Fyona, I am your father.

(It’s not a broken wing, it’s to keep her from chewing on her IV.)

Okay, so that happened. Like most big recent events in my life, I found myself stranded in a semi-foreign land when it happened and more or less alone. Sure, this particular time I was about 4 miles from home and my wife and daughter were across the street, but in Los Angeles across the street may as well be Agoura Hills. I’m also not really complaining. I love strangers. On foot and looking for a bite to eat while Mom and Baby enjoyed deep sleep provided by mild antibiotics for various minor ills, I went to a bar.

The night after Christmas when the streets were empty, 4 people sat at the bar, all employees. I decided to have myself a little celebration: one vodka martini with blue cheese olives, straight up. I told the barman to “shake the shit out of it,” because asking for it “shaken, not stirred” is for jackasses. (Well, only one guy can do it.)

I’d like to thank the staff for a great time. It was a magical 30 minutes before I went back to the hospital, but in those minutes, there were no questions or worries or thoughts for the future. There was only Sinatra and vodka, an endless glass the barman would top off with individually shaken swigs to keep me to my “one martini” rule. I was a happy father, slapping backs of strangers in a bar and shaking hands with busboys. I am still a happy father. There’s always a lot on the horizon, but when the sun is rising and the day is looking bright, you feel like you can conquer it all by lunch. 

Thanks, strangers. Perhaps we’ll meet again, down the trail.