Month: July 2026

Last weekend, a friend came to town on short notice. This meant scrambling to find activities. A highlight was a sketch comedy show on Friday evening hosted in the same little black box theater where I took improv classes some time ago. Did I understand all of the jokes? Absolutely not, and for the same reason why it’s a bad idea to rely on me during the pop culture portions of a trivia contest. Did I enjoy some laughs? You bet.

It also meant eating out more than normal. Though my favorite Thai place was out of commission due to some kitchen maintenance, overall I was satisfied that I offered my guest a sampling of the Durham food scene. Handmade pasta, seafood from the coast, Mediterranean-inspired spreads, Peruvian rotisserie chicken, and Carolina-style BBQ (even if he chose not to get the chopped pork) all featured. We also tried a mix of cocktail bars and taprooms, but the new spots we tried aren’t going to become regular destinations for me.

We capped off the weekend with a Sunday evening walk through Duke Gardens since my friend is a plant guy and a small time gardener. For some reason, he chose not to bring his phone and then got mad at himself for having left it in the car when he was unable to take pictures. It’s not like I’d told him that the gardens are impressive or anything. Maybe next time he’ll be a better listener. Oh well, it was funny for me. 

Last Wednesday, I wrote my weekly missive from a hotel room in Atlanta. I was waiting on my brother’s early morning flight to arrive and got in a little bit of work before the day’s events began. Thankfully, he had a much less eventful travel experience than I’d had the day before and arrived to the hotel by about 10:30. He deposited his things in the room and we set off for what turned out to be a brunch of chicken biscuits at a local spot nearby.

Given our experience from Seattle and how long it took to enter the stadium there (and the fact that we had nothing else planned for the day), we went ahead and got a ride towards the Georgia Dome after our late breakfast. Things were much smoother this time and we were in within just a few minutes. We waited in what turned out to be another interminable merchandise line, just like in Seattle, only this time they sold out of the match scarves right before our turn to purchase. At least they weren’t as nice as the US-Australia scarf that I have downstairs.

Our seats were in the rafters for this chance to see the great Lionel Messi. That meant riding escalators up and walking even more steps once we reached the top concourse. As we ascended, even though it was hours before kickoff, the chanting had started. It was all in Spanish and they were excited. This was a different sort of match emotionally than watching the US play. That was another level of emotion. I’ve been to both England and Argentina twice. I’ve spent more time in Argentina, and I have fond memories from both Buenos Aires and from the plains in the north around Cordoba. I don’t share that same fondness for London. My brother doesn’t share those experiences; he’s only been to England and that was only briefly. It meant I was more emotionally invested than he was, which again wasn’t the case when we watched the US play earlier in the summer.

Sitting next to us was a couple in Mexico jerseys holding a homemade sign that made clear they were rooting for England. That did not endear them to the predominantly Argentinian crowd around us, nor did the fact that they continued to hold the sign up even while the match was going on and they blocked the view of some of those behind them. Mercifully, they eventually gave up on their dream of being on the jumbotron. We went back to the concourse for some chicken tenders for lunch and then sat and ate while the stadium filled around us and the atmosphere built.

On television, announcers often say that being at an Argentina game is like being in Buenos Aires. I’ve been to a match at La Bombonera, the home of Boca Juniors, and I have to see that the comparison falls flat. This was a cavernous dome, everything was very clean, and there were no ribbons or tifos and only a few drums. This atmosphere was more sterile and corporate than would be the case in either La Bombonera or El Monumental (the two great stadiums of that city), amazing though the atmosphere was. One of the articles I read after the match said that both sets of fans tried to drown out the other nation’s national anthem (the Falklands/Malvinas are still a live issue), but only the Argentinians succeeded. The shrill whistle that is common throughout Latin America did the trick much more than the Anglo boos. The first half was tense and cagy. There were few chances for either team. Any time one of the English misplayed a pass, the crowd was quick to call them a burro (donkey). I found that funnier than I should have. Otherwise, my main memory of the first half was standing up and sitting down repeatedly. Then things exploded in the second half.

England scored on the break about ten minutes into the half. It was a sucker punch given the way Argentina had started the half, but then England choked. The Argentinian fans only got louder after England scored, and the team rode that momentum and laid siege to the English penalty area underneath our seats. England invited the pressure, both through their play and through their substitutions. After the goal, they had under 15% possession during the subsequent 40+ minutes. And Argentina heaped even more pressure with their own substitutions. The fans around us never wavered, never panicked. They knew that Argentina would score. They’d seen it over and over in recent years. That is a very different feeling to the one I had when the US conceded the first goal to Belgium. England retreated more and more, and eventually the levy broke. Messi found Enzo Fernandez at the top of box and on what was his third attempt from that range he finally put a shot on target and past the diving keeper. The place got even louder and the outcome was settled; it was just a matter of time. Sure enough, Messi found Lautaro Martinez somehow wide open just a few yards out and he headed home the second ten minutes later. The place exploded, and I was part of the yelling chorus. England sent on subs in desperation, but it was too late. They were out and Argentina were through.

After the final whistle, the Argentinians serenaded their team and Messi, their hero. They even kept going after the team left the field after over half an hour. The English were stunned, standing on the field for nearly twenty minutes before they sauntered into the tunnel. We stayed in our seats until all the players left the field. I wanted to feel the energy, passion, and love that the Argentinian fans have for their national team. It was a beautiful thing to take in.

Following the match, we walked all the way back to the hotel. We had to walk some distance to get away from the street closures and then decided just to keep walking. During the first mile of the walk, we were in the midst of an Albiceleste wave. We spoke English to each other, but other than us, a few street preachers, and one brave, idiotic, and probably drunk woman yelling at people saying they needed to go back to their own country, Spanish was the language of choice. We ate dinner in courses at different places in the food hall in Ponce City Market, which was near the hotel, and then we walked along the beltline for another couple of miles before getting a ride back to the hotel and wrapping up our day. It was only during that walk that my voice gave out, which was equally frustrating since I couldn’t talk with my brother and surprising as my voice had stayed with me through everything else. 

Yesterday I flew to Atlanta for a short not-work trip. Had I instead gotten in my car and driven in the other direction on I-40, eventually joining with I-85, I would have arrived at my hotel sooner. Of course, this would mean having driven for six hours, having to pay to park in Atlanta, and having to drive back tomorrow, but it still gives a sense of things. We boarded the plane for takeoff and everything was in order. Then during their final checks the pilots discovered an electrical failure of some kind. That meant we deplaned, and after turning everything off and back on again didn’t solve the problem we were forced to wait for a spare part that was delivered on the next flight coming in from Atlanta. The irony was not lost on me.

When we reboarded some three hours later, I was next to two different people than those who had been in my row earlier. Mind you, those people were also on the plane, just a few rows up. I don’t know where the new ones came from. Presumably, there were other flight delays and people were shuffled around. It was just odd. Then as we descended, the pilots aborted the approach and we climbed into the skies again as a downpour had temporarily inundated the runway. I just laughed. There was nothing else to do. We circled and landed on the next approach a few minutes later.

Since it was a Tuesday, I was able to keep my same dinner plans even if they were rather delayed. I don’t know if it was the delays, the air blowing directly down onto my table, or how loud the place was, but I wasn’t able to enjoy the food like I’d imagined. Alas, that’s not why I’m here. Today is.

We don’t take every official holiday. It’s part of the reality of running your own business. But I took off last Friday for the observed Fourth of July holiday. It was such a different sort of day that it offered a wonderful refresher even if it left me physically drained.

I set out on a long commute about the time the sun rose. Well, it would be more of a super-commute if anyone made it regularly as I drove nearly two hours to Pilot Mountain State Park. It is a distinctive stone pillar topped by trees now, the result of a mountain that has eroded much more slowly than its surroundings. You can see it for miles and miles.

With temperatures spiking above 100 degrees with some humidity thrown in, I limited activity to the morning. I did the same Saturday and Sunday as well. As a result, I took the lazy approach and drove to the top of the ridge instead of hiking up from the bottom. I chose this in order to get some diversity in my trail miles, but the trail along the Yadkin River in a different part of the park was a disappointment relative to the trails along the Eno closer to home.

Atop the ridge, there is first a short little trail to a promontory to observe the mountain. Then I walked along the trail at the base of the exposed rock. It isn’t a long trail, not quite a mile, but it is always imposing standing under a sheer rock face. The views looking out over the Yadkin Valley are really something too, even if the far vistas were shrouded even under clear blue skies. Once I completed the circuit, I extended the walk by walking down the ridge a little to an area where groups of people were climbing the rock face (you cannot climb the main mountain itself). I picked a few wild blackberries along the way and stopped to eat them in the shade amidst the cooing of pigeons nesting in the cliffs. Then I scrambled up a gully and connected with the main trail up to the top of the ridge and completed by little figure eight. I was off the mountain before eleven and then drove to the second part of the itinerary that proved less exciting.

I did not visit any of the wineries in the area on this trip, but I did stop for lunch at a good little diner in the town of Pilot Mountain for a nice country breakfast style meal. There are many more places to explore in this state, but I’m satisfied that I did this one justice.