Drops of Jupiter

When we last left the story, our dear OG was laying listless in the bed of his mother waiting for the demand of the date to catch a ship to New York to rouse him back to action. Nothing got him out of that bed in that beach house in Rockport, Texas except the fact that he had paid over two thousand dollars for a ship from New York City to Southampton, and he was going to have to get to New York somehow.

The answer would be a bus. OG does not like to fly. When OG flies, and when OG gets nervous during the flight, planes tend to crash. I’ve already written about going across the country by bus in four days. This would be another four days on a bus, though things would not end with quite the same level of drama. I’m not saying it wasn’t miserable. One of the buses refused to accept OG on account of his bicycle, despite his having paid to travel with it, so he had to sit in a bus station for hours waiting for another. Life is not without its injustices.

I’m just saying that this particular trip did not end with OG face up on concrete in a random suburban bus station waiting for his daughter to come get him. And thank God it didn’t, as he no longer had a daughter to come get him.

As it was, on the 8th of August 2025 our protagonist stepped off the bus in New York’s Midtown station and trekked his merry way to a hotel in the Bowery.

I’m not kidding. This was the name of the hotel: “Nolita Express.” God makes himself quite clear on occasion. Stay away from them lolitas.

New York reminded me in many ways of the splendor of LA, and I walked the streets with an electric energy that only Huey Louis could describe.

The Jewish presence was a blast.

The urban landscape was overwhelming.

There were even traces of Wonder Woman on the window of an Israeli restaurant.

The highlight of the NYC pitstop, though, was getting to see Little John.

I’d met him in 2022 in a town called Ourique in Portugal at the beginning of my first European bike tour from Lisbon to Amman, Jordan. I rode my first “century ride” (a ride of 100 miles or more) from Lisbon to Ourique to meet his uncle, “Big Mike,” a Karaite Jew I’d bumped into online and wanted to see in person.

Big Mike is apparently living in the Golan now, though he was back in Queens while I was in NYC, and I got to grab some food with these guys before hopping on the ship. In retrospect, I do regret not spending some more time in New York trying to get in touch with Danny Abeckaser. He is a filmmaker who I got turned onto from following the Lady on Instagram. Had I been in a better state of mind during and after the reunion, I would have headed straight up to NYC for a couple of weeks and seen what I could have made happen. As it was, I was able to enjoy a dinner with some friends from Portugal.

How can I describe the cruise? I’d mentioned that there seemed to be a theme to the names of the ships and the cruise lines I had been taking. The first one was with Princess Cruises, the line that gave us the Love Boat TV show from the 70s. On that cruise I felt like a bit of a sky princess myself, heading off into the yonder blue, but I’d also run into a princess on the boat that made the trip quite an adventure. Her name was Karolina. Don’t forget that.

The second cruise back from Barcelona to New Orleans in my country of origin was on the Carnival Valor with Carnival cruises, and it was indeed quite a carnival. Now this last cruise back to Europe from New York City to Southampton was on yet a third cruise line: Cunard Cruises.

The name of the line comes from the name of its founder. I looked up the etymology.

The king’s guard. Hardy. Brave. Strong. This is a kind of name that I have identified with for quite a while. Check my Vero account.

Above has been a nod to my messianic leanings for a long time. But further, it looks like a princess experiences a carnival and emerges a knight. We will have to see a few more chapters of the story to see how things turn out, but the names make an interesting progression.

The ship would be the Queen Mary 2. Jesus’ mom.

This trip wouldn’t be like the other cruises that took two weeks to get across the ocean and made stops along the way in places such as Tenerife or Morocco. This was a seven-day straight shot across the ocean with no stops. God has a thing about the number seven. Seven candles for the Menorah. Seven trips around the city of Jericho. Seven years of tribulation. Seven days in a week. Seven thousand years of creation. So this would be a seven-day voyage for a knight of the king. Let’s see how it turned out.

Chat GPT or some other such random source of information told me that this cruise was popular with single females. I thought that was an odd description. Princess cruises was popular with older people. Good food, lots of sites to see. Carnival was popular with families with kids. There were swimming pools with water slides on the ship and all that sort of thing. I thought it was strange that cruises and cruise lines had particular flavors of clientele, so I looked up what kind of a crowd I should expect to find on Cunard, and I was surprised about the answer: girls.

This was a ship that made no stops. It was all about the ship. The dancing. The ballrooms. The gowns. This was a place for young, beautiful ladies to meet millionaires. And there I was, as usual, in bicycle shorts or a romper, depending on the day.

Saying goodbye to the NYC skyline hit me hard. I’d had many adventures there in my youth.

We got a look at Lady Liberty along the way.

On the ship I was able to see that the rumors were true. There were no shortages of ladies.

For the first part of the cruise, I wasn’t doing too well and kept to myself for the most part. I did have this amazing encounter with a huge group of girls who were travelling with their mother to England to go to their aunt’s wedding. And no, they were not on board to be auctioned off to some millionaire. While I am sure a number of the passengers were there with that kind of motive, it does also seem that “just by chance” this cruise is just crawling with beautiful ladies, many of whom have no aspirations of glamorous marriage. Folks, only if the universe is designed by God do such things happen.

Yes, meeting a bunch of fun chicks did strike me as yet another gift from God, yet again healing me from the wound of being reminded that I had lost my daughter. Still more interesting was that these girls were a group of Christians. Now I know as a Reform Jew trying to make Aliyah in Israel, mentioning meeting a bunch of Christian girls as a sign from God might raise eyebrows. I’ll just take it for what it was. I’m riding on a boat named after Jesus’ mom on a cruise line named for a king’s guard, and I am having a great time with a group of Christian ladies. Make of it what you will. I’ll just say for my part that the detail of their religious persuasion did not go unnoticed.

I did catch one other interesting detail. The name of the one on the far right was Julia. That’s a significant name for me. To explain why, I’ll have to go on a bit of a tangent. After losing both Veronica and Chloe (a blonde and an Asian), and before losing Chloe I think perhaps being so worked up about Noah van Ouwerkerk (a blonde) because deep down I was hungry for a replacement for Veronica (a blonde), there was a time where I began to see conspicuous pairs of Asians and blondes around. But along with that, it would seem that some significant names would get worked into the mix somehow: Caroline and Julia. In order to untangle this mess a bit, let me start with the names.

So the first Carolines in my life were Caroline the Heroine and Carolina la Tapatia. Both of these women are described in my book. The first oddity of it all was that I had recently been listening to a song that featured a line about a girl named Caroline being named Heroin.

A few weeks later, while on drugs with Chaz the incarnation of evil (also from the book – and now a Pilgrim to God), I was actually introduced to a beautiful girl named Caroline who was in fact a heroin addict. You’ll have to read my book to hear that story. I’ll just say that immediately after the events described in the main portion of that book in Arizona I went down to Guadalajara, Mexico, where I met my next Carolina, also in that book.

There was a guy who preceded Jung in the whole synchronicity thing, I think his name was Kämmerer, who researched the phenomenon of sequences. That is, the phenomenon of something like, for example, living your life until age forty not knowing what argyle socks are, and then after you find out what argyle socks are, you have all kinds of experiences with argyle socks, seeing them everywhere. There was a lot of that kind of research going on in the early days of the synchronicity movement.

There was another guy who was researching the phenomenon of people losing things and finding things again. They did a lot of that wild stuff in the early days of the modern age where man applied reason to everything he could. It seems they found that the universe really is written around our minds.

Now the debate between the angels and the demons before the beginning of time that kicked off the whole “paradise lost” thing was about what the significance of this fact actually is. What does it mean? How do we understand it? What is the best way to describe it? Those debates would be a movie I would love to make. Depicting angels and demons everywhere up in heaven before the earth was even made arguing about the nature of reality would be too special-effects heavy for Hollywood, where ten seconds of Superman is going to cost you $20,000. It might have to be a play that relies on audience imagination, and it would probably run like Sartre’s No Exit or something from Plato. But, you never know. Israelis are good with computers. Maybe they could make a movie about why the angels fell with some proper special effects.

I’m absolutely digressing, though. I need to tell you about the Carolines and the Julias and the Asians and the blondes, but I have only told you about the Carolines. The first Julie I met was actually Julia Gnoni in Amman, Jordan. I nicknamed her the Ketamine Girl, as she was the first person to tell me about Ketamine as therapy for PTSD.

She was a dynamic, beautiful, spectacular girl from the UK who has a master’s degree in cultural studies and world theater and performance. A dancer. Even years later, when I was trying to cycle through the UK to get down to Calais at the beginning of this year, I wanted to shoot up to London to see her, but finances, space, and timing didn’t work out. This Julie was an important person to me, and there would be many Julies and Carolines to come. But let’s detour a bit to some Asians and blondes.

The first Asian and blonde pair to hit me was in Rome. Here is the post on that. The Dutch blonde talked to me about how her schizophrenic father wasn’t really schizophrenic…it was something else entirely. She was then met by her Asian friend, and they sauntered away. The second pair was at the end of that trip when I was in Seoul, and I ran into a Dutch blonde and a Chinese girl at the hostel. Yeah, you’d expect to find a bunch of Asian girls in Seoul, so God made sure that this Asian was Chinese just so I would notice the pair. Here is the post on that.

At some point, Julies and Carolines started to mix with Asians and blondes. In Los Angeles, after I lost Chloe (my Korean “daughter in spirit”), I started going nuts real and true. I ended up living in a co-op apartment complex with a Danish girl (not Dutch, but the blondest of them all) named Julie Riise. Now I don’t have a lot of pictures of her.

By this time my story had started to become pretty incredible. I had been all over the world and had taken a lot of pictures, and people find that interesting. I had also been tying philosophy and theology to it all, and some people still find that interesting and like to make ideas out of it. My goal is to expose the presence of God in our lives and reveal the position of the devil therein, who I am going to rip to pieces every day all day for a thousand years, and the devil doesn’t like that much.

I had come to California, the world headquarters of Satan’s media engine, with the intention of making contact with people who can actually say things and who are listened to. So in California everything went south for me as the demons caught me in ways I wasn’t prepared to deal with. One of his methods was that he wanted everyone he could influence to deny me any ability to verify their existence. He needs to be able to lie about me and call me a liar and say I am just making everything up. I like to take pictures, videos, record phone calls, etc. in order to verify to the best of my ability that what is happening to me is real.

From the first day I set foot in California, everyone told me, “don’t you dare take my picture,” and “no, I will not give you my phone number,” and if I got them on some social media like Instagram or Strava or something, they would block me shortly thereafter so that I wouldn’t be able to come back later and say, “these things I am telling you about on my blog are actually true.”

So concerning Julie, the only thing I can show you is a secondary Instagram account that she has forgotten about and forgotten to block me on.

This is the most beautiful blonde by far of them all, thus says the mirror mirror on the wall. She had come to Los Angeles to study film after spending some time in China with a softball team there and learning Mandarin the process. Although when the folks at the co-op asked her to say something unique about herself in a group introduction, she told everyone, “I like to sew.” Anyway, Julie was friends with the fat swinger chick in the co-op who hated me, so she blocked me on her main Instagram account. She is probably draped over the arm of some millionaire on some yacht somewhere whispering into his ear the secrets of how to make the world his plaything. She is too brilliant, captivating, and beautiful for much else.

Yet along with Julie Riise I met at the co-op in Los Angeles a magnificent, wonderful, sincere, bubbly, adorable, beautiful Indonesian girl who called herself Carolin, without the e. I have no way of showing her to you. Pictures were by then illegal. Everybody was complying with their orders from Satan to block me on Instagram and all other social media. So I can only point you to the blog post I wrote about Caroline and Julie at that time. That post describes a guy going insane at the supernatural tendencies seen by a guy out of his culture and element. However, I can also point you to a poem that I wrote for Carolin that showcases how important she was for me. So now we have an Asian and blonde pair who are named Caroline and Julie. Interesting symmetry, eh?

So at this point we have a pattern of some Asians and some blondes that is intersecting with a pattern of some Julies and some Carolines. If you hadn’t guessed, this is a pretty clear shot deep into the workings of a human mind, not described by the thoughts of the mind itself, but in the events taking place around the mind. I just wanted to let you know that in case I was starting to lose you because it doesn’t end here. I have yet one more iteration of the Asian and the blonde, the Julie and the Caroline to tell you about.

This last one doesn’t involve a Caroline, but it involves a Juli. And what a magnificent Juli she was. Let me dig in. After my hell year in Venice Beach in 2023, I moved back to mom’s for a bit and then headed back yet again to Los Angeles in 2024 for what would be a year of relaxing recovery. This time I would be in an apartment in East Hollywood. Most of what I was doing was riding my bicycle with Rapha Cycling Club. Not long after joining that club and that hobby, people from the club took a look at my blog and started to hate me. You can reference posts like the Lesbidrome that I linked above about Carolin and Julie as an example of why liberal feminist California would hate me after reading my blog

You see, one of the things I hate about California is that the feminism is so mandatory that it’s absolutely sexist and hateful. Fascist, actually. Like, if a woman complains that she has been traumatized by men, the world bends to comfort her. I remember going to a hospital behavioral health ward one time and being told that the fourth floor was for women only. I asked the reason, and I was told that many of the women on the floor had been traumatized by men, and the presence of men made them uncomfortable. That’s the kind of treatment you get as a woman who has been abused by men. But, in my case, as a man abused by women, traumatized by women, I just get called a misogynist and blocked. If I say women have mistreated me, women have abused me, I am a bad guy.

Now I don’t want to get all off into gender issues again. I think I have dealt with them pretty well overall. I have just put some painful ranty stuff in the last couple of blog posts about my daughter and my exwife, so I am not really thrilled about getting all off into gender issues at this time. However, I dealt with these issues in the aftermath of all the California BS in 2024. Being blocked as a misogynist because women freaked me out was just the pinnacle of Satanic Californianism. So I spent my days riding with a little subgroup of old dudes in the Palos Verdes wing of the Rapha Cycling Club where this or that cool chick might show up once in a while, like Debbie Castrodale or some other, but mostly it was a small group of old guys, and that was just my gig at that time.

However, I ended up finding through that group another, related riding club called “Humble and Kind.” Now, you know, I’m the Torah guy.

High though the LORD is, He sees the lowly;
lofty, He perceives from afar. Psalms 138:6

A man’s pride will humiliate him,
But a humble man will obtain honor. Proverbs 29:23

But not only that, I am a Watchmen guy, and one of my symbols is the smiley face with the drop of blood.

Well, this Humble and Kind group also had a symbol.

Yup. I’m not kidding. A smiley face. I had to ride with this group. So I did. Three times. Now in this group there were, you guessed it, an Asian and a blonde. Actually, there were a couple of Asians, and it took me a while to figure out which one was going to my “my Asian,” so to speak. But not long of a while. Let me explain. I’ll start with the blonde.

Her name was Amelia. Not Caroline, not Julie, but Amelia.

She was blonde. She was bubbly. She was barbie. She showed up to rides in leopard spandex with no chamois (they weren’t legit cycling shorts. Just tight pants). She was a fashion expert. She was an AI expert. She was all about showing herself off. She had a husband. His name was…wait for it…no, guess…it’s the same as your hero OG’s name…JONATHAN!

During one of the rides I was waiting in line for food at a rest stop we were at, and she came out of the restroom. The line was very long, so I looked at her, waved to her vigorously, and yelled at the top of my voice, “Hey! Honey! We’re over here!” but she didn’t pay any mind and just walked right past me. Later after getting my burger I sat down with everyone only to notice that Amelia had just left and was back at the end of a very long line. I told the story to Jonathan, “hey, I didn’t want the other people in line to get mad about me letting my group cut them, so I pretended Amelia was my wife to flag her over and let her wait with me, but she didn’t pay any attention.”

Now I was just openly blurting what I was thinking as I always do, but I dunno, maybe he was reading something into my rather odd statement about pretending his wife was my wife or something. I really was just thinking of an excuse to let someone from my group cut everyone else and wait with me. But, I admit, it was a bit of an odd thing to say, and so I shouldn’t have been surprised that his response seemed a bit odd to me. He said, “you don’t want her as a wife.”

I just ate my burger in silence. I had no idea what I had gotten myself into. It wasn’t exactly a glowing endorsement of his wife. But I just ranted about my ex in my last post, so I guess Jonathans think alike. That was the blonde. Amelia. A flashy showman. All about herself. Not loved by her husband.

Now let’s get to the really fun one. There were two central Asian girls in the group. Notice a small c. Not Central Asian like Kazak or Uzbek. There were two Asian girls who were central members, who showed up at every ride. One was Emily. Chinese. I think Taiwanese, but I can’t remember. I’d ask her, but she blocked me. The other was most assuredly Korean. And her name was Juli.

Juli was the girlfriend of Adam. Juli was tiny. Skinny. Short. Cute. Utterly beautiful of course. Adam. How do I describe this guy? There really aren’t many words that can do the job, and they are all proper names. Thor. Adonis. Words like that. You know, over six feet tall, muscles everywhere, flowing sandy blonde hair, all that. Now I want you to keep in mind that I do not think of either of these two in any kind of a sexual or romantic way. Well, maybe only once for a split-second imagining what a guy like that might just do to a girl like that in the sack before blushing internally and switching my thoughts over to something else. But nothing more. I promise.

And, well, okay, I do have one little story about the first time I met them that might be a bit racy. But it’s really not sexual at its core. I’ll tell it. So at the end of the first ride, these two came up to me to meet me. Everybody had their sunglasses on and we were all in our bicycle gear. Now Juli is so tiny, with her bicycle helmet on and those sunglasses, well, it makes her head look big and round, prompting me to nickname her “Speedracer” actually. She evokes images of the cartoon. Well, so there was this huge hulk of a hero Adam looking at me next to his super friendly and super tiny speedracer girlfriend who was asking me where I lived, what I did, how I liked the ride, questions like that…but it must have been a bit breezy that day because the nipples on her tiny little a-cup breasts were popping out of her cycling jersey like the pyramids of Egypt. I couldn’t help but notice and be utterly dumfounded.

• Juli: “What’s your name?”
• OG: “Wha?”
• Juli: “Your name?”
• OG: “Uh…Jon…Jonathan…”
• Juli: Where do you live?”
• OG: “Uh…sorry…what did you say…?”

That kind of thing. But I promise, this isn’t a sexual story or a story of romantic attraction. It’s more like a “your fly is unzipped” story that involves some awkward details like nipples and such. Yet while this story isn’t one of romance or eroticism, it is one of absolute adoration. Everything about these guys was amazing and memorable. Let me get on with that.

So Adam is a super intense guy. He loves cycling. He loves being outside. He watches all the cycling races. He knows all the racers. He talked to me once about how he pushed Juli as hard as she could be pushed, and she just tops out at about seventy miles. Once, after one of the rides, I heard him complaining about girls not being able to do this or that, and she responded, “shush, you! Girls can do things too!” I mean, who could resist falling in love with a pair like that? They were just super cute.

Anyway, on one of the days, at lunch, Adam was talking about this racer and that racer, and Emily, the other central Asian, looked at Juli and said, “do you really try to learn and follow all this?”

Juli responded, “yes…” and that was the point at which I knew I was sitting across from an immortal rose nourished in sands of gold and honey. This was a woman adoring of and devoted to her man and tried to please him to the breaking point. I confess, internally I ripped into dad mode. “This guy better be good enough for her…he better respect her…a giver like that is vulnerable. She will give until she is emptied of self…he better take good care of her…her better respect her…” That kind of thing. I followed these guys on Strava for a while after that. Even while I moved away. Even while on this bike tour.

That’s how I found out she was Korean. Her Strava posts often talked about walking their dog Mochi. From the pictures I saw Mochi was a white poodle kind of thing. A little fluffy white dog. Well, when I was in Vienna, recuperating after my 142-mile ride, I found a Korean restaurant and decided to have a bite. Remember, my Chloe was Korean. Korean is one of my favorite types of food. So I was in this Korean restaurant in Vienna when I saw on the menu a Mochi. It’s a chococlate type brownie or cake in powdered sugar.

Now I can’t seem to find the picture of the mochi that I ate in Vienna. I wanted to include it here, but I can’t because it’s gone. It’s not in my photos. I pretty much always take pictures of my food while on tour. I know I took a picture of that mochi I ate. But the technodemons think they are going to get me and make it so I can’t show you that synchronistic event. The synchonistic event when I was reading about this korean girl’s white fluffy dog named Mochi and found myself eating a white fluffy Korean desert called a mochi. However, God smiled upon me. I am writing this post from the Stoa Urban Kitchen in Limassol in Cyprus. And just as I get pissed about not being able to find the mochi desert that is connected to the adorable Korean girl’s dog, I look up, and what do I see? Well, just now I snapped a picture of what I am looking at as I write this:

Two tables down from me is an Asian girl with a while, fluffy little dog. Should I get up and ask her if she is Korean? I think I won’t. She’ll probably say she is Chinese or something and it will blow the pattern!

I could say more about this pair. I was just enchanted. But I will force myself to stop. I will just say that Amelia and Juli represented opposites. Jonathan was with Amelia the blonde, who was about herself, and he was unhappy, but Adam was with Juli, who was all about Adam, and Adam was happy. I hope Juli was too. I think she was. The last time I knew anything of them they were together, and Adam was testing how he could set up some kind of a rig so she could walk the dog while riding the bike. I ended up drunk texting these guys a time or two too much, commenting on their Strava feeds, so I just unfollowed so I wouldn’t come off like a creepy stalker pervert. They had no idea they were part of a kabbalistic synchronistic event. They didn’t know they were demonstrating a universal symmetry that reveals that reality is designed by God, and is not just chance.

So those two were my last two of the Asians and the blondes. However, after that, there was one more blonde, and her name was Karolina, and I met her one the first cruise to Europe. And now, on this cruise, the woman to melt my heart was the young Christian sister named Julia.

The names Juli, Julie, and Julia come from the ancient Roman Julian dynasty that gave us Julius Caesar. It means “a little portion of Jove” or, stated differently, “a little drop of Jupiter.” Maybe the song from Train is connected to these two somehow.

So, alright. That was a pretty long tangent, right? I’d noticed this Julie/Caroline thing and blonde/Asian thing quite a while ago and have been looking for a place to tell the story. You can look at the blog posts going back years, and at my book, and you can take stock of the Carolines, Carolinas, Carolins, Julies, Julias, and Julis, and all those blondes and Asians, and you can tell me, am I just crazy? Or does the universe come with a kind of a symmetry built in that tells us it has a divine maker?

Remember what Jung said:

So alright. We will call that tangent told. I’ll just say that for the majority of the trip I was just floored looking at all the lovely ladies onboard in their ballgowns. But toward the end of the trip, I got what I can only consider an amazing blessing.

If you’ll remember in previous blog posts, and in a few Strava posts, I’d always had the sense that all of the other travelers I met were going their own ways. On the first trip from Lisbon to Amman I was heading west to east toward Israel, but everyone else I was running into, and particularly everyone else on a bicycle, was heading west somehow. I did the whole thing alone. On the first leg of this one, in Belgium, I was heading east out of the country toward Aachen, and five hundred million cyclists from all over Europe were heading westward into the country for the biggest bicycle rally on the continent. Bicycles were everywhere.

And I’m not kidding, everybody was going the other way.

Well, except the one guy on the right, apparently. I’ll have to dig through my GoPro videos from that time when I get a chance. I have some amazing shots of Belgian bicycles going the other way that would blow your mind.

Well, on this trip, toward the end of the trip, I met this guy named after the prophet Daniel who looked like Moses or Jesus or Mel Gibson or something.

Daniele Savarini. A Swiss guy, Italian speaker, who was just wrapping up a world tour. He had been on the bike for two years. A heavy gravel bike camping setup.

Yeah, he rides with his helmet on the handlebars.

And where you would expect a water bottle you will find a bottle of Italian sparkling wine.

I’ll tell you more about this guy in the next post. The only thing I want to say here is that after the deep, dark posts about Texas and my daughter, and about the lowness of the lowest of the lowly low, it would seem that God, or the Messiah, or that Singaporean newspaper salesman I met on the streets of Frankfurt that Easter Sunday after Passover, whoever the heck that was, heard my cries, that I simply did not have enough power and blessing to get the job done. Everything always went against me. To the point that it wasn’t about ego or weakness or pride or anything else but the fact that everything always went so incredibly against me that we just weren’t going to win if the trend continued. You can’t talk to a guy like Lazarus about winning the war and taking the hill. Lazarus’ job was just to lose every day all the time and get rewarded the next time around. From where I sit, that is the highest of all honors, and I am all too happy to kiss Lazarus’ feet when the kingdom comes. But Lazarus’ job was just to lose. If I am going to be a part of the team that wins, here, in these last days, for this last fight, I need a little power. A little strength. Just for a little while. Just for a few years. Just so this last little bit of human history can get done right. That was my complaint that day in Frankfurt. And I think that newspaper salesman heard me. Because some blessings started coming my way. And they started on that ship. The Cunard Line. The King’s Guard. Queen Mary 2. Julia the last drop of Jupiter. And Daniele, my very first riding buddy.

Things did in fact change. I’ll tell you about that in the next post.