First Quarter Update

At 10:30, we ambled down into Arroyo Seco and north a mile or so to a hospitality tent. American has been the official airline of the parade and Rose Bowl game for many years, and we were happy to enjoy some of the perks. We had lunch, yakked with a couple of West Coast colleagues, and at one o'clock headed into the stadium. Now that was a cool scene, Michigan partisans in blue and maize, and we Trojan fans in crimson and gold. Bands, noise, hoopla. And a good result, with USC thumping the Wolverines 28-14. Sorry, LSU, but the University of Southern California was #1 in 2003. I was hoarse from yelling.

After the game, we trudged back up the valley slope, picked up Robin's suitcase in her friend's car, walked to our rental car, then across the street for a yummy Thai dinner at Saladang, a restaurant first visited a couple of years ago. By nine we were completely worn out, traffic was gone, and we were back to the airport in under 40 minutes. Lights out!

We rose the next morning to a jarring sight: rain in Southern California. It was a good thing, and well timed; we flew home at mid-morning.

A week later, I was up at 4:35 and on the 6:17 rocket to Miami. Picked up a Hertz roller skate (at $17.99 a day, I expected little), and in no time was dropping my bags at the Hyatt downtown. Headed southwest on Brickell Avenue to Coconut Grove. Worked my e-mail in the business center of the Grand Bay Hotel, and at 12:30 joined fellow board members of the National Foundation for Advancement in the Arts (NFAA) for lunch and a semi-annual board meeting. NFAA does one thing, and does it well, annually identifying and recognizing 100-130 high-school students who excel in the arts. The event is called ARTS (Arts Recognition and Talent Search) Week, and American plays a key role: we are the wings that carry the students, judges, teachers, and others to Miami for five days of learning and showing. The board is large, 50 members, and is mostly high-rollers (Henry Mancini's wife Ginny, for example, and number of Florida real estate developers). I was recruited last year for geographical diversity and to ensure that American continues to provide wings.

After the board meeting, I motored north to Coral Gables, to say hello to two Peters, Dolara and Vittori, respectively American's senior vice president of the Miami, Caribbean, and Latin America region and its sales director. Two of my favorite colleagues. Abrazos and a nice, brief chat with both, and back in the car to pick up Linda at the airport.

By 6:40 we were at the new Miami Children's Museum on Watson Island, just east of downtown, for an exhibit of two dozen NFAA finalists in visual arts and film/video. The talent was just eye-popping, and it was so wonderful to visit with a bunch of young artists, like painters Marco Keitt and Jerry Summers, both from Orangeburg, South Carolina Like many NFAA finalists, they had not traveled much beyond their homes (our Silver Bird provided their first plane ride), had never had the chance to talk with so many capable peers, and seemed genuinely surprised by the praise we freely dispensed. Linda and I were able to visit with more than a dozen artists before we pointed the roller skate north and east to the posh Indian Creek Country Club, where the board had dinner.

It was our good fortune to sit next to Graham Down, a retired educator who came to the U.S. nearly half a century ago from Bristol, England. I had met Graham at last year's board meeting, and took an immediate liking to his wit, candor, and insights ("I just don't understand why Americans are so unhappy," he said. "No one in the history of the world has lived so well, and yet there is all this gloom."). It was a lovely evening, we three mostly chatting among ourselves.

Up the next morning at seven, out the door, pounding out 20 minutes down Brickell Avenue, narrowly avoiding the crush and splat of a very large Mercedes driven by a distracted elder (note to self: have the good sense to voluntarily stop driving at the right moment). At 9:35 we parked in front of Miami Dade College downtown. I noticed a fracas in progress behind me, a old guy yelling at his wife. "Bea, we came here to see your grandson, and that's what we're gonna do" he hollered. Sensing that they might be headed to the NFAA writers' session, I discreetly intervened, offering to escort Bea to the auditorium while Leonard parked the car.

Bea's grasp was firm, the first sign of a solid person. You can learn quite a bit in the time it takes for an 80-year-old who uses a four-point cane to get into a building, up an elevator, and to a seat. Their grandson Jeremy from Minneapolis was a finalist in writing. They were from Andover, Massachusetts, but had been in Florida for three years ("no cold, no snow" was her synopsis of Florida's virtues). Bea had broken her hip six months ago, and she told me proudly that the doctors and even the rehab people told her she would not walk again. I squeezed her had a bit more firmly, and saluted her grit. The session had not yet begun, so I connected Bea and Jeremy and sat down. Happy to help, I thought.

After the session, we motored west, had lunch in downtown Coral Gables, and headed to the Gusman Concert Hall at the University of Miami for the NFAA chamber music concert. Nice, but far too much piano; in previous years there had been percussion, brass, and more. Even a tuba guy last year. Drove back to town, worked my e-mail, and got dressed for dinner.

The annual gala was unremarkable, save for a few chats with strangers. We spoke again with Tracy Goosen, a sweet young painter from Houston we met the night before. She had come to our table to say goodbye to one of the NFAA visual-arts mentors, Joe Helseth, an art professor from Chattanooga. We later learned that the stern-looking woman in Tracy's paintings was her elderly aunt; stricken by polio at an early age and now living in a nursing home, no kin but Tracy visit her. Whew. Powerful stuff.

We got up the next morning and flew home. On our flight were the six NFAA finalists from Dallas, and I repeated to myself what I had said many times that weekend: of the millions of dollars of free tickets we donate every year, almost none go to a higher or better use than conveying those young people to Miami for ARTS Week. High-school recognition in America falls into one very deep trench and one shallower furrow: athletics and scholarship. Almost no one lifts up the artist. That is why this sponsorship is so wonderful.

I took the low-cost, C$2.25 (under two U.S. bucks) route into Toronto, the Route 192 "Airport Rocket" bus south to the westernmost subway stop on the Bloor-Danforth Line. The Toronto Transit Commission (TTC) runs a great network. My fellow riders were a mix of colors and ages, most wearing toques (Canadian for stocking cap), and lots of students with big backpacks. I was walking down St. George Street on the U. of T. campus in less than 40 minutes. Very fast. The wind was howling, so I put on my toque, zipped up tightly, and walked to the Soldier Tower memorial (described in the First Quarter 2003 Update) to re-read the inscription by Thucydides above the U. of T. graduates who perished in the two world wars, like First Officer L. W. Somers, RCAF:

Inspiring words. I looked heavenward, searching for First Officer Somers (I'm sure he was up there), and said thanks to all those brave souls.

Wandered back to the Rotman School and met my host, Kim Bates, a wonderful young woman who teaches Strategy (she's gotta be good – she got her Ph.D. where I did, at Minnesota!). Visited briefly, worked my e-mail down to two or three messages, and headed down to the "Topics in Strategy" class, 54 part- and full-time MBA students. Kim had given me the class roster with photos and details of their education and job experience. A diverse lot in all respects – lots of engineers, but also a medieval historian, an architect, even a geographer!

I spoke about airline alliances, answered some good questions, and stayed after class for 40 minutes to answer more questions. At nine we hopped a cab and headed to Saffron Tree on Gerrard Street, a great Indian restaurant (my requested cuisine), enjoying a truly swell dinner. By 10:45 I was at Lowther House, a very agreeable B&B run by the friendly Linda Lilge, a few blocks north of campus in The Annex, a wonderful old neighborhood. The Gothic Revival house was built in 1894, and the stairs creaked agreeably. Up two flights to a cozy, brand-new room. The radiator was blasting, so Linda opened the window, wished me good night, and off I went.

We had lunch at L'Entrecote de Saint-Jean, where choosing lunch was simple – you could have their strip steak or perhaps their strip steak. Very nice, with salad, frites, and a really unique sauce. Demetrios Vakratsas, a Greek fellow who teaches advertising and other marketing stuff, joined us for lunch. At 1:15, we headed to McGill's Bronfman Building (the Bronfman family, longtime Montrealers, are Seagram's and some other stuff) for the lecture. I presented the alliances lecture again; this group was more talkative than the Rotman crowd. It was lively. Again I stayed for awhile to answer questions, and at 3:30 Eric and I headed back to the airport. We were locked in a massive traffic jam, so we covered a lot of topics. Checked my e-mail at the airport and flew home, to temperatures sixty degrees warmer. A good trip, to one of my favorite places, Canada; after fifty visits, I never tire of another.

The weekend passed quickly (leading achievements: a new glass shelf above the sink in the downstairs washroom and the bumpy launch of my website), and Monday morning I was propelled westbound to Burbank, for a meeting on Bugs Bunny's home turf. The flight was uneventful, but the scenery on the last fifteen minutes was interesting. Rather than the usual due-west vector from Palm Springs and Ontario into LAX, we arced north of the San Gabriel range, turning south at Santa Clarita, then east across the San Fernando Valley. Not a lot of concrete at Burbank Airport – you need good brakes for a 6,000-foot runway. Picked up a Hertz car and headed three miles south on Hollywood Way, zig and zag, through a pleasant, leafy, middle-class neighborhood with houses and apartments from the 1950s and '60s (I wonder who lives there now?). A wrong turn, past the massive Warner Bros. Studios, U-turn, and into the correct parking lot. Quick meeting, back in the car at four, dreading traffic, but was back at LAX by 4:45. Los Angeles never ceases to surprise.

I was expecting a quiet ride back to Dallas, but my seatmate, John in 3B, was one of those strangers that I like to talk to. He was a utility-industry consultant for KPMG, but before then he had ridden Arthur Andersen downward to impact with the ground. An interesting fellow. "I'm okay," he said, "because I'm young enough to restore what was wiped out. But what about older people?" "You mean the guys my age," I replied. Exactly. The purser recognized me, and after dinner I volunteered to head to the galley and show them some new advertising on my laptop. I always have enjoyed show and tell!

Nine days later, I climbed on Flight 38 to Zurich. A pleasant but unremarkable flight, save for a number of my fellow passengers who insisted on relative darkness for the first 90 minutes of the trip. In fact, I was unaware that I was the troublemaker until the flight attendant crossly lowered my two window shades. The landscape below disappeared, so I could only imagine our traverse Tennessee. (Of course, as an employee, I was disenfranchised, and properly so, but if given the vote, I would surely cast mine for the true reality of the earth beneath us, as opposed to the synthetic pictures from the DVD players! Thank you for indulging me in this little rant! Have a nice day!) I felt sure that the few photons sneaking in at dusk would not interfere with the others' films, so I slowly raised one of the shades. Behold, God's creation, in the Ohio River, serpentine wandering upriver, white plumes from the stacks of power plants, the orange lights of river towns on both banks. The real world, in all its variety and splendor.

Skies were clear over Europe. Struggling to get oriented 45 minutes from Zurich, I could see a city ahead. A big one. Paris, from 35,000 feet, the outline of the grand boulevards clearly visible; I could pick out Etoile (site of the Arc de Triomphe), the Champs-Elysee, Place de la Concorde, and lots more. A very cool sight. We descended over northern Switzerland, snow on the upper reaches of the hills, frost on the brown fields below. We landed at 7:30 and I walked over to the train station, found a roomy washroom, and shaved and changed clothes. My Dad, ever on the road, would have appreciated my resourcefulness!

The 8:52 train from the airport station to St. Gallen, my first stop on this lecture circuit, was a couple of minutes late. There's a long tunnel under the runways and some hills, and when we emerged into morning light, there was classic Switzerland: low hills, houses with steep gables, barns, a purposeful landscape. And an amazingly smooth ride. The transport geek in me knows that the Swiss Federal Railways system is the best in the world. At Winterthur, a middle-aged woman with cross-country skis and clothes to match walked past and sat down across from me. The sky was brilliant blue. Along the rail line were the small "urban gardens" that are lovingly tended during the growing season; some had small sheds, no doubt a few of those had bunks so that people who live close together could get closer to fresh air and the land.

At 1:15 we drove down the hill. I asked Joachim to drop me not at the station but near the kloster, an abbey complex centered on a colossal Baroque church. As I did on previous visits in 2000 and 2001, I entered the church and my jaw dropped. Astonishing sights. I took a few snapshots, and left, walking quickly back to the railway. In an hour, I was back at Zurich airport, still under construction. My 4 p.m. flight to Paris was late, causing a bit of stress; I had another lecture that evening. I worked my e-mail at a coin-operated terminal, then began a long trek on foot and train to Concourse E. Kloten Airport is overbuilt and is becoming more so. And one would have to wonder about Swiss design after schlepping up two flights of brand-new stairs to reach the restroom near Gate 44. What were they thinking? Mandatory aerobics?

Climbed onto a Swiss International Air Lines A320, and we took off 25 minutes late, climbing west with great views of the Alps on the left. We arrived Paris fifteen minutes late. I zipped through immigration, met Erwan Morvan, a MBA student at ESSEC, and we jumped into a taxi for ESSEC, 20 miles southwest of Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport in the "new town" of Cergy-Pontoise. Traffic was light and the freeway that had been under construction for four years was now done, so I arrived at the Novotel on Avenue du Parc in time for a shower before my 7:30 lecture. Nice! I walked across a pleasant park, past artificial ponds and waterfalls to ESSEC, one of France's better B-schools. It was my fourth visit, and nice to be back.

I found Jeanine Picard's office at 7:15, greeted her in the French manner (both cheeks!), visited briefly, and we walked over to the classroom, where forty students were gathering. And there was Tom Cullen, an old friend from Cornell (the ESSEC program is affiliated with the hotel school). Tom told me he had been talking up my presentation. In came more students. The show went well, with lots of good questions. The traditional "Cocktail" followed in the nearby corridor, a chance for a glass of wine and informal visits with eager students. Mme. Picard and Tom pulled me away, and we departed, bound for dinner at Maitre Kanter, the Alsatian chain restaurant where we've eaten most times I've visited Cergy. It was nearly ten when we looked at menus, and a big choucroute (sauerkraut and more) dinner somehow sounded like too much, so we opted for two enormous platters of fruits de mer. Whew! Oysters, mussels, crab, clams, the little shrimps called crevettes, and even barnacles, which in France are more than just resistance on boat hulls! Better than the food was the chance to listen to a good part of Tom's life story, tales of life all over the world, mostly with Inter-Continental Hotels. Plus Jeanine's commentary on recent political developments in her native land. Very cool. Uncool, though, was Erwan's situation: he planned to join us for dinner, but discovered on return to Cergy that his car had been stolen. Head hit pillow at 12:10.

And up at 6:10, out for a run under a full moon, past the ponds and streams, then down the hill to the Oise River, around the small port full of pleasure boats and barges, past the 14^th century church in old Cergy, then back for a shower and a pleasant hotel breakfast with Richard Edelstein, the departing head of the ESSEC-Cornell program. Then the fiascos began. The ESSEC-arranged taxi did not show at the appointed hour of eight, so at 8:30 we called for a backup. No problem, back at the airport by 9:15. Oops, BA had moved to Terminal 2B (my fault, my fault). Then a long wait to take off. Then a lot of circling 200 miles west, above suburban London. I jumped on the Heathrow Express at 11:55, 40 minutes late and 50 before I was due for my maiden flight at the London School of Economics. Thanks to mastery of the Tube and my always-useful compass, I arrived at LSE only six minutes late. My host, Sir Geoffrey Owen, was soon escorting me to his office for a short briefing, then on to the seminar. LSE is not a business school, more a place for left-of-center people cranky about business, but they do have something called the Interdisciplinary Institute of Management. Sir Geoffrey explained that is strategy class of 60 was divided into six teams of ten, each with a different firm as a case study – GlaxoSmithKline, ICI (chemicals), British Telecom, Tesco (UK supermarkets), HSBC, and British Airways.

Eight of the ten on the BA case showed up for a lively give-and-take focused on my "Why Is It So Hard for Established Airlines to Make Money?" show. An interesting group: two Americans, two Chinese (PRC), a Russian geographer, a Frenchman, a Pakistani, and one Brit. One hundred minutes went quickly, and a little after three Geoffrey and I returned to his office for a brief visit, and a walk down Houghton Street. I think he liked my lively teaching style.

On the way out, I asked about his background (figuring that he had to be some sort of honcho with a knighthood under his belt). Yep. Before his ten years at LSE he was editor of the Financial Times. Whoa, I thought to myself, good thing I didn't mess up! Noteworthy was the twinkle in his eye when he described how much he enjoyed teaching, after a career in the business world. It was the same twinkle I always saw in the late John Borchert's eyes. I hope that I also have it. It is the twinkle that signifies and conveys all that is stimulating about the world of ideas, the joy of sharing them with others, and proximity to the energy of youth.

Geoffrey dropped me at the LSE student shop, where they had an array of logoed merchandise to rival any U.S. university. I bought a T-shirt for myself and a winter cap for Jack, walked up Kingsway and hopped on the Tube at Holborn. In 25 minutes I was in new territory, the fancy inner suburb called St. John's Wood, rolling my suitcase down Marlborough Road, then north on Abbey Road. At 4:10 I knocked on the door at 89 Clifton Hill, home of former Richardson neighbors Tim and Missy Griffy. Missy opened the door, we visited briefly, and I headed back into town to do a bit of shopping and work my e-mail (first time at an Internet café, very cool). Back out to the Griffys by 6:20, and there were Tim and Missy, and, whoopee, Linda, who had been here for five days, and Robin, who is studying this term at a USC program in London.

We visited for a bit in their beautiful townhouse, then wandered across the street to their "local" (pub), The Clifton. Pint of bitter, thanks, and Dutch lager for Tim. Twenty minutes later, Missy, Linda, Robin, and Robin's SC roommate Elizabeth joined us. What fun! The Griffys peeled off, and we four walked north on Abbey Road to a neighborhood Thai restaurant. Nice dinner, very spicy Jungle Curry, lots of laughs, but time for bed (six hours of sleep after four hours of sleep was catching up).

Saturday morning dawned windy and cold, but blue skies. Showered, laced up, and headed out with my camera for a walk 'round the neighborhood. South on Abbey Road, then Grove End, east along Regent's Canal (built in the 1820s, the railway overran it soon after; it somehow hung on until just after World War II, and for the past four decades the now quasi-public British Waterways have run the system for recreational boats and towpath walkers and cyclists). Back home for a cup of coffee and a bowl of Cheerios.

Tim and I then headed six miles north to the Royal Air Force Museum at Hendon, a former air base. We invited the ladies, but this was clearly a guy's outing. Oh, way cool, way cool. I first visited RAF Hendon late on a Sunday afternoon in February 1990. Back then it was an old hangar full of some good hardware (airplanes), but little in the way of explanation or interpretation. Now it was all done up, with a brand-new "Milestones of Flight" wing that Prince Charles opened on 17^th December 2003, the centenary of powered flight. Eye-popping. After three hours, we could not absorb any more, but were glad that we found the Battle of Britain Hall for a very moving multimedia show. If you have the opportunity at RAF Hendon, or elsewhere, listen to or read Churchill's famous speech to Parliament on August 20, 1940, in the middle of the Battle of Britain. Praising the Spitfire pilots, he got it so right when he said, "Never in the field of human conflict has so much been owed by so many to so few."

We motored back down Edgeware Road, in some dense Saturday traffic. Tim dropped me at the St. John's Wood Tube station, where I wolfed down a cheese and onion pita, and met Robin. We headed southeast to Farringdon (eastern terminus of the world's first subway line, 1863), then walked a few blocks to her flat on Crawford Passage. A nice place, lots of room, all the mod cons (UK-speak for "modern conveniences"). Back to the Griffys by way of Sir Paul McCartney's house on Cavendish Avenue. A brief nap, a pint with Tim and Robin at The Clifton, then by taxi to La Famiglia, an Italian restaurant in Chelsea. Really, really yummy. I had Moscardini, baby octopus stew, with lots of garlic and chili. Nice!

We rose at six on Sunday the 8^th, took a taxi to Victoria, the Gatwick Express south, and a Silver Bird west-southwest nearly 5000 miles to north Texas.

I was home for a week and a half, and on Wednesday the 18^th we headed west to a meeting of our senior sales team. These are old friends, from my stint in AA Sales, 1988-90, and new friends, too. After the bumpiest ride for many months (my seatmate was green), we landed in the same California weather from which we departed the day after the Rose Bowl – rain, mist, fog. But in true Golden State fashion, by the time we climbed into taxis it had cleared off. We lumbered through rush-traffic on I-405, south to Laguna Niguel and the very fancy Ritz-Carlton. Dinner was everything I expected it to be, a total laugh-fest, full of stories and recollections and a few tall tales. As I have written before, after 16+ years with the firm you start to grow attached to your co-workers. That comradeship, and sense of belonging, is one of the things that gets us past the basic stinkiness of our business – the labor squabbles, pay cuts, bogus media criticism, and so on. Best-of-show story was actually a series of vignettes from our new VP-Sales, David Cush (briefly my boss in 2000-01), about culinary misadventures during his many trips to China, when he ran our International Planning group. Lobsters, stuffed, still moving on the plate? Why not? Got back to my very-deluxe room, opened the balcony door, and fell asleep to the sweet sound of pounding surf.

Was up at 6:30 to work my e-mail, then off to the fitness center for 20 minutes on a stationery bike. It had been more than a year since I was one of these new-tech cycles, and figuring out the electronic "flight deck" was again bewildering. (I had a momentary flashback to November 1986, when I mounted a fitness bike in a Hilton or Holiday Inn in downtown Kalamazoo; the seat was broken, the cranks bent, but by golly there were not buttons to press – just pedal.) I managed to get it ticking, and in no time was happily dripping. Showered and headed to the meeting, stopping to snap a picture of the surfers riding the winter swells below. Presented at 12:30, zoomed back to the airport, and flew home. A nice trip, though brief.

Home for a couple of weeks. Nice. By 6:45 the morning after returning from Orange County I was at the Kiwanis Club of Richardson as their guest speaker. I knew a bunch of members, because the club began our wheelchair ramp project back in 1985. A big, caloric breakfast, a chance to practice my airline stump speech ("Why is it so hard for established airlines to make money?"), a pleasant start to the day. The next day was one the happiest ramp-building experiences ever; Mrs. Tatum was still in rehab, but her daughter and son-in-law were at her home, she to keep us plied with coffee and Krispy Kremes, and he to help build. Nice people, hugely appreciative (they later sent us a $500 check, which was just icing on the cake). Jack Britton joined for the second time in two months – I think I may have another regular builder. He likes the project, and it helps meet the community-service requirement of his scholarship. And I relish having my son building with us.

On Thursday, March 4, Linda and I flew west to Vail-Eagle airport, Colorado. Our tenth March visit to Vail, but the first since 1990 without kids. We were headed to Celebrity Ski, one of American's two big fundraising events, this one benefiting the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. We landed just before sunset, hopped on a bus, and headed up the valley. Lots of old friends, and new ones.

Friday morning was cloudy and still a bit snowy. After breakfast, I strapped on the boards, then came the annual "do I still remember how?" fears. Waiting to board Chair 20, I fumbled a bit. Skiing is one of the two sports I am good at, hence the concern. I rode up the lift with one of the celebrities, former NFL kicker Matt Bahr. We had a nice conversation, and decided to make a few runs in Game Creek Bowl. Conditions were great, with five or six inches of fresh snow. He was a capable skier, and kept up, but after three runs he said "you buried me", and headed off for a hot chocolate. That was sort of a cool moment, Rob bests ex-professional athlete! I headed south, into Vail's famous back bowls, down Sundown Bowl. At mid-morning I got to the race course for my qualifying run. Couple of practice runs, listening to former Olympian Billy Kidd, an affable fellow and a great teacher. Finished the course in 32.6 seconds, decent. Had lunch, then went off for a few more hours by myself, back to the back bowls. I still remembered how to ski.

Next morning, with winter winds still in full force, I managed to shave 2.1 seconds off my time, pretty good. But I’m not quitting my day job. Linda came up to watch the races and eat lunch, then peeled off, and I hooked up with Peter Bowler, who runs American Eagle, and his teenage son Sam. Now that was one fun afternoon. Both are fast skiers (in fact, in the early 1980s, Peter, a Canadian, helped manage the big ski area at Lake Louise, Alberta, with his father-in-law). We tore it up. We were young again. But stiff by five.

The last event, a live auction, raised half of the million dollars that folks gave that weekend for research on Cystic Fibrosis. On hand were three young woman who have attended this event for nearly all of its 19 years. When they first showed up, as tots, the life expectancy for people with CF was 16. They're 19, 21, and 21 now, and the life expectancy now is 30. The race continues. It's a pretty emotional couple of evenings, mostly, I think, because their race reminds us of our own mortality. Rob Britton has ten years, or twenty, or thirty, but all of us are headed down slope to the bottom of the hill.

Was up early the next morning. Unlike the previous two, it was cloudless, so I tore it up for three hours, by myself. Brought the digital camera along, to capture some snaps of all that beautiful scenery. Washed up, changed clothes, headed back to the airport, and flew home. It was the first year in many that we weren't staying for a whole week, and Linda and I both felt a little sad as we waited for our 757.

A little over a week later, Linda joined me for another trip. At noon on Monday the 15^th we headed northeast to New York. Landed just before five, right into a gorgeous, mild spring day, hopped in a yellow taxi, and sped into Manhattan, to the Waldorf-Astoria, some very fancy digs. The last two blocks were hardly at speed; we got caught in a traffic jam from a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame event at our very hotel. We managed to make it past the throngs of adoring fans, get a key, and get to our room.

The rock Hall of Fame was not the Hall of Fame that attracted us. We were in New York to see the American Advertising Foundation induct Liener Temerlin, founder of Temerlin McClain, into the Advertising Hall of Fame. I've known and greatly respected Liener for more than a decade. For whatever reason, back then, he took a shine to me, and vice-versa. When I found out that Bob Crandall, our retired chairman, and I were the only AA people he invited, I figured we better be there. First stop, that Monday night, was Liener's private pre-induction dinner at the famous '21' Club, a place that I have known about since I was a kid – it was a place celebs mentioned. Linda and I ambled up 50^th Street to Fifth Avenue, then north two blocks, then west on W. 52^nd St. to #21. We were eight minutes early, but the party in a large private room was already in full swing. A jazz trio was banging out standards, the drinks were flowing. Greeted Bob and Jan Crandall, great to see them after about a year. In fashion reminiscent of the two years when he was my boss, three minutes into a conversation, Bob grabbed my upper arm, squeezed hard, and offered strong advice.

The dinner was really fun. A nice meal, plenty of wine, lots of toasts to Liener from friends near and far. Ten students from the Temerlin Advertising Institute at SMU were among the guests, and it was fun talking to them about what they had seen and learned in The Big Apple.

Was up at 6:50 Tuesday morning, laced and out the door, north to Central Park, a truly great place for a run. And it had been a number of years since I trotted through Olmstead's famous preserve, past the rock outcroppings and the ponds and the people walking their dogs. I greeted most people, and in typical New York fashion they were startled by a simple "good morning". Cooling down in front of St. Bartholomew's Church just north of the hotel, a person looked at me, smiled, and beat me to the greeting – then I was the startled one!

With Linda still sleeping, I showered and peeled off for a quick meeting with friends from the advertising department at The New York Times. When I left the Times, the predicted winter weather had arrived. I walked back to the hotel in driving snow and strong winds. The actual Hall of Fame induction was a luncheon in the Waldorf's main ballroom. Bob Crandall introduced Liener with a great testimonial. The ad agency had produced a nice video. And to cap the day, Liener, the final inductee, delivered a memorable acceptance speech. He's a fine fellow, one of the very best, and I'm honored to know him.

At two, Linda and several folks from the agency headed by car to LaGuardia, which was essentially closed because of the snow (she finally took off about 8 p.m.). Straphangar that I am, I took the E train to Jamaica, Queens, then the new driverless AirTrain to JFK. Walking from the station to the AA terminal, I stepped straight into a deep slush puddle. What has become of my winter skills? I used some bad language. Checked in, and, despite the fact that this was a vacation day, worked my e-mail for more than three hours. Nice to clean out the in box! The snow had delayed our 9:15 flight, and we weren't airborne until midnight. I had some nuts and a Fuller's London Pride ale, and clocked out. London is only six hours from New York, and I needed sleep more than I needed dinner. Slept really well.

We landed after eleven. I raced through Heathrow, showered, and hopped on the Heathrow Express to Paddington Station. Daffodils were blooming along the right-of-way, about the only color on a drab but warm day. Made it to McCann Erickson London, had the first solid eats in eighteen hours, sat through some brisk meetings, and reversed course to the airport. The Irish flag at a construction site beside the tracks reminded me that it was St. Patrick's Day. A pint of Guinness would be grand, but the next best would be to listen to Van Morrison's and the Chieftains' version of "Raglan Road"

Hopped on a BA flight to Paris, time for a couple more of those London Pride ales (tasty, but a poor substitute for Guinness). Landed at dusk, zipped through arrivals, and met Antoine the taxi driver, holding a sign that said "INSEAD", one of Europe's premier business schools. I was headed there for the first time, and I was excited. Traffic was light on the beltways north and east of Paris, and we were at the INSEAD Fontainebleau campus in 45 minutes. Checked into one of the fancy residence halls (no college dorms these), worked my e-mail, and took a walk before a good sleep in a real bed.

Woke a couple of times in the night, and rose at 6:30 for a run east on Rue Royale to the famous chateau in town. Just very cool to see the castle appear as I trotted along. I greeted everyone with my best Bonjour! A wonderful run. Showered, worked e-mail a bit more, and ate breakfast. Rehearsed my presentation (you really don't want to mess up on your first visit to a good place). I still had some time before I was to meet my host, Warner Reinartz, so I checked out of the residence and wheeled my suitcase across the campus to a park bench, where I resumed reading the first novel in probably a year, Ivan Doig's Prairie Nocturne. Doig grew up where my Dad did (though thirty years later), east of Bozeman, and he writes ably about Montana topics. Reading a description of spring on the eastern slope of the Northern Rockies, I looked around to see spring in the Marne Valley of France, and thought how lucky I was to be able to experience and to understand all that is special about both places. A few minutes later, the intersection of here and there: in the book's protagonist, Susan Duff and her recollection of her brother Samuel, killed in St. Mihiel, France, in World War I.

I met Werner at 11:15 in new offices across the main campus. He told me a bit of the history of INSEAD. It was founded in 1957, three months after the Treaty of Rome established the EEC (predecessor to the EU). The founder, General Georges Doriot, had attended the Harvard Business School in the 1920s, and modeled the school on HBS. He built it adjacent to NATO's original headquarters, and in fact the school acquired that old building when NATO moved to Brussels in the 1960s.

Werner, from Aachen, Germany, joined the faculty five years ago after earning his Ph.D. from the University of Houston. We visited about my presentation, then walked to the student center for lunch. The lecture ran from 2 to 3:30, zip, zip, zip. Had a short chat and Werner drove me to the railway station in nearby Avon (Fontainebleau, long a refined place, did not allow the steel rail anywhere near the town), for the 4:45 regional train into Paris.

The upper deck of bi-level commuter train reminded me of the glass Vista-Domes of the streamlined Burlington Zephyr, our preferred intercity vehicle in the 1950s. The resemblance was even greater when we followed a big river for a few miles. Though it was the Seine, not the Mississippi, the similarity was very cool. We rolled through suburbs and smack into rush-hour Paris. The ride on the RER train from one Paris station to another was a sardine-can trip.

At Gare du Nord came glimpses of what was to unfold that night. The automated ticket machine that was to dispense the documents booked online did not function, propelling me into a long, slow line. Ticket finally in hand, I poked through milling crowds to the platform where my Thalys high-speed train to Rotterdam was to depart. Departure time came and went, with confused staff displaying the classic Gallic shrug. I tuned in my MP3 player and waited.

We finally departed at 8:15, 80 minutes late. At Brussels came an announcement that there were track problems south of Rotterdam, and that we would get off at Utrecht and onto a local train for Rotterdam. Close to midnight, they told us no, we would go to Amsterdam and catch a local train south to Rotterdam, arriving at three. The only thing to do was laugh. And to file the story for a time when someone tells me that American Airlines is a mess!

Fortunately, the train carried some nice people, especially my seatmate, Joris van der Hoeven from Dordrecht. There also were two friendly film-school students from Southern Cal, Messrs. Godwin and Dinner. High-stakes poker in the Bar car. I recall clearly the last social train ride I experienced (minus the delays hassle), on Amtrak from Milwaukee to St. Paul, December 1976. It was the same kind of fun.

Amsterdam Central is a colorful place after midnight. We arrived Rotterdam on schedule, nearly five hours late. Joris drove me through empty streets to the Novotel, and my head hit the pillow at 3:32.

I can't recall the last time I had only four hours of sleep. Dutch coffee is strong, and I was pumping it the next morning, along with a nice breakfast. At 8:30, I met my host, Jöelle van Hamme, a young Belgian professor at the Rotterdam School of Management, part of Erasmus University. Class ran from 9 until 11:45, two lectures with two breaks. This was no time for fatigue; it was showtime, and I delivered! The class of undergraduates was attentive, and in some respects brighter than those the day before.

At noon, we met Gerrit van Bruggen, chair of the Marketing Department, for lunch atop the high-rise school building. A good view of the River Maas, the highrises of central Rotterdam (the Nazis flattened the place on May 14, 1940, while the Dutch were in the process of surrendering), and pleasant neighborhoods near the school.

By the end of the lunch, the weather had turned very foul, just in time for an afternoon of sightseeing in nearby Delft. I walked back to the hotel, changed clothes, and set off for the Kralingse Zoom Metro station. I dashed through Rotterdam Centraal Station and onto a bright-yellow double-deck train for Delft. It was only about 10 miles, but from the upper deck this observer quickly concluded ''these people know how to deal with water". It had been 33 years since I had rolled through the intensely managed Dutch countryside, and I was reminded of why they call these lands "the Low Countries". Canals and ditches dividing up the fields. Water birds everywhere. Very cool.

At Delft I unfolded my umbrella and set out for the city center. Signposts are color-coded: red for cyclists (to match the red pavement that indicates bikeways, which are everywhere), green for pedestrians. More canals, running right through town, immediately beside buildings (their cellars are probably perfectly dry). The vast market square is anchored at two ends by the town hall and the splendid New Church (completed in 1510). Gale-force winds and rain made it hard to take pictures. My umbrella turned inside out at least ten times. The interiors of the New Church and Old Church (1350, much older than the New Church!) were welcome respites. And hearing church bells – the sound of Europe – the four peals from the tower of the Old Church, was a delight. By 4:30 I was again reminded that wetness really has no degrees: wet = wetter = wettest! The town was very cool, and I did not want to leave, but I did not want to stay outdoors, either. What to do? Where is there a place warm and dry? Why, right across the canal, at Binnenwatersloot 5, the Bierhuis "de Klomp", sedert 1652. The Dutch equivalent of the local bar. Yes, this was the place

Inside are five Dutchmen playing cards (the scene is right out of a Jan Steyn painting), a couple working on a project on a Dell laptop, a Jerry Garcia lookalike smoking small cigars. This is a proper "brown cafe". A dial telephone by the front door contrasts nicely with the mobiles that occasionally chirp and bleep. Old photos on the walls. A good place to dry off. A short Hertog Jan (the head removed with the stroke of a paddle), followed by a Hertog Jan Meibock beer, "een typisch lentebier". At 5:08, a family shuffles in, two young kids, one of whom, gap-toothed, spots the free peanuts. At 5:19, a fellow comes in, soaked, dripping on patrons. At 5:30, a really pretty young woman enters, kisses the plump co-owner (his wife, Mrs. de Bruin, is manning, or womanning, the bar). At 6:02, a 30-ish woman enters, and greets people with "Hey!" By seven, the place is hopping. At 7:30, I thank Mr. De Bruin for letting me have a glimpse of Dutch life, and depart.

The rain had stopped. I wandered a bit in now-dry streets. Then back to Rotterdam, and much-needed eight hours of sleep.

Was up early, big breakfast, and out the door, back into rain and wind. Into downtown, first stop the old town hall that was either not flattened in 1940 or reconstructed. Then toward the station for the train to Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam. Stopping to take a picture of the highrises of three large Dutch firms, I saw a car speeding right toward a huge puddle in front of me. The next three seconds were slow motion. The wall of water arrived, a small tsunami, in time-lapse, the big dribbles on the leading edge of the wave. Splat! Front of me, soaked. Open briefcase, soaked. Water inside the case. A block later, an exception to the inevitably civil Dutch, a van driver gunning for me as I crossed with a green pedestrian signal. By that time I was pretty cranky. Muttering to myself, fellow pedestrians steered clear. Aieeeeeeeeee!

I climbed on the 9 AM Sneltrein , and the Saturday-morning scene unfolded. More fields, hikers along a path, sodden sheep, a field of yellow tulips, whitecaps even on the canals. I unfolded my laptop to bring this journal up to date. It was pretty wet. Water on the keys. I dabbed it dry with napkins and switched it on. Nothing. Oh no. I suppose some modern folk would be crazed by the prospect, but I was surprisingly calm. I had backed up my hard drive a month earlier. Move on. No repairs here, in any case. Amsterdam Airport is a highly civil place, and the Rijksmuseum has a small gallery, that day showing off a couple of landscapes by Van Ruysdael and a Van Gogh self-portrait. And this at the airport. Very cool.

I knew that Robin was returning to London from a couple of days in Amsterdam on that same morning, and knew she was flying BMI, so I wandered down to the BMI gate. From a distance, I spotted a young blonde woman reading the Financial Times. Closer, it was my daughter. I'll remember that scene forever, not just for an early family reunion (we were having dinner that night in London), but for the remarkable illustration of just how mobile we are. Amazing blessings at Gate D18.

Flew to Heathrow, Heathrow Express to Paddington Station, tube to St. John's Wood, on foot to Tim and Missy Griffy's house, our new home in London. Because my flight was late (wind and rain on that side of the Channel, too), we missed a walking tour that Tim had found, so I settled for accompanying him on a shopping trip into town, for DVDs and an umbrella from Swaine Adeney Briggs, St. James Street, umbrella makers to the Royal Family, est'd. 1750. Tim paid almost two hundred bucks for his, but the lifetime warranty was a draw (especially having seen dozens of cheaper umbrellas in Rotterdam trash cans that morning). Time for a Starbucks, then a quick visit to his corner office, diagonally across from the Ritz, with a commanding view of Green Park. Back home, then at 5:30 across the street to the Clifton pub for a pint with an old friend. At 6:15 Robin, her roommate Elizabeth, two USC friends (who I had also seen earlier that day in Amsterdam), one of Robin's high-school friends, Scott Sage (also studying in London) Missy, and Tim wandered in. We had a drink, then repaired to Bhan Thai, the neighborhood place for great Thai food.

Back at the Griffys I worked my e-mail, got a good night's sleep, and rolled down Clifton Hill before seven on Sunday the 21^st, Tube to Victoria, and Gatwick Express to the airport. As I was checking in, I heard the announcement for brief Christian services in the chapel, a place I had visited many times, so up I went. There were six or seven of us, including a couple headed to St. Lucia to be married. Rev. Steve from the Salvation Army led us in a hymn, read some scripture, asked us to introduce ourselves, closed, and off we went. Home in ten hours. Visited the office briefly, unpacked the laptop, and after a little fussing around through Windows boot-up messages the PC came back to life. Praise Be!

On the last day of the quarter, the Silver Bird took wing at 11:15, northeast to Philadelphia. Below were strip mines and thick pine forests in East Texas; sandy soil and oxbow lakes in the Delta country of Mississippi; sprawling suburbs of Atlanta; the North Carolina Piedmont; derelict factories on the Delaware River. Before takeoff, I read The New York Times, and in it an obituary for one of my favorite observers of the U.S. scene, Alistair Cooke, dead at 95 – just three weeks after his last "Letter from America" was aired on the BBC. Like me (but with much more articulacy), Cooke was an enthusiastic observer of people and place in this, his adopted land (he became a citizen in 1941). About his first visit to America in 1933, Cooke wrote:

Rest in peace, Mr. Cooke. And thanks for your keen perspectives on this wonderful land.

Changed planes in Philly, most of an hour spent in one of the splendid white rocking chairs that are found all over that sprawling terminal, tethered to a dial-up connection, working my e-mail. Flew in a sturdy DeHavilland of Canada Dash 8 to Ithaca, where, as usual for early April, it was rainy and gloomy.

The last activity of the quarter was a lively and caloric dinner with fellow members of the Hospitality Industry Council of the Cornell Hotel School. I wrote about the group and its passion for the school last quarter. After sixteen consecutive springs teaching and meeting on campus, I'm vested in the school. This was the place that propelled me back to the academy six years after leaving it, and set the stage for these teaching gigs that promise to provide an interesting third career.

That's the report.

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