My moving buddies invited me out that night, and next thing I know, I was mingling with about 50 med students and eating what would become my closest thing to a real thanksgiving dinner. Potluck Thanksgivings are great, especially when there’s about 50 different recipes thrown in. More eating, and I felt like I was going to burst.

Then we broke out the ping pong table to lighten the mood. It was a Sunday night, and all these kids had intensive medical classes the next day, so we actually used the table for what it was intended for: ping pong. Being a pool rat growing up, I’ve logged some hours on a table. Also, because my brother and I were cut-throat in every single thing that could even be considered a competition growing up, I used to be pretty good. Of course, being in a room full of people I had just met and a complete guest to the situation, I took it easy. I always have been super smooth and casual.

Kidding. When they handed me the paddle, it was the first time I had competed against someone other than myself in months. The future doctor I was hitting with could definitely play, and next thing I knew, we were swinging away in a room full of people. There were jokes after the first few points, and then there was hushed silence, and then there were even little cheers. It may have been the biggest captive audience for a ping pong match in the history of the world. In the end, he took me down. And after match point, I looked around and realized that it was probably a good thing to give up the paddle. Pump the brakes there, Matthew.

Caroline went around introducing everyone to her brother, her boyfriend, and me. She did a great job hosting us, and everyone was super nice. They’re obviously very bright kids who are able to unwind for a little even in some of the most stressful years of their lives. We’d all be so lucky to have the future medical community filled with these wonderful people, cooks, conversationalists, and paddle-sport athletes.

After the party, we headed to a local watering hole to soak in downtown Charleston. We walk in to the bar, and the first person I see is my RA from my freshman year in college, Jenna. It’s a small world, after all. She was working behind the bar, and she spends her time during the day running a gymnastics program. She’s as much of a sweetheart as ever, and she’s been breaking hearts in Charleston for three years and change. Here she is, waiting patiently for me to decide on my next drink:

The kids who still had to worry about school handed me off to Jenna, and she took care of me until closing time. The place was lively even on a Sunday: I was sucked into a birthday celebration, some food and bev conversations, and plenty of travel stories.

The next two days were full of catching up on sleep, cleaning all of my disgusting clothes, fire-drying my tent and riding gear, and enjoying the company of some awesome people. Some killer sunsets, too. Backyard, Daly’s house:

Next night, same thing. Although the best part was blocked by my ugly mug. Sweet peach fuzz beard, dude.

I even got to enjoy a few pints with one of my good buddies from lifeguarding back in Bethany, Jeff Falini–obviously, we drank Dogfish. We caught up on his wedding, his recent graduation from grad school, his massive career moves, and life in Charleston, South Carolina. Then we moved on to the more important topics: old guarding stories and hilarious tales of after-hours debauchery. Summer is only three months long, but man, at the beach, sometimes three months is all you need, or maybe three months is all you can take–depends on how you look at it.

But hands down, my favorite thing in Charleston was spending time with my family. I was also able to confirm that my Uncle Michael is the man. He is incredibly successful in the construction business, and that career path has also allowed him to enjoy his fair share of the travel bug. I got to sit back and listen to his stories of living in a treehouse in Bali, hiking in Nepal, surfing Sri Lanka, hitch hiking through Cali, and surf trips to Costa Rica and Mexico (just to name a few). And then I turn to my Aunt Elli, and she has stories of sub-Saharan Africa, driving through the U.S., and her own tales of Europe. This planet is amazing. And there’s so much to do.

After my time in Charleston, I was able to re-affirm the main thing I’ve learned throughout this journey: don’t take your time for granted. I wish I could say it poetically, but I’ve found that my writing skills have withered after 6 years of doing the numbers.

Maybe I lucked out by not telling anyone about my trip until a few weeks before I left. Not only did I do that because I was scared I’d fail, but also because I’ve found that the more you talk about something, sometimes all you ever end up doing is talk about it. My Uncle Michael told me that the most important thing is the first concrete step: buying that ticket, getting in that car, or those first few pedals away from home. Whatever it is, if you really want to do something, do it!