Cross Country Memories

I woke up today thinking of Phoenix. Perhaps it was the weak, pale February sun streaming in my windows, filtered through gossamer white cirrus clouds. Only in the winter, with the cold sucking humidity out of the air and the thick trees bare, does Virginia ever approach the sheer visibility of the Southwest. And on a morning such as this, my mind went back to the crisp clarity of a Friday evening, the sun all coppery on the darkling sand, when my pilot and I passed a Southwest 737 on the approach path into Phoenix Sky Harbor airport.

I've had some occasion of late to reflect on the past, and one of the things that stands out the most is my need to keep busy. Well, busy is not the right word--distracted, more like. It's stood me in good stead, actually. In college, when I was finally shamed enough about mediocre grades to put in some effort, it drove me to a respectable finish. And when I entered the fleet as a mighty, world-famous Green Knight, it put me up for a lot of working weekends.

Now, the reality of a fighter squadron is, literally, training. Training to kill, in the air and on the ground. In the Marine Corps, the latter is much more important and it is additionally required that fighters be able to kill on the ground only one side of the battle--the enemy--while leaving the friendlies unscathed. Considering the proudly stated mission of the Marine Rifle Squad is "to locate, close with, and destroy the enemy by fire and maneuver, or to repel the enemy assault by fire and by close combat," well, some degree of precision in this endeavor is required from us carefree airedales.

So there is a secondary reality, and that is flight hours. As Malcolm Gladwell put it, the path to proficiency lies in hours spent (10,000 hours being the minimum requirement for mastery, and while we all strive for that, who has that much time, I wonder?), and so our individual and collective ability to kill our enemies without fragging that closing and destroying Marine Rifle Squad relied on flight hours.

Flight hours, of course, are expensive. Not just in fuel (2,000 or so gallons of which we used each flight), but more tellingly in maintenance. For it is axiomatic in the realm of physics, whose laws are inexorable for us as those of death and taxes, that maneuvering such as is required to arrive quckly and safely in the right spot of the sky, oriented the correct way, in a slightly negative-G dive (which helps the bomb fall more closely aligned to the aircraft computer-extrapolated ballistic path) to deliver some hundreds of pounds of hate and discontent upon the enemy, accurately, puts some necessary and occasionally violent force on the jet. All the computers, and hydraulic pumps, and hinges and joins and bolts and generators, all the structural fuselage elements--all of them subject to sudden loading and unloading of gravitational forces as we airedales, with joy in our hearts and laughter in our voices (it's true) yank and bank our way up from the safety of terrain masking and roll in aggressively to "the chute," that wonderful and terrifying flight path from which said hate and discontent would shortly be dealt, but also a dangerous prison of principle, for in "the chute" one is "on government time," a nice way of saying we are required by divers oaths, spoken and unspoken, to deliver the fire support so desperately needed by our comrades regardless of personal safety, and a jet scribing a predictable straight path through the sky toward an intended target for some five to ten seconds makes a juicy target for the foes and their air defenses, doesn't it precious?

Which is all to say that the airplanes, designed as they are for the Newtonian toll by wonderful engineers at Boeing, undergo quite a beating in everyday flight. And they are not, therefore, always working.

Now, fear not. Being nothing less than a professional organization, American Naval Aviation has instituted many safeguards to ensure that broken aircraft are diagnosed and healed quickly (for machines so complicated, which carry life in their austere and purposeful cockpits, act more like living things than cold machinery). The fine Marines who crawl all over the jet and learn it's most secret places, in rain and cold and heat and long, deadly sunny days, they diligently diagnose all manner of little issues, and even more diligently repair them. They are Marines, of course, and are deeply invested in doing their job correctly - something to which I've alluded before. And they certainly won't certify a broken aircraft for us airedales to fly.

That means we only have so many aircraft at any one time, and as each aircraft can only fly so many times per day (three), we only have so many flights. And with a squadron of 34 aggressive, type A, red-blooded aviators all clamoring for flight hours (for to reach eventually that 10,000, though I've only ever heard of one gentlemen do it, and he wasn't flying the Hornet's ful 13 tons of twisted steel, sex appeal, fully articulating leading and trailing control surfaces, and hydraulic and electric circuits, so I'll spare him my envy for his piston-engined, single-control-surface monoplanes), and more importantly all 34 needing training for to kill accurately, space on that flight schedule gets pretty precious. When you start factoring in that maybe only 10 of the aviators are qualified tactical instructors, and one of them is needed for every flight with an unqualified aviator trying to get qualified for to become officially more accurate at killing, well, Flight Hours are very precious indeed, and you can probably forget Mr. Gladwell's 10,000.

But. A brilliant solution. The United States having a vast and reliable network of airfields left over from the days they also enjoyed a comfortable technological and economic advantage over the rest of the world, due largely to the vision and enterprise of men and women like that 10,000 flight hour earner (and where did all of that go, we wonder), and airedales being professionals, well, why don't you go seek your 10,000 hours on the weekend, young WSO? However, you must not under any circumstances come back to the home field until you are scheduled to do so. Therefore you must seek your fortune elsewhere--in Las Vegas, or Phoenix, or Long Beach, or Palo Alto. If you can show good reason, you may go farther afield: Seattle, Portland, Boise, Lake Tahoe, Albuquerque.

Well. Unspoken was the fact that I, like many of my fellow "road warriors," was single. And though some were vocal about the "double standard," I had no desire to pull my peers from their families on the weekend. Also, I was conscious of the fact that in the competitive world of fighter aviation, it was rather well looked-upon if one showed uncommon dedication to flying.  And there were real benefits, too. Places to see, bars to visit, new airfields to experience, all while earning per diem getting a free hotel stay. Plus the advantage of progressing in qualifications faster than my peers, if I could entice an instructor along. And I didn't have to go home to my sparsely furnished one-bedroom apartment (seriously, my wife still teases me about my life with only a bed, dresser, and desk) and wonder what to do with my weekends.

So I became a consummate road warrior--during one two-month stretch, I did nine weekend cross-countries. Yup, if you're counting--that's every weekend. Plenty of distraction. 

They were days of work and wonder--sitting, hot, in the pits of El Centro with the engines screaming at idle, poring over a chart and scratching fuel and time calculations on my kneeboard to see what sort of Bingo we'd set to safely arrive at our next destination (Bingo being the term for the minimum amount of fuel required to get to base, with a specified safety reserve) while the sweat beaded under my visor and made the mask slippery on my face; knocking off 20 minutes of dogfighting, breathless and panting from the G forces and the strain of keeping one's head turned around and locked on the other aircraft, and keeping my voice aviator cool on the radio with center as I asked for IFR to Phoenix; nervously asking for a lower altitude VFR over the Grand Canyon, and receiving permission, and descending lower into the layered red rock walls while a sparkling blue river winked out of the depths; calling hotels and 1-800-Wx-Brief to file the next flight from the deliciously cool FBO in Palm Springs, giddy with freedom after deciding with the other aircrew that we were NOT going to Long Beach tonight, that we wanted to go to Las Vegas instead, and spending a half an hour 'making it happen;' scrubbing clean an ancient whiteboard with paper towels and the damp sleeve in a crumbling base operations building, wallpapered with squadron stickers, in preparation for a full debrief; and best of all, the sudden quiet at sunset, when the radios magically stop squawking and the light fails and cockpit cools off and the horizons become brilliant streamers of red and pink and orange--when it was time to find a new place, a new hotel and restaurant and bar, and the work is over.

And I remember one winter afternoon, awash in coppery sunset light, when at 18 miles from the field we were directed to turn left and intercept the approach path for runway 07C ('zero-seven-center'), and asked to slow to 130 knots. These instructions are to be followed to the letter, now, because there are many airplanes at any given time trying to get into that small little cone of airspace around Phoenix Sky Harbor, and land--many of them filled with innocent passengers, at that. Having them all moving at more than 100 miles an hour, and climbing and descending on there way out and in, complicates the problem immensely. The hardworking controllers at airports like that deserve a beer next time you meet once in your local watering hole, maybe, and they certainly deserved the utmost professional courtesy from the likes of me, whose ego was often close to writing checks his body couldn't cash, and nor could his airplane, at least not without upsetting the smooth flight of 150 odd southwest passengers, but that fortunately didn't happen but once, and it's a story for another time.

In any case, it was with some trepidation that I tapped the foot pedal, and transmitted back to the controller, "Combat 41 unable. Minimum airspeed 150." Which was putting my pilot and the controller in a pickle, and no mistake. For the former, well, our 13 ton aircraft with two tons of fuel aboard did not like flying at 150 knots, oh no precious, what with finite lift available even with the wings totally reconfigured for maximum lift provision. It requires an exceedingly gentle touch, I'm told, and a high power setting, which the aircraft greatly desires to turn into speed for to gain more lift and stability. A hundred seventy-five knots being preferred. For the latter it became immediately evident why our speed was a problem. Several miles ahead of us, nearly blending in with the desert floor (at 18 miles one is barely seeing the southwestern suburbs of Phoenix below), was a trundling Southwest Airlines 737, placidly and gently gliding in at about 130 knots. Not being designed, see, for the speed of heat, or for eight Gs, or for accurate delivery of death to all comers in the air, on land, and at sea, the Boeing 737 has nice large rigid wings that are uncongenial to the lift or drag requirements of, as one pilot once undelicately put it, "flying through your own a**hole." It is therefore also much more stable at slow speeds.

My pilot answered my radio call over the Intra-Cockpit Communication System (ICS) with a four-letter word unprintable on this family website. The controller, after a pregnant silence, said uncertainly "Combat 41, roger, traffic twelve o'clock, three miles, seven-thirty-seven." Which meant, of course, that he heard me about the 150 knots, and oh by the way there was another aircraft off my nose at three miles. To which my pilot replied via ICS, "Tally," and I was able to say "Combat 41, Tally that traffic," and then quietly wonder whether we'd have to do a turn of holding before we landed.

But this controller was smart and helpful, which made a nice change from all the rude ones who question your omniscience and try to kill you by flying you into either an airplane or a hill, true story, and both also for another day. He hopefully asked over the radio, "Combat 41, can you land on the right?" which of course that Phoenix has two large runways, the right-most one being shorter when landing on runway 07, and perhaps we could land on a different runway than that tortoise of a 737 quite safely. So I hurriedly thumbed to my airfield diagram, saw that the right runway was 7,800 feet long, which was about 200 feet shorter than we'd like but technically quite long enough for the Hornet, and doing a quick calculation on how much I trusted my young pilot's ability to stop from running us off the end of the runway, and exiting the airplane ungraciously through the door that Martin Baker provides, and quickly tapped my foot pedal to transmit cooly, "Combat 41, affirm," and save the day. Which, of course, I did, because the controller happily replied "Roger Combat 41, maintain visual separation that traffic and continue your approach visually to zero-seven-right." It wasn't exactly kosher because under IFR traffic rules he has to give me a heading, but it was quite an expedient solution. My pilot accelerated to a much smoother 175 knots and swung right to offset from the Boeing and line up on the right runway, which looked rather short compared to the two other 10,300-foot-generous runways provided by Sky Harbor. And, having a pilot's generous dose of ego, he batted no eyes at my quick brief about the 7,800 foot runway earmarked for us.

So I found myself with the setting sun at my back, beauty before my eyes and relief in my heart, passing a Southwest Airlines airplane in my hornet. We touched down about 15 seconds before he did, and ended up having to wait a while on the taxiway, worse luck. But it sure made the beers taste good that evening.

The Happy Doldrums

Deployment is a strange experience in many ways, especially at the end. There's a letdown feeling that the mission is ending, where the 'mission' is a set length of time instead of a particular event, and some unspoken wondering if we (the unit) really left it all out on the field, if we could have trained harder, or experienced more, or made a little more of a difference. What exactly did we accomplish in these six summer months away from home, and did we make it worth the absence from family and friends?

I'm speaking of course of a UDP--Marine Corps slang for "Unit Deployment Program"--an institution that rotates units to Japan for six months. A tour to the fight in the middle east, I imagine, is different: the end of a deployment is filled with a desire to turn over the mission, hoping that the replacing unit can take successes and continue them or make up for any failures. The stakes are higher, and so are the passions. I don't know what that's like, I'm afraid.

But I'm two weeks from leaving Japan, and the relentless driving pressure has given way to a sort of limbo. Equipment is packed, and since our new mission is to get ourselves home, we are taking it easy on the aircraft. No more 'dynamic maneuvering' flights, no more concern with our combat-oriented avionics, no more studiously rehearsed tactical briefs or six-hour detailed debriefs. Much of our equipment is packed, and the squadron spaces are stripped down and sterile in accordance with the Marine Corps ethos on material goods instilled in basic training: leave the place better than you found it. All of a sudden, there isn't much to do, and the desire to be home lies heavy in our thoughts.

So we find new distractions. It's an old truism that we work harder during deployment because there aren't the distractions found at home--weekends in San Diego, families, and so on. But really, the hard work on deployment is the distraction: a way to protect against the feeling of separation and powerlessness regarding our loved ones and our homes. The other truism regarding deployment is that "Social drinking during WestPac is chronic alcoholism in the States," which is another form of distraction and really the chief source of bonding during these painful, non-combat deployments to Japan. And so, with nothing really to do at work, we begin to play.

One stereotype of Japan that has run through this deployment is Karaoke. A happy discovery we made this go-round was Club Niagara, a seedy one-room bar within walking distance of the main gate of Iwakuni. The owner is American, though of former military background, and one wonders why spends his life running a Karaoke dive in this small provincial town in southern Japan. It doesn't do to look to close, however--we're all running from something if we're in that bar, and there's a mutual respect to be payed between expatriates who, like Hemingway in Paris, are looking for something to make them feel free. Fortunately for all involved, Club Niagara offers only the relatively anodyne pleasures of beer and American songs for singing, both of which are easily recoverable after a night. I didn't tempt fate and ask for the absinthe, however.

As far as drowning one's sorrows, however, there's nothing quite like anonymous Karaoke. I say, 'anonymous,' because the arrangement of Club Niagara is ingenious: the monitors displaying the lyrics are behind the bar, facing the masses. So when your song comes up,  you take the mic and with everyone else in the bar face the televisions. No stage fright, no audience--just you singing with a bunch of friends, even if they're only friends for one night. And whether you're all belting along horribly to "The Winds of Change," or rapping to "Paper Airplanes" (or crooning sadly to something by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, which was my poison of choice), you can laugh the hilariously bad Japanese B-Roll of muscular guys on motorcycles, or melancholy lovers looking at lakes, or some other cliched scene set incongruously to the English words on the screen.

And at the end of the night you can brave the security patrols of Marines in the severely professional service uniform, and take the songs into the street, and try to find your way back to base in the dark, narrow, silent Japanese streets. Hopefully you're full of enough friendship and amusement--and beer--to fall asleep when you get into your dormitory.

The nice thing about finishing the deployment in late summer is that there are more things to do on base. For one thing, the nice weather makes nocturnal pursuits such as were just described much more pleasant. For another, the pool is open.

Oh, how we loved the pool. The single guys checking out the female lifeguards, who were mercifully college-age and not still in high school, the diving board cannonball competitions, the unashamed male tanning episodes in preparation to impress loved ones back home. It was the perfect meeting place, the perfect summer hangout, the perfect place to relax. Sometimes, since the days were long and there was precious little work do to, we could sneak over there after getting home from the squadron with a book and our iPod and catch some delicious afternoon rays. The best was when we could hit a workout (also preparation for impressing the loved ones back home), jump in the pool, catch some sun poolside until it closed, then hit our mandatory Friday night O'Club visit.

Now the Friday night visit to the club was a requirement all deployment, and a source of much debate. The junior officers (captains) hated it. The social ones had other plans: trains to Fukuoka or Hiroshima and the hotter nightlife there; the introverted ones simply wanted to go to their rooms, video-chat with their wives, and sleep. There seemed to be little point to go to the club and mingle with the same demoralized and ever-changing crowd of permanent personnel, DOD teachers, and those bad-news wives who were, ah, just a little too flirtatious with us (who were certainly not their husbands). Most of the time we ended up eating cartons of free popcorn, playing endless rounds of shuffleboard, and eventually starting up a game of Crud (a wonderfully violent and complicated game played on a pool table). Sound fun? It mostly wasn't.

But it paid off occasionally. During our time spent at Kadena Air Base, we could assert our collective man-hood against the Crud teams of other units, Marine and especially Air Force. The Air Force, it should be noted, prefers a 'finesse' game of Crud, where we like to dominate physically. Stereotypes, anyone? And, remembering our victories and ignoring our defeats, by the deployment's end the Friday night at a club was more like the senior stroll down a high-school hallway than a chore. Here at the end, we lazily tune up our game in anticipation of our relieving unit (due in several days) and talk about all the ways we're better than they are. Like those high school seniors who have proclaimed all semester that they can't wait to leave, we begin haunting the Club even on nights that aren't Friday, a little reluctant to depart.

Only a little. Because as we turn to hedonism with gusto in these last weeks of deployment, we are looking for distractions to carry us through this piece of limbo. Because what we really want, what I really want, is to get this thing over with and get home. A year and a half ago, I waited sadly to go home to San Diego because while I knew it was better than the wintertime Iwakuni I had just experienced, there was nothing really waiting for me there. My future was in doubt. Now I can finally cut the painful distance between my wife and I, and return to where I belong by her side.

It is a strange unfettered experience, here at the end of deployment, and our doubts at the utility of going to Japan instead of the Middle East gain strength as we belt ballads into microphones and beer bottles, spend an hour perfecting a can-opener, or swagger around the beat-up pool table in a Crud game. But there are no doubts about what's coming--home--and I happily do anything that compresses the time between now and my homecoming.

Lovers in Japan

So important was our decision to marry, when I made it back in late September of 2009, that my then-fiance and I defied the odds and set about planning a wedding as soon as possible. Those were heady days, for though we lived in different cities we were enthusiastically in love, and the jet-setting from Chicago to San Diego and back again added spice to an already amazing romance. It was natural that we wanted to unite in short order--after all, once we knew we wanted each other forever, it didn't make much sense to wait.

The only snag in our plans was a scheduled deployment. I would be departing for Japan with my squadron in March 2010 ("sometime that month" was all we knew). That left us precious little time to plan this wedding of ours. We weren't going to do a halfway job, either, so the pressure was really on. Factor in the honeymoon and my own requirement of arriving back in San Diego with enough time to, you know, actually prepare for deployment...and from the time of the engagement in early October, we had barely four months to throw a wedding.

Sounds like a nightmare, right? Well, parts of it were. But my overall sensation was that of an irresistible flow. Providence struck first during our search for a wedding venue. As we were both enthusiastic alumni of Notre Dame, we naturally wished to be married in the basilica there. Such a wish is shared by all enthusiastic Notre Dame alumni (is there any other kind?), so at the time we called to inquire the basilica was booked solid for the next two and a half years. Booked solid, that is, except for two weekends in February 2010! I don't know what caused those slots to suddenly open up--I hope some poor bastard didn't get his wedding cancelled--but the weekend of February 6th, 2010 was perfect timing. It would maximize our time to the wedding, it would allow for a honeymoon, and there would be several weeks for Kate and I to enjoy matrimony before I had to leave.

Many other such happy coincidences occurred. The day of the wedding was beautiful--sun on fresh snow--and the honeymoon was just delightful. The greatest "miracle" of all, of course, was the tireless amount of work put forth by my wife and her mother, who together (and largely without my help) cut an eight-month process in half. I owe them a great deal of gratitude, and more certainly than I've been able to express already with my not inconsiderable eloquence. They together gave me three weeks of marriage before I left, and I cherished that. But it wasn't enough.

One of the most wrenching things I've been through is leaving my newlywed wife. It was even more bitter because the simple task of preparing to fly my aircraft across the Pacific robbed us of time together. It seemed cruel that I was so eager to really start a life with her, and all I had were three weeks of borrowed time. It was worse for her, I freely admit. She is a saint for her good humor those three long weeks in which I spent so much time at work (alas, necessarily!). When I dropped her off at the airport for her trip back to Chicago, it was very clear that I would have to find a way to bring us together at least once over the following six months.

And so plans for a second honeymoon were born! I wouldn't describe Japan as a typical honeymoon destination, but Kate and I were going to make it work. All we wanted, really, was to see each other. And so on May 24th, 2010, Kate flew out of Chicago O'Hare while I took the Shin-Kansen train from Hiroshima to meet up at Tokyo.

Unfortunately, we both missed the rendezvous.

Kate's flight was delayed. No fault of hers. And I, that consummate traveler through the Far East, on my second deployment to Japan, became confused as I tried to find the train to Narita Airport and ended up on a slow commuter train winding through the curious countryside east of Tokyo. It was both pleasant and frustrating to dawdle through rice fields and compact pockets of industrialization, jerking to a stop every 10 minutes or so. It was maddening to sit in silence with no way to contact Kate whatsoever--neither of us had cell phones. But some rudimentary Japanese and some rudimentary English eventually got me on the right train, and I arrived at Narita at last. I hurried to the arrival board, glancing wildly in all directions to see if I could spot my wife, and found out the good news. Kate's plan would land in half an hour.

I can't describe what it was like to wait for her. I did all the usual things one does in airports when one is waiting. I bought a coke. I sat casually on a bench. I struck up the odd conversation with other denizens of the place. I noticed that the familiar sights of Japan--giggling schoolgirls in uniforms and in herds, stern well-dressed men of all ages smoking and padding past on their leather soles, gaudy bright incomprehensible signs flashing and shimmering advertisements--all looked a little out-of-place in the building, which looked so much like an American airport. I wondered what Kate would think of it all. I wondered if we'd recognize each other. I wondered what color her hair would be.* Each time a group of travelers would descend the escalator, my heart started beating fast and I would shift around, moving from an erect, impressive posture to a casual lean against a column as I tried to find a pose that was comfortable and attractive (we all have our vanities...especially regarding our bride!). I searched face after face, and several times I slumped, disappointed, as the latest group would peter out without yielding my wife. But then, in the middle of the upteenth group, I heard my name! And there she was, beautiful in a purple dress and auburn hair. And the lovers were reunited.

It was wonderful to sit together on the shuttle bus to our hotel. I was flattered that instead of being glued to the window, Kate was glued to me--for the hour-long trip we talked. It wasn't a rush of words, either. It was just normal conversation about us, about our anxiety at seeing each other after three months apart, about our plans for the next ten days. It was a rare and incandescent pleasure just to be able to see each other without the intermediary of a video camera. And when the bus dropped us off at our hotel, it seemed the world was made for our enjoyment--we laughed at the lobby, left in the 80s by the passage time; we laughed at the funny fixtures of our hotel room; we laughed at the magnificent view of the endless bright city stretching beneath us.

And though both of us would probably have preferred to visit Paris, or New York, or Barcelona for our second honeymoon, Tokyo didn't put up a bad show. The subways were efficient and claustrophobic, so we spent as much time out of them as possible, and we flitted from ancient temple to trendy upscale Thai buffet, from castles and moats to giant designer buildings boasting names like Dior and Hermes. One unforgettable night slowed down to a solid memory as hungry, we took a tiny modern elevator to the seventh floor of a building that looked like a video game and found a smokey, buzzing restaurant. Unusual for Tokyo there were no western patrons, and it soon became evident why: the hostess apologetically crossed her arms and said, "no gaijin." We, as foreigners, were gaijin--but we were hungry as well, so I hastened to offer some Japanese in a plea for a table. The manager showed up in short order, looking like a beardless Miyagi, and he kindly returned some Japanese and led us to a table. Through clusters of businessmen and women who smoked over their food and laughed in a most uninhibited matter, Kate and I sank into the comfortable fabric of a city bar, that place found around the world and patronized by locals. Though the menu was in Japanese and had no pictures, and though we ended up with raw beef, it was one of the best dates (and best dinners) that I can remember. I have much less memory of the sights.

Kate, more organized than I, had found good reviews of a small city named Kyoto. So in the middle of our trip we boarded the Shin-Kansen and raced south to the old imperial city at 150 mph. Kate's research had also found us a boutique hotel, with unique rooms and rave reviews, at decent internet prices. We were in high spirits.

Alas, Kyoto was harder to negotiate than we anticipated. With nothing but an address, incomprehensible in Japanese, we attempted the subway but ended up going the wrong way. We were afraid to try the bus for the same reason. So footsore that we were (after my obsession with sightseeing had dragged us all over Tokyo), we walked our luggage along the half-mile southern border of the imperial palace, dead-reckoning our way to the hotel. It rained a little, too. But it was worth it--when we arrived, we were ensconced comfortably in the basement bar, fed refreshing drinks, and apprised of the amenities. Then, much more comfortable, we were shown courteously to our room by a young man with the mannerisms of a quality real estate agent. The room was large and comfortable, elegantly appointed with modern furniture and a sitting area. After the bustle and pace of Tokyo (made more overwhelming by the incomprehensible and glittering signs), this little Kyoto enclave was a slice of heaven.

But it was to get better. That evening, hungry from our travels, we set forth after dark to find a place to eat. The hotel staff were very helpful, giving us a list of suggestions and apologetically warning us that many places closed relatively early. How different from the all-hours activity of Tokyo! So we strolled the cool, clean streets of the city and stumbled across a little, unassuming bistro named "Le Bouchon." A red motorcycle was parked outside, and it was warm and cozy within. A polite and casually-dressed young man welcomed us in, and handed us each a menu hand-written in French. That night we ate delicious crusty bread, rich and satisfying boeuf bourguignon, and washed it all down with a fine bordeaux. It was a French restaurant, exquisite and romantic. We couldn't have done better if we'd stepped into a forgotten alley in Paris, and we didn't want any better--we enjoyed three wonderful meals there during our stay in Kyoto, each one redolent with conversation and marvelous food. It turns out there is a great deal of French influence in the city, for every other restaurant offered french pastries and food. And so we began the amazing sensual experience of Kyoto.

Renting bikes and pedaling our way between untouched temples, zen gardens, and ancient districts cut with canals, forever under the green shadow of surrounding mountains, we honeymooned happily. The only discordant note was the somewhat brisk pace I set whenever the old obsession for sightseeing reared it's head. But Kate got me to relax a little, and put up with my schedule with good humor. We'd begin every day breakfasting in the hotel bar on artfully cooked eggs ham, and toast, then we'd venture forth into pristine sunlight. One afternoon we spent lunching in the Gion district on Japanese pancakes, listing to water burble by in the canal; on many other occasions we sat in green shady zen gardens. At one site we met some eager Japanese students on assignment to get a note written in English; we took a picture with them. And each night we retreated to Le Bouchon. We finally boarded the Shin-Kansen to Tokyo with melancholy. Added to the disappointment of leaving Kyoto was Kate's impending departure.

Only two more nights were left to us. The first we encountered some Americans at a British pub and caroused as only expatriates can. The next we found ourselves in Shinjuku for a final dinner at the Park Hyatt hotel, made famous by the movie Lost in Translation. It was a spare and elegant meal, high over the many twinkling lights of Tokyo below. There we talked about the trip, about ourselves, and about the sad three months left before my return to the United States. Though it was as honeymooners that we enjoyed Japan together, it was also as a married couple, for I began to experience the life together I yearned for despite the concurrent deployment.

It was a terrible wrench to bid goodbye in the airport. As Kate descended the stairs to the gate, leaving a yawning cavern in my life where the Shin-Kansen rails stretched emptily to the deadly boredom of Iwakuni, there passed between us a longing that will remain with me forever. The exotic lure of travel died that day, and my days became a long wait to go home.

*My wife cheerfully and charmingly changes her hair color about monthly.

Austen’s Aphorism on Love and Marriage

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife." So begins Jane Austen's outstanding novel, Pride and Prejudice, and though recently I agreed with it in principle, I lived practically in direct opposition. Nearly five years out of college I was consistently single and saw nothing to change that in the near future. The reason why I was so stagnant in my unsought-for bachelorhood I'd like to examine later, really. But that seemed to be a fact of my life.

I'd had good relationships before. Most of my relationships had been good, actually, until the period before the break-up. I thought myself reasonably loyal and devoted, I recognized an unattractive propensity toward insecurity and creeping selfishness which I tried manfully to stem, and with a few exceptions my girlfriends were pretty, good, and all reasonably stable. I had even considered marriage with one or two of the more serious girlfriends, but as I've since discovered I considered it only in an academic sense. At the time it was even an attractive option. For though I was young, possessed of the moderate fortune that devolves upon a young officer with the benefits of flight pay, a Captain's salary, and the forced penury of deployments, I was quite lonely.

Many of my friends were married, however, and my exposure to and observation of their lives left me with the impression that Jane Austen was correct. While on weekends I dragged myself to bars wearying in their repetitiveness, they repined at home in pajamas watching favorite movies with a constant loved one and friend. While evenings found me shamefacedly driving through the nearest fast-food joint for the third time that week, they enjoyed more healthy fare, made lovingly by them or their partner and be shared with said loved one and friend. Never did they face the humiliation of a phone call some Saturday afternoon as I would ask in a manly voice that ill-disguised my pathetic entreaty, "anything going on tonight?" It was all the more ironic, of course, that I have from adolescence developed particularly personal relationships. I am uncomfortable with mere acquaintances, and really only enjoy the nightlife in the company of close friends. So it was noth without a little bitterness that I patiently listen to their nostalgia for "the single life."

I am a practical man, of course. I could well see that the "perfect" marriages around me were not all beer and skittles. I watched friends and comrades deal with the difficult separation of deployments, the constant demands of children, or an occasional rogue and romantic memory of "lost freedom." I knew that if I were (hypothetically) married I would have to deal with the same. After exhaustive thought on the subject--which occurred generally during uncomfortable pauses in a dinner conversation where I made an awkward third--I figured that with my natural loyalty and affection I was rather better suited than most at handling such emotional turmoil. I concluded amid my crushing solitude of single life, whether in target-rich San Diego or during the deadly boredom of a WestPac of deployment, that marriage was something to strive for.

The difficulty, of course, was finding someone TO marry. As a young Catholic male whose social life partook in the "Young Adult" community of a local parish, I found myself often amid droves of young marriageable women who fulfilled the my inconsequential requirement of being Catholic and who wanted (most of them) to be married themselves. A rich hunting ground, to be sure. The complex social etiquette of awkward social mixers and less awkward but less romantically stimulating bible studies even bore a passing resemblance to the old-fashioned and choreographed courting mores of Jane Austen's story. It was entertaining and fun to socialize and prospect among such a group, but I eschewed anything more serious than innocuous dinner-dates. The potential for gossip and the glass-house environment discouraged self-investment for all but the bravest, since one could too easily end up either pitied or reviled.

I don’t mean to disparage, by the way, that wonderful parish or the dynamic young men and women who made up its “Young Adult” group. They were all of them kind, generous, smart, and sincere. But I’ve found that in all close groups, despite the age of the people involved, there are always some characteristics of high school.

And so it was that the quietly settling foundation of my life was the irreconcilable combination of an academic imperative to marry and a certain hesitancy in entering the serious relationship that might actually lead to a marriage. My time-intensive job and increasingly married group of friends left little opportunity to meet other singles, and had I met any who wanted a serious relationship I would have had scarce time to develop it. I was also due to make several deployments in the near future, each of which would separate me a little further from youth and the young women I might have pursued. My strong Catholic moral principles put out of my reach for ever the kind of easy entertainment found among care-free young single professionals who imitate current "popular culture." And, frankly, the pressures of “dating” were intimidating.

Being naturally idealistic, I was always hopeful that I would find something to satisfy this small but conspicuous hole in my life. My first deployment offered a lot of excitement unrelated to romance, and promised thereby to break my brooding cycle regarding relationships. It also, as I discovered in situ, a good place to stockpile money. The isolated environment, military-priced stores, and busy schedule leave little time to spend money whether it’s burning a hole in one’s pocket or not. In the dark hours of deployment as I trudged home, exhausted from the studying, planning, briefing, and criticizing that is business as usual in my profession, often in freezing rain and well after dark, I concocted delicious fantasies of entertaining beautiful young women in style with my growing “date fund,” finally capturing for myself...well, that was the problem. My delicious fantasies would break down at the point where I’d actually have to imagine the person that would become my spouse.

My return to Miramar was exciting and happy for many reasons and though my “date fund” was flush and my disposition more cheerful, I still seemed deadlocked on the relationship side. All the old problems were still there. I made an effort to be sociable and weekly met eligible young ladies--Catholics all--but couldn’t really make anything stick (no “that’s what she said” comments, please). Was I too picky? I wondered in the gross parlance of our times. Was I unlucky? Had I missed my opportunity by screwing up a past relationship?

Well, things changed on June 24th, 2009. Elsewhere I’ve told the story of meeting my wife. We were married on February 6th, 2010. Happily. We still are (nearly three months later).

There are a lot of clichés about love in our world. Most of them, I’m slightly embarrassed to admit, are true. As I drew toward the big day of marriage, I found myself considering a lot of existential questions. I abhor complacency in life. So it was very important to me that I knew exactly what I was getting into and that I went about it the right way (again, no more “that’s what she said” jokes, please). Suddenly things I'd always considered inconsequential became very important: who stood by me on the altar, what gifts I would give to them, the words of the marriage liturgy. It became important that I wear my uniform, and that the marriage occur at Notre Dame. Such things were incidental, of course, to the sacrament, but like the sacrament they were symbols of who I was.

Now there is a cliché. That last sentence. “Symbols of who I was.” Who is anybody, really? (That’s an existential question, by the way.) The history that God will reveal to me on Judgment Day will include much from my life that has no place among my desired self and the austere, bracing symbols of my wedding ceremony. That history will not be confined to the spiritual and intellectual formation I received at college under the star-studded and gothic-groined ceiling of the Basilica. It will not be confined to the hard, clean virtue preached (and mostly lived) by the Marine Corps and Naval Aviation. It will include more sordid relationships than those epitomized by the cousins and great friends who stood by me on the altar--all young men who inspired me throughout life and brought me well-prepared to that wonderful day. It will show failures and moments of weakness that are momentarily straitened by the stern lines and gold buttons of my Marine uniform. For like my peers, I have had a colorful and confused life. Who I was at that moment is known but to God and my conscience, and I have no desire to examine the latter too closely here. Who I wanted to be was represented by those powerfully symbolic incidentals at my wedding.

The point of all this cogitation, of course, was about being the kind of man that was worthy of my bride. Again, a cliché. A sweet one. But like most sweet clichés, true. My academic interest in marriage had dissolved completely in the magic latter months of 2009 as I wantonly and gleefully squandered my “date fund” on plane tickets to and from Chicago and devoted all my free time to the relationship. The excitement, the sense of utter purity, the feeling of being lifted above the mundane world--those things had blasted my selfish little complacency and fear of loneliness beyond my comprehension, where they lay exposed as miserable, cramped emotional pits under the incandescent glare of my new love. I realized the true meaning of the word “regret" and wished that all the personal investment I had put forth into previous relationships was still available to spend on my fiancée. It wasn’t a negative regret, either. It sprang forth from the intense joy she gave me I and made every encounter with her more precious. I realized that where previously I had focused on marriage as a sort of luxury trade wherein I could pay with affection and loyalty and receive comfort, suddenly I wanted marriage because I desired connectedness with her, her unique person.

She was, simply, the beloved. Beatrice. A shining symbol of all that I valued and desired and an irresistible portal thereto. I wanted to present myself to her unstained and pure, such that I could, and in such wise as to secure her ardor, affection, and admiration. And so I learned from this new experience of regret that it was time to discard selfishness and self-indulgence and self-regard with those mistakes I made long ago, stepping forward as a dynamic and committed lover. It was time to "man up." The best part, of course, was that not only did my bride eminently deserve my love for all that she was, but that she also loved me. And so she stepped forward with me as an equal partner; a true and best comrade; a friend without peer.

All my previous life was transience. Since adolescence I had been groping at the love that stood with me on February 6, 2010, finding it only in teasing glimpses--through beloved literature, or in the accomplishing of some great task, or the comforting experience of a good friend. These were foretastes of the banquet that awaited me in my wife; they were discernible signposts in the muddy confusion of youth. "To know and love one other human being is the root of all wisdom." In marriage I feel the sweet release of heaven, for it is a new beginning to life--life better founded than before. It is a new beginning of reciprocated love and great regard, a new beginning of comfort in having a partner to share the load of this world, and a new beginning of happiness in knowing where your place is. Next to your wife (or husband, as the case may be). For better or worse. In good times and in bad. In sickness and in health. As long as you both shall live.

Marriage, of course, has its own set of problems. There are differences of opinion and expectation, periodic arguments, and in my line of work the occasional but devastating pain of separation. There will likely be difficulties with children and sleepless nights and financial worries and anger and frustration as the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” strike home throughout life. Already I’ve experienced the unknown pain of being separated from my wife or of finding myself at odds with her, and I have no doubt that such instances will continue, as learning to live and grow together is a lifetime task. But I wouldn’t trade my difficulties now for my difficulties prior to June 24, 2009. The quality of my life now--married--is so far superior to my quality of life before as to defy comparison. My new beginning has been made with my Kate, and it is better by far than anything I imagined.

Austen was right: I did want a wife. But not in the way I imagined, nor in the way critics often construe her opening sentence. I wanted someone to love, someone with whom I could share life and all its wonders. And I found her: I am a new creation with Kate.

Romance from the West Coast

The vicissitudes of love--certainly one of the most common topics in human experience. Nearly every great story (and lately, the lowest of reality TV shows) refers to the human experience of love in all its elation and pathos. Like everyone else, I had experienced love. The many bright and happy moments therein could not conceal the aura of disappointment that I had no lover with whom share life. But one chance encounter is transforming. And that is the magic of love. The only difference between beauty and dreariness, happiness and melancholy, satisfaction and emptiness is this four letter word, small and banal to be sure but so large and important that it dominates our experience like nothing else.

In the midst of such a transformation, I wrote:

California is...interesting. It is rugged and pretty, even stunning. But there is a jaded nature about society here. It seems so sad that a people can spend so much time worrying about how they look and so much more time making themselves a certain way, and yet get so little enjoyment out of it. It's like they've all resigned themselves to the fact that they're as happy as they'll every be in their shallow unambitious world.

Remember when I told you that there was something jaded and shallow about living here? Yeah, well after spending all Friday sailing the blue Pacific and all Saturday on the beach(and getting a wicked farmer's tan in the bargain) I changed my mind. Between the company, the volleyball, the football, the swimming (in COLDwater), and the sunlight I felt sudden sympathy with all those young men who passed through here in World War II, fell in love, and came back to settle after the war. Saturday evening after leaving the beach I spent some time inthe apartment of some Notre Dame friends (both PLS majors like me) discussing books and enjoying what I'm convinced is a transitory piece of paradise. California seduces with beautiful scenery and beautiful people, and that may be all the true soul of the place, but co-existing alongside it are good people eager to live a happy life and ready to fully enjoy the weather, recreation, scenery, and simple unfettered lifestyle. You could say in some way that what previously hindered my enjoyment of California was its conspicuous glitz and shallow ambition. Too rarely did I ignore those things enough to appreciate the good people and opportunities for happiness here. Really, I needed to be able to share this place and it's wonders with some of those good people

As I drove on to base today, the sun suddenly rose over the scrub hills of east Miramar and smote the buildings and my mirror, momentarily blinding me. It was a beautiful sunrise, gleaming golden between soft layers of autumn clouds over the coastland. It was appropriate because after this weekend our relationship feels even more like a beginning.

I married this girl, and the transformation continues. When you know, you know.

Many the Miles

It has been five long and eventful years since I began cataloguing my experiences and thoughts for the world. It was an interesting hobby, probably characterized mostly by comical futility. But it's been fun reflecting on Infantry training, Flight School, Virginia and Pensacola and San Diego, the tough joy of squadron life followed by the struggle and wonder of deployment to the Far East. Indeed my feet have trod many miles, but this past weekend they found a place of rest and happiness that will carry through the rest of my life. This is that story.

Matt: As a freshman at Notre Dame in January of 2001, I found myself in a writing class. As it was part part of the required first year course of studies, the students were a random assortment and I wouldn't have a single other class with any of them for the rest of my college career. That, coupled with my chosen "Great Books" major, contributed to my ill-concealed contempt for the class as nothing more than a necessary evil. There was, however, one benefit to showing up each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and that was the fetching young lady named Kate who sat across from me. She was pretty and popular--and completely out of my league--and she definitely caught my attention.

Kate: I met Matt the first day of Spring Semester my Freshman year during a required Composition class. I don't remember if it was by chance that we ended up sitting across from one another, but I'm fairly certain that after doing a quick scan of the class, it is most probable that I specifically picked the seat directly across from the cutest boy in the room. Introductions were made, and Matt announced that he was from Seattle. For a girl from Chicago, Seattle seemed exotic and different, a place where the 'cool bands' originated, and coffee was produced in magical Charlie and the Chocolate Factory-eqsue shops. It was also the former location of "The Real World," so I naturally assumed people lounged around in their houseboats all day and compared the philosophies of Sartre to Kurt Cobain. As I shook myself out of the daydream, I remember Matt speaking. "This boy is brilliant," I thought, "brilliant!" He was confident and perceptive; an intelligent young man who wasn't afraid to discuss literature and/or sentence structure. Bingo! I made a snap judgment that THIS boy was THE boy for me.

Matt: One afternoon she approached me and inquired if I'd help her on a paper. I probably stuttered a bit in my attempt to answer yes, desperately trying not to let my surprise and jubilation spill out onto my otherwise "cool" exterior (by which I mean a comically ineffective poker face). So I awkwardly made an appointment (a date?) and accordingly presented myself one evening at her dorm. It was locked down as female residence halls always were at Notre Dame, but a kindly resident let me in and I braved the gauntlet of feminine stares along the hallways leading to her door. The next hour is a blur, but I gather that we sedately gathered around her computer, I offered some constructive criticism in a terrified and studied academic manner, and then I left. Afterwards I wondered if this pretty young lady wasn't perhaps at least as interested in me as she did in her paper, but immediately discounted the notion as highly improbable. She was out of my league. I avoided any potential embarrassment that another encounter might create and went about my college life.

Kate: I asked him for help on a paper, which is probably THE most transparent move I could have made. A paper? Really? Smooth move, Dolack. My Calculus homework certainly, but a paper? We must have discussed a time and date, probably in early February, where we would meet in my dorm. At the time, I was living in a crowded three-room dorm above the rector, with three roommates; our doors were guarded by a very intimidating security woman who spent her days patrolling our hallways and knitting hats and sweater vests for her gerbils. I'm certain I must have confided to my girlfriends that Matt Klobucher, that cute boy from my FYC class was coming over, because I don't remember anyone in the room. And then the big moment arrived. Matt Klobucher walked into my room to help me with my paper. And he did just that. He helped me with my paper, made a few comments about the sentence structure, and left. The boy actually commented on my use of a split infinitive. That's right, I was totally rejected because of a grammatical error.

Matt: After that class, we never really ran into each other. I stalked her lightly on Instant Messenger, and later on FaceBook, but only as a sort of dream. I was a dour Marine Corps-bound "Great Books" major; she was clearly destined for happiness and perfection. Unbeknownst to me, we ended up with some of the same friends, and I always noted Kate's presence in our friends' online photographs with a little jolt of pleasure and nostalgia for what might have been. I noted that she moved to LA after college, and occasionally stifled my attention to her during other relationships. Then I noticed something new and interesting about her.

Kate: After that class, Matt and I never really ran into each one another, (but I never forgot him). I would love to push rewind and watch the number of times we passed each other, since we had many friends in common. In fact, most of my closest friends were kids from his dorm or girls from his major. I lived up my time in college, acting in plays with my dearest friends Julianne and Megan, and attended parties and Irish pubs with my girlfriends, Krista, Aindrea, Jen, and Emma. Meanwhile, Megan, both a talented actress AND a "Great Books" major, attended classes and military balls with Matt (I attended several military balls with the Air Force boys). When not out with me, Aindrea and Jen occasionally hung out with Matt at typical Notre Dame watering holes. After college, Jen actually bounced back and forth from Pensacola to visit her college boyfriend, John, who lived with Matt while they were in Flight School together (I moved to LA and began my career working for FX). In November 2006 Matt moved to San Diego within a week of my final departure from LA for Chicago. We passed each other, I am sure, on the road. Sometimes I wonder if I waved.

Matt: It was one evening in early 2007. I was living in Pensacola, Florida, and idly browsing FaceBook. My "feed" informed me that Kate had posted a note. The title intrigued me, as did the opening sentence which was displayed on my screen. I clicked on it and proceeded to read one of the most entertaining, most poignant short stories I'd ever seen. I remembered ruefully that she had once asked ME for help writing, since she was clearly so much better than I was. I wished in that moment (and have in many since) that I could write like her. I was so impressed, in fact, that I threw caution to the winds and commented on her story, telling her how good it was. As I expected, I received no response.

Kate: In late 2006, searching for an outlet for my thoughts, I sat down and wrote a short memorist-style story and posted it on Facebook. I wrote about being a single gal in the city, living in a high rise building, trying to avoid both being sucked into Lifetime Television for Women and the exhaust from the 151 city bus. I had been out of college for more than two long years. I missed Notre Dame. I missed my friends. I missed our carefree atmosphere. But, in the end, I ended the piece with a hopeful nature. Goodness, to be twenty-three. I remember Matt commented, and I remember being touched. I missed him; my old friend.

Matt: Over the following months, I sought out and read everything she posted on Facebook. Occasionally I'd comment, impressed with her writing and wanting her to know how good she was. I certainly didn't forget how attractive she was, either! Finally in the spring of 2007 I wrote more publicly on her wall (instead of simply commenting on a note), and she responded! It was a kind and sweet response, and in it she mentioned a few books in connection to her writing and my job. Little did I know that her recommendation of "The Prince of Tides" that day as her favorite book would eventually provide the seed for our current wonderful relationship.

Kate: Matt and I would go back and forth between writing small snippets to each other. Occasionally, we'd each go months without a response from the other. Then one day, he wrote to me. I had just finished reading my mom's recommendation of what would become my favorite book of all time, Pat Conroy's, "The Prince of Tides." I knew Matt was a big reader like myself. I also was aware that he was in the Marine Corps and had trained in flight school, so I wondered if he may be interested in "The Great Santini," and/or "The Lords of Discipline". I asked him if he had ever read the book, and he said no. I told him to check it out. In the meantime, I debated actually sending him all of Conroy's finest works. But at the last minute, I backed out. So instead I wrote, "Go buy that book!"

Matt: You see, I read that book on her recommendation. That was (and still is) rare for me. I almost never read something another has recommended to me. I've always been on my own little reading program. But in this case I took the plunge, I read that book, and enjoyed it. I thought it so good that I wrote a review of it online. and as it happened wrote a review online.

Kate: I dated other people. He dated other people. But I often compared others to him, which is odd since we didn't know each other that well, really. But I did know he was something rare. He was somethin' special. I remember checking Matt's profile when he was on deployment. I wrote him slightly more often then. "Come visit!" I would cheerfully suggest. "I'm in Japan," he would respond. "But it's warm here in Februrary," I would lie. "Have fun with that weather!," he would joke. I thought of him on Christmas. He seemed so far away. Months passed and I was deeply involved in my work, pulling late nights at the office, traveling around the country to complete interviews and buried in research. In May, we wrapped the first season of the show I helped create. In June, I was anxious: I had spent so much of the past year of my life developing this series, I didn't know what to do with my time. I couldn't sleep. I spent far too much time on Facebook posting silly messages to friends and crafting song lyrics as away messages.

Matt: Then she apparently found the review I'd written on "The Prince of Tides" online one night last June. And she was apparently so impressed that she wrote me a fairly long note. It wasn't an ordinary note, filled with kindly concern and intellectual agreement. It was a genuine and elegant note that communicated the just the same kind of respect and sympathy that I felt for all of her writing. It was also complimentary and sweet. I was stunned and delighted.

Kate: One week later, I found myself up at 1:30am. I knew Pat Conroy had a new novel about to hit the bookstores, and so I started to research any information I could find on the author. On page three of a silly google search, I saw a review of "The Prince of Tides." 'Oh, my favorite," I thought to myself, and clicked on the link. And then, there he was: a photograph of Matthew Klobucher attached to his review of "The Prince of Tides." I was floored. It took me about five minutes to compose myself. The review was beautiful, and his writing was just as I remembered. I checked the date on the review: only one week after I suggested he read "The Prince of Tides." Without thinking, I wrote him immediately.

Matt: I couldn't believe she had written me! I hastily crafted a response that would be appropriately appreciative. This was a delicate moment, since I wanted to be absolutely sincere but nevertheless was conscious that betraying too much of my suddenly developing attraction might put this dream girl off. So in honest but carefully considered phrases, I thanked her for her note and invited further correspondence.

Kate: He wrote me back. He was just as I remembered...or maybe better? I knew I had to find a way to San Diego. I started to think of ways to interview a subject, research a story, develop a show.anything.

Matt: This started a series of letters between us, surprisingly deep in content and gradually moving from Facebook to "old-fashioned email," then to talking over the phone. As it became blindingly obvious to me and my good friends in San Diego that I was crushing hard on this girl, I impetuously invited her to accompany me to a wedding in Boston, just a month after Kate's first long note. She accepted. It was pretty exciting.

Kate: We wrote back and forth. Once, I wrote him a letter from thirty thousand feet in the air...eager to hit 'send' as soon as I arrived back in my apartment. His letters were magic...like poetry. Then one night, he phoned. We spent four hours on the phone deep in conversation--and every night thereafter, we logged at least that much. Thank GOODNESS we both have AT&T! A few weeks later, Matt asked me to the wedding of his good friends, Matt and Margaret. Of course, I accepted. I was thrilled, nervous, excited, and every other emotion one could imagine.

Matt: Apprehension ran high as I prepared to pick her up in Chicago and go to this wedding. When she met me in the Chicago airport it was the first time we'd seen each other in seven years. But that didn't matter. After a month of intense letters and conversations (and my lovely college memories of her) we met with laughter, an embrace and many kisses. From that moment, we were dating officially and seriously.

Kate: We had our first kiss at Midway airport. We wandered around the city, attended an art show, and sat on beach steps and watched people play in the water and jog back in forth. That night, over pizza and under summer stars, he told me loved me. It was our first date. It was perfect. And I think, well, I had been in love with him from the very beginning.

Matt: When you know, you know. Several weeks later I started preparations for proposing to her--ordering a ring, talking to her father, and all the rest. But we quickly decided that the preparations were taking too long. We loved each other, we wanted to marry each other, we were ready to cheerfully and excitedly begin the preparations for a wedding and the follow-on joys and difficulties of a marriage. So we became secretly engaged in the last week of September, pending the actual proposal. Though a secret engagement is romantic, I am glad our intention is public knowledge! Now, I am eager to finalize wedding preparations and finally start my life with her. She is nothing less than my soulmate and the love of my life.

Kate: The rest, as they say, is history. How many times had I wondered, well, HOW do you know? People who were happily married would try to explain. "Well," they would say, "you just know." But yet I would continue to ask. "Is it a feeling? Is it something in your head? Is it settling? Do you just decide one day? What am I not getting? How does anyone just 'know?!' I just could not understand, couldn't find the solution, couldn't find the logical components that would equal the answer. And it wasn't until I found Matt again that I discovered the answer to my question. It was him. He was the answer all along.

Finding Love in California

California has always been an ideal for me. Since I was old enough to understand that there existed a larger world than my family, home and school, I'd heard that it was wonderful; that the weather there was perfect; that there was almost too much in the way of recreation. It had a reputation as a "fast" place, the location of Hollywood and the seat of much wealth and luxury. There was the added romance of recent social and ethnic tensions: student riots, race riots, slums and gangs, East LA. It had a historical significance to me as it was initially "colonized" by strict Catholic Spanish missionaries, then later built up by gold rushers and capitalists, and in this century the destination of many service members on their way to fight in the Pacific, Korea, and Viet Nam. There was a power in the word "California" that somehow reconciled the disparate ideas of social liberalism, military towns (good and bad), rampant capitalism, racial tensions, incredible wealth, and raw physical beauty. It called to me in my youth, whispering of adventure, opportunity, and glamour. I wanted to live there, at least for a little while. I wanted to experience California.

Thanks to the military, I received that opportunity. In 2007 I received orders to a training squadron based out of San Diego, California. Even better, my follow-on orders would be to a fleet squadron based in the same place. I was looking at spending four years of my youth in what general regard and my own fantasy painted as a paradise. That November I set out for my first real road trip, the three-day drive from Pensacola to San Diego and the welcome next installment in this military adventure.

I enjoyed the drive very much. Hours on the road were something new and fairly exciting, as were the dingy motels in which I nervously slept each night. My excited eyes welcomed the sights of Louisiana bayous, Texas oil fields (and the posted 80-mile-per-hour speed limits there), and the barren desert mountains of New Mexico, Arizona, and California. By a fortuitous coincidence, when I reached the suburbs of San Diego on the third day of my trip I found myself driving up the "Semper Fi" highway along the east side of Miramar while F/A-18s flew into land over head. Never in a long career of subconscious attempts to imitate this movie have I ever felt more like a character in Top Gun. That coupled with the confluence of ocean, hills, greenery and desert made me believe I had finally arrived in Paradise. Hello Southern California!

Over the years I've lived here, I've experienced quite a bit of the area. My flying has taken me over San Francisco, the California coast, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, to Phoenix, Scottsdale, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, and Fresno in the central valley. I have driven California Highway 1 down the coast. I have spent lazy days watching surfers compete in the crowded break off San Diego beaches, run beneath rugged cliffs that line the coast under Torrey Pines golf course, sailed the Gulf of Santa Catalina, walked the trails of the coastal mountains, eaten plenty of "healthy" food that happens to be organic or vegan, and explored the paradoxical array of night-clubs, dive-bars, and exclusive restaurants that make up (seemingly) the lion share of California entertainment. I've certainly made some good friends here and enjoyed my time immensely. And yet In the months after I returned from a recent long deployment to the Far East, I discovered myself surprisingly ambivalent toward this place--perhaps even eager to leave.

Like anywhere else in the world, California has it's goods and bads. Perhaps unusually, there are few "natural" bad things about it - no hurricanes, difficult winters, chance of flooding, or (unless you live in the Bay Area) even really earthquakes. The negatives about California are all artificial, imposed by the people who live there. So while the land is rugged and pretty, even stunning, I found it hard to reconcile myself to the jaded nature of society here. Except for little enclaves here and there (like my squadron or my church) there is a glaring dearth of warmth and friendliness to be found in the people I meet. They are all very comely, certainly, but they seem vaguely overdressed and fragile, as if they are more concerned with looking "correct" than looking "nice" or "respectable." They are, on the surface, very nice - they say "please" and "thank you," but yet manage to make those phrases sound both rude and contemptuous. They are appallingly rude to waiters and store clerks. Their fun seems forced, as if the joy they experience is carefully controlled to conform with some standard, and therefore doesn't quite come from their hearts. It seems sad that a people can spend so much time worrying about how they look or act, and so much more time actively making themselves a certain way, and yet get so little enjoyment out of it. It's like they've all resigned themselves to the fact that they're as happy as they'll ever be in their shallow unambitious world of luxury.

Though I had a close group of friends with whom I shared many interests (foremost being our Catholicism, shared military experiences, and our love of college football in general and Notre Dame football specifically), by the summer of 2008 it was obvious that separation was inevitable. Some friends were heading out on deployments or even moving duty stations altogether. Others were entering the kind of serious relationships that occur after college and a certain amount of time living alone as a young professional. Truth be told I envied the latter. Between the slowly changing dynamics of my relationships in San Diego and the social character of California itself I was growing weary of a "single life." It is certainly exciting to be young and independent, but eventually I found that bars, restaurants, and beaches look mostly the same the world over and I yearned for something less transitory in my life and relationships. I was tired the constant change, no matter how slowly it was occurring, and I wanted to hold on to something more stable. I was in fact, and probably subconsciously, looking exactly for the kinds of serious relationships into which so many of my friends were entering. This consideration made me glad to deploy to Japan (which I did in the fall of 2008), because it was a chance to pare down my life and occupy myself with more immediate tasks--it was a chance to push a growing loneliness away.

Deployment was in many ways a struggle. I have only tasted the barest sip of the bitter loneliness felt by deployed service members who leave loved ones behind, for as I was still independent the solitary hours were to some degree a familiar experience. But the time away from home, immersed as I was in a difficult job and forced to spend time with (and get along with) tough-minded and equally independent squadron mates, was more a blessing. There is something redemptive and cleansing about suffering, a chance to forget old problems for new and take satisfaction in solving the problems and surviving the difficult times. And there was certainly plenty of fun to be had flying in new parts of the world and enjoying the unique freedom and carelessness that attends membership in a tight group of comrades sent to a new and exciting place. I returned home in March 2009 eager to re-engage California and make the most of my remaining time there. I vaguely intended to make existing friendships stronger with the knowledge that as they developed new relationships of their own, "stronger" wasn't going to necessarily mean "more available."

Initially, to my disappointment, I seemed to fall back into exactly the same incomplete life I had left seven months prior. In my long absence, new priorities had developed for my friends--some were newly engaged, others were newly married, still more had other friends besides. Nobody abandoned me, but there was nevertheless even less room in my old--and now shrinking--circle for me. So life goes: people grow and develop and change. There was no less love or friendship than before, just less availability. And I knew that as a good friend I needed to support my various friends' new changes. So I began insidiously accepting a smaller life than I wanted. I accepted more time alone and a smaller group of friends. And though I tried to remain cheerful, the melancholy of my situation made much more apparent the jaded and shallow character of California. It was a place of harsh light and dust, which I shut out by retreating into my parish "Young Adult" group, into my largely unfurnished apartment, and into books.

Then one summer week changed all this. Three events occurred which by themselves were hardly out of the ordinary, but which together began a process of growing appreciation and happiness. First, coincident with the weekend of July fourth, I was able to spend a day with my college and Pensacola room-mate. Though the substance of our encounters was noteworthy--one day we went sailing and followed it with a Cajun crawfish boil at his brother's house, the next we tied one on cathartically and royally in San Diego--I chiefly remember it as a moment recalling the great joy of our lives back in college and flight school. Those were the best years of my life at the time: carefree, young, healthy enough to often indulge in the kinds of pass-times that might otherwise result in sore-ness, injury, or hangover, and above all in the company of good friends.

Second, I spend the last part of that holiday weekend the beach with and as the guest of more old college friends. These were a newlywed couple, neither of whom I knew well at school (despite sharing their major and participating with them in ROTC), but with whom I nevertheless had much in common. Their hospitality, kindness, and cheer stunned me. We discussed books and life, their soon-to-be-born son, and enjoyed (again) the kind of company that had so recently been slipping away from me.

Third (and most significantly), I was contacted by a girl I knew from Notre Dame regarding something I wrote on the internet. Though of course I responded well to the compliments therein, I think I was more interested in the fresh and innocent character of the note. This connection was unfreighted with an impending departure, a common and competitive job, or a connection propped up at all by a common religion. There was no need for presence or determined and defensive courtesy, and I amid our far-reaching conversations I confided in her my spiritual malaise in California, aware that she had lived here after college but moved away after several years. The correspondence that developed between us was remarkable for it's fresh and sincere character, and as we traded stories and perspectives I began to see what initially brought her out to California, and learned that she was considering coming back after several years living in her hometown of Chicago. That was an idea that made California seem much more attractive as a place to live.

And in the glow of such company I started looking at California in a new light. My mind was suddenly filled with external ideas, jokes, and interests. It felt like my life was expanding again, that it was exciting and had a place here. I don't mean to suggest I thought my life was a dead end before; rather I had given up on much good ever happening in California. The "jaded and shallow" character certain Californians now seemed trivial and amusing. I realized anew how much there was to enjoy--between the company, the beach volleyball, the football, the cool ocean, and the sunlight I felt sudden sympathy with all those young men who passed through here during World War II, fell in love, and came back to settle after the war. It felt like paradise. The entire nature of the place is optimistic at heart: for the missionaries it was a place to found a new and holier society; for the gold rushers it was a place to make a fortune, for later settlers it was a place to be successful agriculturally in the abundant natural sunlight; for more recent refugees from failing economies, stifling cultures, and difficult winters of parts east it is simply a place to remake their life in a happier mold. There is an innocent appreciation common to such pilgrims, a profound enjoyment of California's beauties and opportunities that is rooted in their knowing full well the reason came her in the first place.

California seduces with beautiful scenery and beautiful people, and that may be in fact the true soul of the place anymore; and yet co-existing alongside it are good people both eager to live a happy life and ready to fully enjoy the weather, recreation, scenery, and simple unfettered lifestyle. Certainly, what previously hindered my enjoyment of California was a combination of my own pain at watching a close group of friends inevitably separate as they moved on with life and career and the conspicuous glitz and shallow ambition so obvious in California "society." Too rarely did I ignore those things enough to appreciate the good people and amazing opportunities for happiness here. I think I needed to be able to share this place and it's wonders with those good people--namely my friends, old and new.

I have written before of the importance of place. I have always been affected by places, by their beauty and by their romantic ugliness, but those are surface attributes. What I really notice, I believe, is the character of the place. That may be inspired by characteristics of the place itself, but it resides in and comes from the inhabitants. California is chiefly a place of dreams: beautiful dreams, nightmarish dreams, broken dreams, all kinds of dreams. People here are generally looking for something, but they have a kind of sojourning mindset--a cheerful acceptance of difficulty and an eager anticipation of their goal. They have hope. I temporarily lost that hope, but found it again during that providential summer week. As life grows and changes, new friends and comrades will step in to fill the void left by the departure or separation of the old, who will still be available (though not perhaps as they were before) but with no less friendship nonetheless. Most importantly I found a real love, something that has the potential to be greater than the closest friendship or the most bracing comrades. For the correspondence that began in late June grew into a long-distance date to Boston, and finally a real, committed, and exciting relationship. There is a great hope in that--a hope implicit in the presence of romantic love--that at least this relationship may not be transitory; that it might not be marked by inevitable separation but by a chance to do the growing and changing with a partner.

As I drove on to base today I watched the sun suddenly rise over the scrub hills of east Miramar, smite the buildings and my mirror, and momentarily blind me. It seemed to me that this sunrise, beautiful and gleaming golden between the soft layers of autumn clouds over the coastland, was the essence of California. It contained the hope of sunshine and optimism, the very hope that originally drew me and countless others. It was a reminder--though I scarce needed it--that finally, after two years of looking, I had found an ideal here in this land of dreams. I found what I sought. I found the hope of lasting happiness.