can keep track of all these prices, certainly not me, just a poor simpleton with only a rudimentary comprehension of the laws of finance and physics who doesn't even really like wine now that he thinks about it -- to which he would reply by shrugging his shoulders indignantly, cupping his hands palm-up chest-high, and exclaiming, "What, I look like some sort of rich man to you? You trying to break me, a poor honest businessman? You got some kinda nerve, I tell you, ya punk kid."

Actually, what he would say I'm not really sure since it came out real fast and most definitely in Italian, a language in which I confidently understand "Hello," "Goodbye," and "Sorry, sir, we're temporarily out of Rogaine," but very little else. Nonetheless, Italian facial expressions and hand gestures have a way of conveying much more than I think their words ever could, so what you read above is probably a pretty darn good approximation of what he would say. At least it didn't feel much like, "Sorry, sir! The customer is always right! Now please take this bottle of wine to your friends with only my apologies and sincerest wishes to speed you on your way."

Still, even with the ceaseless greetings and the constant defrauding, this was our restaurant. Ours. And, dangit, we were gonna have dinner there on our second to last night in Rome even if it meant saying "ciao" thirty times and being bilked in the bargain. Besides, you have to expect to be cheated in Italy. It's nothing personal -- it's just what they do. In fact, that's Josef wearing the glasses in that picture over there at the left. The reason he doesn't have his arm around my shoulder like Fabrizzio (the best waiter in the world) does is that his hand is in my back pocket, lifting my wallet. Luckily, we discovered its absence before dessert and were able to retrieve it for a small finders fee. Hey, nothing personal, right?

Can you say "digression?" How about "tangent?" Wasn't I just saying something about "volcanic bouts of food poisoning?" Oh, yeah, right. Well, despite the various difficulties associated with eating at Josef and Fabrizzio's, the food is usually pretty good. Not great, but good. Naturally enough, though, the time you most need the food to be at least digestible is the time you get acute food poisoning (and there's nothing cute about it). Kristanne was bedbound for the next twenty-four hours, alternating brief periods of intense stomach pain with coma-like naps lasting hours at a stretch. By my count, Kristanne actually ended up sleeping almost 20 hours of the next day while I sweatily crutched my way around Rome, trying like mad to wrap up our last errands in Rome before we needed to catch a taxi for the airport at 4:00 AM.

Defying both the odds and whoever it is that says you actually need to sleep once a day, we made it, arriving at our airline ticket counter a full twenty minutes before it opened. There were already a few folks in line when we arrived, so we just pushed our cart o' luggage behind them and proceeded to wait for opening time.

This line proved to be an apt distillation of our experiences in Rome. There was no real sense of order to it -- no belts or barriers telling you where to stand -- but people seemed generally to be one behind the other. Things were looking almost, well, normal. Then, the ticket counters opened and it was like we were running with the bulls at Pamplona or trying to get a taxi in New York. People completely abandoned the "one line, many counters" paradigm and made mad, furtive dashes for the nearest open agent, elbowing the elderly and infirm out of their way in their haste. One old gentleman of about 80 fell down while waiting and didn't seem able to right himself. His family made no move to help him and the others simply stepped over him on their way to the counters. So, I made my way over on crutches and helped him up, figuring it was the least I could do. He thanked me with a polite nod and then immediately cut in line in front of me. Beautiful. Meanwhile, I looked back at Kristanne who had begun using our luggage cart as a weapon. I kid you not -- she actually took out one other lady's cart who was trying to cut in front of us, punctuating her move with a "not in my house" wag of her finger that would have made an NBA star proud. Boom -- we were ticketed and on our way to Boston faster than you can say "in your face" to the fat girl from Minnesota who tried to get ticketed at the business class counter with a coach ticket. Loooooser.

I love Boston. Of course, it definitely helps that I have only visited Boston in the spring or summer, times of comparative bucolic bliss when contrasted to Kristanne's downright terrifying tales of New England winters and their accompanying devastation of the human spirit. Cold winters. Winters that suck your soul. Winters that freeze the hair inside your nostrils (making trimming them, literally, a snap). Those kind of winters.

Chief among Boston's attractions, of course, is the First Family of Fun -- Chuck, Lisa, and Calvin (that's them over there at right -- Calvin's the one without any hair). Though they're not in the Michelin Guide for Boston yet, they do rate a mention in next year's Let's Go U.S.A. Let's see what they have to say:

"Of course, no trip to Boston is complete without a piping hot plate of real New England Fajitas served on Chuck, Lisa, and Calvin's back porch. Chuck and Lisa are always happy to greet visitors with a heaping stack of home-heated tortillas and a plateful of Boston's Best grilled steak. For his part, Calvin is always happy to greet visitors by throwing up on them (not to be missed!). We recommend an early-morning or late-afternoon visit for best results -- both Calvin and Chuck can get somewhat fussy around feeding times. It's just gas, though, and it definitely passes in time for the evening repast. Make sure to ask specially for Lisa's famous Corner-Trimmed Charlie Chocolate Chip Cookies, a taste sensation that'll have you begging for more when you are finally sent off into the night, bellies bulging and hearts happy. Reservations definitely recommended."

Hey, not bad. I just hope that Kristanne doesn't trade in her Michelin Guides for Let's Go. Let's Go has a serious weight advantage on the Michelin Guides and looks like it would really pack a wallop when boxed about this hapless hubby's sensitive ears. Let's just keep that our little secret, ok?

Boston marked a new and somewhat frightening chapter in the ever-unfolding Office Odyssey saga -- the first time Left Alone With Baby. Kristanne, being much braver than I am, went first, offering to stay at home with the Big C while the rest of us went off on various manufactured errands designed as excuses to test Kristanne's mettle. ("Umm...yeah, I just noticed that we're really low on nitrogen-enriched lawn mulch...be right back, Kristanne! Won't take a second!") As we piled out the door and into the Family Truckster, Kristanne looked game, if not slightly overwhelmed. Calvin, for his part, looked to be on the verge of Total Body Rigidity complete with the much-feared Purple-Faced Scream. Could Kristanne handle the pressure? Could she come through in the clutch? Could she just take it one burp at a time, let tomorrow take care of itself, just go out there and play her game? Or would she be sent down to the Triple-A club in Pawtucket, forced to change diapers on Cabbage Patch Kids until she could prove she had what it takes for the Baby Big Leagues? Everything hung in the balance.

Kristanne, as most of you no doubt know by now, is a real gamer -- she thrives on the pressure that would turn a lesser competitor into quivering gelatin. So, when we came back with the mulch, there sat Kristanne in a hammock, coolly sipping on a fresh-squeezed lemonade while Calvin napped gently in his jammies, having already built a scale replica of the Taj Mahal using only three Q-tips, a jar of Vaseline, and some pocket lint.

Wow. Tough act to follow. My turn came the next day when Chuck and Lisa mysteriously ran out of the 12-millimeter titanium ball bearings that they assured me they use on a daily basis for a variety of household tasks and had to go to the hardware store to get some more. Kristanne, of course, needed to drive them there because, well, she knows how to drive and what if Chuck and Lisa forgot how? Right.

So, there we were, just me and Cool Cal, each looking with equal trepidity at the other. Calvin had a very dubious look on his mug, a look that spoke volumes about his confidence in my ability to discharge my duties with anything approaching aplomb. As for me, I had a look of Total and Utter Fear on my face, a look that said Great God In Heaven What the Heck Do I Do Now? Perhaps it was this look that caused Calvin to commence caterwauling with a racket of tears that Lisa and Chuck probably heard all the way over in the hardware store. "Great," I thought, "it's not enough that I ate all Chuck's special cookies, now I've broken their baby, too." Something had to be done. What could I do in a time of crisis? What would settle both his nerves and mine? What has always been there for mankind in times of trouble?

Beer! What a great idea! Faster than you can say "just change his diaper, dumbass," I had us both installed in the corner booth of the nearest pub, sucking down a couple nice, frosty pints. Calvin wanted a cigar, too, but I demurred, reasoning that smoking is probably bad for babies. "No cigar, kid," I said, drawing a chorus of groans from the assembled patrons. Bostonians may love beer-drinking babies, but they have no appreciation for good jokes.

The beer calmed both me and Calvin down nicely and before I knew it, we had even made a couple bucks on the horse races they were showing on closed-circuit TV. Turns out Calvin has a nice eye for the ponies, picking out our trifecta in the third at Pimlico by burping the horses' numbers. "Well," thinks me, "there's a nice little addition to his college fund. Maybe we should be getting back." So, after buying a round of shots for the house with our winnings (Calvin's a very generous winner), we headed back to the homestead, ready to say howdy to Mom, Dad, and Aunt Kristanne.

Uh-oh. It seems that my performance did not quite measure up to the standards set by Kristanne (and, well, the National Association For The Prevention of Infant Gambling). I'm sure Lisa didn't mean what she said about "staying the hell away from my baby," and those bruises about my body from Chuck's thorough butt-kicking should heal nicely in a couple weeks. And, really, sleeping outside isn't so bad when you think about it. Nature's a wonderful thing!

Failures at baby-care aside, no trip to Boston is complete without a trip out to Fenway to see the Red Sox in action. Long-time readers of this feature will no doubt recall our original trip to Fenway back during the relative innocence of the North American Odyssey in 1997. That account goes into excruciating detail about why Fenway (and by extension, the Red Sox) is so great, so I will spare you my usual ravings. Suffice it to say that we were lucky enough to get great seats (about ten rows back behind home plate), a great game (Nomar Garciaparra went 5 for 5 and the Red Sox won), and an Official American Moment (an Asian-American peanut vendor loudly hawking his wares in a thick Boston accent). Take me out to the ballgame, indeed -- somewhere, Norman Rockwell was smiling.

Our days in Boston ended too quickly, perhaps a result of Calvin's mysterious newfound fondness for malt liquor and rap music. The timing was right, though -- we needed to be in New York City for the wedding of Jacek and Loydie and all its associated festivities. Miraculously, my foot had now healed to the point where I was able to approximate a walk that in some circles would even be considered normal, so we hopped on an Amtrak train headed south for Penn Station, me finally carrying my fair share of the luggage. Though Kristanne was still walking with a slight stoop from her weeks of bearing our entire burden on her shoulders, she managed to limp aboard in time for the 8:00 AM whistle and our short jaunt down the Eastern seaboard.

A short jaunt would have been great. However, since this Amtrak train chose our particular journey as the one on which it would elect to short out its electrical system every ten minutes from New Haven to New York, our short jaunt turned into an extended death march with a systematic progression in our loss of various services. First, the dining car closed. Then they turned off the lights. Then they turned off the power to the automatic doors. Then -- horror of horrors -- we lost the air conditioning. Yup, we were now being broiled in one of those shiny Amtrak passenger cars that looks like nothing so much as the inside of a TV-dinner tray once you head into hour two of no air-conditioning in 90 degree-plus heat. Anyone remember to peel back the foil over the brownie? Still, we rolled into NYC only a half hour after our scheduled arrival time, ready to dive headfirst into five days of friends and fun.

New York, almost by definition, is intense, a sensory overload on every level. You come in one person, a nice sedate Extreme Telecommuter who enjoys a quiet evening of charades and Yahtzee as much as the next guy, and you just get swallowed whole, sucked into the gaping maw of the urban machinery, made to forego vegetables, sleep, and exercise in favor of beers, bars, and buffoonery. At least that's what happens to me. Your mileage may vary.

This trip was no exception. In fact, this trip was kinda the apotheosis of that sort of experience, a five day blur of friends, family, and fun swirling against the frenzied backdrop of New York City. Adding to the excitement was a surprise visit from my parents, all the way out from Seattle to say hi and bring us the top from our wedding cake which we had left in their freezer for storage. This would have been an even nicer gesture had my dad not seen fit to brag that they were just doing it to create more room in the freezer for all the halibut he and my brother had been catching back home. Thanks, guys.

One of the highlights of the trip, of course, was the long-awaited wedding of Jacek and Loydie. After what seems like an eternity on everyone's Most Eligible Couple list, Jacek and Loydie were finally scheduled to made it official in a ceremony out on Long Island at 3:00.

Way out on Long Island. So far out on Long Island, in fact, that the limo that drove Jacek and most of the groomsmen out from Manhattan took almost an hour and a half to get there, fighting the traffic the entire way so that it could get up above 40 MPH where the air-conditioning could kick in. Fortunately, we had left NYC at about 1:20, giving us at least ten minutes before the ceremony to get into our tuxes once we arrived. All of us, that is, except for Carl, who showed up in fighting trim, decked out head to toe in his full tux. Carl proceeded to annoy the heck out of the rest of us by refusing to sweat at all in the non-air-conditioned limo, coolly sitting with his legs crossed and saying things like, "Gee, aren't you guys worried you're not going to be changed into your tuxes on time," and "Boy, I sure find this temperature comfortable, don't you?" I would have swatted him with my t-shirt, but I was too busy using it to mop my dripping brow. I'm still not convinced that Carl isn't some sort of lizard. It may have been a heat-induced mirage, but I think I even saw him sweating through his eyelids. I have alerted both Ripley's Believe It Or Not and the proper authorities -- we'll let you know the truth as soon as we know it.

After about an hour of driving, it became clear that we were fighting a losing battle to make it to the church on time. Sweaty groomsmen began clambering over seats, fighting with cufflinks and shirt studs to get into costume. Jacek made it, cool as ever, but the rest of us were in serious disarray when the limo pulled up to the church five minutes before the scheduled start of the ceremony. Fortunately, the church didn't really have a changing room, so we immediately began disrobing in the little garden behind the church, doing our best to get presentable in five minutes, just the tiniest bit of panic beginning to show in our faces (that's the G-rated version over there at left). I'm pretty sure this was mildly sacrilegious, given that the vision of me in my tighty-whitey underwear nearly made it onto the Pope's amended list of Seven Deadly Sins (call it number seven and a half).

The ceremony went off beautifully despite the mild disarray on the part of the groomsmen (and the fact that Carl kept flicking his forked tongue out at me during the service). Jacek and Loydie said their vows and walked out the church into their new married lives, ready for some serious dancing at the wedding reception.

I was ready, too. We were no sooner out of the car and into the reception when I ditched my rented tux shoes in favor of a spanking-fresh white pair of Extreme Telecommuting Signature Model Dancing Shoes. When you're ready to cut a rug, a carpet, or the floor-covering of your choice, I highly recommend a look like the one you see me modeling there at left. I must caution you, however, that this is a bold move, a fashion statement best left to a professional. Sure, there's some good-natured ribbing (not to mention outright mocking) that you have to deal with when you're in the fashion vanguard, but it's all worth it when the society columns come out in the Sunday Times with your name prominently plastered above the fold. Look for Madonna to be sporting something eerily similar to this at the next charity bash or awards show.

Too soon, though, the drinks were drunk and the food was eaten and we were left staring straight down the barrel of a two-hour drive back to Manhattan. It was just a dang good thing that none of us had a car. Andy skirted this potential pitfall by tracking us down a shuttle van from the nearest airport and having it come out to retrieve us. Then commenced...the horror. The van comfortably seated 12, a number only one shy of our full-bodied 13. Kristanne solved this problem by performing the amazing One Cheek Seat for the hour and a half drive to Andy and Julia's apartment back in Brooklyn. Our space increased by two, we pressed on, eager to resume the interminable drive to Manhattan. Our momentum was waning, drifting out behind us in long ribbons on the road back to Long Island. We finally rolled in to the West Village, a full hour after we had agreed to meet Mark, Suzanne, Chip, and Elena. Would they still be there? Would they have persevered in the face of adversity without us? Would Chip still be looking popping-fresh in his seersucker suit? Would Mark still have that mischievous glint in his eye that spells trouble for the rest of us?

Well, barely. It turns out that they hit traffic even worse than we did and rolled up at the appointed bar just as we were going to give up, assuming that they had already been and left. Chip did, indeed, still look popping fresh and Mark's eyes were positively dancing in his noggin as he led us out on a dark tour of the dimly lit streets of the West Village, in search of a speakeasy known only to those in the know. "Chumley's," he whispered to himself and immediately took off in point position, nose to the wind. Lefts followed rights which followed dead-ends and one or two u-turns. Mark nimbly bounced ahead of us, trying unlit entrances that appeared to lead to nowhere. Finally, we found ourselves in front of the door you see there at right, an unassuming entrance, completely unmarked, with no clues as to what might be behind it. What dangers lurked? What untold mysteries? Had Mark's ten years of friendship been only an elaborate ruse designed to lull us unsuspectingly to his dark lair? What unspeakable torments lay beyond this forbidding portal?

Well, more beer, as it turned out, which is really not much of a torment at all. There you see our merry band at left, jubilant at the prospect of resuming the celebration. Jacek and Loydie were presumably already safely sconced in their romantic hideaway for the evening, but we definitely still had a quorum for fun and frivolity. That's our Intrepid Leader at the far left, Mark the Urbane and Omniscient, quietly satisfied in his keen sense of direction. That's my Mildly Intrepid Bald Forehead just to his right, rising like a full moon over Carl's head. The rest of these people I've never seen before in my life.

We made it just in time to have a couple beers before last call and then headed off into the night, sated after a full day of typical New York madness. Good thing, too -- Kristanne and I needed to rest up for our First Anniversary on the next day. We had big plans -- meet everyone for a big brunch at the boat house in Central Park before returning to Mark's to pack up our stuff and move into the suite we had reserved at the reputedly very romantic Mansfield Hotel in midtown. Then, we were going to have dinner at a tiny little French bistro in the village (only six tables) before catching Milt Jackson (of Modern Jazz Quartet fame) at the Blue Note. Then, it would be back to our suite for champagne, cake, and more celebration.

It was a great plan. A super plan. It was also completely doomed from the start. Keep this in mind for your next New York trip -- everything you plan to do will take roughly three times the amount of time you think it will take. We started out okay -- only fifteen minutes late to meet everyone at the Boathouse for brunch. Spike Lee was in the house, doing the right thing, keeping it real. So, we kept it real, too, sitting down to take stock of our surroundings and ponder the really big questions (like how can you possibly charge $7.50 for a bloody mary?). Jacek and Loydie were already there, sitting at their own romantic table for two and we all filed by to give them our best wishes on our way to our table for six. When we sat down, we already numbered seven and were drawing openly dirty looks from the Attitude Enhanced waitstaff. By the time Andy and Julia pulled up chairs to swell our number to nine, the waitstaff snidely asked us if we were expecting any more guests and began to mark demerits next to our names on a little chalkboard they erected beside our table. When Chip finally stumbled in a full hour and a half after we had been seated, the waitstaff abruptly seized him by the scruff of his neck and deposited him in the lake. We also each got five more demerits.

Fortunately, this gave me a great excuse to try out my new invention, the Tip-O-Meter. Basically this looks like an egg timer with two buttons on the top. The face of the timer has a needle pointing to 15%, the default size of the tip I will be leaving. As a waiter demonstrates either his merit or idiocy, I can loudly whack the appropriate button to either add or subtract percentage points on his tip. This way, the waiter has immediate, personalized feedback on his performance with clearly-articulated incentives for excellence. At least this is the theory. I can't really tell you whether it worked or not since my prototype Tip-O-Meter followed Chip into the lake shortly after I informed the waiter that he had dipped dangerously into the sub-5% Red Zone. "Still time for improvement, though, laddy! Coffee can be verrrry important for overall performance!" Splash.

The waitstaff aside, brunch was very enjoyable. However, it lasted approximately three weeks. When we finally got back to Mark's and packed, we were already running dangerously late for our dinner engagement since we still needed to check into the Mansfield and get cleaned up. Reluctantly, we canceled our dinner reservation, deciding instead to have our dinner right at the Blue Note and save whatever time we could. Right after we canceled our reservation, Chip rolled into Mark's apartment, still looking dangerously soggy and decided he would accompany us on our cab ride to the Mansfield. By now, it was about 4:00, well after the 1:00 check-in time observed by most hotels. So, it was with some dismay that we learned that our suite was still not quite ready due to a late check-out. While Kristanne demanded to know who had checked out late and whether they were still around so that she could "teach their punk asses some manners", Chip took this opportunity to suggest a drink at the nearby Royalton Hotel while we waited for our suite. Sure, great -- we're completely panicked and have absolutely no time to spare -- why not have a few drinks?

The "Royal" in the Royalton's name should have tipped up off. Unless you're somewhere in line for some sort of throne somewhere, you probably shouldn't be at the Royalton (and I don't mean that you once waited in line to use the men's room at Denny's). Two drinks apiece later, my wallet was smarting to the tune of a $60 tab -- yup, ten bucks a drink. Hurriedly saying our goodbyes to Chip (I'd be seeing him in just a couple weeks back in NY for his own wedding), we hit the elevator up to our reserved suite.

Imagine our surprise when we found that the suite that we had reserved had miraculously been upgraded to the Penthouse Suite! Yes, the Penthouse Suite, for there was only one. What a deal! This place was unbelievable -- it had three separate levels, two bathrooms, twenty-foot ceilings in the sitting room, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows. It was all a little bit daunting, but really wonderful, too. That picture at the right doesn't really do it justice, but that's Kristanne and I enjoying the view from our bedroom balcony down to the sitting room (and, boy, you should have seen how fast Kristanne had to run up the stairs once she set the timer on the camera to take that picture).

It was a great room, but there was absolutely no time to enjoy it. Thank goodness there were two showers -- we each piled into one to complete our pell-mell preparations to be at the Blue Note before they gave our reservations away at 7:00. Sprinting to catch a taxi on 5th avenue, I found myself making mental notes to perhaps allow a little more time for things on our next anniversary. Some quiet relaxation and reflection might be nice. Of course, manic dashes to taxis are nice, too, particularly if they get you to your appointed destination on time. We rolled into the Blue Note with a good 20 seconds to spare and were soon seated at a stageside table with a couple steaks in front of us.

Milt Jackson was fantastic, though we both felt incredibly uncomfortable eating these giant dinners while we worked his magic at the vibraphone. "Yeah, yeah, this is great," I mumbled to Kristanne through forkfuls of baked potato. "He's amazing." It felt a trifle disrespectful, but Milt didn't seem to mind, even agreeing to autograph a CD for Kristanne's Father's Day present to her dad.

As madcap as it all was, it was still a wonderful first anniversary, nicely capped with a couple glasses of champagne and some of our wedding cake back home at our penthouse suite. Our wedding cake defied all known laws of nature by actually tasting better on our anniversary than it did on our wedding. Now what time do we have to get up to catch the train to Washington tomorrow?

Check back sometime in the next few days as we hit you with the highlights of our trip from New York to Washington to San Francisco to Washington to Toronto to Paris to our new home in Zurich! See you next time on the Odyssey!

Last Week's Front Page Picture

As for that scenic-looking shot over there, that's me and Kristanne on Jones Beach on Long Island, basking in the love and revelry of a real New York wedding. The reason I'm only wearing one shoe is that real New York weddings sometime run the risks of real New York muggings. Turns out most muggers really have a thing for rented tux shoes. Whodathunkit?