Grand Reunion Tour - Bonus Stop

I couldn’t bear to fly across the country just to be sad, to remember someone who doesn’t have any more tomorrows. Not when there are so many people I love who are still out there, hearts beating, lives racing, and time escaping us but time left still. So I contacted my friends, some I hadn’t seen in several year, some since my wedding reception, and a special one for whom it’d only been weeks. Magically, a California friend even fit in the New York mix. And we made plans, so many plans, too many plans. I met new children, tried new restaurants, spun and flipped and stretched at aerial classes. I did flying trapeze and don’t need to do that again. I squeezed in some flying pole right after landing in California and will do that again. I sipped on Yemeni spiced teas at Qahwah House. I sampled an iced mushroom latte at Le Botaniste. I inhaled bagels, cozied into slices of pizza, and nibbled through dim sum. I talked. I laughed. In the quiet moments between the love, on trains or in the shower or late at night in bed, I cried. I was very much alive and human, and other than sleeping, got everything I needed. I hope it won't be so many years before the next round of reunions with the lovely folks of New York, but at least I know if the years slip past us again, the folks will still be there on the other side. Some people just feel like home.

A whirlwind of an emotionally fulfilling and physically exhausting trip through New York after saying goodbye to Grandpa. Caught Nikki at the tail end of her East Coast adventure, reconnected with Rui & Max (now with baby Luna!), met Amy & Jim's very new Justin, saw Esther, finally caught Hakim who's relocated East, and crashed and drank and ate and flew with the one and only Sharon.

A return to California and life as normal felt horribly anticlimactic after a week of living so intensely, so I found something to help motivate me to board the final plane westbound: a flying pole class mere hours after landing, booked over a sleepless layover in the Denver airport. You don't need to sleep to pole, right?

Sending off Grandpa

Al Aloia, 1930-2025. Husband, father, grandpa. Fisherman, bowler, cribbage player. Catholic lector. US Marine. One man, one life that touched many.

No matter how prepared you may be, the finality of death hits you with waves of grief, and the timing won’t always make sense. My grandpa died last week on Thursday. I learned mid morning bike ride when my phone rang and my mom’s name appeared. I didn’t cry. I made sure to ask how she was doing. I proceeded to buy the baguettes for which I was en route. I got home and showered and caught the shuttle, and then came the first rounds of tears. When I made it to the office, I tried to work, but soon the logistics of the moment overtook me. I grabbed a call room and furiously sorted out how Nico and I would be planning our visits. All the friends I’d contacted in the area back in June when this first entered the horizon were pinged and the wheels began turning. I had to skip a guest lecture because somehow, in the moment, nothing was more important than understanding what the next week would bring. By lunch time, I still delivered the chèvre chaud salad that’s become a weekly staple at Salad Club, and that evening I stuck to our first casual afterwork half-marathon as planned. I seemed suspiciously fine. Over the next half week, I focused on preparing and working and didn’t feel much.

The next set of tears came in the uber last Monday evening. All the planning and prep work was done. Our furbabies had their care plans. The black dresses had been sourced. The bags were packed, the agenda packed solid, and all that was left was the follow the carefully laid plans. To begin to be present. To acknowledge that this was it: time to say the last goodbye.

One red-eye later, we were ferried from the airport straight to Grandpa’s house. The backdrop for so many Christmases and Thanksgivings and Easters, the fathers’ and mothers’ days, the informal family Sunday get-togethers, would now be the backdrop one last time as we sent off the final member of that generation. There are no more grandparents left, just the smell of their tobacco permanently woven into the fabric of the home that cradled every one of my aunts and uncles, the seat of the Aloia lineage for the past 68 years. It feels wrong that soon this property will pass to other hands, that there isn’t anything left for us at 4 Cherry Lane.

I was struck, at the wake, by the items that made it into his coffin, the mementos that summarize a near century navigating this planet and all its (and his) changes. There was the Marines memorabilia and of course the cross, the fly fishing gear, and a winning hand of cribbage. There was a Cuban cigar with a banana sticker stuck atop, an homage to the quirky banana label collection Grandpa began in retirement. And that was it: a life in several items, lying alongside a man who even in death had fabulous bone structure and hardly a wrinkle to betray his 95 years. How strange that this was what it’s boiled down to, physically speaking. This and the souls - those left behind, perhaps a hundred or so, gathered in his honor; quite the crowd for a man who outlived so many of his peers.

At the funeral the next day, the eulogies reminded us that the biggest footprints Grandpa left behind aren’t physically tangible. But what left me aching, as I’m afraid I’d realized in the days and months prior, was how little of an individual relationship I’d actually lost. He was a figurehead, a titan in the family, and a wonderfully loving man, but how much did we individually know each other? When asked to take a moment, seated in that pew, as the final eulogy drew to a close, to call upon a cherished memory, to hold it, and to carry it with me as I proceeded down the aisle, I struggled. The only conversation I could even recall was the one just before moving off for grad school when he’d warned me not to become too French - one it would seem I failed to heed, not to his disappointment. I think I was most touched when, at the reception, his youngest brother personally sought me out to let me know how proud he and Grandpa and everyone was of what I was doing, and to keep it up. Oh, the Neuralink stuff? I asked. No, everything, ever since you were little, he said, and that was that, on to the next conversation. It helped to know that even if we weren’t always chatting, he’d been watching, he’d known what I was up to, and he’d been proud. I often feel I let the family down, jetting off to all corners of the earth chasing big dreams as we celebrate the family devotion and commitment that I fear I fail to embody. It’s a comfort to hear I still had my place in the mix.

And less than 30 hours after convening in New Jersey, it was time for the Aloia clan to say their goodbyes, to scatter off in all directions with promises of reunions in the not too distant future. I think they’ll happen. And in them, Grandpa’s legacy lives.

He died holding his children’s hands, fluttered his eyes open one last time just before his final breath, surrounded by them in the home that had held them and so much chaos and love for so many years. In our last moments in that home, Nico and I made a round of gestational carrier picks that may have led to our first hit, so the legacy of love and family remains deeply tied to that site for all of us. And now our stories continue.

Being a supportive friend

I'm probably going through some sort of mid-life/pre-parenthood crisis. There aren't yet enough grays in my hair to be described as graying, but I have enough to shed them. I get targeted ads for perimenopause. Corners of the internet have decided I've past the point of adding value to society and it freaks. me. out. Yes, I still get catcalled (gross) but they can't see my crow's feet. I'm deeply envious of the "distinguished" adjective my male counterpoints enjoy. I didn't realize how much value I placed on how I'm perceived. To put it simply, I just don't feel sexy anymore, and my vanity's caught me by surprise.

I'm not sure a photo shoot that celebrates my physical being is exactly what I need - probably realizing that doesn't matter would be healthier. That said, the photo shoot wasn't my idea: a friend wound up on PR for a boudoir photo studio and needed bodies for their open house. So what's a supportive friend to do but show up and strip down?

And you know what? I channeled my inner Beach Barbie and felt awesome. Without further ado, please enjoy the results of my first boudoir photo session.

Bringing all the Beach Barbie energy like any supportive friend when her presence is requested at a boudoir photo studio.

Living my best life not worrying about anyone else's "expiration date" labels.

Grand Reunion Tour - Stop 2

Next up on the list of friends to whom a visit was massively overdue: Carv and Irmina, who've since added a third to the family. As he's turning three, their baby Julian hardly even qualifies as a baby anymore! I reached out to Carv mid-June to ask about dates, imagining we'd settle on something in spring of 2026. But he suggested Julian's third birthday party mid-August and we figured, why not? Flights were reasonably priced, so in a matter of minutes the trip was booked over a round of beers with my parents, who reminded us that these sorts of friendships are worth the effort.

Every time I fly one, I tell myself I'm too old for any more red-eyes, and then every time it comes to the moment of booking the next trip, the lower airfares always draw me back in. We boarded a midnight flight out of San Francisco Friday evening to squeeze every drop out of the weekend without using any vacation days at work. The good news is that, when you only have to pay for one night of hotel, you can afford to go all in (and can't really access particularly good rates elsewhere), so we went fancy at the Palmer House.

Despite seeing the images online when making the booking, my first reaction when we rode the elevator up into our hotel was that we might just be in the wrong place. Somehow this place had the best rates in downtown Chicago for a single Saturday night stay in mid-summer on short-ish notice.

After an early check-in (worth every penny) and a much-needed nap, we hit the town. First stop: Intelligentsia for a caffeine boost. Lately I've discovered a real love for coffee tonics, despite not being a regular coffee drinker. Fueled up, we hit the town.

Not too shabby for two late-thirties people who just flew in on a red-eye. (The sunglasses hide the dead inside.)

Nico's first trip to Chicago, and my first since Carv's wedding back in 2013! Times have changed but some things, like the bean, remain the same.

We wandered around some major tourist attractions and lunched at Industry Ales, which made me so happy that I'm not ashamed to say we hit them up again for dinner. Between the meals, we enjoyed pierogies with beet sauce, sweet potato gnocchi, seared trout with blackberry beurre blanc, and strawberry-pistachio-burrata salad. Add to that the excellent (Belgian-biased) tap selection. 10/10 would recommend.

While some things remain the same, it's mind-boggling just how quickly others change: late Saturday afternoon, we headed out to Julian's birthday party in the suburbs. Not only did we get to reconnect with Irmina and Carv, and meet Juju, but Carv also surprised me with another 5th Wester and *his* kiddo! His wife, yet another 5th Wester, couldn't make it out that evening, so we made plans for a round two of 5th West reunion for the following evening. 

Sunday was for brunch, sleeping in, and enjoying the riverfront.

The visit out was primarily to reconnect, so we didn't bother much careful scheduling beyond it. The weather was hot and sunny, and we enjoyed our Sunday sleeping in, doing brunch, and strolling along the strikingly teal Chicago River. We admired the skies, which are so much bigger than in New York, the architecture, and the riverfront which definitely brought us back to the Seine. We discovered, to our delight, a cherry fizz espresso spritz courtesy of Caffè Umbria - I'd have never thought to pair cherry soda and coffee, but it works.

Good times with even better people, celebrating two decades (!!) of friendship. 

Before we knew it, it was time to trek out to Old Irving brewery and restaurant, half-way between downtown and the airport, where we met up with Irmina, Carv, and Julian as well as Gabe, Casey, and their kiddos Maria and Daniel. How all of us became appropriately aged to be parents is still beyond me, but the reunion was fabulous. I couldn't get enough of their kids, evenly spaced around Julian, and how the three of them are going to have the privilege to grow up enjoying a multi-generational friendship that spawned in our old dorm hall decades ago. Maybe the next time we meet up, Nico and I will have our own little one(s) to seat at the table too.

Grand Reunion Tour - Stop 1

Life has recently been making me acutely aware of how much time is passing: seeing the MIT 15 year reunion photos from my sorority sisters in the class after mine; realizing that all my female peers and I are actually at the make-or-break point for having children; reconnecting with an old friend and realizing there was well over a decade gap since last we'd spoken; immersing myself in the Eric Hölljes's Too Late Concert Special (and truly understanding that, eventually, it is too late). Maybe this is how a mid-life crisis looks. I already added the running to my repertoire, so why not? But the best I can do with this, in the calm before the chaos (if all goes to plan) of parenthood, is to reach out and hold tighter to the people who really matter. So this summer, while we're still free to be a couple with only furbabies to worry over, Nico and I have planned a grand reunion tour for folks around the US to whom we owe a visit. Stop #1: Melissa & Brendan and Ryan & Megan down in Los Angeles.

A very happy Fourth of July down in LA with wonderful people.

It's wonderful to travel and not be a tourist. We weren't rushed to see or do anything. For the weekend, we were just present. We enjoyed our people: seeing and hearing about their lives, their latest projects, their hopes and worries. It's amazing to have folks with whom you can grow in parallel, where reconnecting doesn't feel like a lift. Living on opposite ends of a massive state (after having spent a decade on different continents) doesn't make it any less cozy than when you lived two floors apart. I struggle a lot with the concept of family. It can be hard for me to accept that mine isn't bound by blood. It scares me that the people with whom I most want to share life's milestones aren't the ones I can count on seeing around a dining table every year come Christmas. I hope we keep on putting in the miles to maintain these bonds. I hope my chosen family thinks of me that way too.

While it town, we enjoyed some local highlights: we hit up Grauman's Egyptian Theater, Canter's Deli, and Van Leewen ice cream; we kayaked; we sampled more beer than an average weekend. We took it easy: we hung out in Compton and watched illegal fireworks; we cuddled other people's pets; I ran a different set of hills; I lounged on a couch other than my own while sipping from someone else's looseleaf tea collection and reading my latest novel. And it felt like home.

I ran some more

Running a half marathon was decidedly not on this year's to-do's. The plan was just to run, and to sort out the relationship I'd like to have with the sport going forward. It wasn't to become a total trope of a nearly-middle-aged person and go all gung ho on the distance running. But I got an invitation, and my general rule of thumb is to not say no to anything that doesn't seem terribly wrong and could make for a good story. So I said yes. And now I can add "run a half marathon" to my bucket list and promptly check it off.

Unseasonably good weather in SF for the Presidio Half Marathon today!

The crazy thing is I'm running fast and feeling good. Unlike the 5k at the Oakland Marathon I ran back in March, I didn't cross the finish line nauseated and hating myself: this time, I was pumping my fist and cheering myself along while somehow running an average pace of 8:36/mile (discounting the time they forced us to spend walking under the Golden Gate, crammed together like sardines, mid-race, making dragging my official pace to an 8:50). I'm still not sure I self-identify as a runner but I've got the feeling that's starting to change.

Back from away

On Prince Edward Island, as my dad explained it, there are four directions: up west, down east, north shore, and south shore. Anywhere else is away, be it just over the Confederation Bridge or on the other side of the planet. Infamously, a cousin of his moved to Moncton, New Brunswick, a city in the neighboring province, and was referred to as living "overseas." After nearly a quarter century since my last visit, I was finally back from away.

Life is simpler and the pace is slower up in PEI. While I imagine I'd go stir-crazy long-term, it was a peaceful week away from the normal responsibilities of living. We tacked on an extra hour and and a half to our average nightly sleep time, and I knocked out two and a half books during the time disconnected.

Our journey kicked off in New Jersey, where my cousin Jake married his long-term partner, Sarah.

Jake & Sarah - Cape May, NJ - June 7, 2025

During the festivities, my grandpa began anxiously calling the aunts and uncles. Unfortunately, that's a thing he does these days, and it's incredibly hard to gauge the level of seriousness. He might call twenty times in an hour because he can't figure out his remote control. So when my aunt instructed his caretaker to turn off his phone and tell him it was out of battery so we could all enjoy the evening (unfortunately without him as he'd become too frail to come out), we didn't think more of it. The next day, however, he couldn't get out of bed. A trip to the hospital didn't clear things up: turns out he'd developed sepsis and wasn't responding to aggressive antibiotics. As we weaved our way up the East Coast, my mom's family group chat was exploding with updates and opinions.

We stopped for a night at my dad's cousin's Joan's home in southern Maine and hit up Acadia National Park on day 2. After a stroll and a dinner in Bar Harbor, we battled fog so thick we legitimately feared the hidden moose and called it a night as soon as we'd crossed the border, setting up camp in a minimalist but perfectly clean motel room in Saint Stephen, New Brunswick.

Acadia National Park, the major pitstop on our road trip from Pennsylvania up to PEI.

On day 3 of the road trip, we made it home with time for a beach run and shower before catching sunset with the family over the ocean. On the Aloia homefront back in New Jersey, things progressed and by the next day or two, arrangements for hospice care were set in motion.

It all started feeling real over the Small Halls concert on Friday night. In a decommissioned church built to resonate like the inside of a violin, surrounded by simple beauty, in a world where folks chase manageably-sized dreams, I struggled to figure out how to accept the changes in my station in life, as I stare down the loss of the last member of the generation two notches ahead of me, and as I watch my position within my family structure shift. I'd never quite fit in to begin with, but the years spent living so far away, the vastly different paths we've taken, and the differing interests have led me to a point where I don't quite know how to connect with my cousins, and the feeling's clearly mutual as I wasn't extended an invitation to the goodbye calls arranged with Grandpa. I've never figured out how to be me and also be a member of this family.

The heavy news was sandwiched by the embarrassingly good, the kind it didn't feel right to receive while grieving. The Neuralink valuation, which we'd been waiting on for the past two months, was finally released. It was good, better than even the most optimistic guesses I'd been hearing around the office. And for us, assuming our participation in the upcoming tender offer isn't overly restricted, it means we've got the funds we need to become parents on our terms. It was time to start crunching numbers and reaching out to various financial and logistical contacts. Sitting front-row on the sidelines as my mom and her siblings navigated the loss of their parent while establishing the conditions under which Nico and I will become parents felt overwhelming. The juxtaposition was too stark. Fate felt cruel, especially as the news isn't something we can send my grandfather off knowing: he wouldn't understand IVF, frozen embryos, and gestational carriers. It also means he'll never know about his future great-grandkiddos. Life can be so unfair.

In between it all, I kept running. I admired the lupins. I climbed the red clay rocks at cliff edges. I squished seaweed between my toes and smushed the sand under my feet as I ran barefoot through the water's edge. I breathed in and out. I felt alive.

Snapshots from runs around the Island

We explored the Island. We went to the Anne of Green Gables House. We sampled the "best lobster rolls on PEI" (according to my parents). We explored the Bottle Houses. We listened to live music. We went to a show. We (re-)met loads of family. We made sandcastles under the tutelage of a professional sandcastle artist. We ate ice cream. We learned about Acadian history. We ticked off all the tourist boxes. We relaxed. We just were.

A whirlwind of PEI tourism

And then we went home. We were lucky enough to have a recovery holiday the day after our flight, and we hit the ground running. I had about a half-dozen errands, a lyra (aerial hoop) class, and my one-on-one goodbye call with Grandpa, facilitated by Aunt Marie and Aunt Lisa, who kindly did a lot of the talking on his end of the line since he'd already slowed down enough that it was hard for him to speak. It's funny thinking of what to say to someone when you know it's the last time you'll ever chat. What do you tell them? What can you? I talked about my upcoming half marathon, and he asked how fast I'd run. I showed him videos from my lyra class earlier that day, and brought our pup Lily and all three cats onto the video call. The animals made him smile. It's surreal sending someone off on their end-of-life journey through sharing the mundane, though I guess that's what relationships chalked up to - a series of shared moments that one day draw to a close - and it was a privilege to have one last chance to share, knowing it was our last. Seeing him there, not scared but just tired, comfortable and at home, surrounded by loved ones doting on his needs, honestly, made death feel a little less scary. It's a very big thing to offer someone as your final goodbye: comfort that the end doesn't need to be scary.

So it was simple and it was a lot, and that was our big vacation for summer 2025.