This is the story of my first hitchhiking trip. I visited my friends in Germany winter holidays of 2007 and read "Dharma Bums." The book was very much in line with what I had been wanting. I wanted simplicity all over again. I wanted sangha. So when I got back to US and found myself some time, I decided to explore and become free. This was the second of three days.

Next morning, I got up, took a hot shower.

    I think I was munching on some trailmix, Jay handed me his handheld GPS unit to use which was surprising to me because I didn't think he knew me enough to trust me with it. He told me to keep it for the whole week! And this proved to be a handy device - but more on this later. He also invited me to a tea party (with BBC and everything) on Saturday 4 pm. As Jay had a 9am class, Bob and I just sat around browsing internet and writing email. When Jesus came back with sniffling nose, our hunger moved us outside. We walked through the dead winter garden and the rest of UNC-A where you could sense that it was the first day of the school and people felt fresh. We even took a picture in the quad where someone had written down "Today, we all get A's!" At the school cafeteria, Jay paid for my meal and I made sure I made every penny count. I hurt a lot of food: apple, sausage, pancake, hot salad (with beef steak), rice krispies, coffee, scones and milk. I pakced some of that left over food into my rucksack and told Jay and Bob about my first time eating krispies in the States and how I thought it rocked my world. How rice krispy had changed my life. By the end of that epic brunch, my belly was very full; my rucksack, too. The sun cold sunlight flushed the cafeteria as I sat there with a cup of mediocre coffee and excellent company of two young gents.

    Originally, everyone was planning to head out downtown, but Jay wasn't feeling well - a cold coming on. He stayed behind at school. Bob still wanted to check out downtown (or maybe Bob just wanted to make sure that I wasn't alone), so we got on this bus which took us away from downtown - making the foot trip even longer than it would have been otherwise. We tried to hitch a ride downtown but no success. We walked an hour to downtown.
    Once we made it to downtown Asheville, B and I visited a map shop and an art gallery where I snapped a picture of a bronze man. The French Broad Food co-op was pretty disappointing but I picked up two Thai Kitchen ramen noodles for the next two dinners. We walked to the bus station and said our goodbyes. He seemed sad; and me, too. I took Bus 13 to the VA hospital where I walked to Blue Ridge Parkway and to the Folk Art Gallery. There, I found out about the Mountain-to-sea trail. I hiked about 5 minutes out of the parking lot when a character named Duncan caught up to me and told me about the trail and the Rattlesnake lodge. I figured I would camp there althought it seemed like a long hike - especially since I left the Folk Art Center around 5pm. He invited me to his house but I didn't like the vibe I got from the dude so I "no thanks"ed him and rushed against the setting sun and the darkness veiling the mountainscape.
    Of course, I got tired quickly and found a slower pace my heart could keep up with. As Duncan said, there were three hills and a trough but the distance was truly understated. He told me about 3 to 4 miles, but I walked for two hours before I came off the trail and back onto the parkway before the last ascent to RSL - which was surely more than 4 miles by my estimation. I was wet, tired, thirsty (I had less than a liter of water for the next day). The sun disappeared quickly and I was soon walking, hiking under the moonlight - the same ambience as the night when I slept with a girl for the first time. But no need for reminiscence at that dangerous cold hour. I saw the lights of Asheville far in the distance and the occasional cabins somewhere down in the valley to the left. The shadows were tricky because I would sometimes mistake them for rocks or tree roots. Several times I almost ate dirt but managed without falling or breaking a bone. I started using my Bob Marley-playing Ipod to light the difficult parts of the trail but still was very slow through the elevation changes and where the vines were thick overhead. At about 8PM I stopped and had two krispies and a sip of water. It was starting to get real cold and I was feeling pretty exhausted from the weight on my back. I had packed entirely too much of the wrong stuff. I decided that I would hike till 9PM and if I was not at Rattlesnake Lodge, I would just camp the nearest place without the wind. Over the next hour, I felt the temperature drop more and realized that my waterbottle was starting to make a slushy noise from the freezing water.
    Not having arrived at Rattlesnake Lodge by 9, I sat on a log about 50 feet off the trail. Called Jay to say my thanks since I haven't talked to him after brunch and Renée just to check in before our weekend trip(originally she and I were supposed to meet up in Asheville to check out Biltmore and rest of Asheville until I decided to come back home early). It was good to talk with people as it helped me feel less lonely up in the cold mountain. I checked the GPS for the last time before I completely gave up on Rattlesnake Lodge. By stupid luck, I saw Rattlesnake lodge on the screen which was only .2 miles Northeast from where I was. I found new strength and motivation and stood up again. I practically jogged in the dark trail - if anyone was there to watch me, I must have looked like a madman running through the trail at night like that!
    Once I got to the lodge - which only took 5 light minutes - I gathered enough wood to start a fire so I can cook a can of sardines with ramen I had bought earlier. Except I realized that the lighter was completely shit and I couldn't build a fire. I was horrified and dismayed. I cursed Andy for giving me this piece although I knew I had no one else to blame but myself for not having prepared adequately. Imagine my disappoint after all that walking and cold and realizing that I have to go to sleep cold and hungry. I was shivering violently by this time and I wasn't going to get any warmer by crying about the lighter. I quickly set the bivy and jumped in with the rucksack in my sleeping bag under my foot to keep the water from freezing.

It was fucking cold!

    I had too few layers of clothes, and my toes felt frozen the whole night; my fear of hypothermia was real. I started to shiver voluntarily whenever I woke up just so I could get warm enough to fall asleep again. I must have woken up 5 times because of the cold except this one time when I realized I have to pee! This time I cursed myself and stood over the bivy and peed right next to myself. I must had stepped on my glasses at this time and not notice it because when I woke up, I didn't see it where I usually leave it in the bivy. 
    Anyway, I went back into the sleeping bag before the coldness robbed of any warmth I had built inside the bivy. I distracted myself from the cold by listening to podcasts of medical lecture. Who would have thought it? An ipod is a great survival tool - provides light and mental solace! I don't think I will ever go hiking without it. I fell asleep listening to anesthegiology lecture about airway management.

    

This is the story of my first hitchhiking trip. I visited my friends in Germany winter holidays of 2007 and read "Dharma Bums." The book was very much in line with what I had been wanting. I wanted simplicity all over again. I wanted sangha. So when I got back to US and found myself some time, I decided to explore and become free. This was the first of three days.

I started the first day too late because I was waiting to borrow a camping equipment. When I realized that the gear would not come through, I borrowed the camping gear from my neighbor and bud, Andy. I packed the usual camping stuff, four cans of delicious sardines, and a book. Drove my car by Trader Joe's where I bought a pound of trailmix with chocolate pieces, a bread, and salami. Then parked my car at a friend's apartment which was only a mile away from exit 270 on I-40. I walked over to the exit ramp with courage and ambition.

    I wrote "California" on my little whiteboard and made some drivers laugh. After about 30 minutes a lady, who used to work for my medical school, picked me up. We talked about relationships and life. It was great; I talked about Marie - a French girl and the recipient of what will be my life-log infatuation. Apparently, she also knew a thing or two about French women because her husband had an affair with one whilst they lived in France. I shared my disdain for the way Marie teases me and left things at that. She asked me what religion or beliefs I held, and I gave her my quintessential "Jesus not a Christian, Buddha not a buddhist, I just walk this life." She told me she understood and told me that she was a unitarian. In fact, she was just coming back from church in Durham to her home in Mebane when she saw me by the onramp. We were at Mebane too soon. She dropped me off at a gas station and wished me good luck for the journey and also for my future career. 
    I didn't have to wait but 5 minutes when a dude that looks like Jesus drives up in an old Toyota Camry. I waved at him; he responded with an are-you-serious type of look on his face and pulled over. I asked him, "where are you going?"

    He thought about his answer and then decided that he should find out first where I was going, "wait, where are you going?"

     "Asheville."

     Jesus says, "Oh.. well, get in! I'm going to Asheville. I guess I'm your ride."

     I threw my rucksack in the back seat and got in the passenger seat with stacatto beat. We shook hands and drove onward. The guy's name was Jay and he was very much interested in what I was doing. I explained to him that I wanted to try something new which would help me become a stronger person. I also explained to him about the downfall of internet social interactions where there's actually very little human contact (i.e. facebook). He understood and reciprocated his story about trying to get a party going with his friends via facebook and finding out that no one came except for the ones that he called on the phone. Yeah, about that.....

    Jay was a thin guy with stubbles on his chin and long brown hair to the effect of looking like the white Jesus on bathroom walls. He's from Raleigh but is a student at UNC-Asheville. He hold several creative interests, especially in digital media. He taught me a couple of things like Creative Commons and chip music. Pretty cool stuff. Another idea he shared with me was the difference between art and music. He reasoned that appreciation of "art" is usually 2-3 generations older than music and is therefore more "difficult" unless one has studied to appreciate art. He said music is just simply appreciated when it comes out. I saw some logic in that. Jay asked me if I had plans to sleep anywhere and I told him, "no." I told him I wouldn't mind sleeping on his floor if he had some space which was readily cool with him. I grinned as Jay's Camry zipped on top of the wet asphalt towards my destination.

    When we got to UNC-Asheville, I met Jay's roommate, Bob from Hickory. He was an art major - giant, tall with glasses. The kind that you know he's always in his head because he doesn't say much. He was playing a video game on his computer which was interesting enough to watch for hours except that Jay and I were hungry. All three of us drove out to the grocery store and bought rice noodles, rotisserie chicken, cilantro, lime, bell pepper, zuchini, broccoli, chicken broth and hot sauce. We came back and cooked bowls of hot rice noodle soup with chicken and all those vegetables! After dinner, I was very content and felt like smoking a cigarrette - except that I didn't have any and it would make me smell bad. Overall, the day was good and I felt asleep hoping that the next day would be even better.

Last night, I dreamt about my parents with whom I don't associate much. I don't associate with them at all. In fact, I changed my name a year ago to signify that I no longer belong that family anymore. You can say that I've disowned them.

In that dream, my mother was not around because she had died after many years of psychiatric illness. This had taken a huge toll on the youngest brother. He was growing up without someone who tended to him after school. I thought briefly about children who grow up without a parent and how much they are likely to get in trouble. I felt sad at the thought of my little brother who would always have an unfulfilled yearning for the motherly care.

    My father had opened up a Chinese restaurant where he wasn't doing quite so well. In fact, his health was so deteriorated it pained me to see him work in the kitchen. My brothers and I were on our holidays from work and school, and we helped him at the restaurant that day which was busy only because it just opened. At the end of the day, we all got into the family van and drove to a church friend of my father. The drive was uneventful - which is an excellent situation given the recurrent fights my father and I have in the car. When we got to the destination, I got out of the car and started walking towards the friend's aparment when I realized the old man was still struggling to carry his weight off the car. Breathing congestive heart failure, huffing years of physical self-inflicted abuse and neglect, he dragged his feet slowly across the black parking lot asphalt. His sunken eyes showed no hope and only remorse for life. I saw death in his eyes, but he was never ready for it. It would not be dignified.

    The sight of him, neither actively living nor preparing for his death, was such that I began to cry. I felt sad and compassionate towards this human being and understood his suffering. I began sobbing heavily and my brothers noticed this. They came around and asked why I was crying as children would ask innocently. I didn't answer because it wasn't their burden to know the suffering of others; it was enough they grow without worries for now. I told them to go help Father carry himself.

    Feeling sick, I sat down on the curve and continued to cry. My heart was constricted; I stared at him through the tears. Born during the war and raised in harshest conditions, malnourished throughout childhood lived all his life try not to repeat the mistakes of his father. Failing at this, produced a son who hated him for what he did and didn't do - me. I drifted into my thoughts.

Was this why you had told me about your childhood? How you had to eat locusts in the field because you would never have meat to eat? So I can understand, forgive and forget your transgressions against your own life?

Yes, I understand your demons. I know your father had been harsh to you. I know that you didn't know better. I know you regret it. And I've forgiven you a long time ago. But you still continue to be the person that you were - the same person you hate. It is dangerous for even for a nation of people to forget the aggressions of others - so it is more so dangerous for me to forget about your beatings and words of angry blame. Because survival of my psych depends so much on holding you accountable, I cannot afford to let you know that I care much for you and your peace. Because you are dangerous to me and your other children, I will remain hard and strong against your fits of rage.

My brothers, still innocent from this samsara, carried father with concern on their forehead. I sat down and sobbed. It was more than just me versus my father; my experience not being unique. I wondered how many fathers and sons, mothers and daughters experienced this sadness and gridlock relationship where we loved each other but had to keep knives at each others' throat just to survive and breathe. I felt sicker and tighter in my chest - a migraine coming on.

This is where I woke back up to reality where despite differences in situations, the essence of relationships and our nature was still the same. I laid in my bed alone and still, feeling the warmth of my body reflected by my comforter. A slow, quite classical music comes on and I turn the light on. I contemplate about my family. Remember how I didn't answer my mother's phone call because I held her accountable for always running away from home. I think about my father and count his years. He'll be 60 in a few of years; I'll be training to become a surgeon then. I wonder if I will have children then? Am I going to be a benevolent father?

I am awake now. The dreams of the dark night is no longer on my mind and this music lifts my soul. I hear a nameless morning bird outside. The calendar shows ECT observation at the hospital today. I'm going to help children feel better today on the psychiatry ward - some of which experience the same sadness I occasion. I wash, get dressed, eat a banana, and walk outside to the cold dry air. I give a brief compassion prayer to the sky asking the world to be just slighly more peaceful and less pained.

My buddies and I started medical school like children. We studied human body like it was the world, and we stayed up late nights drinking beer and studying physiology by our campfire. After two years of this we were let loose around the hospital. We worked hard and we took care of patients. We slept very little, but we were good at what we do. When it came time for us to choose our specialty, I went into general surgery at the best residency program in the US thinking I would go to Africa after my training. My friends went into various specialties and we all went separate ways.

Intern year was no sleep, much soda pops and crying alone each time a patient died. I learned so much and became that much harder inside. By the time residency was over, I was able to sleep 5 hours a day on average and still do emergency surgery without batting an eyelash. In fact, my patients liked me so much that I had to borrow a friend's SUV to bring home all the Christmas presents of my last residency year. My attendings loved me and the Chief of the hospital begged me to stay promising me that I would be able to practice and help people as much as I want to. He even told me that I could take 6 months out of the year to go to Africa, so I stayed and became an young assistant professor of surgery at the world renowned hospital.

I worked for the next five years and made a lot of money, and I even received a full professorship through the university to which my hospital belonged. I was working more than ever and never once was allowed to go to Africa because the hospital was always short on hands. One morning I woke up to a rising sun in my 20th story condo and I realized that I was fucking dead inside. My childhoodish dream was still waiting for me to catch up. I drove my Porsche to the hospital that morning and told the Chief, "I am going to Africa. Here's my resignation letter. Sorry." I walked out while the Chief was still in denial of what was happening. I didn't return his calls; the letter was enough.

I liquidated all my assets in 2 months into a Swiss account and joined Doctors Without Borders to learn the ropes. I worked in a post-conflict region in an unnamed country in Africa where I developed even connections. I worked 14 hours every day and studied French 2 hours each night with a nurse. After my contract with Doctors Without Borders, I stayed in town and helped develop the community with the money I had saved up - eventually building a hospital and a medical school. In my spare time, I built myself a small house with two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen and living area next to the beach. I liked how things were turning around in town. That nurse ended up moving in with me.

By this time, I started calling my old friends from medical school. They were making a ton of money but were just as dead in their heart. I asked many friends to join me and a few of them did come visit me to volunteer and also to relax. One friend who is a radiologist even decided to quit fucking everything back in the States and start anew at the town where I lived. I was really glad because we were paying a lot to have our xrays read by outside agencies.

Next ten years, we woke up every morning to help people without worries about money or politics. The hospital by this time was pretty much self running through government insurance program and by the doctors from the medical school. On the tenth anniversary of the hospital opening, that radiologist friend and I sat down by the beach drinking local beer and listening to Bob Marley and watched healthy children play in the water. My friend asked me, "Wilbur, do you know what day it is?" I replied "no, I don't know... Is it Saturday?" without much thought. He said, "I don't know, either, bro." We both smiled into the sunset. My hair was now turning white but I was still very young in my heart.

I was a child again.

Any discussion in metaphysics serves only to entertain in my drunkenness among good company. However this is the night before Thanksgiving and I have nothing I'd rather do than get this out of my head.

Problem: Am I truly free to do things as I will them; or have I been predetermined to do those things (whatever mechanism one proposes for predetermination)?

Most of the time, the focus is on the human being and his/her perception of the capacity to make a decision. The arguments for each side (free will versus predetermination) quickly based on the perspective taken. If the choice (or illusion of choice) is seen through human eyes, free will seems like a plausible reality. On the contrary, the viewpoint of God or an absolute order of the universe could support predetermined natured of our lives.

In my extensive research (of 5 minutes on Google), I have yet to come across anyone who questioned the assumption of separate entities. Who is God? What is a human being? What is an absolute order? The first question belongs to the theologian. The second to the sociologist, anthropologists and other -ologists. The third question posed to physicists. There are no clear answers on these questions in year 2007.

Right now I have the choice of going to bed or stay in front of this computer, but I am going to stay in front of the computer. I have exercised a choice in options. However, whether that action (or inaction) was a result of free will or predetermination depends on the definition of Who "I" am. If "I" am an entity of single human unit which decided not to go to bed, then the action was the result of exercise in free will. However if "I" am an entity composed of countless molecules subject to laws of physics, then perhaps the seeming single action of "staying in front of computer" was a predetermined output of a predetermined input. Neither answer alone is satisfactory in explaining the phenomenon of causation of "my" action just now because ownership of this action is not clear. Even if one were to accept the two seemingly contradictory perspectives, the reality is not any more understandable or acceptable.

Eh, of course, I am not going to stay up and try to define who I am. That would take too long.

One thing is certain though. If I define myself too strongly (or with too much certainty), I will create more dilemmas about metaphysical nature of my experiences. The practical application of this intellectual exercise is very clear: be damn unequivocal about the self if any semblance of harmony is desired.

11/21/2007
-Wilbur

Do you remember the first time you did something? First day of school. For example, the first date with someone special, first time at work, or first time traveling abroad. For me these times were both exciting and scary. I usually have these same thoughts, 'I'm really happy to begin something new, but what if I mess up?'

Zay was my first patient as a medical student. I was excited to finally be on the hospital ward. At the same time, I was also scared that I might make a mistake. What if I tell her something not true? What if I tell her something that upsets her? What if I hurt her during physical exam?

On that first day, we talked for an hour. Zay in her blue hospital gown sitting on her bed, and me in my yellow gown in a chair. She told me about her life with CF (cystic fibrosis) and the lung transplantation. How she had to come to the hospital this time because she wasn't feeling well.

She also told me about other things about her life. How she had worked as a town manager. How she had traveled to Paris and would like to go back sometime. How she cared for others. How she cared for herself. Every morning for the next three weeks, I woke up Zay up apologetically to see how her night went. Listen to her lungs. Talk about how the day might go. And both of us leave each other with our fingers crossed as a quick prayer of sorts.

Soon I became comfortable being Zay's reporter for the team. I would tell the team, "Miss Lawson had no acute events overnight. Her temperature was 36.7. Respiratory rate 16" and so on. I even learned how to treat bronchiectasis and pneumonia. Advair, albuterol, atrovent, saline nebs, supplemental oxygen, tobramycin nebs, and antipseudomonal antibiotics. What was initially a mumbo-jumbo really started to make sense to me in two weeks.

For this opportunity to learn, I am grateful to Zay.

Grateful, too, for being patient with me when I took too long to listen to her lungs and heart. For putting up with my own anxiousness towards her well being. For allowing me and my teachers to do the best as a team. To trust us and thereby allowing us the satisfaction of being the caregiver of someone who deserved the best.

I am still very scared for my other patients, 'What if I forget to ask an important question? What if I overlook an important lab value?' I worry quite a bit when someone gets a fever; I think about Zay. Her fever was the sentinel event to her passing.

Zay makes me careful. She helps me to remain human when I find it difficult to face the suffering of another human being and through her example, find redemption and comfort in our inevitable human nature.

I am in debt for the beautiful experience of getting to know Zay personally and of partaking in her life though briefly. I hope to pay off the debt of her spirit as I continue to live this life and dream of traveling like Zay often did.

Here's to you, Ze-Ze; I hear Paris is a beautiful place this time of the year.

To begin this story, I have to confess that my opinions on cultural sensitivity and sensibility are biased because I was once a migrant myself. Having experiences the stereotypes and prejudices - not all of which are negative - I am sometimes overwhelmed at how crude and insensible my fellow students could be toward another human being because they did not understand the psyche and social apprehension people of different cultures hold.

The hospital is not a place where only physicians and patients are the only people who exist and matter. The doctors and medical students provide a large part of the service, but without the nurses, food services personnel, pharmacists and other staff, we cannot function in our role at all. In the basement departments and hallways are people who work to pick up the trash, wash the laundry, clean up empty rooms of blood and feces and generally keep this a hospitable place. These most basic functions of the hospital are most often served by a Hispanic person.

Today during our physical diagnosis round with the chief resident, we came through the set of doors outside the 5th floor Women's hospital elevators only to be greeted by a foul smell in the hallway. A student blurted out rambunctiously, "Oh, man! What is that smell? It smells like trash!" It became immediately apparent to me the smell was coming from one of those large trash carts which was being pulled by a service staff - invariably a Hispanic gentlemen.

Another student next to me pointed in the general direction of the man and trash cart, "It's the trash!" The students, stimulated by the irony of wondering what smells like trash and finding out that there was a large cart full of trash, started laughing. The student who first asked the question laughed also because he found his own remarks to be silly.

I looked at the man again. He was a dark-skinned, short man. He was moving down the hallway but had stopped because of the noise we made. We had caught his attention in our childlike laughter. He saw us point at the trash. His face turned sour, then he looked away. Walked away.

Of course, I cannot say for sure what exactly he was thinking or feeling, but I can tell you that I have been in a similar pair of shoes in my life. I had worked along with Mexican construction workers. I befriended these guys and learned lay Spanish from them. Often when we would work, the American home buyers and American supervisors came to look at the house. When these people showed up, we felt that we were invisible or transparent. Our existence felts as an inconvenient but temporary measure to fulfill the needs and wants of these strange blue eyed creatures who somehow have a lot more money than we do. The people who can afford to live in the houses which we built with our sweat and blood. Whenever those people passed by me, they never said hello or looked at me in the eyes. I felt very, very small.

As I saw the man push the cart away from us, I became sad and enraged. I was sad that we may have made the service person embarrassed. I was enraged that my colleagues would be so insensitive as to point and laugh at a person who is providing a valuable service which none of us would be glad to do. Are we not supposed to be doctors? Are we not supposed to comfort people?

I have a tendency to antagonize people in these situations as I try my best to protect the people who have less capacities to protect themselves. I tried my best to convey the man's perspective to the students involved, but I wasn't well received. One of the students told me that she or he was laughing only because of the situation and not at the man. I decided to drop it at that point. I have still much to learn in the diplomacy of bringing the perspective of the disadvantaged side to the table without causing more friction.

However, the reader must understand. Our failure was not in the intention; we didn't have any intention except we let our mind run free where it shouldn't have. It was insensitivity which led to that one-sided situation. We should have recognized that we were in the presence of another human being who was carrying a cart full of dirty trash. Perhaps we would not have laughed so loudly or pointed at the cart. Maybe just a smile would have been enough for us. Maybe some of us could even have smiled at the person and nod our head in greeting - as we did for a Hispanic mother and child we saw just 40 second later.

This assignment was supposed to be a reflection on how culture affects patient care. However, the discrepancy between what I saw in the hallway today and what other students saw serve to show the real failure in cultural competency. In our training we are asked only to recognize cultural issues as they exist in the context of clinics and in whom we consider to be "patients." Perhaps such training serves the requirements of a prominent social medicine faculty or a Medicare requirement, but it does not address the fact that medical students and doctors treat people of lesser socioeconomic background with ignorance. We must not only remind ourselves to treat all of our patients with respect but also with everyone else we see daily. We cannot simply say, "we'll treat this group of people well because these are our patients but not the nurses or cafeteria workers." We must recognize culture everywhere.

I am sorry to tell you that I have been served much more by my immigrant background, my travels overseas, and by the drunks I've met than by social medicine class or the interviews with that patient from a privileged background. By my humble but frank account as a someone outside of the "main" culture, too many our students are culturally incompetent and insensitive. I won't have them take care of my family.

I am also sorry to say that we cannot teach equanimity; it can only be learned. For those of you other students, good luck. For you residents and attendings, I'm going to keep standing up for the migrants, poor people, the homeless, alcoholics, the service staff, and others for whom medicine serves only to increase the gap between the well and not-well. All I ask is that you don't berated me for being naive or idealistic during morning rounds when I stand up for a chronic pain patient.

Wilbur Larch

10/31/2007