Welcome Aboard!
In order for us to take off on time, which we don’t plan on doing anyways, please store your bigger bags in the overhead compartment and the smaller ones in the impossibly tiny area under your seat. We are pleased to offer limited leg space and edema.

Please make your way from the narrow isle, to your seats. For those of you who have not checked any luggage and who are unconsciously bashing your backpacks, laptop cases and purses in the already seated passenger’s faces, please hurry the fuck up and sit down. However, I’m sure you will have forgotten something in your stowed bags and will stand back up to inevitably ass bump someone’s head. For those of you who require assistance please let us know. We will be sure to talk behind your back about your neediness and roll our eyes if you seem competent but aren’t really trying to lift your bag over your head; so annoying. We also promise to shove all your bags so tightly together that we anticipate them shifting and dropping on your head when you open the bins… this makes us secretly smile. We are tired and have little to no patience.

We cross our fingers there’s no crash, as the pilot is struggling with withdrawal.

There are inflatables stashed beneath your seat that may or may not inflate.

The oxygen is a lie.

 If you don’t already know how to use a seat belt, please get off the plane.

So please sit back, relax and enjoy the turbulent flying death trap you are strapped to.

Oh and please turn all hand held devices to airplane mode.

Switch Modes
The mode of the air;  a quick swipe of the finger that somehow allows electronic devices to be safe and “sleepy” as we careen high into the sky at an elevation that doesn’t make sense to me. However, it’s not mine to understand. I’ve been told I’m good at many things, but back row co-pilot does not need to be added to the list. So I’ll just trust the plane gods to get me from point A to B… or plane fairies. I would really like it if there were little fairies that lifted it high into the air. That would make me happy.

With all the madness that can occur on flight, I have somehow made peace with it. There are no medium threat issues that would cause me not to fly. Sometimes if the plane needs more fuel and we’re grounded, I think, “Come on! Let’s see how far this bad boy can go!” I actually enjoy flying. I have concluded that when surrounded by that many people; we have choices: to talk or to be a mute. It’s quite empowering. What I find interesting though, is when I do choose to speak; the “right” person is sitting next to me with an interesting story. However, when I’ve had enough and there’s a lull… the ear plugs and face mask come out to create a strong hint that this gal needs to hibernate. When desperate for quiet time, I will plug my senses even on a short haul flight, under an hour, just to send a bad ass message (or dorky), that I require silence.

I love airplane mode. I think it’s safer for everyone, if my electrical energy isn’t bouncing freely around a metal jar. Before I step onto a plane, my life is generally in a mild form of chaos. Everything from organizing my house to the little shit I forget to pick up before I go; makes for a week of running around and exhaustion. But I know that stillness is on its way. I know that when I step on that plane; whether it’s for an hour or fifteen… I am free. I am in rest mode. I choose to disconnect by swiping my mind to a vibration of self-care, self-love and connection. I put ear plugs in so I can hear the beat of my heart. I wear a mask so that my eyes rejuvenate and can remain moist even in that recycled mist they call air.

How often do you switch to the safety of airplane mode? Looking around I would say that most of us are in technology mode, ‘chicken with cut off head’ mode and ‘more is better’ mode. I’m not immune to this stuff. My life can be and has been a plethora of ‘cray cray’ that has left me depleted, empty and hungry. The idea that we cannot, for whatever reason, slow down, chill out or take a much deserved time out makes me shake my head at myself and then society.

What is brilliant is that switching modes is actually simple. It can be a solo cup of tea, a walk in nature or heading to bed early. Either way it will happen. Without airplane mode we will inevitably crash. We will then be given no choice but to back up from everything, including those things we love, and nurture the minor headache we’ve caused or at worst a chronic stress illness.

So check your busyness, stow your past baggage, and swipe. Take flight, close your eyes and enjoy the scenery. Be a tourist in your mind. Take a look around and observe your thoughts; see where the majority of stress is coming from and decide to make a change. After the flight ends, land safely and feel grounded.

Please take all your belongings as any items you leave will be sold. Whether you enjoyed your flight or not, is not our concern. Thank you for choosing this airline, even though we know we slashed prices, and you bought for the savings.

Good bye and safe journeys in this city or wherever your future destination may be. 

When does it start to go sideways?

We are born into a world of innocence, freedom and unconditional love. Along the snaky path, we slither, sheering off our thin childhood epidermis to become analyzers, processors, worst case scenario thinkers, separatists, boxed in, boarded up, work for the man-o-holics, boring, conservative, this is how I should act, hope everyone likes me, thick skinned adults.

Question: Why do we do that? Why do we trade in the serenity and peace of our inner child and decide to take on the hardened edges of a struggling disconnected adult? Somehow, somewhere along the heavily guarded road to maturity and responsibility we unlearned the things that kept us vulnerable and playful. The road itself is a cruel teacher that places boundaries and restrictions that many of us unconsciously obey. We’ve become programmed to be all too aware of the firing squad waiting for us if we veer too far right or too far left. Out of fear, if we move to the periphery, we inevitably jump back into line, as to not upset what’s expected. From wannabe rogue to aimless refugee, we wander slowly from the care free town of Childhoodville to the bustling metropolis of Grown Up City.

If you’ve ever observed children playing around the world, you’ll notice there is no difference between the youth in Bali or Canada. Eliminate the toys, the clothes, the cultural element and one basic truth is left; all kids play with one another regardless of sex, age, financial status, or language barriers. There is not one innocent soul who wouldn’t want to hug, kiss, explore and help another child out of a jam. This is our natural state. We are born into love and because of this, love flows easily from little heart to little heart. Their tiny hands hold tightly to one another, running down the beach, splashing in the water; completely free of judgement.

But we fucked up. We fucked up bad. As a universal progressive society we decided that certain people were of no value because of their skin color, amount of money earned, the language spoken, the area they live in, and the religion they follow. Think you and I are immune? Think again. When was the last time you even casually thought, “I feel more comfortable around…” “They’re not my type of people…” “I have nothing in common with them…” “I prefer to hang around with…” Or what about the more common inner phrases of self-doubt, fears, worthlessness and feeling like YOU don’t fit in, that cause us separation and a feeling of disassociation. Where do you think this comes from? If we we’re born free of these thoughts; then seems to me like we’ve been conditioned to believe other people’s concepts about ourselves and the world around us.

Even in the most perceived open families, cultures, religions and spiritual groups we are separate from one another. We create unwritten rules; those who follow can enjoy sweet union with the group and those who question, don’t “get it” or don’t completely “buy into it,” feel left out, unwelcome or confused. Take a look around, this mentality is everywhere. Nothing is left untouched as we age. The world that we mature in, dictates our values of “good” “bad” “right” and “wrong.” Many groups even go so far as to segregate, if you choose to open your bright eyes and SEE.

We are all fucked up. But if we choose to stay fucked up that’s our fault.

We need to unlearn what’s been drilled into us about ourselves and others. Observe your beliefs. Are they truly based on experience or are they based on someone else’s thoughts or ramblings? What you choose to keep as restrictive thoughts will of course be up to you… but why the fuck would you want to stay limited in your view of your inner and outer world. We all have the resources to surround ourselves with a variety of people, cultures and to slowly build up connected views rather than walled up and unconscious ideas.

I ask the great Universe to give us all the desire to de-program that which keeps us apart. If we collectively choose to live in love and embrace differences rather than clinging to the illusionary walls of comparisons we will find ourselves playing like little babies. We will run around half naked on a beach, throwing caution to the wind and jumping into the ocean waves of life. Let’s ride the surf holding hands; smiling and laughing as we bob along the water occasionally spitting up salty fluid, as our head go under. But if one of us goes too far below, without even thinking, let’s grab their hand, hold on tight and pull them the fuck back up.

No matter how often I travel to Indonesia (6 times) I am always blown away by everything from the beautiful water, the people, local cuisine and the hospitality. However, this time, as I sat my ass on a beach, I noticed something else. There was an object that attracted my eye and gave me pause; it made me think. It was seemingly so ridiculously inconsequential, but I just knew I was meant to observe it.
​
My best friend and I staked our claim to a couple of bean bag chairs and set up camp. We undressed down to our swim suits, lathered up with sunscreen and then dropped heavy onto the 1970’s inspired cushions; creating full body outlines. As the sun beat down on us, I was extremely grateful to have a large overhead umbrella creating bearable shade to chill under, while we people watched and drank Bintang, the local beer.

​This umbrella was massive; think big and then think bigger. 

Because it was directly over our heads, at times, I would look up with squinty eyes at the guts of the umbrella. I observed how strong and sturdy this thing must be in order to endure tropical winds, rain and the intense heat. That “something” that drew my attention was the wood that was used to create the hinges. I thought it was odd how each hinge holding the umbrella open, 8 in total, was “pinned” with completely different items; a nail, a screw, a small stick, a dowel cut perfectly to fit and so on. I don’t remember all of the materials used, but one particular “branch” of this system was remarkably repaired. It looked as though the piece of wood had snapped and another stronger more durable wood was placed along side and then duct taped together. Now that was ingenuity! Duct tape clearly has made its mark around the world.

That’s a side observation… let’s continue…

For some reason, emotion swept over me. It appeared as if the poor thing had lived a long life and now was being fixed up merely to survive. Back home we would have thrown it away; no good! Doesn’t work! Too much energy to repair! Need newer and better!!! Ugh, and yet this umbrella worked just fine and in fact was doing a remarkable job of making my sunless sunning experience a complete treat! My mind was racing… wait a minute, the umbrella wasn’t broken at all; it was simply altered at a time when it needed to shift into a stronger more powerful item. In order for it to keep doing the job it was intended for; the umbrella had to take the support and make appropriate changes so it could thrive.

You may not know…

I have a stick duct tape to my back. I have a variety of “pins” throughout my body reminding me of my glory days and the moments of mental anguish that brought me crashing to my knees. I have felt the sun beating down on my soul and the windy rain that beat the shit out of me as I held my hands over my face and cried till there were no more tears left to flow. Throughout all of this, I held my ground. I stayed in position ready to continue my life’s work. My feet were and are deeply rooted in the mucky sand that not even my illness, my separation, my fears, my mental grief, my lack of self-love could knock me down and keep me there.

Like a fixed up umbrella, I too, have created a new life.

We are not damaged. We are simply modified from the life we thought we’d have, to the life that is playing out even more spectacularly before us. You and I will always have situations that leave us deeply wounded requiring heavy duty tape to support. But what a mind blowing trip; to be able to constantly renew, revitalize and re-route our lives. Open your umbrella to its maximum intensity and notice how fucking connected, introspective and strong you have become.
​
Now… seriously… is that someone who’s broken? 

“We have forgotten how to be good guests, how to walk lightly on the earth as its other creatures do.”
- Barbara Ward

I’ve been wandering around the world on and off now for more than half my life and I’ve recently observed an increase in people traveling to parts of the world that would be considered secluded, beachy and full of local flavor.

Even compared to a few years ago, some of the most beautiful Islands of Bali and Lombok, Indonesia, have been more populated with tourists than years before. I am stoked to see the tourism industry alive and well, as its given way to many luxuries that I personally have been able to take advantage of: wifi, fresh water, cleaner accommodations, safer conditions for solo travelers, much better food choices and let’s not forget local beer for the masses. Thank you local beer; you will never take the place of wine, but in South East Asia, you are my number one pick!

Part of what I think keeps pulling me back to remote locations, is that the environment feels untouched. There’s a vibe of simplicity to the people, culture and food... but as we all know appearances can be deceiving.

Pristine conditions are becoming rare, because travelers are increasing in rapid numbers and the surrounding beauty seems to struggle under the weight of it all. Progress can be good. But as there have been advancements in technology and safety, there have also been a mounting pile of troubles: pollution, sanitation issues (issues is a gentle way of saying shit is everywhere – ass to ocean) and quiet villages ebb and flow with tourists rapidly consuming resources and destroying their natural ecology.  

I understand, and am not ignorant to the fact, that I too am a yearly contributor to both; progress and problems. I bring abundance and my Canadian smile into struggling economies, but yet at the same time, I use several transportation services: trains, planes and automobiles, as it were which contribute to decreased air quality and pollution. However, when I travel, I continue to live by the same motto as at home, help not harm.

TO READ THE REMAINDER OF THIS ARTICLE PLEASE CLICK THIS LINK TO 42yogis website.... http://www.42yogis.com/wellness/item/walk-softly-in-the-sand

THANK YOU

It’s come down to this… I am officially taking lessons about life from a cow.

I landed by fast boat on Gili Air, Indonesia in early October, waved down a donkey and cart, as one would hail a cab, hopped into the back and gave my kidneys a work out as we bumped down the unpaved road to my accommodations. My spacious room is a private cabin on the sunset side of the Island, but without all the usual character I’m used to seeing in Bali; thatch roofs, paintings, sculptures and beautifully carved furniture.  This building is made from the cheaper and easier to maintain concrete, with a large bed and plain wooden furniture. There is nothing exciting, pretty or inspired about the room I am staying in, until you open the door.

I have stayed in several breath taking places around the world, and yet I don’t remember there ever being a heifer strait outside my door, even in India.

The view directly in front of me is nothing short of farm land that needs some love. October seems to be a fairly dry month, so everything, including the people, has a dusty glow. However, there is something primitive, ancient and earthy about having a combination of dirt, brownish green grass and “hut” all together in one area. The picture I’m forming in my head, is enhanced by  the fact that the owners are locals and look like they are strait off the Island with their big smiles and ‘help - yourself - to - anything’ attitudes. The female owner cooks, cleans, looks after the hotel bookings, and washes the laundry. I have nick named her super woman; she laughs when I call her that. She’s got a motherly vibe and I like that. She gave me a pin to hold together my harem pants, because the elastic around the waist is nonexistent. I found this out in an unfortunate circumstance; as I stood up on the fast boat to stretch, my pants did not join me. Thank gawd for the breeze which quickly made me aware of the “no pants on my ass” situation. The couple behind me got a show; by her facial expression she was not impressed, by his – I’d say he was.

I took a half an hour to chill on my deck and get settled in. I don’t have a long time on these Islands, maybe a week, so I’m using this time to chill, visit friends, yoga, meditate and dive. Oh yeah and eat – I’m super hungry. I’ve dedicated myself to a tantric meditation practice again and my metabolism has shot through the roof – fire up your Shakti (creative energy) and your body fires up too. At least the food here is yummy and cheap.

The deck is spacious and I am able with perfect clarity to watch the cow’s ever y move; how she eats, walks, shits and pees. You might be wondering, “Why the fuck are you obsessing over a cow?” And I would answer by saying that I think she’s fascinating. She’s a small pretty cow with big brown eyes – I’m sure she looks very similar to all the other cows, but for me she’s special. She’s so relaxed and chill. Her calf is huddled in a corner and yet she seems fairly certain that when the little guy needs her, he will come to her or she will find her way to him. This cow has no control issues. She seems to be acutely aware of when to eat, how much to eat and gives herself time to rest. She is not running around to find food or to care take her child. There is an air of “fuck it” that I see in her and completely relate to.

I am learning a lot from this cow. I like her blissful face; she is beauty times a million. She lives in open air and eats the grass at her hooves. She is not exactly free, but not caged either - freedom with responsibility. She seems to fully understand her dharma (life’s purpose), instead of pushing for something that will never be.

This cow is giving me a lot to think about in how I want to maneuver on my journey. The calmness, relaxation, no hurry, no worry, chill the fuck out mind set is something beautiful to witness. Her cares seem to be in the immediate and the incessant need to be constantly looking forward with ego; striving for more, more, more… is nonexistent. She has mastered letting go of micro managing the outcomes, and is moving and grooving in the “flow.”

If you’re like me and live in the world of goal setting and lists - you might think on first glance that she’s become complacent. But watching her, I know better. What I see is a cow who has decided to simply be; no more fighting against the natural rhythm of what is set out for her. We all have our own path to walk; a unique drum beat, an inner calling that will give us much peace when we say “fuck it” and just decide to walk through that door.

The lessons this heifer are offering to anyone who takes the time to stop and observe her, are insurmountable; she has made a conscious choice to love the life that is unfolding in front of her: hardships, happiness and everything in between.
-Namaste

I was sore.

My body was speaking loudly to me in a variety of ways; from shoulder pain to gluteal tightness. After a ridiculous 34 hour plane journey from Canada to Bali, my muscles were screaming. I was hoping that a good night’s sleep would help, but sadly, it did not, as I was too restless; tossing and turning trying to get comfortable between 2 massive pristine white body pillows without success. To make matters worse, my random iPhone time checks kept annoying my sleepy brain. At the 5am phone check, I had had enough. I made a mental note, that when 6:00am rolled around, whether I was asleep or not, I would get my sorry ass up and practice yoga. I had to do something to release my minute by minute mounting tension.

It started out as a quiet morning, until the employees of the hotel began their morning breakfast duties near the pool where I had laid out my mat. I did my best to ignore the clinking and clanking of pots and dishes and to act as if I was alone; moving and breathing. I finished my physical session with a 20 min. meditation and felt amazing - loose bodied and blissed out. As my eyes focused and my mind cleared, I had a brilliant thought - a Balinese massage would make this day even more… more of what you ask? More of everything!

Little did I realize how much more.

I ate breakfast and showered up, making sure I was clean and shaved where I needed to be. I walked past reception where a beautiful Balinese woman, who I met the previous day, asked if I needed a ride to the main road. I took her up on the 5 minute golf cart ride, as I felt we could chat and get to know one another. As we slowly made our way down the narrow uneven paved road, we talked about her schooling in tourism and her work at the hotel. Our voices raised a few octaves as the friendly beeps and honks increased by cars and scooters letting us know that they would soon be passing our meandering electric vehicle.

She dropped me off at a cross roads, where I could either walk strait or go right. She made one last attempt to convince me to use the hotel’s massage services. I sweetly smiled and said maybe another time and got out and started walking strait.

The side walk that I needed to secure myself to, to avoid being hit by the non-stop traffic, was nothing more than several large pieces of concrete that reminded me of a dangerous game of hop scotch; where one misstep could permanently take you out of the game, by falling into a massive crack. As I steadied myself I skipped, jumped and hopped over large gaps, making my way to the closest massage salon offering a variety of esthetics, only a few minutes from the hotel.

The weather in Bali can be intense, especially when the sun makes an appearance, so I was deeply grateful for the cool air that smacked me in the face as I pushed opened the massage parlor’s glass door. The space was small, cramped but super friendly, as I was greeted immediately and told to disrobe in the first curtained off massage room. I was told to leave my underwear on. No problemo! Having had several Balinese massages in the past, I was quite comfortable lying face down with a nearly bare backside, ready for my oily rub down. I stripped with joy and plopped myself down on the cushioned table with a cut out face hole.

Now this is living!

A few moments went by when it dawned on me that I laid down so swiftly, that I didn’t even cover myself up with the light weight sarong folded neatly by my feet. I chuckled… silly me. Being lazy and in an awkward position for properly pulling up the sarong around my whole body, with very little effort, I grabbed the edge of the covering and threw it, still half folded, over my butt cheeks.

Then I waited.

I waited a while. Kind of seemed like an eternity of being face down naked, chin resting on my crossed arms, debating  about the appropriate amount of time to be left alone before I should yell out. I decided to clear my throat instead. That worked. A young woman flipped the curtain open and quickly said in broken English, “One moment ya?!” I replied, “Yeah.” What other choice did I have? I wasn’t going anywhere… I’m on Bali time. It was time to chill the fuck out.

About a minute later, HE walked in. A thin Balinese man, whom I guessed was older than me. We said the usual first time meeting in a foreign massage room things; what’s your name? How long had he been massaging? He answered me 11 years. Thinking back, he could have actually meant 11 days.

And so it began.

From the moment I laid down, I had set my intention. I was there to relax and calm. Yes, that’s what I will do… sigh…

BUT WAIT...

WTF? Mental question: Why was he re-adjusting the already poorly situated sarong by lifting it clear up off my barely there thong ass, only to lay it down EXACTLY the way it was before. Interesting. I wouldn’t have cared so much if HE was a SHE, but I really didn’t like the feeling of having just flashed my goods to a dude. BUT, he is a therapist, so I’m sure it’s fine. Gawd, I wish I was wearing full back panties or grannie ginch. And why, oh why, did I choose to sport these pink leopard print panties. Maybe he’s getting the wrong idea about me… maybe he thinks I’m an international whore who wears pink leopard thongs.

Ok, time to turn my mind on pause and stop overthinking this.

He started the massage with my low back and worked into my painful shoulders. I didn’t love his immediate hand pressure or massage style; but it was only the first few minutes. As mentioned, I’ve had several Balinese massages in my day and never once have I been bored.

THIS DUDE WAS MAKING ME YAWN. BUT THAT WOULDN’T LAST LONG.

It was the same stroke over and over without variation. 11 years had clearly not been kind to his development of technique. He finally made his way to my arms and I perked up. It actually felt good! I was so sore – I guess hundreds of Chaturanga’s (tricep pushups) a month are a regular source of my contouring and stiffness. Ahhhhh feels nice.

Mmmmm? Why is he leaning into the table like that? What is that? Is that his belt?  Or is it his zipper? Oh shit, time to tuck my hands in. Clearly he’s just an extremely unaware therapist.

As I shift, he asks, “Ok?”

I reply, “Yup.” It’s all just a small misunderstanding.

He eventually works his way to the backs of my thighs and hips, where he in one swift movement feels that the sarong is no longer necessary or needed, almost as if he was a magician pulling a table cloth out from precious china. It startles me and I almost laugh out loud from confusion. He tosses it casually onto the ass cheek not being worked on and keeps going.

Ok ok… not bad pressure… but oh… oh my… I think he’s tugging a bit hard at my inner thigh… um yup my thong is not guarding me against this kind of maneuver - c’mon underwear buddy - widen out – or stay put. Holy Jesus!!! Part of me just slipped out. And if you have no idea what I’m talking about… let me slow it down.

IT

FUCKING

SLIPPED

OUT

Alright, now I’m very exposed and not really sure how to handle this – he’s not touching anything, but from his angle I am positive without a fucking doubt that he can see all my glory. That he could now and forever pick my privates out of a crotch line up. YIKES!

For the next 30 min, I’m pulled at, rubbed with an awkward intensity, which leaves me feeling a bit insecure. Then, without warning another wild twist to this tale emerges. My butt cheeks are being separated beyond anything acceptable and now I am laughing inwardly that either this guy is so clueless he has no idea what he’s doing OR this IS his style for the past 11 years/days and clients are possibly looking for a little more than a back rub.

Holy shit, did I ever pick the wrong place for my therapeutic massage.

Clearly happy hour started at 9:30am.

He flips me onto my back and carefully places the sarong covering every inch of me. I am thankful and think all is well. I close my eyes and start to calm.

He starts on my legs and the sarong again, seems like it is “in the way” and with one fling, I am quickly draped, with my genitals still covered. At least that’s all good. He massages my thighs and they are grateful. He finishes my leg and moves onto my arm and hand. He leans into me. Something about the way he leaned, didn’t feel quite right… his elbow and forearm seems dangerously close to hovering above my special place and yet he’s rubbing my hand, which feels good. Fuck I’m so confused. Am I imagining all of this?

Um…..

NOPE - THERE IT IS…

His forearm, near his elbow, finds an extremely inappropriate place to land and starts moving in rhythm with his hand which is massaging my hand. I am in shock and can barely breathe. I gain my wits and make a conscious decision to shift my pelvis to the left enough to remove his forearm from his resting place.

Mental question, “Did he really just rub my hand while also trying to rub his forearm in my crotch? Good grief. Maybe he thought it was my hip bone?  My thigh? He slipped? Ugh… what the fuck??!!

Now to the other side. He massages my left leg and yes it feels good. Damn him. He starts working on my arm and hands and I can feel him going in for the elbow rub. My right hand quickly lands onto my public bone in defense mode and clearly sends a signal to back the fuck off. The massage of my hand ends faster on this side.

I opened my eyes to him saying, “K done.”

No shit I’m done asshole.

I walk out shaking my head, laughing nervously, and also feeling confused and concerned. I don’t feel “taken advantage of,” but if this is what he does regularly for women; I sure hope they have asked for that style of massage.

I have no issues with people touching people, when it is mutual and consensual, not weird and misunderstood. Who am I to say that in Bali one can’t have a therapist touch them where they ache? Not my business. But it is when HE clearly missed all my body language to back the fuck off and when he clearly is not reading signals from women that don’t want the extras. He needs to be more aware of the subtle body shifts and the clear as day arm blocks, which should have clued him in that I was NOT in the mood for playtime.

I will be level headed when I speak to someone about him, at his place of
work. I will make sure he is not there, so I can speak freely. I hope that one of the young girls, who I will inevitably speak to, will have a talky talk with wandering elbow boy.

But till then, the beautiful Balinese woman, who gave me a ride at the beginning of my story, graciously offered me a free massage at the hotel tonight, to make up for the lack of wifi in my room and to compensate for the less than satisfactory XX massage.

Bali, I bow to your wild ride.