Wake up.

Brew Spice Coffee.

Scramble eggs (sensually).

Listen to Will Durant. Settle in.

Open screen machine.

Clicky clack. Make bank number go up.

Mega crunchy Beef Bowl for lunch. Disc golf on Youtube.

Cat Nap. Clicky clack. Fry Brain.

Lug the ruck to the trail. Plug in earbuds. Time travel. Napoleon just became emperor. Europe is at war.

Walk for miles and hours. Purge old energy. Hit the gym.

Ice Plunge. Sauna.

Steak. Write. Learn Art History. Anime.

Sleep.

This was today. This was yesterday. It will be tomorrow, next week, and likely next month.

This is deliberate. This is my Season of Order.

Last was the Season of Chaos. The good kind. I found love, saw the eclipse, published my book, summited Kilimanjaro, Obsessed in Japan, surfed Hawaii, ate Mexico, and almost reclaimed Constantinople.

It was glorious.

That season, as all seasons do, ended. Flights returned. Love fizzed. Debts came due. Feelings frothed. Hard times and hard feelings returned.

I’ve been here, in other forms and ways. This time I have the protocols. Season of Chaos to Season of Order.

Adventure for stability. Exploration for focus. Unknown for known. Complexity for simplicity. Indulgence for discipline.

Hence each day.

Don’t call it a retreat. Retreating is for losers. This is a tactical shift. A change in posture. Outward energy is now inward.

A different kind of offense.

Don’t call it boring either. Most don’t see it, but I’m at war.

Little by little I slaughter the demons dragging me down so that the person I meant to be may arise. I have a business to sharpen, debts to nuke, a body to sculpt, and a lush garden of relationships to water.

Each day is quietly exhilarating. Each night I sleep knowing I’ve advanced my position, if only just a little. Day after day. Week after Week. Month after month.

It’s been a few months. I can see the changes.

Slow is the march of progress.

Of course, Season of Order is never full Order. Whereas Full Chaos destroys, Full Order suffocates. I prefer neither.

Chaos, in the proper dose, serves order. Makes it funner. More tolerable. More sustainable. Allows space for divine intervention. So on this season’s menu remains Steak Night, epic, but regional adventures (hello Zion), dates (not the spicy kind just yet), the right party, the right glass of wine, the right (or even Perfect) cocktail, and seeds of new relationships.

In the right dose. At the right time.

Season of Order will last as long as it needs to last.

But someday, maybe soon, maybe not, it will be time to flip the switch and observe the season’s shift. By then the cannons will be loaded, troops rested, swords sharpened.

The Castle of Destiny ripe for conquest.

I’ll know when.

Until then, I bide my time.

Order today.

Chaos, glory, conquest….in due time.

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It's early for cocktails. The sun hasn't set. Most are venturing home from work as I obsessively scan the street for the clues hiding the dessert of my day.

Berlin's Buck and Breck is, as many of my favorite bars are, hard to find. But I'm a sucker for the tensions and joys of hide and seek. The little light left in the sky helps me find the secret entrance. Buck and Breck's exterior masquerades as a joyless convenience store marred by graffiti. I buzz an innocuous little box and wait.

Long seconds pass.

Do you have a reservation? says a woman's crackling voice.

No, I don't, I respond. My gamble is fallible, but calculated. It's early, a weeknight, and I'm alone - a reliable ticket for the world's best.

More long seconds pass.

No problem, she says.

The door unlatches. The bet pays off. I smile and walk in. Beyond an innocuous door is the hall to my prize.

Inside - the real inside - is small, dark and warmly lit. It's cozy, modern, and elegantly essential. There's no screens. Never screens. No phones. No selfies. Small ornately framed paintings hang on a wall. It's is a tinge demented, in the way I like about Berlin. A gold painted chainsaw hangs behind the bar. Cartoon plush octopi live in glass containers. Speakers play tasteful blends of jazz and hip hop.

It's early for drinks, but perfect for The Perfect Cocktail. No crowds. No fuss. Buck and Breck is too inconvenient for the unserious. Nobody is here by accident. Everyone buzzes with calm satisfaction.

Just how I like it.

I belly to the bar. The bartender clears my spot, greets me professionally, and hands me the menu. I study it intensely. Cocktails are too expensive to get wrong.

I reveal my plan A. I always have a plan A. It's poor form to burden somebody, especially somebody busy, with indecision. But being early buys me a monopoly on the bartender's attention.

Unless you have a better idea…I open myself to his input.

What do you like? he asks reflexively.

It's the obvious question, but obvious questions lead to templated answers and boring conversations. That's not me.

I clear my throat.

Listen good sir. Do not mistake me for some ordinary peasant. I am an intergalactic flavor conquistador traversing the stars for the galaxies greatest concoctions. Sweep the cobwebs of your secret flavor portal. Let us defy the gods and trespass into the realm where chaos and perfection collide.

It's not what I technically said, but his amused smile signals his understanding. In this ephemeral moment of space and time a perfect union of host and guest forms.

Saying nothing, he nods and begins his behind-the-bar ballet. His workspace is simple, sleek, and tastefully unchaotic. Stresslessly he dresses a simple glass with freshly carved ice and meticulous pours from mysterious bottles. He stirs methodically, tastes, stirs more, and tastes until he approves.

He hands me the glass. It's unassuming yet elegant. The ice disappears in a bath of amber. I take a sip. It's sharp, surprising, strong, and - most importantly - balanced. Not too this. Not too that. Just right.

It's The Perfect Cocktail.

Where are you from? Being alone, foreign, and armed with frothy words makes me a oddity.

Texas.

He's uses the opening to ask what I imagine to be long held curiosities. I indulge him the subtle nuances of gun culture, college football, barbecue and politics. He indulges me in the subtle nuances of my drink and secretly slides me pours from mysterious shelf bottles.

Try this, he says again and again. Every sip guides me to new realms. He is the perfect host.

Having earned my trust I set the menu down and leave my next drink in his hands. As he mixes and pours more enter the bar. I lose my monopoly.

A spicy redhead with a fiery disposition sits next to me. Irish, her accent says. Locals greet her. She sparks a cigarette from a freshly torn package. My nose knows it isn't her evening’s first.

She doesn't hesitate to order her first drink. Never one to ignore knocking on interesting doors, I introduce myself.

Eeefah, she seems to say. I have her spell it out. Aoife. After a minute of banter it becomes obvious there is no reality where we don’t become fast friends. Hilariously, I learn Aoife is a traveling whiskey salesman. The bar I obsessed about finding is just another business meeting for her.

Luckily, it’s a fun business.

My second drink comes served up in the stemmed tulip bulb glass known as the Nick and Nora. Of all of the cocktails glasses it is the best. Delicate. Simple. Aesthetically perfect, and functionally ambitious. There's no room for frivolous non essentials. It must be perfect.

And it is.

Recognizing the inner flavor conquistadors within each other Aoife and I explore Buck and Breck’s menu together. This is the best way. More drinks come. Each is perfect in it's own way.

I'm going to my next cocktail bar on the other side of town. Come with, she delivers with more command than request.

I hesitate. It's late and I'm on the tail end of a long day. But I am a leaf in the winds of adventure and Aoife is a compelling gust. We taxi to her next business meeting.

Relighting her cigarettes and Irishness, I watch her take command of our new bar. We banter and make new friends. Drinks, wonderful drinks, come and obscure the evening’s details. It’s unclear if anything of commercial consequence was accomplished.

In another life our night would have ended in breakfast, but that was not to be. Instead the embers or our evening dim gracefully.

Tonight was exactly what I wanted. A Perfect Bar. A Perfect Bartender. A Perfect Friend. Many Perfect Cocktails.

A Perfect Night.

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Get the Vodka Soda, he says.

I think he’s fucking with me.

In normal circumstances I would have ignored him and ordered something more interesting. But this was no normal bar. After stumbling around Stockholm's Östermalm neighborhood I find myself inside the world-ranking tastefully-decorated Lucy's Flower Shop.

I've spent a lot of my life searching the world for The Perfect Cocktail. It's not that I like drinking. Drunkeness is unaesthetic. Hangovers are intolerable. This is why you'll never catch me mindlessly sipping Bud-anything, White Claw, or any of their mutant variants.

I don't like drinking, but I do love tasting, for flavor is one of many earthly portals to the divine. And it happens to be that many of the things I like to taste happen to have alcohol in them.

Niche Gins. Raicilla from Jalisco. Haitian Rum Agricole. Japanese Rice Lagers. Don't get me started on wine. Each is a distilled celebration of earth's bounty.

But nothing makes me frothier than The Perfect Cocktail. Cocktails are unique in the drinking world. The best can't be bottled, canned or enjoyed anywhere. They have to be made in the right place by the right people with the right ingredients and enjoyed on the spot.

The Perfect Cocktail is exceedingly rare. Most are predictable and made by the uninspired. It's not for me to condemn. Bar owners must survive in a difficult industry and bartenders rarely have the backing for excellence. But cocktails are expensive on the body and wallet. At this stage in my drinking career it's the best or nothing.

Find me the tinkerer, the madman, the aesthete, the obsessive savant pushing the boundaries of flavor and expression. Only then will I slit my wallet open and let my money bleed.

So you can understand why I hesitated to order the Vodka Soda.

But he was confident and I was curious.

Vodka Soda it is, I relent.

On request his switch flips and he begins to execute a series of motions he's likely repeated thousands of times. Into a tall glass go three perfectly clear ice spheres, carefully measured clear liquids from unmarked bottles, and a splash of soda. He garnishes it with nothing and hands it over, fully confident. True to Scandinavian form it is charmingly minimalist. I might as well be looking at a glass of fizzy water.

But there was to be an ocean of contrast between what I saw and what I tasted. I sip and slip into the sublime universe where time halts and everything is perfect.

It's gentle on the nose, and bright, citrusy, and a tinge vegetal on the tongue. Most importantly it achieves the Holy Grail of cocktail mastery - balance. Not too this. Not too that. Everything just right. Never has so much come from so little. It's magnificent. Noting my reaction the bartender nods as his confidence is validated. I must understand. I pester him for answers.

Betraying Lucy's florally minimalist front, the magic of Lucy's Flower Shop happens away from patron’s eyes inside a space more laboratory than bar. The Vodka Soda I'm fawning over is the child of ordinary vodka, homemade ginger soda, and, here's the kicker, centrifuge clarified celery juice. Artful audacity meets scientific precision in this anything-but-ordinary Vodka Soda. I smile, sip slowly, and weep quietly upon the conclusion of this ephemeral celebration of mastered simplicity.

I have found The Perfect Cocktail.

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I can't pinpoint what exactly brought me to Austin ten years ago. I sensed was that something was happening in Austin that wasn't happening anywhere else. Back then I had no money, no career, and few friends. Fast forward and today I have a successful business, a house in my favorite neighborhood, a published book and more friends than I know what to do with. My senses were right. There was, and is something special happening in Austin. Now I've had a decade to muse on what that special something that continues to pull me deeper.

It's not Downtown. Rainey is dead to me. It's not South Congress or the tie-dye Keep Austin Weird shirts. It's not ACL, SXSW or Zilker. It's not the aesthetics. Austin is more new world sprawl than old world mystique. It's not the university. It's not the hill country mansions or various SoHo House style socialite scenes. It's not the many spiritual fads or communities self-labeling as "conscious".

Some realities set the stage for what I’m trying to describe. Compared to other major cities, Austin is still affordable. The economics, especially in my line of business, are fantastic. I can live well without having to kill myself. The nature, while undramatic, is nourishing and easily accessible. It's not too big, not too small, not too blue, and not too red. It's warm and sunny. Winters are calm. I even find joys in Summer. The food scene punches above it's weight. There’s ample ranchers to source world class meat from. The music scene is legendary. Barton is an Earthly paradise.

What I couldn't have known then, but what is obvious now, is how critical the Texas part of Austin is. Many mistakenly think of Austin as an oasis in an otherwise irredeemable backwater. This couldn't be further from the truth. Texas' "fuck you I'll do it my way" spirit fused with Austin's funk is what completes the cocktail.

What Austin lacks in history and old world charms it makes up for in something less obvious, but far more exciting. Most of the world's great cities are blessed by cultural heritage, but also burdened by cultural baggage and set identities. You won't change New York, Paris or London. But Austin? Here the cultural cement is still wet. You can, as many have in my time here, come and leave your mark.

Zooming further, outside Barton, everything I need in Austin is in East Austin. It’s not pretty like the West side. There’s problems with crime and homelessness. But by and large the many little pocket neighborhoods here are cozy and a pleasure to stroll. The restaurant scene is the best in the city. The tacos are delicious and abundant. Soul Man Sam at Skylark and Ladies Night at Sahara Lounge are glorious holdovers from the past. Nickel City is everything a bar should be.

But while Austin’s, and specifically East Austin’s, main menu runs deep, that special something I love is deeper. Inside homes, gyms, and parks is a sprawling constellation of gatherings forming Austin's Secret Menu.

Community workouts and ridiculous sauna conversations at Squatch. Tuesday Talks at Hutch’s. Wine Night at Pauline’s. Archery at William's. Comfort Zone with Ellie. Steak Night at my place. Saturday disc golf with the homies. Meditation Saturday's with Jack. Spicy Parties with Nina. Renegade parties at Secret Peak. Soul Care Sundays with Andy and Kirti. Sky's podcast studio. Wellness Sundays at the Ranch.

Sunday rucks with Jason and crew. Adventures to Big Bend. More Steak with Jake and Co at the (other) Ranch. Strolls along the lake with Lauren and Co. Neighborhood walks with Dani and Imran. Story Night at Zach's. Sunday raids at the Farmer's Market followed by baptismal Barton plunges with the Olsons. Yet despite my decade I know I’ve merely scratched the surface of a much larger Secret Menu.

Within this constellation is a thriving ecosystem of people which I call the Homiesphere. In them, more than anything else about Austin, is where I find that special something. They are the reason my returns home after long departures are so exciting. In them are the nourishing vitamins of human connections that gives rich vitality to even the dullest of days.

The Homies of the Homiesphere think, feel, and love deeply. Most left home like me to bet on themselves and build better lives. Among them are entrepreneurs, rebels, executives, authors, podcasters, musicians, engineers and artists. But most importantly, they’re each wonderful to spend time with. They aspire for physical, psychic and professional wellbeing. They’re welcoming to newcomers (even those from California).

None have ever cared how much money I make, who I know or who I work for. They love me for no other reason than who I am. Around them I find fertile soil for my personality to blossom. In them are cheerleaders for my triumphs and safety nets for my struggles. They are the ones I aspire to grow old with. In them is the soul of the city I love.

What I’ve found after ten years is a city becoming filled with people becoming. Austin and I have changed a lot in this time. What and who we become together is a mystery, but I’m excited to spend many more years here to find out.

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If you want to understand Moshi, try to buy a roll of film.

Spoiler alert: you won't find it.

But you will find much more.

You go towards the electronics store across the street.

Beep beep! A scooter carrying a family of four zips by.

Watch out now! They drive on the wrong side of the road here. Your head swivels as tank-like safari trucks, curiously ornate commercial vehicles, SUVs, tuk tuks and motorcycles whizz by until you can safely sprint to the other side.

You'd be wise to grow a third eye here.

Film? You ask the electronic store manager.

No, sorry. he says. Try the super market across town.

Off you go. Moshi isn’t pretty like other cities. There’s palms, but no parks or palaces. No museums or monuments. Rusted roofs top old buildings. Dust and fumes haze the air and clog your airways.

But there is something here though. You can't quite put your finger on it yet.

Everyone seems to be selling everything everywhere. Food. Fruit. Second hand clothes. Shoes. Books. Mechanical supplies. It's as if someone ripped out and splayed the guts of Walmart onto the streets.

*clunk*

Watch your step! Potholes and broken pavement lurk everywhere. Wouldn’t want to hurt yourself before the big hike!

You proceed. Under colorful umbrellas veiled women sell fruit. Uniformed kids giggle and high five you on their way to school. The call to prayer hums from a nearby mosque. A tuk tuk grabs your eye. On it is a lion’s head superimposed on top of a hyper-muscle bound man. Above that, the Virgin Mary prays. The words JESUS SAVES! tie this…uh….art together.

Hello my friend! Tuk tuk?! the vehicles’ owner asks excitedly. Where are you going?

You just got here, so you prefer walking. No thank you you say continuing along.

Sure? he asks walking along side you.

Yes, I'm sure. No thank you. You continue walking.

Sticking to your side he persists. I give you good price my friend! Sure?

Yes I'm sure.

He’s not done. Where are you from?

You tell him, hoping to cut the conversation short.

Oh! Very far away! Safari? Hiking?

Yes.

…

…

Dejected, Mr. Hello My Friend eventually gets the hint and walks away. But don’t worry. You’ll meet him again…and again…and again. A food market draws you in. It's low ceilings force you to bend. The market is a tight cluster of women selling newspaper wrapped dried fish, bulks of beans spices and rices and whole fronds of banana trees. The smell overwhelms.

Hey are you looking at my coconuts? a girl asks you teasingly. Well, she is selling coconuts, and you are looking at them...so....yeah.

Mambo! My name is Esther! Poa! you respond utilizing your limited Swahili. She executes a successful charm offensive, gives you her number, and invites you over for dinner.

Can I bring friends?

Of course! she says. My cousins will pick you up later.

Parting, you make it to the super market. Film? No, sorry, says the manager. Somebody overhears you.

Film? Are you looking for film? the stranger asks.

Yes, do you know where I can find film?

Hmm...he pauses. Yes! Follow me!

He seems nice, so you follow along. He zigs and zags you through busy streets and tight alleyways.

Where are you from?

You tell him.

Safari? hike?

Yes, both.

He pauses, this place good food! He says, greeting the man coal grilling skewered meat. Your tummy rumbles. It is that time of day after all.

How much for three?

Is that it? you think quietly to yourself when the man tells you. Great! I’ll take three! Actually…four! Three for you, one for your new friend. The skewers are good. Very good. Remember this place for later.

Through more streets and alleys you arrive at the next store. It's a tourist shop selling various local trinkets.

Wait here! your friend says running to the back. Standing quietly is tall lean Maasai villager wearing traditional checkered garb and funky leather sandals.

New friend comes back and excitedly hands you...a picture frame. You sigh, realizing the mistranslation. No, that's a frame, I'm looking for film.

Oh....no film. I'm sorry.

Mr. Maasai walks over, pulls out an iPhone, shows you a picture of film and with perfect English asks. Is this what you're looking for?

Yes! That kind of film!

He pauses....Hmmmm…my cousin has a shop. Come with me. It seems everyone in Moshi has a cousin with a shop.

Mr. Maasai guides you along past hair salons, sports bars, dusty women selling charcoal, banana mounds, men grilling meats and corn, and teens tinkering on tilted tuk tuks.

Do you really just eat meat? you ask, looking to settle a latent curiosity.

Yes.

....

And you jump high?

...

Yes, he demonstrates with an impressive pogo like hop.

...

…

Drake or Kendrick? he returns.

...

Kendrick, obviously.

He smiles and nods.

You get to his cousin's shop. Look! Film! Well...pictures of rolls of film! You must be close! Film? you ask the manager-cousin.

Yes! Let me check.

He comes back a box containing…rolls of film!

Huzzah! Film!

You grab the box and examine.

ISO400. Nice. Color? Nice!….expiration date…..Ugh! Super expired. Not worth bothering. Sorry, you explain to the store manager, too old. It’s all he has. Mr. Maasai echoes your dejection.

You look at him and an idea flashes. Hey wait…where do you get those sandals? Might as well score a consolation prize.

He pauses, ponders, and motions…follow me. You zig and zag some more, arriving to a street corner where an older man hand crafts leather sandals.

Mambo! Hakuna matata! he greets you warmly. Being a mzungu (gringo) in Moshi, it’s assumed, and in this specific case, rightly assumed, that you have much more money than locals. Part of this warm hospitality you’re experiencing is real and genuine. Part of it…not as much. Many hungry lions would love to bite into your fat juicy wallet.

Poa, you return. You like these sandals. You like them a lot. Don't look too excited though. You'll give away your hand. There are no price tags here. Everything is negotiated.

How much? you ask casually pointing to the pair you want.

He pauses, seemingly to fantasize about what he can charge you, and fires his first offer.

That’s way too much! you scoff.

Of course you can afford it, but you also know this is the sucker’s price. You’re not here to play the role of rich mzungu savior. You won’t be gouged. It's the principle.

You counter. He scoffs. My friend, this is hand made!

Yes, but I know they sell this for cheaper down the road.

Clever! He doesn't know you’re bluffing, why would he?

You sense the seller’s warmth and hospitality fade as he realizes you won’t be an easy kill. He counters. You counter. Tension rises. Back and forth and back and forth you go.

Final price! he says. You begin to walk away. Always be ready to walk away.

Wait!…he relents. Fine. Deal. Here you go.

Consolation sandals acquired. Well done! You part ways with Mr. Maasai and slip him a modest tip for the adventure.

The sun is setting soon.

Still on for dinner? You text Esther. Yes!

Esther's cousins, two guys you haven't met, pick you and your friends up in a large white van. Esther must sell lots of coconuts, you think.

They drive you away from town. The sun sets and quickly darkens the streets. The buzzing city turns into a quiet neighborhood. Roads narrow then turn to dirt. Deeper and deeper you go. As the van bumps along your friend turns to you.

Hey uh...this is...like...cool right? she asks with a hint of nervousness.

Uh...yeah...it's cool, you respond with false conviction. With nobody looking you screenshot your GPS coordinates...just in case.

You pass through a large gate into an enclosed compound. It's dark…too dark. The walls are high...too high. Your heartbeat quickens.

Mambo! Welcome home! Esther bursts from the house. Her charm disarms.

Come in!

You walk into the modestly sized home. Inside are Esther's sister - an impressive multi-lingual doctor, Esther’s cousins, friends from the neighborhood and, curiously, some older German dude.

You notice the impressive photo collection. Are those yours? Yes! the German says with a thick accent. Come look!

He must know where to get film...you think. The German talks...and talks...and talks and talks some more. You don’t understand any of it. Something about him isn’t quite right. You conclude you value not talking to him more than you value film.

Try this! Esther says handing you a cup of funky smelling mystery juice scooped from a large vat of fermenting gloop.

You take a sip. It's uh...interesting! you say hiding your true feelings. Locally fermented banana beer! Would you like some more? No thanks! you reject graciously.

Everyone mingles, mutually curious. They’re intrigued by you as you are by them. What’s life like here? What do you all do? How did you learn English? You all ask.

They answer and counter with their questions. Who are you voting for? You tell them. Whoa! Why?! they wonder, foaming with curiosity. On goes a lively discussion. Then comes the question they’ve really wanted to ask.

Yo! What’s up with P-Diddy?! You trade guesses of increasing absurdity.

All are entertained.

On comes the food. Pumpkin soup. Vegetables. Sweet potato. Rice. It’s humble, but tasty. Then comes the ugali, the local staple of flavorless edible matter. You take a bite...and….return to the vegetables.

Out go the plates and on comes the music. This dinner party is now a dance party. Recognizable Hip Hop. Last decade’s Top 40. Afro beats. They dance like they’ve been dancing for a very long time. You guys…like cardboard boxes.

Have you been to Amuzz? Esther asks.

Amuzz?

Oh it's the best! You have to go!

The party simmers. You trade goodbyes and hand Esther a generous parting gift. The cousins drop you all off at Amuzz.

Amuzz, you quickly learn is…amuzzing. (sorry, had to). Sports bar. Hookah lounge. Billiards room. Paintball range. Barbershop. Video game lounge. Carwash. Night club.

Soccer plays on all screens to packed room. Plumes of hookah smoke rise. Red and green light flood the dance floor. Outside you greet Moshi's other mzungus by the paintball range.

Where are you guys from? What are you doing here?

Sweden, peace corps, the big one says. Washington, volunteering, says the other. France, safari and hiking, says another.

Cool! We’re doing Lemosho. What about you?

Machame, they say.

It’s your turn to shoot. You aim to the wall shelving empty Heinekens.

Fire! *Shatter* *Plop* *Plop* *Shatter* *Plop* Not bad, but you can do better.

Onto the dancefloor you go. The DJ reigns down sonic fire. Hip hop. Gangster rap. House. Afro beats. Local dancers flow effortlessly. In short time Amuzz escalates from fun to rowdy to raging. Lost in the music, forever passes until the group’s gas tank empties.

You negotiate a round of tuk tuks and Mario Kart your way home. Exhausted, you crash on the hotel bed and relish the day.

As for that roll of film?

Well…I guess you’ll have to try again tomorrow.

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I had every reason to be confident. I just summited one of the world's tallest mountains. Dominated it even. Altitude wasn't affecting me. I had plenty of gas in my tank and no injuries. All of my training and preparation was paying off. With the hardest part behind me everything from here is a formality.

At least that’s what I thought.

Instead, I was about to discover the cost of pride.

Punishment.

Descending Kilimanjaro’s peak begins innocently enough with a gentle decline down a hard path. Then the trail steepens dramatically…and disappears entirely. We’re left with bare mountain covered in dusty sand and unstable rocks. It's like walking down a sloped beach, but far worse.

Nothing has ever felt entirely safe on Kilimanjaro, but this is the first time I feel real danger. Every step becomes a game to intuitively calculate which sand pile to put a controlled amount of body weight onto. Choose well and proceed. Choose wrong and risk disaster. It’s physically and mentally exhausting.

Going down I lose every advantage I had going up. I'm too big to descend quickly. My knees throb on every step. I run out of breath unable to sustain my Super Ultra Breathing Technique. Compounding this are swirls of dust clogging my lungs kicked up by the many people passing me by. I can't even listen to music.

Brief lapses in focus result in frequent trips, falls and slides. I’m nimble and quick reflexed for my size, but I almost break a finger on one fall.

Pole Pole.

Having drank most of my water summitting I begin strict rationing. Dehydration begins. Temperature becomes a problem again, but this time for inverse reasons. The sun has turned villain. Even my toasty skin begins searing beneath it’s rays. A modest hat is all I have to protect me. I shed layer after layer, but I’m still roasting.

Thankfully, porters from Base Camp intercept us. They take our excess gear and resupply us with water. Unfortunately I am too large to be piggybacked down.

The group splits as some descend faster than others. I find myself too slow for the fast ones, and too fast for the slow ones. Only Alex, one of the intercepting porters, walks with me. I swallow my pride and accept a hiking pole. This time it helps.There's not much he can do other than encourage me and say Pole Pole, but his presence is comforting.

Base Camp appears in sight, but deceptively so. Each corner brings the promise of relief and instead delivers brutal new obstacle courses. Dust clouds clog my airways. Coughing replaces words. There’s no winning. My face cover blocks the dust, but overheats my breathing. I switch back and forth without relief. It seemed so recent that I was methodical, calm and confident. Now I’m franticly huffing and puffing my way down.

How the mighty fall.

Minutes feel like hours. Exhausted, demoralized, skin fried, feet throbbing, and dehydrated I eventually make it back to Base Camp. Before me unfolds a scene out of the Bible. Singing and chanting porters swarm me. They sit me down next to my friends, hand me fruit juice and free my feet from the prisons they've been locked in.

I cry tears of pain and relief. I try to speak, but muster only coughs. Yet, I'm euphoric. I just summited one of the highest mountains in the world, and now I'm back safe. The aches and pains feel worth it. Eventually, the others arrive for their biblical treatment.

It feels like an eternity since we first left Base Camp. We've gone nonstop from midnight to morning, yet it's not even the afternoon. We are not done. Far from it. Base Camp’s weather is too volatile for us to stay long. Searing heat and freezing wind flip flop by the minute. We need to descend to recover our oxygen levels.

We relax and decompress. Dani, freed from her pain cave, finds enough energy to entertain the porters with dance moves and acquired Swahili. We lunch, rehydrate and prepare for the last thing any of us wants to do - hike more.

Compared to what we just did, the trail away from Base Camp is relatively flat. But the constant decline continues to punish. We groan and grumble, but this time, we’re together. Much better than suffering alone. A cloud wall cools and shields us from the sun.

We pass by something we hadn't seen in a week - a truck. Somebody is hurt, Jonas says solemnly. That truck will take them down. Another reminder that, even now, nothing is guaranteed. We still have to make it off the mountain.

Pole Pole.

Despite the pain and exhaustion we make time to appreciate our surroundings. Trees gradually return. Our moonscape morphs into high dessert plains and then again to an alpine forest. The lazy flat decline becomes a steep rock trail requiring more concentration. Porters fly by with no concern for gravity.

Pole Pole for us, not for them.

Eventually...eventually...eventually....we make it to Mweka Camp, our final camp, as the sun begins to set. We're beyond tired. Never have we ever moved our bodies more in a single day. We're dirty. Camp is dusty. My mucous is black, and I cough more than I speak. But I don't care. We made it.

I make a feeble attempt at cleaning myself. It's not much, but a little feels like a lot here. I lie down in my tent. A thousand invisible hands clutch me with unbreakable grip. Nothing in this world can get me up.

Dinner? No? Are you ok? Jonas checks in. Yes, I'm ok Jonas. Just tired.

I close my eyes and teleport to another universe. Eternities pass. The next thing I know light is penetrating my tent. I hear birds chirping and porters laughing. It's morning. Never have I had such pure uninterrupted sleep of the dead. It's exactly what my body needs.

Soon we're all awake. Breakfast, our final meal on the mountain, comes. I feast, but fantasize about pizza and burgers. The porters buzz knowing what comes next - the tipping ceremony.

Jambo! Jambo Bwana!

The party begins. This one feels more high school graduation than pep rally. We made it. We did it together. In a week these strangers have become dear friends and allies. We celebrate our accomplishments and mourn our final moments together.

We sing and dance and sing and dance some more. We share parting words of gratitude and admiration. They don't understand most of what we're saying, but they sense how heartfelt it all is. Judging by the reactions, I suspect "bad motherfuckers" is the only phrase of mine they understand.

After, we hand each porter customary and well earned tips. It’s not much money to us, but it goes a long way for them. The collective gratitude is deep and mutual. We couldn't have done the most epic adventure of our lives without them. They wouldn't be going home with fat wallets without us. We thank each other profusely.

We may never see each other again, but somewhere in all of us the bonds will hold strong. Fun group! Chef Shuku and Jonas keep saying. Very fun group! I like it I love it!

As always, there’s more to go, we set off to close our final chapter. We pierce below the clouds from alpine forest to rainforest. We're exhausted, but we take it slow. It's too beautiful to rush. Moss covered trees canopy the trail. Sun soaks all and brightens the palate. Baboons howl. Rare toucans fly above. We savor every last minute on the mountain we've called home.

My office is beautiful, Mudi says, smiling as always.

Eventually...eventually...we make it to the bottom - the end of our journey.

Abdul greets us smiling. Somehow, of course, chubby cheeked Lauren is there waiting. We swarm her and resume her interrogation. My stomach rumbles and I rush to something I haven't seen in a week - a real and clean toilet.

I have so much to be grateful for. We all made it, even Lauren. We're safe and sound. Soon I’ll be cleansing myself in a hot shower, lying on a comfy bed with a fluffy pillow in an air conditioned room and eating and foods of my choosing. My anxious family will hear from me. Then I’ll be in the arms of my Penelope whose waited long for this Odysseus to return home.

Airplane mode! I remember Zach commanding at the beginning of this voyage. I understood why he wanted us to disconnect, or at least, I thought I did at the time.

I find myself hesitating to press the button that will resume reality’s matrix. I realize I had Zach's intention backwards. We weren’t here to disconnect from reality, but to commune with it. We were here to experience this alien world with our senses and souls and bond with those we love.

And we did.

Somewhere I feel something shifting deep inside me. I can't say what it is yet, but I suspect these reverberations will last long after I leave.

Goodbye Kilimanjaro. I’m leaving you, but know that you will never leave me.

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We've been on the mountain for 5 days now. Day after day we’ve hiked through a never ending sequence of epic alien terrains. But on Kilimanjaro, only one day matters - Summit Day. Everything before has been a warm up - an appetizer for the main course that lies ahead.

Not breaking yourself (like Lauren), maintaining good health, avoid injury, insanity, and conquering each day’s long menu of hikes merely buys you the chance to summit Kilimanjaro’s grand peak.

But nothing is guaranteed. Summit Day is far from a formality. It's a trial of mind body and spirit. A submission to altitude’s dice roll. It’s a test many fail. Zach knows this all too well.

"Morning" on Summit Day is not like the other mornings. The stars and moon ruling the sky provide the only light. Breakfast is freezing gusts of howling wind.

It’s not so much that I wake up, but that I discontinue my afternoon attempt at sleep. Already my heart is racing. I execute the routine I had imagined for this moment. Place the right gear in the right places. Put on clothes. Wool pants. Hiking pants. Summit pants. Wool under shirt. Thermal shirt. T shirts. More thermals shirts. Down jacket. Winter jacket. Balaklava. Beanie Gloves. Wool socks. Thick boots. Headlamp.

I exit the tent looking ridiculous, but so does everyone else. I don’t care. I’m warm enough and the harsh winds don’t bother me anymore. I load my water bottles with electrolytes. They've been one of our many secret weapons on the mountain. I'm grateful for them, but I'm getting sick of the their artificially fruity flavors.

One of you will betray me, I joke during our Last Supper before the summit. Looking like an oversized Jesus adds force to the joke. Beneath the laughter, the mood is tense. Howling winds threaten to Big Bad Wolf our dining tent away.

Nobody, not even Zach whose been here before, knows how the day will treat them. Most of us feel the altitudes’ affect on our appetite. Yet, heeding Jonas' frequent warnings, we stuff ourselves far beyond what our bodies request. Carbs. Meat. Peanut butter. Eggs. Caffeine.

Today will be very difficult, Jonas warns. But I believe you will all make it.

We make our final preparations, pray to whatever Gods we believe in, and set off for what would become one of the longest days of our lives. Darkness forbids any detailed terrain description. All I see are rocks beneath my feet and the steep incline ahead. Fortunately, my gear does it's job. I’m cool, but not cold. The wind feels more like air conditioning. We walk slow.

Pole Pole, as always.

Trusting our fitness, Jonas guides us past slower groups ahead. Tonight is no dance party. It's too windy for music or conversation. Instead, we recede quietly into our own internal worlds.

Alone, together.

As for me, it feels not like I'm hiking, but that I'm piloting a complex biological organism. Everything requires intense focus. I risk slipping anytime my mind wanders.

One wrong step and it's over, I keep reminding myself.

Temperature management becomes critical. Too cold and I'll use too much energy to keep warm. Too hot and I'll sweat, which freezes. For the right balance I take my gloves on and off, zip and unzip my jackets, and even allow some wind to hit my bare skin.

This big fleshy muscle car body of mine needs lots of oxygen to power. I dial in the Super Ultra Breathing Technique I've been perfecting on the mountain.

In In, through my nose.

Haaaaaaaaa, exhale through my mouth.

In In Haaaaa.

In In Haaaaa.

In In Haaaaa.

This becomes my mantra.

I supplement with periodic, but conservative sips of electrolyte water. Can’t run out too soon. Only during brief breaks can I check in on the others. Most seem to be doing well, but not all. Dani, normally a bursting solar system of energy, says little and breathes heavily. Mishka is running on fumes.

Summit Day stress tests decisions we’ve made over the last days, weeks, and months. Each of us is discovering in real time, for better and worse, the consequences of everything from gear selection, training protocols (or lackthereof), self care routines to our diet and supplements. Good decisions are being rewarded while bad ones are getting punished.

Let's go let's go! Jonas never let's us rest for long. We must keep moving!

Pole Pole doesn’t mean Stoppy Stoppy.

Back into the darkness we go. I settle back into my body and re-fire all cylinders. Soon I come to a realization. I'm absolutely dominating this summit. I feel as good as I can possibly can feel. I bust out my secret weapon - Atmospheric Dub Techno. I plug in my earbuds and return to my musical home away from home. Dub Techno is many things to me: deep, dark, surreal, rhythmic, hypnotic, other-worldly, and meditative.

Perfect for the summit.

I'm deep in my body, focused on my breath and lost in my music. I loosen my arms, groove with the beats and become a one man dance party. Time loses all context. Minutes and hours become indistinguishable. I don't know how long we've been going or how long we have to go. I stop caring. Right now, everything is perfect.

Another stop let's me check in on the others. Dani, as she puts it, is deep in the pain cave pushing herself beyond her limits. I sense her struggle is spiritual as much as it is physical, but I know she’ll make it. Mudi hands Dani his water bottle.

But what about your water, Mudi? Dani asks.

Mudi, as usual, says nothing, smiles, and continues along. It's another day in the office for him. Later we learned Mudi didn’t drink any water on his way to the summit. He is built differently. I worry about Mishka who looks pale and breathless. Jonas gives him extra attention, but doesn't waver in his confidence that we'll all make it.

The others look strong. I can sense Zach's relief. Tonight seems nothing like the near-death experience of his first summit. Stefan is tired, but hanging in. Chloe is happier than a mountain goat. Manu seems unfazed.

We march on and I return to my Fortress of Dub Techno Solitude. Minutes, or maybe hours pass. I look up and see dark shades of blue tint the night stars. Far beyond Mawenzi peak a comet’s tail stripes the sky. Dark hues of blue, lavender and orange gradient above. Gloriously, the sun bursts through the horizon. I realize this is the first time I've ever looked down on the sun rising.

We break one last time. Jonas and Mudi hand us cups of piping hot tea. I have no idea how they have access to boiling hot water. We sit, sip and admire the sun as it pastel paints the new morning’s sky. For the first time we see the details of the barren moonscape trail that awaits us. Stella Point appears in sight. It’s not the peak, but it’s the prize before the goal. Virtually everyone who makes it to Stella Point makes it to the peak.

We set forth and march. It takes longer than we imagine, but eventually… eventually…we reach Stella Point. The hardest part is over. We exhale in deep relief and take in our surroundings. Glaciers in the distance rest like frosted puddles in a massive crater. Morning in full force, the color palate simplifies to blue skies, white clouds, and rugged grey earth.

Despite the altitude and how long we've been hiking I feel great. Even the tired seem re-invigorated. After a quick rest we move on to the final prize. This push is mercifully flat. Finally we can appreciate our surroundings.

Slugging along we're intercepted by an oncoming porter and goofy red marshmallow looking hiker. The porter greets Jonas and Mudi and chats them up.

None of us want to stop. We have a peak to get to. Why the hell are we making small talk? As we’re grumbling the goofy red mystery marshmallow barrels towards us shouting.

None of us know what's going on. Who is this person? Why do they seem to know us? The marshmallow unsheds the layers covering it’s face. What unfolds is something that shocks us in a way I didn't know shock could be experienced.

Decca was the first to realize what was happening.

LAUREN?! Decca shouts. WHATS UP! IT'S YO GIRL!!!

This goofy red marshmallow of a stranger is Lauren - the same Lauren who stick-to-the-face’d herself to the hospital on night one of - was standing right here in the flesh right now in front of us - near Kilimanjaro’s summit.

Our shock is that of the disciples witnessing Jesus’ resurrection. Only our red marshmallow of a holy ghost had stitches and cheeks swollen like a chipmunks’.

None of us could process what was happening. Between the shock, swarming hugs and tears of joy we manage to get a few details. It turns our Lauren did not fly home early, violently overthrow a Maasai tribe, or choose to relax in town. Instead, this psycho best friend of ours went to the hospital, got twenty-four stitches inside her mouth, and conspired with Abdul to climb the mountain AND beat us to the summit.

YOU CRAZY BITCH! Dani screams echoing what we’re all thinking. YOU HAD ME SO WORRIED!

For context, it took us, a group of eight athletic adults, six days to summit. Aggressive groups summit in five. Psychos do it in four. Nobody summits in three. The risks for altitude sickness and physical exhaustion are far too high.

Nobody, except Lauren that is.

Jonas, who turns out to be a conspirator, smiles and confirms the absurdity of Lauren's accomplishment. In 15 years I've never seen anything like this, he says with pride. Impressing us was one thing. Impressing Jonas, a seasoned professional whose done this over two hundred times, is a another level.

You can call me a legend, ring Abdul’s words in my head. Before us a new legend was unfolding.

Lauren, by park regulation, could not stay with us for long. She and her team had to begin descending. We swarm-hug our fluffy red ghost goodbye and depart for our final trek. Still high off the shock, we finally…finally…finally make it to Kilimanjaro’s peak.

So much had to happen for this moment. All of us moved heaven and earth to finance, train, carve out the time, fly across the world, and hike for days on end for this us to be here. Not to mention the village of porters helping us. Most of us are too tired and oxygen deprived for words.

Smiles hugs and tears prove to be enough. I give Zach a giant bear hug. Nobody in the world could have gotten me to sign up for this ridiculous adventure other than him. None of us would be here if it weren’t for him.

There’s a traffic jam of other climbers waiting to get their pictures at the main sign. We get our photo-trophies and I venture off to enjoy my share of the prize. Tears flowing, I record a video for the girlfriend and family who haven’t heard from me in a week. Never have I felt so far from home.

I go inward to savor the silence and serenity. I’m on top of the world, far higher than I’ve ever been. Infinity extends in all directions. There’s nothing but deep blue sky, oceans of clouds, surreal glaciers and barren earth.

I did it. We did it. Even Lauren made it. Nothing can make me happier in this moment.

Park regulations and oxygen limitations mean our time on top is limited. We savor our last moments on top of this strange world, share final rounds of hugs and bid farewell to the most glorious achievement of our lives.

It’s been a long and beautiful day. But soon we’ll learn that our day has barely just begun.

For what comes up…must come down.

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Morning at Karanga Camp is simple and serene. Rocks and shrubs form a modest terrain. Above a bright sun lights crystal blue skies. In the distance Mount Meru pokes through an ocean of pillowy clouds. Kilimanjaro's peak appears in full resolution. Destiny waits patiently.

After breakfast the porters gather. We sense what's coming.

Jambo! Jambo Bwana!

The party begins.

Habari Gani!

Nzuri Sana!

Wageni! Mwakaribishwa!

Kilimanjaro!

Hakuna Matata!

A fury of powerful songs and ritualistic chants proceed. They sing with full force, firing us up.

It quickly becomes clear they are better dancers than we are. Combined, they draw from an impressive deck of dance moves. The faux-Gucci-sweater wearing porter known as Mr. Mosquito flaunts his cripple-to-break dancer routine. Another, the leg air guitar. Even Jonas, the elder statesman of the group, throws down some heat. My suspicion that porters moonlight as extras in rap videos increases.

We try our best to match them, but we’re cardboard boxes in comparison. Mishka responds with an Eastern European Kazachock. I show off my surprisingly flexible get-low-grooves. Manu runs across scoring high-fives. Stefan surprises everyone with his own breakdancing.

The rally simmers. Riled up, we venture on with charged spirits.

Today's journey is comical in contrast with what we've done so far. Our smooth windswept trail is devoid of obstacles. Jagged rocks shatter like ceramic pots beneath our feet. We crank up the music and the silliness. We troll each other between frequent photoshoots. We’re revert to a roving dance party. Chef Shuku cameos as a guide along with Mudi and Jonas. Each join in on the shenanigans.

Fun group! Very fun! Shuku cheers. I like it I love it! They’re having as much fun with us as we are with them.

In what feels like a flash we arrive to Barafu, aka Base Camp. It’s the final stop before The Big Day. For most of us it's the highest point we've ever been.

Stepping into Barafu is the closest I’ve been to a moon landing. Nothing survives long on this barren micro planet. Non-human life is absent. The palate is fifty shades of rock. Weather turns on a dime. Mawenzi's crowned peak in the distance seems suitable to incinerate a ring of absolute power. Our peak hides behind clouds.

Through open skies the sun beams in full force. Despite the altitude it's warm enough for shirtless sunbathing, which some do. The group’s spirit borderlines euphoria. Showing off, Dani claims victory in a pushup contest. Stefan and Manu pose and flex. Chloe lounges with her journal. I become a client at Decca’s makeshift hair salon. Cleaning my hair, even just a little, feels amazing. Only Zach tempers his enthusiasm.

I also felt good this time last year too....he says with a hint of warning.

The altitude doesn’t affect me…until it does. I rush up camp to send a quick text on a boulder. Apparently I break some unspoken high-altitude speed limit, run out of breath, and remind myself where I am.

Pole Pole.

Clouds cover the sun. Within a minute freezing winds blast us. With our sun party over, Jonas summons us for lunch. You must eat! Tomorrow is a long day! We obey his commands.

Heading into tomorrow I allow myself some confidence. I feel as good as I possibly can. I’ve conquered every hike without issue. I’m handling the altitude well. My energy levels are high. Other than some minor aches and pains my body feels great. Training has me dialed in. Everyday was some variation of heavy sleds, long weighted hikes, core work, lunges, saunas and cold plunges.

But I don’t let myself get cocky. Tenting with Zach that day I notice him becoming tenser by the hour. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, he says about his first summit. I thought I might have died on this mountain.

Because he’s a madman, the first time Zach summitted Kilimanjaro he did so with a week's notice, no training and blind self confidence in place of altitude medicine. He’s corrected those mistakes this time around. In a way, tomorrow is as much a mystery to him as it is the rest of us.

The nature of tomorrow, The Big Day, means we have to sleep now in the afternoon in order to wake up at night. I find this impossible and settle for lying motionless for hours to preserve as much energy as I can. Mercifully for him, Zach knocks out. We’ll need every bit of energy possible.

For tonight, we dine in Frosty Hell.

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We've been on the mountain for three nights. Kilimanjaro begins to normalize. It isn't easy, but it is simpler. Here, life revolves around the basics - eating, sleeping, texting & faxing, cleaning, avoiding injury, and bonding with friends. Problems of the world beneath the clouds like taxes, politics, professional ambitions and amorphous personal anxieties seem distant. All that exists is the here and now.

After three intense days it feels like we've been here forever. With Kilimanjaro’s peak looming above us it's hard to fathom we're not even half way done.

What's on the today's menu, Mudi? A little birdie spoiled that today would be shorter than the last two marathon days. Mudi says nothing. Instead he smiles and points towards a massive rock wall in the distance - Barranco Wall. A column of little highlighter colored dots of hikers and porters march in the distance.

Shorter? Yes. Easier? No.

We descend past waterfalls and Barranco’s alien plant life towards the wall’s face. Breakfast is more rock climb than hike. Every move is a delicate coordination of feet, hands and body. One wrong move and….I’d rather not think about it. Nothing is guaranteed. Still, porters blast by us as if they're riding an escalator.

Pole Pole for us. Not for them.

Still, we make time for the occasional impromptu photoshoot. Together, the icy peak and steep rock wall make for a glorious backdrop. We pass by Kissing Rock and the barren terrain that surrounds it. Other than the looming threat of catastrophic injury, Barranco Wall is fun a contrast with the previous day’s hikes. Hours pass as yesterday’s alien world shrinks away.

We top the wall, exhausted. Are we camping here, Mudi? I ask innocently. He nods, and points ahead. Deep in the distance is a long sequence of ascending and descending paths. I thought this was supposed to be a short day! I complain. He smiles.

Pole Pole.

We break to recover, text, snack and hydrate. Soon we're back off. Another day. Another planet. This one barren and hostile. Stubborn shrubs cling to life. Volcanic rocks and moss covered boulders in all directions. Not much for wildlife other than ravens and the occasional field mouse. Soft clouds blanket the sky making today feel like a voyage through a terrarium.

Dj Decca returns with the beats. Zach bops to hip hop. Dani and Chloe sing to indie pop. Mishka introduces indie rap. Decca, afro beats and soul. I resist pitching my preferred genre - hardcore Berlin style techno. Stefan, Manu and I groove along.

Hours later we arrive to Karanga Camp with much sun remaining in the day. It's a barren colorless moonscape. Rocks, dust, rocks, and more rocks. For the first time we have ample time to attend to basics. Some nap. Others stretch and address body aches. Zach snaps pictures.

One whiff of my body odor is enough to make me desperately wash myself. It's too cold and windy for a makeshift shower. I settle for moist wipes and a changes in base layers. It's not much, but here, a little feels like a lot.

Some of us mingle with porters in the kitchen taking advantage of it's sauna like qualities. The porters are amused by us as much as we're amused by them. They're curious about our politics, the latest celebrity scandals and tastes in hip hop.

We learn more about them. Their lives are hard. Porter work, as we’re witnessing in real time, is incredibly demanding. The days are long. Each hike exposes them to serious injury. I doubt they get anywhere close to the same nutrition we do. But what’s also becoming clear is that their comradery is deep and real. Many don’t just work together, but live together in the same villages. Judging by how much they’re laughing and playing it isn’t obvious who is having more fun.

We're achy, weary, but content all things considered. Lauren's absence remains a blemish on our otherwise good spirits. Over dinner's soup-meat-carb sequence, we imagine what she's doing without us.

Maybe she's flown back home and resumed work. Maybe she's interviewing villagers for her podcast. Maybe she's quietly relaxing and recovering back in Moshi. I suggest Lauren could be violently overthrowing a local Maasai tribe and installing herself as leader.

As we're talking the tent opens. In walks Shuku with a surprise that proceeds to break our minds. He bears a platter containing eight brown buns, between which contain green lettuce, shredded cheese, sliced red tomatoes, red onions slivers, and meat patties.

No. Fucking Way. None we couldn't believe what we were seeing. This couldn't be real.

ARE THOSE FUCKING BURGERS?! Dani blurts out.

Realizing, that yes, before us was a platter of freshly composed burgers, we proceed to lose our collective shit. We laugh and cry in amazement and disbelief. I haven’t been this excited since getting an Xbox for Christmas.

Huzzah. A Miracle on the Mountain.

We suspect they overheard us talking about how much we missed the burgers that reminded us of home. Somehow, seeking to fulfill out wishes, they managed to get everything from the lettuce, tomatoes, buns, and chicken patties. Shuku and his assistants smile seeing their conspiracy pay off.

Eventually the burger high fades and we set off for bed. Night returns. The stars flicker. Far in the distance, beneath the clouds another constellation appears - Moshi's city lights. The others join in quiet admiration.

Somewhere in that constellation is the hotel rooftop where, at least for me, this journey truly began. Now we’re staring back.

We've come so far.

Yet there's much to go.

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I want it known, for posterity’s sake, that I am brilliant in an abundance of manners. However there are times in my life where my brilliance is more dormant than active. Night Two at Shira Two was one of those times.

See, I've never been fond of sleeping bags. Sleeping like a cocooned caterpillar has never been my thing. It's why I've typically used them as blankets more than bags. This has never been a problem.

Until now.

I fail to anticipate how cold it would be this early into the voyage. I cling obstinately to my bag-as-a-blanket. Sleep becomes an unwinnable game of warmth-preserving whack-a-mole. I cover this now that is cold. I cover that now this is cold. I toss and turn desperately seeking sleep inducing body positions. I’m sound starving racoon in a trash can. Fortunately, Dani, my tent-mate for the night, sleeps like a mummified log.

Eventually I find something suitable and begin my descent into dreamland. Then, rudely, my bladder knocks. An eternity of conflict passes in my mind. Venturing out into the cold and windy seems like torture. Can’t I just power through? Eventually I accept my pulsing bladder will make sleep impossible.

A comical and desperate sequence ensues. Ruffle for headlamp. Unzip tent. Slip on shoes. Tie shoes. Contort out of tent. Re-zip tent (can't let the warmth escape). Devour gusts of frigid wind. Scuffle along. Almost trip over tent wire. Sent text. Scuffle back. Slip off shoes. Untie shoes. Unzip tent. Contort back in. Re-zip tent. Ruffle towards bed. Scavenge for sleep induction. Resume descension to dreamland. Feel bladder pulse again. Repeat everything.

This goes on until light pokes through the tent signaling the rising sun. I measure the night’s sleep in minutes. Groggy and irritated, I rear my head out the tent. Wilson greets me with hibiscus tea. Zach grabs my attention and signals upward. Above us towers our prize, our muse, Kilimanjaro's peak, It's magnificent and menacing. Deceptively close yet so far.

We eat, text, fax, gather, and depart.

Mudi takes over as lead guide for the day. He’s less stern than Jonas and walks with Buddha-like calm. He radiates with a warm and brilliant smile. We ask him about the weather, hoping to avoid yesterday’s rain. The weather is unpredictable, Mudi says, repeating Jonas' mantra. But I think today will be sunny, he says smiling.

We get to know him more. What will you do when you get back home to your family, Mudi? One of us asks. I will build a window in my house! he says excitedly. We have very different lives, though he seems generally content.

Today’s route is a curious one. From sun rise to sun down we'll ascend to Lava Tower and descend to Barranco Camp.

Mudi's semi-prediction is accurate. No rain clouds haunt us. Fortune blesses us with warm sun and cool winds. We ascend deeper into this strange world above the clouds. Yesterday's crater shrink's farther behind us. Our planet morphs. Life reduces to moss on boulders and defiant golden shrubs. The color palate harshens to dusty grey trails, earthen beige and black volcanic rock.

We find a slow, but comfortable groove. Hours pass undramatically. DJ Decca captains the speaker and maintains morale. Stefan and Manu troll each other relentlessly. Dani, always photogenic, finds herself on the other side of Zach's many lenses. Mudi surprises us by competing with Zach for Director of Photography. Chloe, a sommelier on top of adventure sports fashion icon, educates me on the finer nuances of Southern Italian wines. Mishka details his many adventures abroad.

We reach Lava Tower, our halfway point for the day. It’s cold, windy, and misty. Unfortunately, Lava Tower lacks actual lava. But it compensates in drama with staggering and ominous imposition. Here seems better suited for orcs than humans.

We meet the day’s adversary - altitude. Altitude is Kilimanjaro's great curveball. Compromised oxygen impacts everyone differently. Some, not at all. Others, heavily. Side effects for the unfortunate include headaches, nausea, dizziness, puking, shortness of breath, and, in worse cases, death. Altitude doesn’t discriminate with fitness level. Even the fit and healthy can succumb to it’s grip.

Mudi warns of another pernicious side affect - appetite reduction. You don't feel hungry, so you eat less, and then you don't have enough energy for the hikes. It's why they militantly stuff us with food.

Lunching at Lava Tower, which is the same elevation as Base Camp, allows us to acclimate. Drugs too, Diamox in this case, plays a critical role. We pop two each day. As always, no drugs are free lunches. Diamox is a diuretic, which annoyingly means many more text messages and much more hydration to compensate. Thankfully, each of us seem to be handling the altitude well enough.

Lava Tower complete, we venture towards the night’s camp. Today’s second half begins with a steep descent down an volcanic boulder obstacle course. I’m great going up, but terrible going down. Mudi hands me hiking poles. I give them a shot, but after a few minutes I decide I hate them and hand them back.

Pole Pole, but no hiking Poles for me.

Kilimanjaro is far from the gradual diagonal ascension I had mind. Here, steep inclines follow boulderous descents. On and on we go. Generous sun, baby blue skies and humble clouds continue to grace us. Porters fly by as usual. We encounter another group’s porter along the way. He seems far too old to be doing what he’s doing. He’s hunched over puking. Offering water and well wishes is the best we can do.

We make our final descent into a sharp valley. The planet morphs again. This mutation is more alien than anything I have ever seen. Fuzzy green shrubs return. Long streaming waterfalls tempt us from afar. Glacier fed streams line our path. Boulders and black volcanic stones guard the path forward. Rainbow colored sunbirds sip nectar from the wildflowers jeweling the horizon. Fierce ravens fly above.

Trees I can only describe as palms with biceps halt us in our tracks. We examine and admire. Underneath they shed fibers that could be mistaken for alpaca fur. They become backdrops for photoshoots. Accompanying them are purple accented pineapple-agave fusions. Kilimanjaro's peak and it's icy glaciers appear in higher resolution. The tired continue towards camp. The rest of us stay and play.

Barranco Camp is an highlighter-box colored village of tents, hikers and porters. Clouds veil the world below. We have enough sun to wind down and mingle with other camps. We cross Megan again. She's happier and healthier this time. Her team is a mirror image of ours. In different circumstances we become friends. But we must tend to ourselves.

Dinner, another soup-carb-meat medley, caps our night. Darkness falls. Stars return. Another long day in the books. We nestle for the night. I make necessary adjustments from last night’s sleep debacle. I tweak my layers, organize my gear, master the motions for the inevitable mid-night texting ritual. Most importantly, I sleep in the bag.

I pay my sleep deficit back in full.

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Morning! Tea? Coffee? Sugar? One Scoop? Two Scoop? It was all the English Wilson knew, but it was all he needed to function as our morning alarm.

We wake up and perform the mountain versions of our morning routines. Brush teeth. Stretch. Journal. Breakfast is a bigger spread than we anticipated. Chapati (crepe like bread), toast, peanut butter, jam, honey, instant coffee. eggs, hot dog shaped mystery meat. I wouldn’t call it Michelin star dining, but I wasn’t complaining either.

Eat! You must eat! Jonas commands. Today is a very long day. You need the energy. Jonas' English was short, simple, and refreshingly direct.

We finish eating and tend to the rest of our routines. In no time the porters have broken down and packed most of our camp. We must leave soon. Today is a long day. There's no time to waste.

But first, it was time to resolve of my greatest mountain anxieties - pooping. Pooping, or, as they say here, sending a fax (because it's slower than a text), was an issue of top priority. In this realm I am a victim of posh modernity used to spotless porcelain thrones, high pressure bidets and robust toilet paper. Nightmares like spontaneous diarrhea or sticking my butt for cleanliness, as close friends have done on similar excursions, haunted my dreams.

But none of that was to pass. The toilet tent containing a modest portable toilet turns out to be one of the most critical luxuries of the trip. It's one of the main reasons to pay the extra bucks for the right guiding company. Spend a half second in the vague proximity of a public toilet (which is more of an outhouse) and you’ll understand why the private toilet is the only real option.

Fortunately, the toilet, along with my fax machine, worked on cue in normal and predictable patterns. Just after breakfast, and before the hike. My nightmares go unfulfilled.

With that out of the way we begin the first of what would be many long and difficult hikes. We begin with a steep uphill climb through more rainforest.

Pole Pole, slowly slowly, is the mantra drilled into our heads long before we even get to the mountain. To make it to the top, we must go Pole Pole.

But Pole Pole was for us, not the porters.

Blasting by us was a long column of porters carrying tents, excess gear, food, cooking equipment, water, even the toilet (which yes, is cleaned before it's carried). They carry it on their backs. Some on their heads. Some both.

They do it with gear more Goodwill than REI. Worn shoes. Torn shirts. Nothing new. But what they lack in quality they make up in swagger. Stacks of cash on gym shorts. Fake Gucci sweaters. Graphic hip hop tees. Ornate beanies. Most look more like extras in rap videos than porters for Africa's tallest mountain. They pass us smiling.

Not all porters are created equal though. Our porters are super stars. Others, not so much. We see porters from other groups struggle mightily. Another reason to pay the extra bucks. More money. Better porters.

Physically we’re fine, but Lauren's absence drains our morale. It starts raining and we sink even further. Your clothes must not get wet, Jonas warns. It will not dry. Thankfully I had a poncho and rain cover for my bag, but my shirt got soaked. It would take four days for that one shirt to dry off.

The surroundings are beautiful, but we have to focus more on our footwork to avoid slipping. If we learned anything last night, it was that any step could spell disaster. We took the lesson to heart.

Pole Pole.

It was the perfect recipe for a shitty day. Cold. Wet. Windy. I was becoming more miserable by the minute. I wasn't alone. I challenged the faith that brought me to this mountain. This was day two?! I groaned. And we have another FIVE DAYS?? Fuck me. Why did I sign up for this again?

We slog along for hours. Soon, the rain along with the rainforest disappear. Out of nowhere it seems like we've portaled from the jungles of Colombia to the meadows of Yosemite. Big open skies. Short bushes and shrubs replace trees. Mysterious flowers instead of fungi. Kilimanjaro's ridges line the horizon.

We make it to Shira One, the day's halfway point, for lunch.

We refuel with vegetable soup, rice, chicken, filtered water and caffeine. I bust out a curveball nobody saw coming. Two kilos of flamboyantly colored and extravagantly tasting Turkish delight from my stopover in Istanbul. Everyone, especially the porters who’d never seen anything like this, lose their shit.

Just as planned.

Bellies full, feet relieved, rehydrated and caffeinated, rain paused, and Turkishly delighted, our mood improves. But we have little time to spare. We need to make camp before nightfall. We pack up and set out.

But what holds us up on this leg of the hike isn’t rain or steep terrain. It’s how beautiful our surroundings have become. We find ourselves deep inside an ancient caldera with grasslands and volcanic rocks in all directions. A calm mist blankets the greenery. The snow-capped Kebo peak and Mount Meru dominate the background. We stop frequently to admire the scenery and take pictures.

Decca, our bursting ray of human sunshine, busts out a speaker and blasts music. It turns out gangster rap, afro beats and house music are the medicine we didn't know we all needed. A few hours have turned us from a group of wet grumbling hikers to a roving dance party. For the first time we’re having fun. Lot’s of it.

Golden hour magnifying the palate around us. Amber sky. Earthy browns. Yellow dotted grassy greens. Shining silver mist. Wildflower pinks and purples. We slow down to admire. Part of me doesn't want this day to end. I look at Zach, beginning to understand what compelled him to return. He returns the look, smiles and nods.

Not everyone was enjoying this part. We cross paths with Megan, a friend we made back in Moshi. She's pale, puking, and miserable. We don’t know if she’ll make it. Another reminder that nothing is guaranteed.

We arrive to Shira Two Camp, our home for the night, as the sun sets. We've hiked nearly non stop since the morning. Legs tired, faith tested, we rest in good spirits. Night falls. Stars glitter the night sky. The glow is bold, bright, and glorious. The only tragedy is not having enough time to admire it. Tomorrow is another long day, and we need as much sleep as possible in order to confront tomorrow's opponent - altitude.

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Entering the bus on the way to the mountain revealed something else about our adventure. This was no ordinary hike. Accompanying the nine of us were over thirty porters and guides.

This was a full scale expedition.

These porters, these current strangers, over the next week would become our smiling guides, our heroic helpers, our laughing saviors, and by the end, our dear friends. Without them, none of this would have been possible.

Airplane mode on, everyone! Zach says adamantly. No internet. No texting. No scrolling. Nothing. We were to disconnect entirely from the outside world.

Out of nowhere a previously quiet porter belts out. (translation included)

Jambo! Jambo bwana! (hello! hello everyone!)

The other porters, on cue, chime into the chorus.

Habari gani!? (how are you?)

Nzuri Sana! (very fine!)

Wageni, mwakaribishwa (guests, you are very welcome!)

Kilimanjaro!

Hakuna Matata (no worries!)

On goes a long sequence of ritualistic songs and chants sung with full force. Our bus had become a rolling pep rally. They were preparing us for a sacred journey to a land few will ever see.

Hours later, we arrive at the mountain’s entrance and eat lunch beneath a covered pavilion. Rain ambushes us. The weather is unpredictable, Jonas, our lead guide says.

This would be his default answer to anything related to weather. Jonas is short and bald, but with 15 years and over 200 summits under his belt, he walks with calm confidence. It’s clear he commands respect from his men. It’s why Abdul entrusted him to guide us to the top.

The rain clears and we depart. The lush rainforest we walk through is not what I had in mind for a volcanic mountain. Flanking our trail are moss covered trees, colorful wildflowers, and mysterious fungi. Sunlight seeps through the densely covered canopy.

We hike with fresh energy and excitement. Time passes with little drama. In what feels like no time we arrive at Big Tree Camp to spend our first night. It feels easy. Too easy. Our first hike ends anti climactically.

By the time we arrive the porters have set everything up. Sleeping tents, a small tent housing a modest portable toilet that would prove to be invaluable, a dining hall tent with space for each of us, and my favorite, the kitchen tent. Shuku, our smiling chef, or as he put it, our stomach engineer, greets us warmly.

His kitchen consists of three burners atop propane tanks. One boils water for drinking and cooking. Another heats oil. The other sautés vegetables. The heat turns the tent into a makeshift sauna, which would also prove to be useful later on. We nestle into our new realities. Organize our tents. Make our beds.

Washy washy! Wilson, a thin porter announces.

In front of our tents he places two bowls of hot water with a small bar of soap. This would be the closest thing we have to a shower. It’s far from ideal. I take off my shirt, hunch over, and scrub myself with soapy lukewarm water. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. It wouldn't take long for cleanliness, or the mere feeling of it, to become a deeply desired luxury.

We gather in the dining hall tent waiting for food to arrive. We pass time with idle chatter. Zach walks in. Something about him is off. He tries to speak, but struggles to form words.

Not knowing how to deliver the message, he gets to the point. Lauren had an accident.

Everyone quiets.

Lauren fainted, fell and hurt herself. She’s not dead or anything, but there's a lot of blood.

I rush over to her tent and find Lauren dazed. Structurally she’s fine. There’s a bloody gash on her mouth. Dani is comforting her, trying to make her laugh. It doesn’t seem so bad, I comment.

No, Lauren said. It's inside. The inside of my mouth is fucked.

In comes Pierre, a Swiss alpinist and doctor volunteering at camp.

Thees ees not good, he says with a thick accent discovering the full scope of the damage. You have to go to the hospital tonight. He goes on to list the many risks, mainly infection, of not doing so.

The news is devastating. Dani and I are losing our best friend on the hike. Zach partially blames himself for the accident. Lauren is understandably angry, sad, and frustrated. She spent a lot of money, and carved out a lot of time to make this trip happen. And now it was ending.

But, as a testament to her character, Lauren is more grateful than anything else. I’m so lucky. It could have been so much worse, she says between sobs. I could have poked an eye out, fucked up my teeth, hit my head. I can handle whatever this is.

We hug and wave Lauren goodbye. Jonas and another porter guide her back down the same trail we just ascended. But what to us seemed like the end of Lauren’s story was merely the prologue of a tale far more epic than any of us could have imagined. That story will come later.

Lauren's accident was sobering. We hadn't slept a single night and yet we've already lost one.We could die any day, Zach states matter of factly. People die doing exactly what we're doing. Nothing is guaranteed.

It rattled us out of a complacent fog. What we were doing was very real and very dangerous. One wrong step and it could all be over.

And this was only the beginning.

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It didn't hit me when I booked my flight to Africa. It didn't hit me when it I landed in Tanzania or when I arrived in town. It didn’t even even hit me when I saw the horizon of the mountain whose slopes spanned far beyond my panorama. It only began to hit me when, comically far above Moshi’s modest skyline, appeared the icy crown of Africa’s tallest mountain.

Kilimanjaro.

I gasped audibly. My eyes bulged. My stomach sank. What loomed in the distance didn’t seem real, as if clumsily photoshopped onto the background. I struggled to fathom something so massive.

The others soon joined. Decca, Dani, Stefan, Manu, Chloe, Mishka, Lauren and Zach. Their reactions mimicked mine. The nine of us heeded this call to adventure. Zach was the only one whose done this before, and was the reason we were all here.

I had to come back. I just had to. Zach said.

Each of us know Zach well enough to know that when he invites you on an adventure, you go. We moved heaven and earth to secure the time and resources to follow him across the world to this promised land.

Next to us stood Abdul, local village elder and leader of Kili Back Country, the company guides and porters would lead us to the top.

My office is beautiful! he says with pride. Abdul, who has summitted over a hundred times looks at us with a confident smile and says, quarter-jokingly.

You can call me a legend.

His confidence let us know we were in good hands.

In my daze of awe, wonder and terror did the gravity of what we signed up for begin to sink in. We were here to climb that.

Or at least that’s what I thought we signed up for. I would soon learn that we were not here to merely climb a mountain. We were here for an odyssey through a strange and distant planet. A pilgrimage through spectacular landscapes and terrains. A soul bonding voyage with an alien culture. An excursion rich with danger, tragedy, and triumph.

What we had signed up for was the adventure of a lifetime.

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White fur. Black stripes. Medium size. Curious body hair. Deep in the Serengeti, the zebra stands out in a world filled with many things that stand out.

Unsurprisingly, Zach prefers safari's to zoos. Awwww! he coos. He can't help but admire the herd of his favorite animal grazing casually in front of our safari car.

Zebras have been his thing for as long as he can remember, a fact memorialized by the zebra tattoo on his leg. He loves it's awkward horse-donkey shape, it's racecar striped fur, and even the letter Z it's name starts with. He loves how they live. Out in the wild, not totally safe from danger, but calm and content. The zebra stands out, but the zebra fits right in.

Light skin. Blue eyes. Medium size. Curious body hair. Earing. Bracelets. Zach too stands out in Africa. But like the zebra, Zach, in his own way, fits right in.

He gazes at them with awe, admiration, and perhaps, a touch of envy. I suspect if Zach had his way, he would escape the confines of our safari truck, rip off his clothes and fend forage and frolic with his adopted herd.

He’s the first to greet me at Tanzania’s airport. He grins warmly, knowing the gravity of the adventure he's roped me into. Nobody else could have gotten me to fly across the world to be here of all places. But I know that if Zach invites you on an adventure, you don't ask questions.

You go.

Zach’s many adventures could, and if I have my way, will fill many books. But for some reason, of all the places he’s been to, Tanzania is the one place he absolutely had to return to. I'm here to discover why.

Turn it up! Zach tells his friend, driver, and local fixer Hamadi on our way to town from the airport. They jam to hardcore gangster rap. This is Zach in one of his many elements. If you want to ever guess what Zach is doing at any given time, your best bet is to imagine him driving around town, windows down, spliff lit, spitting Lil Wayne lyrics. Real g's move silent like lasagna. Africa is easier if you like hip hop.

In my last life, I was a drug dealing gangster rapper in Houston who got shot while trying to turn his life around, Zach informs us matter-of-factly. I was re-incarnated to right old wrongs.

Hamadi drops us off in Moshi. By no conventional standards is Moshi pretty. The streets are chaotic. Most buildings are cheaply constructed or run down. Fumes and dust clouds clog the already hot and muggy air. Horns blast. Insects pester. Street crossings are treacherous. But to Zach these are more features than bugs. He prefers real and raw over the sterilized simulations of most world capitols.

Zach knows Moshi well. He likes to linger longer than most. Unlike many mzungu (gringos) that come here, Zach has no mission. He isn't here to preach, convert or save. He doesn't think people here need saving. He's more likely to convince you that we, in our mindlessly modern, consumption obsessed, hyper isolating rat-races are the ones who need saving.

In Moshi, Zach isn't here to do, but to be. He’s happy inserting himself into the flow of of daily life. We have a day to wander before the others arrive. We have no plans, appointments or any specific ambitions. Zach knows that in Moshi, adventure finds you.

Daytime Moshi buzzes. Everywhere people hustle to get by. Everyone sells everything everywhere. We stroll by people selling shoes, electronics, second hand clothes, dried fish, and food stalls. Mothers carry babies on their chests and baskets on their heads. Shrouded women tend fruit stands. Teens tinker on tilted tuk-tuks. Vehicles big and small whizz by in all directions keeping us on permanent guard. The call to prayer hums periodically. Silence is rare.

Like the zebra, Zach, stands out here. Many approach us. Most angle for money. Some to satisfy curiosity. Men grill corn and skewered meat. Little uniformed boys and girls giggle, wave, and high five us on their way to school. To the amusement of some and annoyance of others, Zach slots him himself into the flow of teenage workers offloading watermelons from a truck.

Zach finds allies wherever he goes. We recruit Megan, another mzungu temporarily in town along with her mom and fluffy white dog. Ester, a girl selling coconuts, ambushes us with a devastatingly effective charm offensive and invites us over for dinner.

Behind the camera is one of the many places Zach feels at home. Like the zebra, he is no predator, but if he were one, his prey would be the perfect shot. His armory includes a 35mm point-and-shoot, a 1990’s Sony Handycam, and a compact gimbal stabilized video recorder. His patent-pending shoot-from-the-hip snaps capture candid evidence of our scenery.

Zach owns little and cares little for empty consumerism, but he will pounce if the right thing captures his eye. One such item does - sandals often seen on the feet of local Maasai villagers. Zach approaches the seller, an older man in his 40's.

Come try my friend. We will make your size. No problem, the man invites him.

Zach is excited, but doesn't play his cards. He knows that, by nature of being a mzungu, he's a target for his budget - real or imagined. Price lists are rare. Everything is negotiated. No deals, especially when mzungu are involved, close without a battle.

Zach tries on a few sandals, builds gradual rapport with the seller, picks the pair he likes, and prepares for the upcoming scuffle.

You won't like me by the end of this, Zach warns the seller with a sly grin.

The seller pitches his first price. It's not a lot of money in the grand scheme of things. Zach could easily afford it. Most mzungu in Zach's position would pretend to haggle, quickly relent, and pat themselves on the back for playing the role of grandiose patron. The seller would celebrate his score over the gullible foreigner and move on.

Zach is no predator, but neither is he prey. Nor is he here to save anyone. Dollars are earned, not given. It’s the principle, he says. He won’t be gouged or shower anyone with money. Experience teaches him the first price is for suckers. It’s a fantasy price many multiples of what locals would pay for the same thing.

No way! That's way too much! He doesn't take the bait. Zach’s done the market research. He’s knows the prices and his alternative options. Negotiation lessons were not something I was expecting in Africa.

But this is handmade my friend, the seller counters.

No go. They sell these for much less down the road! I know the price. Zach stands firm. But that is the locals price…for you my friend…this is the price, the seller responds seemingly indignant that Zach would demand the local price. Tension rises as he realizes Zach won't be an easy kill.

They go back and forth. Even I start to get uncomfortable. This is my final price, Zach states, or I walk. Smile gone, the seller relents. It's far from the price he fantasized about, but at the end, a sale is a sale.

Zach prediction comes true. The seller does not like him, but the sellers deal-closing handshakes communicates something more - respect. Sandals acquired, our adventure continues.

Zach is no savior, but that doesn’t stop others from thinking otherwise.

Zach?! Is that you?! a local man cries out pulling up on his motorcycle.

Yo what's up man! Zach responds warmly to the man he met a year ago.

I can't believe it....you came back. I'm so happy to see you. The man borders on tears. God is so good! He gives Zach a big hug and points to the sky in gratitude. Zach promises to meet him again before returning home, a promise he later fulfills.

At night we tuk-tuk to Zach’s favorite watering hole, Amuzz. Part barbershop. Part car wash. Party video game studio. Part paintball shooting range. Part sports bar. Part night club. Amuzz is….well…amuzing. Here locals and mzungu mix and mingle. Zach’s happy place is deep on the dance floor in front of the DJ blasting afro beats and hip hop.

But zebras, sandals, hip hop clubs and Esther's coconuts are side dishes in contrast to the main course that summons Zach back to Africa. What compels him lies deep in the horizon above Moshi's modest skyline. Stretching far beyond the panorama of our vision are the slopes of Africa's tallest mountain, Kilimanjaro.

From the top of our hotel, Zach and I behold the mountain whose peak hides shyly behind a great clouded wall. It's unfathomably large, and harder to fathom that we're here to climb that.

What the fuck…it doesn't look real, I say, intimidated.

Zach doesn't say much. He doesn’t need to. To him Kilimanjaro is more Mecca than mountain. Despite having climbed it a year ago he still struggles to verbalize what happened to him. I don't press him for details knowing he'll frustrate himself as if trying to explain color to a blind man. The best he can do is nod, and shrug. It’s the glow he radiates in Kilimanjaro’s presence that says what words can't. I detect awe, reverence, wonder, and a palpable undercurrent of fear.

It's the hardest thing I've ever done, Zach confesses. But I had to come back....I just had to. To the mountain he presents himself as a petty mortal beholding a powerful deity.

Only this time he wouldn't be alone. Needing little effort, Zach has the gravity to convince an entire group of friends and strangers to upend our lives and follow him across the planet to summit one Earth’s most majestic mountains. He is our Apostle of Adventure, the head zebra of our mzungu herd. We are his acolytes following him to this promised land, his home far from home.

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Soup first or noodle first? The young man asks the Master in the 1980’s cult classic, Tampopo.

It soon becomes clear that the student does not understanding the gravity of the question he's proposed.

Cue the violin.

First, observe the whole bowl, the Master begins. Appreciate it's gestalt.

Savor the aromas.

Jewels of fat glistening on the surface….

He goes on admiring the forms taken and roles played by bowl's spring onions, seaweed, shinachiku roots and roast pork slices. Each a character in a sublime orchestra.

The Master communicates, implicitly, that Ramen far more than caloric hedonism. Ramen is to be revered. Consuming it is an act both sensual and sacred. A Noodley Eucharist.

Not long after our landing in Tokyo Nina and I find ourselves strolling tight streets and side alleys with Shotaro, our newly acquired ally. Lawyer by day, Ramen Junkie by night, Shotaro guides us through a maze of tight streets. We arrive at a small a non-descript door I never would have glanced at otherwise.

Tokyo is known for it’s Shio (chicken broth, salt) Ramen, Shotaro explains. This place, Ramen Hayashida, does it the best. I recognize Shotaro’s confidence in knowing the best of the best. I feel this often. I note the tablet (well, paper) outside displaying what I'll dub The Ten Ramen Commandments. I'll sum them up for brevity.

#1. Shut the fuck up when you wait in line.

#2. When in doubt, say "osusume", or recommendation. The top left of the vending machine is usually marks the house specialty.

#3. Cash is king.

#4. One seat. One bowl. No two people sharing one bowl.

#5. Don't forget toppings.

#6. Talking is discouraged. No phone calls.

#7. Loud slurping encouraged.

#8. No take out. No to-go orders.

#9. Do not insult Chef by immediately seasoning your Ramen. Taste first. Season later.

#10. Ramen is fast food. There is (probably) a line of people waiting. Get in. Slurp. Enjoy. Get out. No lingering.

I duck through the door. The shop is small, because everything is small. Decoration is minimal. Ramen is not a typical dining experience. No waiters. No service. No frills or fluff. Our waiter is a vending machine whom we slot money into, press buttons, and receive tickets which we hand to Chef. Chef takes our tickets and does what he does. No words needed.

Despite boasting what I thought was an impressive Ramen resume, Shotaro quickly makes it clear I know next to nothing. Slurping over 300 bowls per year, Shotaro knows Ramen's many varieties and styles, regional specialties, ideal noodles-broth pairings, trends and traditions, manners and protocols, optimal dining times, and of course, his favorite locations.

Shotaro is Obsessed in Japan.

As I listen, I watch Chef work. Alone, with limbs both real and imagined he tends his giant broth vat, boils, sweeps, wipes, rinses, waits, ladles, lays noodles, and places toppings. No motion wasted.

Chef hands us our bowls.

This was far from my first Ramen bowl, but it feels distinct. Perhaps it’s the romance of the moment. Perhaps it’s the bowl’s simple elegance.

I delay the dive and allow myself to bear witness. I hear the Master whisper. Maybe he’s been whispering to me all my life. Maybe this is the first time I hear him.

Cue the violin.

I observe the bowl. Appreciate it’s gestalt. Simple, yet subtly magnificent. Translucent chicken broth, light chestnut in hue, fragrances the air. Noodles lay angelic in repose. Egg in full lunar glow hides a sun-core yolk. A Mona Lisa's veil of chicken fat covers the surface. Bamboo shoots rest like logs on a forest floor. Three shy slices of pearl white chicken hide beneath a crown of bright green spring onions.

Gestalt appreciated. Smells smelled, I grant myself permission to begin. As to the young man’s question in the beginning, soup is the short answer. Always soup first. I fill my spoon, raise it to my lips, and inhale a delicately aerating slurp.

Time grinds to a halt. I transport. Single note flavors, inch wide, yet infinite in depth. No tricks or distractions. I commune with the spirit of the chicken whose bones I sip. Surely a happy chicken who roamed idyllic pastures and munched fat worms.

Tasting this bowl revealed a hidden door to an elevated plane in a house I thought I knew so well. I surrender to the magnitude of what I do not know. I am Jasmine riding Shotaro's magical carpet to a whole noodley world.

It's said that the faster a drug hits, the more addicting it becomes. Such was this case. I was hooked. I slurp chew and grunt and slurp chew grunt some more. I’m lost. Shio Ramen is more light lager than IPA in beer terms, I think to myself. Simple. Clean. Nowhere to hide. Easy to learn. Difficult to master.

This is mastery.

I begin to understand why Ramen is such an individual experience. Even though I sit next to others, all that exists is me and this bowl. I lose verbal function. Nina and Shotaro are off on their own journeys. A noodley vipassana.

I admire Chef and his craft. He's alone. Grinding. Sweating. His work never ends. Where does his drive come from? Why do it? What does he dream of? What keeps him up at night? I don't know. All I'll ever know is that Chef is Obsessed in Japan.

Time passes. I regain consciousness and see my bowl empty. We bow, express appreciation, and leave. We’re not done. Tonight is a Ramen Double Header.

Shotaro walks us through another alleys maze. Along the way he points to seemingly random store fronts, remarking on the world class Ramen shops hiding within.

There’s about 400 top quality Ramen shops in Tokyo alone, Shotaro notes.

So you’re saying you can eat world class Ramen every single day a different shop for a year without going to the same place twice?, I respond, shocked.

Yes, correct, he confirms. It’s a tough business. They have to be amazing or they will shut down.

I consider professional Ramen junkie for my alternate reality life in Japan.

Behind Ramen Door Number 2 is the Hokkaido specialty Miso (fermented soybean) Ramen. This is the best Miso Ramen in Tokyo, Shotaro say confidently. This shop is similar to the first. Small. Minimal décor. Vending machine. Chef, again alone, tends to many tasks.

Our bowls appear. Other than the base noodle-soup form, the two bowls couldn't be more different. Gestalt more heavy metal than classical. Dense wafting aromas. Opaque bronze broth. Thick gold noodles. Bristling bean sprouts. Boisterous bamboo shoots. Extroverted pork slab. Egg in full lunar glow. Ginger jeweled spring onion crown.

Ablutions completed, we dive in. Soup spoon slurp. Noodle pull chew. I soul-inhabit a wild boar romping Hokkaido’s snow capped peaks. Untamable. Robust. Sovereign. Flavors deep and complex. Broth rich and fatty. Noodles chewy. Toppings complimentary.

Reality returns. The bowl is empty. One bowl of Ramen slows us down. Two immobilizes us. Nina is pleased. I’m pleased. Shotaro is pleased. Gratitude given, we part ways. Ramen Day One is a success.

Ramen would become a near-daily quest on our noodley sub-pilgrimage. We waited in lines, clumsily navigated vending machines and exposed the tip of Japan's infinite noodle iceberg.

Tsukamen (dipping noodles). Niboshi Ramen (anchovy). Tori Paitan (creamy chicken). Duck Ramen. More Shio. More Miso. Shoyu Ramen (soy sauce). Tonkotsu (pork broth) Udon (technically it's own thing, but whatever). Nina and I even find ourselves on the other side of the counter living out our Tampopo fantasies making our own Ramen bowls.

I leave Japan enthralled. Enchanted. Gleeful. Yet, in a small way, saddened. I’ve slurped Paradise’s noodley apple. I know the truth. I know what is and what might be. I know too much. Ramen back home doesn’t feel the same.

Am I enlightened or ruined?

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At the bottom of a dark flight of stairs we arrive at the door of a small restaurant in a dimly lit alleyway.

Crap, no, wrong place. The hostess politely maneuvers us away. We turn around, walk through another nearby alley craning our necks looking for the right sign.

No, not here.

We cross the street. Turn the corner. Do a barrel roll. Ascend the stairs.

Nope. Not here. Ughhhh.

Even with Google maps, Tokyo behaves like a petulant maze. We turn, spin, and peek into seemingly all the wrong places.

Wait…I think I found it. Another flight of stairs takes us to a dimly backlit door on a quiet commercial side street.

The hostess' first instinct is to shoosh us away as if our presence were an accident.

Sushi no Ikumi? I ask, presenting my reservation.

Ohhh!!! Her demeanor flips as she shooshes us to our seats at the sushi counter.

This is no accident.

Sushi no Ikumi is small and simple. No excessive ornamentation. No visual distractions. What is here is meant to be.

Our presence is surprising. Gaijin don't normally come here, an English speaking diner mentions. How did you hear about this place?

I know the right people, I say. I know where to go. I always know where to go. I am never wrong. I don't say that part of course, but that's the tone my confidence whispers.

In truth, it was Shotaro, the ramen junkie I’ll re-introduce later, who sent us here. It doesn’t have any Michelin stars, but it’s a great reasonably priced spot that few outsiders know about. I go there all the time, Shotaro explains.

Sushi no Ikumi is a glitch in Tokyo’s infinite sushi matrix, is how I interpret this.

Sign me up.

Everyone here seems to be in-the-know. Nina and I are a pattern interrupt. Combo breakers. The waiter fumbles to find us an English menu. Before he has a chance to follow through on his motions I make his life easier by uttering the magic phrase.

Osusume, I say with sensual confidence.

Osusume translates to recommendation. We don’t need to look at the menu. You bring us food. We eat food. But Osusume, at least how I interpret it, contains a deeper message. I’m in your home. I trust you. Do with me what you will.

Ohhh! Ok! Relationship established. The waiter bows, and appears to relax a little. Chef nods in approval. He knows that we know.

Signals given, the sushi train leaves the station. Watching a sushi master operate is apex culinary theatre. All motions have been rehearsed for years. Maybe decades. He slices and flows with the grace and precision of somebody in the possession of higher powers. No motion is wasted.

Aside for some small dishes like soup or karaage (fried chicken) there are no plates. Between sips of beer and sake Chef opens his palm to reveal his the latest gift.

Itadakimasu. This word is the mark of an advanced civilization. It translates (well, effectively) to from you we gracefully receive this lovely and cherished gift.

From his palm we grab the sushi, bite, chew and savor. Nina squeals. I grunt. It's good. Amazing. You know. Chef knows. We know. Chef knows that we know. The thin tensions amongst strangers gives way for intimacy amongst co-conspirators. Along the way we drop a few more Japanese words.

Kanpaiii! (cheers)

Oishiiiiiiii! (delicious)

Kireiiiiii! (pretty)

Sugooooooy! (impressive).

Our enthusiasm does most of the talking.

Each stop along the Sushi Express brings a new treasure from Japan’s highlight reel of fishy delights. Tuna. Scallop. Salmon. Tamago (technically, egg not from the sea). Oyster. Raw prawn. Roe. That shellfish that crinkles up with a smack.

Our bites, squeal, and grunts are disarming. Polite-but-distant becomes warm and inviting. Rudimentary words allow for pleasing banter.

Where are you from? Chef asks.

Texas! we say.

Ohhhh! Texas! Very good!

This is how dining should be. Cozy. Simple. Intimate. Ecstatic. We're happy to be here. They're happy that we're happy. We are worthy recipients of this sacred and fishy gift. Choo choo goes the sushi train until we arrive at our satiated station.

Stomach full. Sake scented. Smile untamable. We trade bows and make our way home.

Until we meet again.

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I'm not a simulation theorist. I don't think we're living in some artificial computer generated reality. But I do believe that we live in a different, human engineered, simulated reality. As a species, everything we've invented for the sake of safety and convenience has distanced us from the conditions our species evolved under. We’ve gone from huts to air-conditioned homes. Hunting to farming to Whole Foods. Walking to cars. Campfire stories to Netflix. So on and so forth. From this perspective, virtually all towns, villages and cities are, to varying extents, simulated realities.

I've experienced many of Earth's mega simulations. Miami. New York City. Paris. London. Hong Kong. Mexico City. Sao Paolo. Berlin. Madrid. Bangkok. However it took a mere week to conclude that Tokyo, in ways both magnificent and unnerving, is the most simulationy of all simulations. In this simulation-to-dwarf-all-simulations I see the promise of what might be, and the warning of what might be lost.

My Tokyo simulation begins the moment I step foot out of the metro station. In some ways I've been here before. I know big dense modernity. But something about Tokyo feels different. It’s tighter here. The streets smaller and buildings more compact.

Tokyo is three dimensional. Below ground is an infinite noodle bowl of subway lines and stores. Everywhere is something on the street level. Retail signs big and small. Advertisements. Shops. Vending machines. Mega screens. Restaurants. Metro stops. Municipal markings. Symbols to a language I’ll never know. Anime characters. Even Godzilla makes a cameo.

Looking up, every floor of every building is packed with micro businesses, mega mall department stores and shoebox apartments. Lining the cracks of tight alleyways are tiny bars and izakayas which function like bite sized living rooms for salaried beer clinkers.

But this still doesn’t explain the surreality I feel walking around Tokyo. What I sense is best approximated as an invisible yet ever present force guiding the flow of all things.

Take movement. Everyone walks, boards and exits trains, crosses streets, ascends escalators in coordinated and predictable patterns. Breaking this flow, for example crossing the street without permission, is non existent.

There’s no better demonstration than Shibuya Crossing. On the street level of Tokyo's (and perhaps, the world’s) busiest metro station is mass synchronized swimming in pedestrian form. Thousands stand patiently for the walk sign to flash. In the mean time streams of engines zip by in all directions. Then, at the flick of a switch, they stop. Then a massive and coordinated swarm of humans walk orderly in all directions. Many stay glued to their phones confident they wont bump into one another.

Unlike the other mega simulations I’ve experienced, Tokyo is more order than chaos. Everything is as it’s supposed to be. Trains always on time. People in their right place. No space wasted. I feel something I never would have imagined feeling in a place so stimulating - calm. The hustle and bustle is more hum than scream. Noises are more incidental consequences of footsteps, trains, and engines. Car horns, signs of things going wrong, are rare.

People keep quiet and to themselves. Nobody bothers us. I don’t have to shoo off swarms of scammy Mr. Hello-My-Friend. I feel nothing approximating fear as petty crime is virtually non existent. We walk in peace.

Cleanliness might be Tokyo's greatest miracle. Despite the dense population, trash is rare. Oddly, trash cans are even harder to find. Recycling is meticulously marked. Here, my trash is my problem. I’m told rats exist, but I see no evidence.

How does it work? Where does it all go? I imagine a plain looking government worker whose family has obsessed over effective trash management for generations. Much of it must be the Japanese’s deep rooted cultural programming for cleanliness. Each morning streets stream with soapy water as shopkeepers prepare their stores for the day. Shoes are never worn inside homes.

I find no better expression of Japan's collective obsession with cleanliness and technology than the Japanese Toilet. What the PlayStation 5 is to the original Game Boy, the Japanese Toilet is to it's western counterparts. The Japanese Toilet is far more than a tool for a natural function. It is an experience. The lid opens automatically. The seat is warm. I can manipulate the bidet in directions, patterns, and temperatures I never would have thought of. When all is quiet I hear the Japanese Toilet offering uplifting affirmations.

You are so brave.

You are so beautiful.

You are so loved.

You too toilet, you too.

The Japanese Toilet is as ubiquitous as it is magnificent. These shrines of techno-cultural excellence are everywhere. Apartments. Restaurants. Hotels. Cheap bars. Even public parks. I secretly yearn for foods of less-than-ideal sanitation that would allow me to spend more time on them. It is because of the Japanese Toilet that I understand why the Japanese have historically referred to us Westerners as barbarians.

Consider this barbarian cleansed.

Shopping in Tokyo is a distinct experience. Even with limited storage space, and little taste for mindlessly hedonic consumerism, I find myself enthralled by the depth, variety, and presentation of options. Nina and I wander around stores for electronics, books, anime, toys, groceries, vintage clothes, knife shops, and vinyl records. Cafes give us the option to snuggle with anything from cats and dogs to mini pigs and otters.

Akibahara is a comic book festival in permanent neighborhood form. In this hyper-compact neighborhood we find manga, anime, toys, retro arcades, video games, capsule toy machines, premium figurines, trading cards, cos-play, and electronics. Each floor of each building is swarmed by highly ordered and undersexed looking locals.

Even department stores, something that used to give my childhood self acute existential dread, are oddly compelling. Skipping the soulless mega luxury brands, I find myself sniffing Persian perfumes, tinkering with at masterfully designed adventure gear, trying on kimonos and fantasy-furnishing my never-to-exist Tokyo apartment. I could spend hours in that one particular book store.

But nothing prepared me the department store's most glorious feature - the basement floor. The bottom floors of all Japanese department stores are reserved for food halls. The Japanese Department Store Basement, or depachika, is the product of an illicit affair between Macy's and your local farmer's market.

Everything is presented with the formal precision and elevated sophistication. Balenciaga Bento Boxes. Gucci Sushi. Hermes macaroons. Dior dashi. Michael Kors Matcha. Burberry Boba. Coach Cakes. Not exactly, but you get the idea. If 2 Chainz gets to be buried inside a Gucci store, then I want to be buried inside a Japanese department store basement.

Crowning the peak of Tokyo’s infinitely curious retail culture is a an experience that nearly broke me. In a land known for infinite consumer curiosities is a store more infinite, more curious, and more absurd than anything I’ve ever experienced.

It’s name is Don Quijote.

Don Quijote’s mascot is not a windmill slaying knight, but an imposing blue penguin perched high atop the stores peak greeting you with passive deference. Inside is one part Walmart, one part Party City, designed by the clown that gave your childhood self nightmares, and magnified by the perfectly wrong dose of acid.

Don Quijote’s offerings span the spectrum of the practical and the absurd. Rice cookers. Inflatable dinosaur costumes. Electric nose shapers. Cleaning supplies. Eyebrow stamps. Home electronics. Edible grasshoppers. Wasabi flavored Kit Kats. Manga. Pet costumes. Pet strollers. Breast enhancement creams. Vibrating slimmings belts. Disposable film cameras. Anime figurines. Giant stuffed Pikachus. Screens blast music from a live action Hello Kitty concert.

It’s at this point that I begin to fray. Each of my senses start overloading simultaneously. There’s too much to look at. Too many sounds in all directions. Too much absurdity to process. A new phrase comes to mind - simulation maxxing. Ten minutes of Don Quijote simulation maxxing is all I can handle before my psychic wiring begins to short circuit.

If Tokyo were a video game, the Don Quijote penguin would be it’s Final Boss.

Night kicks the Tokyo simulation into overdrive. Streets become a galaxy of colorful lights, screens, signs, lanterns and back-lit office windows. Dull clothed salarymen become hyper stylized socialites crowding bars and restaurants.

It’s in this moment I realize the city most comparable to Tokyo isn’t New York City, but Sim City. Here I’m a pawn inside an infinite fantasy arcade of lights sounds and smells. Atop a tower night time Tokyo has me feeling like a fish in a glowing ocean. Tokyo is everything I want it to be.

So goes day after day. Night after night. We lilly-pad across cozy cafes, steaming ramen shops, tight streets, smoky izakayas, crowded subways, konbinient konbini stores, new neighborhoods, Japanese toilets, sushi joints, department store basements and crafty cocktail bars. Every step illuminates a new pixel of this infinite mosaic. I can do this for lifetimes.

The dominant feelings in my emotional pie chart include glee, giddiness, awe, wonder, excitement, and joy. But the more time I spend in Tokyo the more I feel the sliver of another emotion. There’s something off. Something unnerving.

Disconnection is the word that keeps coming to mind.

Despite being surrounded by people at all times it feels as if we don’t exist. Everyone is locked into the micro-simulations contained within their phones. Few connect with each other, let alone us. No eye contact. No handshakes. Hugs may have gone extinct here. No acknowledgement. We might as well be fleshy entities occupying physical space.

Nobody is rude of course. The Japanese are as polite and well mannered as you would expect, but warmth is elusive. In ramen shops people slurp world class noodles while watching shows on their phone. The ubiquitous host and hostess bars, where lonely men and women pay professionals to keep them company, signals an acute shortage of basic human connection.

I ask locals what it’s like making friends and building community here. Nobody gives me a compelling answer. Most seem to be lone-wolfing it. Few I talk to seem interested in dating. As much as I love solo traveling, this is not a place I would want to be alone. Thankfully I have Nina.

Outside Tokyo’s postcard areas, day time feels dreary. Dull grey toothpick buildings blur in the foreground of a dull grey sky. Dull clothed salarymen rush to and fro like bees to a hive.

I find myself arriving at conclusions I know to be false. Words like robotic, mechanical, soulless and ant-like come to mind. I know this isn’t accurate. I know there’s thousands of years of history and cultural heritage hiding beneath the surface. I know the rich worlds contained in manga, anime and games like Final Fantasy. I know the absurdity of Japanese game shows and tentacle porn. There just seems to be a gap between what I see and what I know.

But more unnerving, I sense a disconnection from nature. What nature there is comes in the form of beautiful, but mostly ornamental parks. Bright blue plastic tarps separate picnickers from grass. People, even when alone, wear masks as if it were the middle of 2020. The sun is the greatest enemy. Even in the depths of summer many cover every exposed inch of their bodies in fear of exposure.

Privacy seems to be the ultimate casualty where space is the ultimate commodity. Domesticities I take for granted like a living room, personal car and spacious kitchen seem to be luxuries experienced by few. Maybe hyper personalized microsimulations are the final refuge for privacy.

If the darker elements of the simulation were rings in Dante’s simulated inferno, the final ring would be found inside a pachinko parlor. Inside I discover The Matrix manifest. Rows and rows of machines mounted by disconnected beings drip dropping their coins and souls into hyper-stimulating extraction devices. Everywhere, anime characters from the cute to the busty and ripped hint their encouragement. Replacing the screams of the dammed is an infinite rolling thunderstorm of slots, machine engines, computer sounds.

Roar goes the beast. On goes the simulation.

The longer I’m here, the more Japan’s birth-rate crisis makes sense. In a place with so much to do, it seems people have forgotten about the one thing we’re supposed to do as a species. To what extent is this the consequence of dense hypermodernity? To what extent is it the Japanese character? Open questions.

Tokyo is a dream manifest. A life long fantasy fulfilled. I got to explore a world radically different from my own, imagine myself living an alternate reality marvel at the promises of what might be, and remember what I appreciate about my life back home. Tokyo isn’t a simulation I would live in, but it is a game I can play again, again and again.

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My first time in Japan wasn't pretty. After months at sea my ship crashed onto shore. Most of my shipmates who weren't already dead would die soon after landing. In this strange new land I would find myself in the middle of a massive civil war between rival warlords. Leveraging my skills and guile I would go on to play a small, but meaningful role in helping the warlord who saved my life ascend the Japanese throne.

Well, that wasn't me exactly. I was a teenager riding shotgun on John Blackthorne's adventures through 17th century Japan in James Clavell’s epic novel Shogun. Never before had my mind's eye built such an elaborate and extravagant world of exotic sights, smells, flavors, and cultural intrigues.

Or maybe my first time in Japan was through the eyes and sword of Squall Leonhart questing to thwart Ultimecia's time-compressing scheme for world domination in Final Fantasy VIII.

Or maybe it was watching Goku battle the universe's greatest villains to save his adopted planet from destruction. Or maybe it was as a boy growing up in Pallet Town aspiring to be the very best, like no one ever was. To travel across the land, search far and wide, and reveal the power that’s inside.

Perhaps it was long before that as a toddler in a tiny suburban Miami strip mall sushi joint scorching my tongue on miso soup, awkwardly chopsticking rainbow rolls and discovering the glories of fried red-bean ice cream.

In ways, part of me grew up in Japan.

Adulthood accelerated this obsession. My best friend, Max, steered me towards anime's greatest hits like Death Note and Full Metal Alchemist. YouTube took me through the samurai slashing Sengoku Jidai (Warring States Era), the re-centralizing Edo Period, and the hyper-modernizing Meiji Restoration. Dan Carlin and Ken Burns guided me through the Russo-Japanese War, the Korean Occupation, the Manchurian invasion, the Rape of Nanking, Pearl Harbor, Iwo Jima, and eventually Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Jake Adelstein and Robert Whiting offered me clues as to how post war Japan went from near nuclear annihilation to the Yakuza, Hello Kitty, and Pikachu. James Payne introduced me to Hokusai's Great Wave, wood block prints and Ukiyo-e. The North Star of my taste buds have led me to ravishing extravagant omakase dinners and noodle pulling the best ramen of every city I went to.

Now, with the book published, it was time to begin my long overdue pilgrimage. Armed with the finances, blessed by time, aided by my skills as a global navigator, and accompanied by my Dragon-princess-adventure-partner, Nina, it was time to turn imagination into reality. For three weeks we would color in the outlines scribbled by the mind's eye, indulge our curiosities, dispel delusions, recruit allies, walk ancient trails, discover new questions, conclude surprising conclusions, and of course, eat ourselves silly.

For decades I'd been obsessed with Japan.

Now it was time to be Obsessed in Japan.

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There's a lot of productive things I could be doing right now. It's Friday afternoon on a cold gloomy day. I could be marketing my book, working on the next, serving clients, selling my new course, learning new skills or hitting the gym.

But I am but a mere pawn of Higher Incomprehensible Forces, and they have other plans for me. Their message is clear.

Tonight’s the night. It has to happen. Must happen.

Steak Night.

What I am compelled by is Dexter-like in it’s force and inevitability.

This is why I'm at the Butcher Shop looking through a window of seductively red meats. This is not your typical big-box grocery store butcher shop. There are no plastic-styrofoam-wrapped meat prisons. Meats here are sourced from the best Texas ranches, hand-selected and tenderly wrapped in waxy butcher's paper.

The Meats on display are a runway show of protein's most glorious delights. Wagyu New York Strip. Filet Mignon. 30 Day Dry Aged Tomahawk. Porterhouse. T-Bones. Tenderloin. Each commands a King's ransom - too much even for my guest-inflated budget.

That's ok.

There are glitches in the meat-matrix known as Butcher's Cuts. These are the less-famous cuts butchers keep for themselves because they're the perfect balance of quality and price. Angus Chuck Eye. Denver Blade. Underblade. Hanger. Picanha. Skirt.

“I'll take...that that and that..aaand some of that.” I inform The Butcher. Seconds pass. I crack under enthusiastic pressure and toss in two Ribeyes for good measure. Returning home now would be the simple and smart thing to do.

I am neither.

Besides, Steak Night is about much more than Steak. I rarely plan Steak Night's menu ahead of time. Higher Incomprehensible Forces offer hints and I listen.

They whisper many things to me. Maybe it's Heirloom-Tomato-Goat-Chevre-Bruschetta on Toasted Sourdough. Maybe it's Golden Potatoes boiled and roasted in a Garlic-Herb-Compound-Butter. Perhaps it’s Lemon-accented Chicken-Bone-Broth-Pesto Jasmine Rice. Maybe it’s a Charcuterie of Morcilla, Lardon, Ibérico, ‘Nduja, Aged Parmesan, English Cheddar and Brie. Maybe its Heirloom Black Beans with Smoked Ham Hock, or Charred Broccolini on a bed of Whipped Ricotta.

Maybe they whisper Mexican Salsa Macha, Jimmy Charles (chimichurri for those in the Know), or it's Black-Garlic-Cabernet-Port-Vinegar variant.

Anything can happen.

This is where things get out of hand. See, some people have problems with porn, drugs and alcohol. I have a boutique grocery store problems. Fortunately (?), this Butcher Shop doubles as a cute and meticulously curated boutique grocery store. Here I am an opposable-thumb-enabled credit-card-financed dog at the treat store.

God help me.

Powerless, things go blurry. In the thin slices of light between bouts of darkness I see my basket fill with goodies like Mushroom Pesto, East Tiger Sourdough, Fresh Buffalo-Milk Cheese, Award-Winning Goat-Chevre, Cabernet-Port Vinegar, obnoxiously bright Heirloom Tomatoes, Heirloom Kidney Beans and Heirloom Carolina Gold Rice. (Heirloom, since you asked, means expensive and better than you.)

I regain consciousness at the check out counter. The cashier notices my eye drift towards the humbly priced pork steaks.

Thinking about more? she asks.

Don't tempt me, witch! I think.

I’m good. I say.

I swipe my credit card. The bill is far more than anticipated…which is what I anticipated. Steak Night, if I were to be true to my inner-most heart-of-hearts, is largely an excuse for me to indulge in boutique culinary degeneracy.

Which is why I charge people.

I used to feel weird about asking Homies for money. However, burning my wallet each Steak Night wouldn't be sustainable. Besides, I've learned people prefer contributing than not contributing. Each person chipping in the price of an overpriced cocktail keeps me in the ballpark of break-even which is enough for me.

Now onto The Wine.

Wine is Steak’s liquid best friend. It’s more elegant then beer, operationally simpler than cocktails, and is a match made in Flavor Heaven. Conveniently, The Wine Shop neighbors The Butcher Shop.

The Wine Shop is perfectly petite. Nothing is here by accident. I monopolize the Wine-Geek-Shop-Manager's attention.

Tonight is Steak Night, I explain. The Manager doesn’t fully recognize the gravity of this statement, which I forgive.

I communicate my desires.

I don't want some overly-bold tannin-heavy Dad-wine. I want to have fun. Get funky. I want to go on a flavor adventure. Wound up by my inquiries, the Manager spins through the store highlighting her favorites.

This wine is blah blah blah! That wine is doo doo do! That wine is dee dee dee!

Pretending I know what she's saying, I select the bottles that bullseye the price, adventure, and enthusiasm matrix - a Piedmontese Barbaresco, a Willamette Valley Pinot, and a curveball Texas High Plains Carbonic Counoise (pronounced: KoonWah, since you asked.). Let it also be said that I am a man of All The Homies - even the sober ones. For them I acquire delightful alcohol-removed Spanish sparkling wine.

Food and Wine secured I return home. The Homies arrive in a few hours. Nothing is prepared, but I'm not stressed. I know what I'm doing.

I walk in the door and the immediately the mantra blares in my head.

Salt The Steak! Salt The Steak! Salt The Steak!

Always Always Always Salt The Steak when you get home.

I pat-dry and rain The Steaks with a Diamond Kosher Salt and freshly cracked Black Peppercorn. The Salt penetrates, softens, extracts moisture, and assists with the juice-locking sear-crust. Once dried, salted, and peppered, I set The Steaks off to the side.

Steak is the easiest part of Steak Night.

…unless of course, it’s not. Maybe I'm feeling frothy and vacuum seal The Steaks in a sous-vide bag with a Compound-Garlic-Herb-Butter infusion and set the water bath at a rare 120°F.

Now the real work begins. I put on an audiobook, likely some deep dark and dense book about Soviet Russia, grow extra limbs and slip into a culinary trance. Cooking ahead of time let’s me be more Host than Chef when The Homies arrive.

I could be doing any number of things. Setting the meez. Chopping and caramelizing Onions. Slicing Peppers. Defrosting Bone Broth. Trashing scraps. Tearing dried Mexican Chilis. Wiping the counter. Smashing Spices. Toasting Seeds and Nuts. Mandolining Carrots. Boiling Potatoes. Cleaning. Soaking Rice. Picking Parsley. Grating Ginger. Smashing Garlic. Cleaning some more. Blending sauces. Buzzing Ricotta. Grating and squeezing lemons. Tasting and flavor editing for perfection.

I lose track of time. Hours pass. The Homies arrive soon. I scrap my overly optimistic gym plans, shower, finish food prep, don my tan-blazer-graphic-tee combo and get the house ready.

To the corner go my electronics. Dim go the lights. On goes the vibey-jazzy-hip-hoppy-loungey-cozy-dinner-party beats.

Steak Night is late enough to shift from work to evening energy, yet early enough to not disrupt adulty sleep patterns.

According to the time, Steak Night has technically begun, but nobody, than maybe Eric, shows up on time. That's fine. There's no strict start time. Homies come when they can and leave when they want.

I never know exactly who will come. The Higher Incomprehensible Forces that be don’t give me much time to organize Steak Night. This is fine. Short time windows optimize for randomness, spontaneity and the intimate amount of Homies my cozy house can fit.

I flash The Steak Night beacon into the Homiesphere and see who bites. Invariably, Steak Night is a random cross pollination of Old Homies, New Homies, Last Minute Plus Ones minus Last Minute Drop Outs from all corners of the Homiesphere.

The Homies trickle in - slowly, and then quickly. Unsurprisingly, Homies bring surprises.

Imran brings mezcal. Eric, Artisanal Cheeses. Seth, Tequila. Wyn, Gin. Jada, Cabernet Sauvignon (and extra glasses). Hannah, Pet-Nat. Jake, homemade Chicken-Liver-Paté and more Cheeses. Hutch, Pickled Red Onions and Black Garlic for the Jimmy Charles. Meg, Buttered Sweet Potato Cake. Lauren, secretly paranoid of Steak running out, brings more Steak. Dani, Steak in human form, brings herself.

Steak Night is a co-created experience.

Everyone gets a drink. Booze Homies start with Hannah’s fizzy Pét-nat. Non boozers get Fizzy Water or the Booze-Removed Spanish Wine. Homies nibble on Eric’s Cheeses and Jake’s Paté.

The Homies are pleased.

My once quiet living-room-kitchen is abuzz in conversation and groovy beats. Unbound by the strict confines of a restaurant table, people fluidly mix, mingle, chit and chatter at their whim.

Time passes. The first course is ready. Stuff-on-Toasted-Sourdough is my go-to starter. Minimal prep. Simple presentation. This time it's the Pizza-like Heirloom-Tomato-Chevre-Balsamic-Bruschetta variant. Once toasted, I slide the Bruschetta onto the thick burgundy striped wooden Cutting Board and chop it into bite sized potions.

We use plates and utensils when they make sense, but I prefer hand-food like this. Less trouble. More intimacy. This won’t be the last hand-eaten food.

People take their bite. Call me arrogant, but I’ve perfected this dish. The Bruschetta is hot, crunchy, acidic, sweet, vegetal, creamy and garlicky. The reactions are predictable.

The Homies curse and grunt in delightful amusement.

Elementary, Watson.

All till now has been foreplay.

Steak is the easiest part of Steak Night. The Steaks are room-temp. The Salt has had hours to work it's magic. I give The Steaks one final pat-down and sneak outside. Some Homies follow. The grill is scraped and hot. Very hot.

My hand finds the hot-hot part of the grill. On go The Steaks.

TSSSSSSSSSSS!!! My linguistic capacity devolves to primal grunts.

UHHHH!!!! OOOHHH!!!

My thin attachment to civility is contained in the surprisingly wonderful Carbonic Counoise swirling around my glass.

Sssssssiiiip.

Time passes. I flip The Steaks.

Flames flare. I am the conductor of this terrifyingly primal Sizzle Symphony.

TTTTSSSSSSSSSSS!!!

OOOOOHHHH!!! AAAAAAHHHH!!!

Time passes. I touchy-touch and pokey-poke The Steaks until I feel the right amount of bounce. Once ready I plate and return to the festivities.

A hush befalls The Homies. Noses flare. Eyes bulge. I slide The Steaks onto The Cutting Board where they rest. Steak must rest so the juices don't run away. Never slice early. I grab my oversized Japanese Steel Chinese Cleaver - insinuating drastic consequences for those who disrupt the process.

Time passes. The Steaks are rested. The Steaks are ready.

The Ceremony begins. This is what the Higher Incomprehensible Forces commanded, what I toiled for, and why The Homies convened.

Tonight’s is the night. It has to happen. Must happen.

Steak Night begins.

I carefully inspect The Steaks for grain direction. Cutting with-the-grain means a stubbornly tough chew. Against-the-grain cuts ensure perfectly soft chewability. Always cut against the grain.

I begin what must be done. Forces inhabit my body and guide my hand. I black in and out of consciousness as The Cleaver, majestic in form and terrifying in strength glides through The Steaks with devastating precision.

The Homies, having lost all basic linguistic capacities, grunt and glare.

AAAUUUGHHH!!! UUUUGGGHHHHH!!!

Slices reveal the well marbled reds and pinks I seek. Perfect cuts splay across The Cutting Board. It’s borderline pornographic. I fend off overly enthusiastic hands so I can apply the Final Touch - a flaky Maldon Sea Salt. These tiny pyramidal structures are the beacons that light this steaky flavor tower.

I give the signal. The thin pretentions of our modernist civilities fade. Hands swarm like piranhas. The Homies grunt and moan. Eyes roll back. Even me, despite having done this many times, am floored. The Steak is a soft sensual and salty umami bomb.

UUUUGGGGHHHH!!! AWWWMAAAGAAAD!!! MMMMMM!!!

I sip on my Barbaresco and laugh mischievously. There is more. Steak is perfect as is. It needs no elevation. But in my admirably delusional folly I seek that which should not be sought.

The first elevation is Steak paired with the Mexican Salsa Macha - a spicy and spiced Category 5 sweet and sour hurricane of Spices, Nuts and Chilis. One taste stirs wonder, awe, and confusion. This is a flavor destination reached by few.

Next is a bold variant of the Argentinian classic, Chimichurri (Jimmy Charles). Mine is fortified by Black-Garlic-Cabernet-Port-Vinegar. It is a pairing both strange, familiar, but delectably ethereal. It’s gently sweet herbaceous acidity is an elegant juxtaposition of textures and flavors.

Side dishes enter the picture. Pesto Bone-Broth-Jasmine-Rice and/or Garlic-Herb-Compound-Butter Roasted Golden Potatoes are worthy companions.

But we are not done. I introduce The Final Elevation - Balsamic Vinegar. Mind you, this isn't the sad watery liquid you find at your ordinary store. Oh no. The Balsamic I speak of, sourced only from millennia-aged villages in Modena, Italy, is a sweetly acidic and syrupy portal into an alternate flavor dimensions. It is the 5-MeO-DMT of condiments.

Each of us takes a Balsamically micro-dosed Steak. We bite. Taste buds activate in ways they’ve never been activated. A fissure ruptures the mind-body-consciousness connection. Our souls merge and we ascend the elevator to the untouched peak of Flavor Mountain.

Here we experience a moment eclipse-like in it's perfection and ephemerality. In this brief slice of time all is right in the world. The music sounds right. The smells and tastes, intoxicating. The Homies radiate love and excitement. Higher Mysterious Forces signal their pleasure.

From here, all life is bonus. I've done my part.

A tiny eternity passes. The flavors recede. We descend to reality. Steak Night is not done. Far from it. This is merely the first of many peaks to come.

The munching, sipping, bantering and vibing resume. More waves of Steak are grilled, sliced, drizzled and elevated until The Homies can't take anymore.

We almost forget desert. Extra belly space opens up. Maybe we finish with Nina's Burnt Basque Cheesecake, Meg's Sweet Potato Pie or the Chocolate Raspberry Cake Imran and Bhagya picked up.

The perfect finale.

I start cleaning. Dani interrupts and kicks me out of the kitchen. More Homies join the cleanup. I relent and shift from host to guest.

The buzz lightens. The lights dim. The kitchen regains it’s sparkle. Homies offer hugs goodbye. Tonight, old connections deepened. New ones formed. Taste buds escalated new heights.

Tonight was Steak Night. Had to happen. And it’s going to happen again and again and again.

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What's your spirit animal?

It seemed like a reasonable question to ask the cat-eared girl clutching a stuffed chicken bobbing next to me at the concert. I was feeling isolated in the crowd and hoped a briefly silly connection with a stranger would break the monotony.

She turns to me, fangs popping from her mouth, and hissed That's a stupid fucking question. Why would you ask that? She tightened the grip on her stuffed chicken and resumed bobbing to the music.

....rattlesnake...I thought.

Her word-venom shocked me into recognizing the obvious. I wasn't into the music. The lights were more overstimulating than entertaining. I couldn’t connect to the crowd (which rattlesnake girl highlighted). I couldn't even connect with the friends I came with. Despite doing something that should have been fun, I felt completely disconnected.

That's when the metaphorical apple materialized and doinked me on the head.

What the fuck was I doing here?

Once the sub-obvious became obvious I left the concert, went home and prayed a stuffed coyote would shred rattlesnake girl's stuffed chicken to pieces.

This brief and petty interaction triggered a now-obvious revelation that I suspect will change the rest of my life.

Most of my senses are obvious. It’s obvious when I smell something I yummy, taste something icky, see something dangerous, touch something painful, and hear something I want to bougie to. Because I’m connected to these senses I eat food I like, listen to music I like, and avoid burning myself on the stove.

Wonderful.

But I’ve now realized I have other senses that are less obvious, but perhaps more profound.

The one I’ll talk about here is what I’ll call my Alexander Sense. Maybe you can think about it as instinct, gut feeling or intuition. Where my nose calibrates to smell and my eyes to vision, my Alexander Senses calibrates me to…a deeper me.

For the same reason it’s impossible to explain what a cheeseburger tastes like with words, it’s impossible to explain what this deeper sense feels like. The best I can do is say that it feels like a deep sense of knowing.

To simplify it, the Alexander Sense senses connection or disconnection.

Disconnection feels like something is off.

This “off” feeling has manifested in many ways throughout my life. It was the isolation I felt at the concert. It was the dullness of growing up in wealthy-yet-empty suburbia and feeling mismatched to the culture I grew up around.

In college it was trying to fit in with people who didn’t want me in their groups. It’s come from fake what-can-I-get-from-you conversations at networking events and cringy overly-contrived “spiritual” events.

It’s what I felt suiting up to interview for jobs I never wanted and the this-feels-like-high-school feeling of waiting for the clock to hit 5 at my old job.

Senses have their ways of of being heard. It’s the pain of touching a hot stove, gagging after eating gross food, and the disgust of an overly pungent fart. My Alexander Sense has it’s ways of being heard. Some are more obvious than others.

One thing has always been consistent. The longer I ignore my Alexander Sense, the more painful the signal becomes. Ignored long enough the signal, like a ghost banging on the door of my soul, becomes louder and louder. It throws everything at me from anxiety, dread, anger, self sabotage and depression until I get the hint and listen to what it’s saying.

While never fun in the moment, I’m always grateful in retrospect for these dark periods. Allowing myself to feel what this deeper sense has been telling me has helped avoid the wrong paths in life so I could find the right ones.

None of this is to say that I’m abandoning logic or reason for the intuitive. Logic and reason are necessary to synchronize to the world of mortgages and taxes.

But I can only guess what my life would be like if I only governed myself purely through reason. Externally I would have the “right” career, income and badges of prestige. Internally I would be a hollow shell of myself desperately searching for connection. I would have everything and nothing.

Connection is the inverse. Whereas disconnection feels off, connection feels on. Whereas disconnection has accounted for virtually all the pain in my life, connection accounts for everything great in my life.

Connection is what I feel planting roots in a city I love. It’s what I’ve felt wandering the world. It’s what I feel when I cook, host dinner parties, stroll fine art museums, play disc golf with the homies, read history books and hug people who love me for who I am. Soon, connection will manifest as the most important work of my life - my first published book.

The difference between then and now, thanks in small part to the chicken-clutching rattlesnake-girl, is that I’m way more aware of what connection and disconnection feels like.

The Process & The Bet

I’m sure these feelings have all sorts of rational explanations, but I’m realizing there’s a lot I don’t need to rationalize. The same way I don’t need to rationalize why I hate cilantro I don’t need to justify why I’m attracted to somebody, why I love playing disc golf, why certain things feel better than other things.

Here’s what my senses tell me. Self respect is respecting what my senses tell me. Self love is trusting these senses, for reasons I don’t understand, somehow have my best interest in mind.

A caveat. I’m not prescribing you do the same with your You Senses. I don’t know what your senses tell you. Yours may suck and guide you to disaster. What I know is that my senses have guided me well, so I’m going to continue to listen to them.

Of course, the Alexander Sense won’t be the only way I make decisions. It’s imperfect in the way my other senses are. However it will be louder voice in my mental conference room.

Moving forward I’m going to consult my Alexander Sense to help me decide what to work on, what to avoid, what hobbies to deepen, pick places to explore, who to work with and which relationships to invest in (or let go of).

Maybe it’s blind faith, but I’m trusting the Alexander Sense will guide me to where I want to go and who I want to become.