As Nick drove along the interstate, he would watch the cars and trucks go by and think to himself, ‘if I drop dead of a heart attack this moment would a single person on this highway blink other than to curse the traffic backup after I hit the bridge embankment, not likely’.


He used to think time was eternal, a never-ending compendium capturing the sparks of our existence and glowing forever. That was years ago when the idea of mortality was barely a passing thought. This is now when it’s not about mortality, it’s about living and how he will leverage 80 years of life experience to do it right this time.


As he approaches his eighth decade, he knows the glow will fade and extinguish, not all at once, but one spark at a time.


This book is a way of keeping Nick’s life glowing a little longer, perhaps less brightly than in the past, but able to light the flame that has kept him interested, interesting and alive all these years.


His life has been one of fire and ash, burning with passion and wonder only to flame out again and again with the residue of reality.


This is not memoir or biography, this is a story, Nick’s story, creative non-fiction, a narrative laced with places, times, events and characters that Nick experienced with a novelist’s imagination for storytelling.


I’ve known this man for 79 years, by any measure, a long time. I know his failures and successes, his passions and desires, his loves and hates. He is a complicated man, brimming at once with creative ambition while suffering from anemic self-confidence.


There is no schadenfreude in Nick, he takes no pleasure in another’s misfortune. He is a man preoccupied with self-discovery, often defining himself by the opinions of others.


The storms and calms of his life have moved him back and forth like the tide. While the detritus of living has often pushed him to places where he doesn’t belong, the journey has often re-ignited a life suffering from compromise and melancholy.


If you recognize yourself in this story, be careful, you’re riding a wild horse, snorting and unbroken, running through the mutability of life with total abandon and, what’s worse, disregard for common sense.


I’ll skip over the formative years and get right to the heart of the matter; life is about vanity, confidence, empathy, courage, depression and unrequited love. The drivers of Nick’s improbable existence. We’ll explore them all as we explore life without guardrails.


This story reads like fiction but it’s all true.



Chapter-1 (New York)


The story begins in 1997 when I stepped down as President & CEO of Cotton Incorporated, the iconic textile fiber research, and marketing arm of the US Cotton industry, headquartered in a glass-enclosed tower overlooking Central Park in New York City.


My office had an uninterrupted view of the Park. There was a large circular desk of knurled walnut surrounded by six swivel chairs, curved and tufted in burnt orange cotton. The CEO chair was tufted in black, the only one with a high back.


There was a large matching credenza, a computer screen, a push-button control panel, and a keyboard.


The room was large, 25 feet by 30 feet, the furniture was custom, over-sized and covered in plush chocolate velveteen.


The 100% Cotton carpeting was oatmeal neutral, selected to dramatize the furniture and the artwork. There were subdued oil paintings and a magnificent Henry Moore maquette of a Tribal Mask staring from the coffee table.


There was a bathroom hidden behind the paneling with a shower, a closet, and amenities befitting a Relais & Chateau. The full-service wet bar was stocked with premium brands and the small refrigerator kept the Vodka and Pilsner cold.


A projector and screen dropped from the ceiling with the push of a button, preloaded with a professionally produced and directed video about the company and our current marketing campaign.


There was an executive dining room on the top floor, an English trained chef and a private elevator connecting our three floors.


I had a professionally trained secretary, an administrative assistant and a conference room overlooking the park.


All this plus an executive salary, benefits and expense account.


Why did I walk away in my prime at age 57 after 25 years? I was still motivated and ambitious and felt I had more to give than the cotton industry was prepared to accept.


I thought I could change the world, I suppose you’ll find that humorous, changing the world, that was supposed to be a young man’s dream, not an aging man’s fading ambition.


For me then, as now, I’ve never felt or acted like an “aging man”. As long as my physical and emotional health were stable and my always unreasonable ambition still intact, I took the path less traveled and for me, that path has led to places, cultures, events, and people beyond my wildest expectations.


I formed a company, Hahn International, Ltd, a consulting group concentrating on underdeveloped countries in Asia, Africa, South America, Eastern Europe, and the Caucasus Region.


I initially opened an office in the Empire State Building in mid-town Manhattan, still a prestigious address in spite of its construction in 1931.


The commute from NY was un-necessary, clients didn’t visit my office and the added expense was superfluous to my wanting a NY address.


I moved to a concierge building in Stamford, Ct, the rents were lower, short term and included services like a full-time receptionist, conference room and utility bay with fax, copier, and coffee. The perfect arrangement for a start-up business with unknown prospects.


Like most start-ups, HIL was long on positioning and short on clients.


That is until one day a phone call turned my business plan upside down and sent me into a world strange and foreign to me.


The voice on the phone was professional, addressing me as “Mr. Hahn” and asking if I were the person who had worked at Cotton Incorporated with Dukes Wooters.


The answer being yes, he introduced himself as Jim Carlisle, a consultant affiliated with USAID, and launched into an explanation for his call. Mr. Wooters was unavailable for a trip to Colombo Sri Lanka to address a conference of Coir fiber producers on the advantages of ingredient product marketing.


I had never heard of Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon,  and only vaguely aware of Coir, the textile fiber stripped from the husks of coconuts and used in doormats, flower pots and erosion blankets.


I explained this to Carlisle but he was insistent and assured me the focus of my address would be fiber marketing in a generic sense.

When I asked about compensation and travel arrangements, he explained the remuneration would be on the upper end of the USAID government pay scale and that, unfortunately, air travel would have to be by economy class.


While we were talking I did a quick Google search on NY to Colombo (capital of Sri Lanka), it was 19 hours with a long layover in Dubai.

When I told Mr. Carlisle that I needed a first class or at least a business class ticket on a flight that long he hesitated, explaining that all US Government employees traveled economy. I reminded Mr. Carlisle that I wasn’t a government employee and couldn’t possibly travel that long on a cramped economy class seat. He asked for a day or two to request an exception in my case.

Two days later he called with the good news that he made arrangements for business class travel and would I accept the assignment?

Being intrigued by a visit to











Love is a common word, hackneyed, overused for everything but what the poets intended.

Love is not words or emotions; love is not music, lyrics or quotes.

Love is feeling, sharing, supporting, understanding~love is touching.

Love is commitment without qualification.

Love supports, it doesn’t judge.

Love is lasting; it doesn’t end with words or

deeds or circumstances.

It’s a continuum that survives the darkness of life and supports us, makes us whole.

Love is the elixir of life; we can’t survive without it, we merely exist. It’s the difference that makes us soar, rising above the ugliness, the sadness, the despair.

If you’re not loved and don’t love, your potential erodes one depressing day after another.

When you meet someone for the first time, there is a reaction. You form an instant opinion, good, bad or indifferent. Is this fair, not really but it’s human.

So many things come into play: age, appearance, a tone of voice, demeanor. It isn’t until later that we find the spark, that feeling that washes over us like a tidal wave. We discover that appearances are fleeting. We find that touch is more important than words, that feeling is more important than emotion.

Can it be love in an instant, maybe, but you have to be lucky, very, very lucky.

When serving as a contractor in Pakistan some years ago, I worked with a young Muslim man as my translator and local guide. He was born in Pakistan and educated with an advanced degree in economics.

His name is Fareed; he’s married, and his wife is expecting their first child. I asked him if he followed the Muslim custom of family arranged marriages? He said yes. Unfeelingly, I expressed sympathy that he didn’t have the opportunity to fall in love first. His expression, when answering, was of total surprise. His pushback was quick and unequivocal.

“I’m in full agreement with the custom; I never laid eyes on my wife until two weeks before our wedding. Our families did a perfect job; we’re perfectly matched, not the mismatch so often behind the high divorce rate in the West. We both come from the same religion, culture, education, background and family circumstances.

Fareed felt that once the heat of romance cooled the real work of togetherness begins. He said he and his wife are a perfect match and agree on most things without tension. The one exception he was his Mother. She played an intimate role in their marriage. A man’s mother never believes his wife is good enough for him, in Pakistan that means a young man’s wife is under the thumb of his mother, not a good thing as Martha Stewart would tell us.

Typically the Mother lives under the same roof and dominates domestic life. Pakistani’s with means live in large houses, more like small hotels with four or five floors. The whole multi-generational family lives there. Siblings on the upper floors with their own apartments, grandparents, and great-grandparents on lower floors. The ground floor is reserved for communal cooking, eating and socializing. The men are in the center of the room puffing on a hookah, the ancient water pipe preferred by Muslims. The women are on the periphery, huddled together gossiping in hushed tones so as not to disturb the men.

This arrangement is not a love affair, it’s a business partnership, there is no feeling, just the emotion of staying true to the tenets of their Koran.

“A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words.

This may sound easy. It isn’t.

A lot of people think or believe or know they feel — but that’s thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling — not knowing or believing or thinking.

Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself.

To be nobody-but-yourself — in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else — means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight, and never stop fighting.”

E.E. Cummings



The first time I visited this bustling city I was captivated, her sights, sounds and smells seduced me like an exotic dancer.

Lahore is the industrial hub and commercial center of Pakistan but don’t let that fool you, she is also beautiful, mysterious and enticing, the perfect first date.


She heightens your senses and speaks to you in a cacophony of dialects and sounds. Her personality embraces you one-minute and insults you the next.


I spent six months living with this woman, we worked, we played, and we loved. We shared our passions and dreams in a mélange of intimacy and secrecy.


The merchant on the corner selling birds in a cage, the spice dealer perfuming the air, the women in burqas negotiating for a plucked chicken and the trucks, buses, and tuk-tuk tricycles covered with graffiti as an art-form, a cultural expression not vandalism.


It all comes together in a kaleidoscopic assemblage of bits and pieces, some smooth and colorful others sharp and dull but when twisted together their attraction is electric.


I was enthralled by all this, the city had a personality of its own, I couldn’t get enough of her, I was in love.


Lahore became my teacher, my muse, my constant companion and yes, my lover.


I was having an affair, as intense and passionate as a doxy in a Paris Pied-a’-Terre.


Being attracted to a woman outside of marriage is like walking the cobblestones of Lahore at midnight, exciting and dangerous. There’s fear, tension and arousal and the constant channeling of sensations to a separate silo of your mind, hidden and secret from those you love.


My love affair with Lahore was not physical, it didn’t violate trust, but it was as intense and self-satisfying as that left-bank lover who couldn’t get enough of me.


Lahore isn’t Paris, London or Rome those fine ladies of Europe whose discipline carefully defines their guardrails. Lahore is a proletariat, a woman who’s passion spills over in a cascade of undisciplined enthusiasm.


I’ll return to Lahore; her siren song is irresistible.