I understand the appeal. Really, I do.

Every kid has an astronaut phase. I was no different

Every person has some favorite sci-fi movie about space aliens. Personally, I enjoyed Star Wars. Well, Return of the Jedi specifically. I know people say that is the worst of the original trilogy but I don’t care. I thought the Ewoks were cool, even though I think it would have made sense if Chewbacca was their god and not C3PO.

I admit that when Elon Musk opened up space tourism, I was a little intrigued. Breaking the bonds of the atmosphere, floating in zero-gravity, going where ancestors never dreamed.

I am the only in my group of friends who hasn’t gone to the moon. About half of my friends have gone to Mars. Frankly, their stories sound boring. It’s a long, long trip in small, small ship.

No thank you.

There isn’t a whole lot to do on the moon, and even less on Mars.

They say you get to help out with the terraforming. They say you get to be part of history. It sounds like you pay a boat-load of money to work for a private company. I have to pay you to work for you and you get paid for the work I produce? If I wanted to see a barren desert I could drive to Las Vegas.

Plus, there is so much to explore right here on earth. Why should I go garden my neighbor’s yard when I haven’t opened all of the doors to my own house first? I have not been to the Sydney Opera House, I have not seen the pyramids, I have not walked the Great Wall of China. Those are all so much more appealing than digging in dirt thousands of miles in the sky.

But this is an opportunity to build the opera house, the pyramids, the wall!

No thank you.

I would rather be the tourist instead of the worker. Does anyone know the names of the people who actually worked on those projects? Maybe the people who designed them, sure. But the actual workers? No. And no one will know the names of my friends or the thousands of others who fork over as much money as a car to help a billionaire become a trillionaire.

I want to breathe in the Amazon rain forest, not an astronaut’s flight suit. If I have to have a breathing apparatus, I would rather be under the ocean than out in space.

Humans know less about the ocean floor than we do about the surface of the moon.

I would rather learn that than work there.

Sixteen-ounce drip coffee, splash of cream, no sugar, blueberry scone, two chairs away from the window, back to the wall.

That was Tim. Some might call it boring or predictable. Tim felt it was comforting.

It would happen every so often someone else would sit in the second chair from the window. Tim did not make a fuss. He simple found another chair with his back to the wall. San Clemente is a small town halfway between Los Angeles and San Diego that relied on tourism, but was also the headquarters to several surfing-related companies - i.e. clothing brands, wetsuit manufacturers. The town would swell in size when a surfing competition took place, and when that happened Tim usually just his order to go. He did not like seeing the baristas he knew get overwhelmed by the volume of customers. 

But most of the locals knew Tim could be found sipping his 16-ounce drip coffee, splash of cream, no sugar, and breaking apart his blueberry scone while sitting in the chair two spots away from this window at Surfin’ Beans Cafe near Leslie Park, just south of the pier.

He remembered when San Clemente was just known as the closest place for marines from Camp Pendleton to get away. When President Nixon announced he would spend summers here, well that’s when things started to really take off. About 15 years after that, the surf industry realized this place had great waves. Even then, though, more customers did not equate with more problems. Sure, there were growing pains. But the customers themselves were always courteous.

This new batch of tourists were different. Or maybe Tim was different. 

He grew up in this town. His father was the second city’s second fire chief. Tim was just named driver engineer when Nixon made his announcement, and it would be another 14 years before he was named chief. He served his community with pride until his retirement when Bill Clinton took office. Geez. Had it really been 30 years? 

Tim kept in shape. He played tennis. He went for walks. He never did learn to surf, though. He joked he was the only person in a 50 mile radius who didn’t enjoy the ocean. That wasn’t entirely true. He enjoyed looking at the ocean. But the sand was too hot and ocean was too unknown to him. Still, his 91st birthday was in two months, and no amount of tennis could hide the ravages of time.

He watched what he ate. The only sweets he ate were those blueberry scones every morning. Tim was the reason Surfin’ Bean carried blueberry scones. When they opened right after Tim’s retirement, Surfin’ Bean had breakfast sandwiches. Tim’s wife used to make blueberry muffins. He missed he. She died when he was chief. It was during Ronald Reagan’s first term, but in the lead up to his election against Mondale. Tim was at the office doing payroll when he got a call Nancy fell while walking the dog. In reality she had a brain aneurysm and died before she hit the floor. When Surfin’ Bean opened Tim asked for a muffin, but the owner - Tim remembered when her family came to San Clemente - the owner said they only had scones. 

Every time he ate a blueberry scone he thought of Nancy. When he asked her to dance in high school. When they kissed under the now huge oak tree in Leslie Park. Their honeymoon to Mexico. All of the little things they did together. Nancy was the one who pushed him to go for the chief job in the first place. She was also the one who argued at the city council meeting the town needed more locally-owned shops. 

Tim was sipping his 16-ounce drip coffee, splash of cream, no sugar, when a group of youngsters he had never seen before threw the door open and caused heads to turn with how loud they were laughing. Tim was surprised, but thought they were just kids. They ordered their drinks with names that took longer to say than the barista took to make it. They complained about the lack of food options. They complained about the prices. They complained about the decorations. They complained about the music. They complained about the name of cafe.

Tim stood up to defend his cafe, his town, his routine.

Suddenly, he felt dizzy, and fell.

“Hi sweetie. I’ve been waiting for you,” Nancy said.

The lettuce was green The bacon was crispy The bun was fluffy It had melting Swiss cheese

The commercial was enticing Aired right at lunch time That burger was more delicious Than this sandwich of mine

The bag handed through the window The fries smelled filled my car But the burger in my hand Was different than the one that I saw

This one was greasy, Flat, and floppy The ad looked so sexy This looked so sloppy

How could the ad taste better Than reality? Truth in advertising? That’s an abnormality

I love performing. I am at peace with myself and feel at one with the world. The orchestra, the costume, the audience, my movements…all slide into perfect harmony when I am on stage. Everything just makes sense. I do not worry about school, or parents, or boys, or my phone, or the news. I am alive and present for every beat of the music, every sway of my body. Nothing else matters. It’s as if the entire world melts away and me on stage is the only thing that is real.

Nothing comes close to the feeling of performing.

Except the feeling of auditions.

Take all of the joy and peace and harmony that comes with performing, turn it inside out and that’s what auditioning feels like. Anxiety. Self-doubt. Fear. I have never finished an audition and thought, “That went great!” Even if I nailed every movement, there is also the doubt that I did not do enough. I’m just a number. Even if I know the choreographer, there are no guarantees at auditions. All eyes are watching, judging, whispering. And it’s not just about who is the best dancer. I start to second-guess what I wore to the audition, how my hair looks, do I have too much or too little makeup on. I start to size up the competition. I hate auditioning. Hate. If they told me I could get the part by cleaning the bathrooms or go through the audition process, I would take the bathrooms in a heartbeat. That’s no lie.

But performing? You could offer me a million dollars, and I would rather be out on stage.

The smell of beans seeping wakes me The pot brewing, it shakes me Now I am ready for today’s events

The lure of sugar invites me The vending options excite me I am ready for these final meetings

The dishes have been put away Ice cream, shower, toothpaste, PJs The usual end to my crazy days

He was so ashamed of himself. If all of pain and suffering he has caused others throughout the centuries were all put together, it would not equal the remorse he felt now. There was only one being in the entire world he loved during his 1,700 years of walking this planet. Ever since he traveled with Helena to the Holy Land and stole the True Cross from the mother of the emperor, Eusebius had been cursed to never die and to only feed on blood. And he had quenched his thirst often. His teeth grew into fangs, his remorse shrank to non-existent, his blood-lust became insatiable. He roamed the earth, never staying in any one place for more that 10 years. He literally been to every corner of the earth. There was a time he attempted to repent by isolating himself in the cold, but penguin blood proved delicious. Eusebius had loved many women during his centuries walking the earth. But Sophia was the only one who was matched perfectly with every aspect of Eusebius’ life. While Eusebius allowed the others to grow old and die, only Sophia was worthy of joining him for eternity. The only way she could join him forever was if Eusebius used his fangs to both drain her blood, and give his blood to her. The bite was on her foot, a spot both thought would heal and conceal easily. It worked. Sophia soon feasted on the dead with Eusebius. They would sometimes enter villages and find the elderly, only to smother them to death, and then dig up the bodies after burial for food. Sophia, however, was not cursed like Eusebius. He was cursed by Helena for his treachery and God struck him with eternal damnation. Sophia, on the other hand was not completely a vampire. Her heart could still produce human blood. Eusebius needed to feast on blood and the dead to stay young. His time at the bottom of the world he grew old and weak, but he felt endless pain and would never die. He lived a Greek tragedy. After decades of suffering and the end never arriving, he at first found decaying penguins and then hunted the flightless birds once he was stronger. Sophia needed to be bitten again and again or else her human blood would overtake her system, and she would grow old and die. At first the bites were once a lifetime, then once every 25 years, and then once a decade. They measured by Sophia’s wrinkles and hair. Every new bite would erase the gray and smooth her skin. The bites became so frequent they changed locations from the feet, to the hands, to the arm, to the legs, and finally it was decided to try the neck. The fangs were too long, the carotid artery too close. Eusebius’ venom should only be in veins, never arteries. That artery supplies oxygen to the neck, face, and brain. Almost instantly Sophia’s expression was of fear. She knew something had gone wrong. Her wrinkles accelerated, her hair whitened, he muscles atrophied. When Eusebius released, she was already dead. Eusebius mourned Sophia for a full year, sobbing uncontrollably for three straight days. In anger, in depression, in regret Eusebius tore out his fangs, vowing to never turn anyone again.

“Get out. See different cultures. Meet interesting people.” Sure, that’s what the brochure said, and that’s what the recruiter said, and that’s what my parents said. But no one told me how it would REALLY be. I don’t understand how anyone can live where it is this cold! I really do not know what color the buildings are around here because everything is constantly blanketed in white. You can’t really identify people on the street because they have to wear so many layers so they don’t freeze to death. I am used to greeting people using my hands; hands on both shoulders, look them in the eye, say hello, nod your head. That is the way you should greet people! But here, they are so rude. People barely look in your direction, and merely grunt at you. When I first arrived at my host house, I greeted the family as I would anyone. Morthana - the female head of the house - looked mortified that touched her. I still do not understand the language. It is all so guttural. It sounds so savage. I am still learning to say hello properly. “Uspa,” but I have been told it sounds like I am saying “wuuspap,” which is an entirely impolite phrase about anatomy. When tried to say it on my first day of class, the class was so out of control with laughter that the teacher sent me to the headmaster. The school also confuses me. Back home we studied the vegetation, the animals, the rain. Here we are stuck in the classroom. I guess I get it, because I don’t want to be outside when it is below freezing, and, besides, there is nothing to study except snow and ice. Morthana is a good cook, or at least everyone else in the house eat her food as soon as they get it. They enjoy her cooking. I am still getting used to boiled roots night after night. Apparently my first meal was supposed to be a highlight, because we have not had fish except that first night. And everyone else was jealous that got a bigger piece. I don’t know if they realize fish is a sacred animal in my country. Or maybe they do realize and they were being mean. I miss being home.

The Kereit and the Tayichiud were two tribes constantly fighting over the best pastures. The nomadic peoples practiced exogamy, which often resulted in stealing brides from the other clans inside each tribe and even between the warring tribes themselves. Borte was the daughter of a chief in the Kereit tribe. Her jet black hair would lay straight to her waist if it was not in the traditional braid and bun. Athletically built, deceptively strong, quick-witted, and unwilling to be a shrinking violet, Borte was royalty as much as these nomadic tribes recognized royalty. Temujin was a boy born into a common family. He was not the first-born son, so he would not inherit anything. His father was a sheepard, so there was not much to inherit anyway. Temujin was determined, however, to upend the political realities of hi culture. He wanted those with merit and skill be the ones in power, not just the ones born into the correct families. Temujin posed all of the merit and skills to be a man of power. He did not possess the proper Tayichiud lineage. The Tayichiud and Kereit were again squabbling over the best grazing lands, and Temujin’s father was part of the small band that attacked the closest enemy camp. That camp happened to be where Borte was. Borte was swept up in the attack by Temujin’s father, who “presented” her as a gift to his son. Borte and Temujin were barely in their teens, but both were entrenched in the ways of the plains. Borte did not like the Tayichiud. They had killed countless relatives. They had stolen even more sheep and goats. They constantly infringed on traditional Kereit grazing lands. As what happens in feuds, the same could be said about Temujin’s feelings about the Kereit. The teens distrusted and even resented each other, but Borte proved herself a formidable presence when it came to milking the goats, chasing off wolves, and gathering fire wood. Temujin, while having reserves about the Kereit, he treated Borte with respect and admiration and demanded others do the same. Temujin’s grace and civility showed Borte that the Tayichiud were not the evil enemies she was brought up to believe. Within one season, Borte knew Temujin was more than just the son of a herdsman. She saw Temujin had the strength and determination to rise above his status. Temujin had in Borte his biggest supporter and advisor. As was the case on the open plains, another clan raided Temujin’s camp and stole Borte. Temujin constantly looked for his missing wife, but nomads do not stay in one place for long and are experts at covering their tracks. It took 10 months, but Temujin finally found the camp Borte was being held. When he attacked, Temujin spared no mercy and stained the grass red with the captors blood. As Temujin grew into adulthood, his reputation also grew. He never lost his childhood desire to change the nomad culture. Every raiding party he led, he offered full pardon for those who joined the new tribe he was forming of all nomadic tribes. Borte’s “royal” lineage persuaded some, while Temujin’s personality persuaded others. The fact that those who refused to join were cut down soon became the most effective recruiting tool. Soon the variety of clans and tribes who joined Temujin made his band the most feared in the land. Temujin built the hierarchy of his amalgamated tribe on who was the best leader, who was the most fearless, who was the smartest in battle. This attracted second- and third- and fourth-born sons and whoever else had little traditional path to glory and power. They knew that with Temujin those who produced were rewarded. Temujin eventually united all of the plains people. He built an empire. The people proclaimed him the ruler of everything under the sky. In the language of the people, he was called Genghis Khan. At his side throughout it all was his bride Borte, the girl from the enemy tribe.

All that glitters is not gold The most precious things are not things to hold Health and love and trust They stay true when gold grinds to dust Do not tie your value to your bank account For money is just numbers, and forever they count Who you are, not what you have That should be the motto throughout the land

I was told I only had six weeks to live. I was told the chemo was ineffective. I was told the cancer had traveled. I was told the headache was a sign the end was right around the corner. Six weeks. That’s not even two months. High school football seasons are longer than the prognosis. I did not wallow in self pity. I did not allow my family and friends to mourn my death before it even arrived. I lived my life. I did not waste one day, one hour, one minute. All grudges I had were forgotten. My sister and I just went back to how things were before years ago before we both said things we regretted. I cherished the sunrise, not upset at being up so early. I relished the sunset, not regret being up late. I didn’t ignore or forgive people who said nasty things about me, I didn’t even hear them. I did not worry about how many likes my posts got, I did not stress about how many followers I had. I stopped even looking at social media altogether. I did not listen to this pundit argue and that expert complain. I didn’t watch the news. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was what I did with each minute I had left and was not going to throw it away. Six weeks is what the doctors said. I have been living my best life for six months now. That six week prognosis is the best thing that ever happened to me.