This is the official and requisite "First Day of School" portrait. For the next TWO YEARS my Tuesday and Thursday evenings are shot. The University of Minnesota and its Strategic Communications MA program is the culprit. Hopefully it doesn't suck.

This is me executing a perfect 10 dive through three child-size inner tubes. All for the pleasure of my co-workers. When I'm called to the podium and accept the gold medal around my neck, I will be sure to share the glory with my countrymen.

"That's because I haven't had a reason to," I replied. My thighs ached from gripping his waist like a nutcracker. Bile rose in my throat.

A word of advice: Never ride on a waverunner with someone who also drives stock cars. Especially when this particular waverunner is more powerful than many cars.

Adrian laughed maniacally as we raced across the water at 55 miles per hour. He, of course, had the advantage of knowing what he would do next, which way he would jacknife, which wave he would pound into head-on. The poor powerless sap on the back, I had no idea what was coming next.

And so I wrapped my arms around his chest and wished for it to be over. I was legitimately scared.

We made it once around the lake without falling off. As we neared the sandbar where our friends were parked, though, I knew it wasn't going to be pretty. I could sense his evil plans.

"Don't do it," I pleaded.

Adrian laughed, hit the gas, and cranked the handlebars to the left.

My legs strained to keep balance as we whipped around, my arms pulled Adrian tight, but it wasn't enough. The momentum threw us off the back and we landed with a graceless splash. I felt my sunglasses brush against my toes on their way toward the bottom of the lake. Adrian dove under and at the last moment saved his from the same fate.

"There goes $200," I said.

"I'm sorry," Adrian replied. "Do you want to go back in?"

I sighed. We bobbed in the water.

"No, let's see what's on the other side of the lake.... But maybe at a more leisurely pace this time?"

Adrian just laughed.

I need help naming my new friend. Suggestions welcome. I think it's a boy.

One of the reasons I keep this little site around is so that I can look back and be reminded. The first "real" entry on Helloaaron.com was this one. Reading it immediately brings me back to that Fourth of July weekend and reminds me of other times since that have been similar. For example, this time in Canada (which not incidentally contains two of the same cast members -- Justin and Adam).

The more things change, the more they stay the same, right?

While things have slowed since I first started this site -- and slowed in the blogosphere in general -- I know there are still lots of loyal readers out there. On this, its fourth anniversary, Helloaaron.com would love to see a comment from you. I know it's scary, but I promise it's easy. (Unless the site isn't working properly -- I haven't been great at maintenance.)

Thanks for making it four years with me.

Aaron

I've been neglecting to tell you that I've posted more photos from Canada here. Those are all I've got.

There was a lot of beauty in the 11 days of this Canadian vacation, from the Parc du Saguenay a few hours north of Quebec City, to the architecture of Quebec City itself, to the hours of driving with mountains flanking one side and wide-open water on the other.

Looking back, though, the thing I most enjoyed was simply spending uninterrupted time with good friends. Those memories are what will carry me through the coming weeks and months of work and school.

To be honest, I was nervous about seeing Jose. Three years ago, I almost moved to Canada to be with him. Since then, I've had a nagging feeling that I should have done it. It's really rare, right, that you meet someone with whom you truly click? Especially in my world, I feel like this is true. There have only been about two people who I feel I could spend my life with. Jose is one of them... But now he has a boyfriend... And we were going to spend a week together... Without the boyfriend.

I was nervous that I would be an emotional wreck, because I can do that sometimes (even if no one else notices). The evening we arrived, though, and met Jose and his boyfriend, Matan, for dinner, I knew it would be OK. Jose was visibly happier and more comfortable than I've seen him in the seven years we've known each other. Part of that happiness was clearly due to Matan.

At the end of the week, the night before we were to fly back to Minneapolis, Jose and I sat close together, our arms around each other's shoulders, and talked about this at length. I confessed that I had been apprehensive about seeing him.

"And how do you feel now?" he said.

"I feel happy for you," I responded. "When I go home, I'll think of you often. And when I do, I'll now be able to picture you in your apartment, with your wonderful boyfriend, or with your great friends, and I'll know that you're content and that life is treating you well. And, in turn, I'll be happy with you."

The thing is, it's true. I felt like a phase ended, like there was resolution, and in a good way. What better thing is there than being able to think of someone you love and know that they are at that moment with people who they love, and who love them in return? I can't think of much more that's better than that.

Adam, our guide, Adrian and Justin.

The previous night's rains skipped down the Quebec mountain by a thousand different paths. Tumbling over rocks, between trees, upon the steps on which we walked, the water laughed as it went down and we struggled up. We met frequently along the way -- the water and us five travelers -- the water running over the rock steps like a slinky toy, cleansing the hard-earned mud off our feet as it passed through.

Up, up, up. I don't remember ever climbing so high. Up, up, up through the Parc national du Saguenay, splashing and sweating and joking. Three kilometers felt like seven, but in a good way. We climbed to meet the saint.

It might be a secret that I've had a lot on my mind as of late. Family changes, relationship issues (with friendships and otherwise), decisions about grad schools, and complicated work have weighed me down. I don't always know how to deal with stress or sadness or disappointment, so I file them away, tucking them in crevices of my mind and body and away from view. I used to write about these things, but old age has made me cautious, less willing to reveal my inner mechanisms.

Up, up, up, though. Clarifying! One foot in front of the other, looking for a dry patch to stand firm, pausing only to dip your feet in cold water. Simple! With a known destination in mind and within reach and promising of beauty. Satisfying! As the mud caked on my feet and the altitude climbed, my mind decompressed, became calm.

At the top, she waited: the Notre Dame du Saguenay. We reached her after an hour of climbing, but when we arrived she looked not down upon us, but out upon the water, her hands clasped in calm and leaden permanence. A guide standing at her feet told us the story -- in French -- of how this saint saved a 19th century man from drowning in the fjord upon which we gazed, and how, in return, he built this statue in her honor.

There, we rested, taking off our muddy flip flops and looking out upon the mix of gray, green and blue. Water, rocks, trees and sky. The sun was warm but the breeze was cool. I looked at my friends, and looked inside. The stresses didn't seem so overwhelming, the disappointments in better perspective. It was a perfect moment, made more perfect by the realization that soon we would have to descend again, through the mud, the water, the rocky terrain and land once again upon the world which we inhabit.

At the Montreal Botanical Gardens today, somewhere between the Japanese gardens and the arboretum, I nodded and said bonjour to some strangers passing by.

Adam looked at me and said, "Bonjour. The r is more throaty, back here." He touched his tonsils. "Bon joughh. Can you do that?"

"Bon joughh," I said with a little phlegm at the end.

"Bon joughh," Adam said again.

"Bon joughh," I repeated. "Bon joughh. Bon jougGhGh. Bon joughhghGHGHG." I practically hacked up a lung with a deep, guttural sound. Ducks swimming in the pond flew away in fright. Clearly I was taking it seriously.

Adam looked at me with a look of infinite patience and wisdom, the look of a teacher with a well-meaning student who just isn't getting it.

"It takes time to learn," he said.

--

We each have different ways of dealing with the language barrier. I mentally plan my sentences, editing them down to as few words as possible. "Chicken." "Number 97." "One ticket."

Adrian gives blank stares.

Justin spews verbal stew that confuses even his English-speaking friends. This is especially effective when ordering complicated cocktails that they've never heard of in Montreal.

"I'll have a dirty martini with top-shelf vodka, do you have top-shelf vodka, tanqueray or grey goose?"

The server, who is really a bar-back filling in on a busier-than-expected night, looks at him with a confused look. "Ehhh... Dirty martini?" She asks.

"A dirty martini is easy to make two olives a little olive juice a splash of vermouth and the rest is top-shelf vodka do you have top-shelf vodka?"

Justin's quick-moving words are made even more complicated by his constant, well-meaning hand movements and head shaking. He smiles the whole time to show that he's explaining out of friendliness.

The server leaves to fetch a different server who hopefully understands English a little better.

"Justin," we say. "For god's sake! Slow. Down. And. Use. Fewer. Words."

This happens at every restaurant.

On Thursday Adam and I flew into Toronto, where Adrian and Justin were waiting in their Dodge Caravan to pick us up after their long drive from Minneapolis. We headed from there to Jose's apartment, and the next day (after a fun time at Madonnarama -- all Madonna all night!), the five of us hit the road for Montreal.

It's been two years since my last visit to Canada. The last time I was dating Greg, Jose was single, and we were here for a quick weekend softball tournament. Now I'm single and Jose has a boyfriend, Matan. Unfortunately, Matan is smart, sweet and good to Jose -- so I can only be happy for them, rather than burn with righteous jealousy, which would have been fun.

We're quickly learning that it takes a long, long time for five gay men to get ready to leave for the day. There are showers and shaves and outfit selections -- and two hours later we're finally ready to go.

This afternoon we walked a few miles to Saint Joseph's Oratory, high on a hill overlooking Montreal. From the base of the hill, some people crawl on their knees all the way up the steps to the church, praying all the way. Today several people were taking that long, painful route, making me wonder what they thought of on that long journey.

As a lapsed Protestant, I had never seen something like Saint Joseph's votive chapel, with hundreds of candles kept burning by pilgrims who come to pray. It was surprisingly moving, each candle representing the wishes of one person, an intercession for someone living or dead, a thought for someone they missed or wished well.

Tonight, we dine. Monday, we head six hours northeast of here for two days of camping among the mountains and fjords.

At least it's color-coded nicely, don't you think? It's the color palette of my life. Blue are meetings I've setup, yellow are recurring meetings, white are random meetings, and I really don't know what green means. But I do like green.

This weekend my friend Matt and I drove up to Lake Superior's North Shore -- about three hours out of the city -- for a few days of camping. We backpacked half a mile to our campsite, and it was well worth every straining muscle. The clear waters of Lake Superior surrounded our cliff on three sides. We built a fire and the sound of the crackling wood mixed beautifully with the waves hitting the rocks below us.

During the day we intermingled hiking with napping wherever we found a spot with a good view. Today, when the sun was bright and warm, I took advantage of our secluded site and stripped to my skivvies for some sun-bathing. My white skin hadn't seen the sun in months. It's white no longer.

Lake Superior on June 1 is one cold mother. But if you're lucky the sun-baked rocks will quickly warm you after one too many dares prompts you to dive in, common sense be damned.

Decisions must be made.

Aaron: Sure.

*Justin starts clicking away on his laptop. A long pause ensues.*

Aaron: The thing I most enjoy is that I'll be taking it directly to Canada to help stimulate their economy.

Justin: Me, too.

Aaron: Canada thanks you and so do I, President Bush.

They expect us to automatically be great dancers. I know it.

Because it’s a community ed class, the instructor – an attractive female in her late 20s who drives a beat up, tan, old Buick – takes things slow. Like, really slow. Like I could have learned the first step, taken a trip to McDonald’s, gotten a milkshake, some fries and chicken McNuggets, come back and not missed a thing. Left foot forward, right foot up, left foot back. 1-2-3-hold on 4.

I lead and Neighbor Matt follows. The class fumbles along. And then the instructor says, “Time to switch partners!” I stay in place and Neighbor Matt trudges off to the next lead, who is of course a male. We do this about 10 times. I ask him later if any of his partners seemed awkward dancing with another male.

“No, they all seemed to be very comfortable and had fun,” he said. This makes me happy, and I imagine the same scenario in my small Michigan hometown. The image falters because few men there would go to a dance class in the first place.

When one lady in her 60s comes to dance with me, we turn out to be quite good partners. She follows my lead well and we are clearly ready for some new moves.

“You already have the hip movement down,” she said.

“Well,” I reply, “I wasn’t trying for that. … I guess I just have a natural swish.”