Once again, I am skipping ahead in the continuity of the
blog (and yes, I realize I am very, very far behind now, but realize that it's difficult to write posts that have a few thousand words each while working 12 hours a day with no off days) to post something
about my dad.
Depending on who is reading this, you may or may not know
that my father, 52, died two years ago today after losing a battle with cancer.
My father loved to travel, and has been traveling his entire
life, whether it be behind the Iron Curtain to Communist Poland, or a cross-country train trip, where he met my mom on the way to San Francisco. He
also had a knack for finding activities the average tourist wouldn’t normally
see.
I guess his adventurous spirit rubbed off on me, as I have
organized trips of my own as I became an adult: a 4,500-mile, 12-state, 12-day
baseball-themed road trip with two of my high school friends, a trip to Hawaii
over Spring Break last year with some people from my dorm at USC, and now fifty days alone in South Africa
volunteering for the FIFA World Cup.
I’ve been to 33 of the 50 states, and I can’t even drink
legally in the United States yet. I go to a university that’s on the opposite
side of the country. I’m about 8,000 miles away from home as I write this blog,
volunteering at an event that happens once every four years.
I think I’m beginning to ramble, so I’m going to end this
post.
Thanks, David Manka.
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