First Quarter Update

We went back to work for a day, Monday the 3^rd. The next day, Robin, Linda, and I flew down to Miami to the Orange Bowl. Jack winged in from a week in Switzerland and London, we connected outside Customs, jumped into the rented Pontiac Vibe (not one of Detroit's finer creations, by the way), and motored south. First stop was American's offices in Coral Gables to pick up tickets to a pre-game party, then a couple of blocks over for a late, light lunch at Versailles, the Cuban restaurant on Calle Ocho that I have visited since 1975, and written about. None of the other Brittons had visited, and I was a bit worried they wouldn't like it. But they did. Jack tucked into a Cuban sandwich, Robin and Linda shared a gooey piece of cake, and I enjoyed a bowl of black bean soup, spooning the powerful chopped onions into the dish. Fortified, we headed north on I-95, then west to Pro Player Stadium. Walking across the massive lot, we noticed – as we did on the plane flying in – a swagger in the OU fans, smugness. I was feeling a little tense about the game.

We found the pre-game party, sat down at a table, had a drink and some eats, and listened to Jack tell us about his European trip. A USC party was in full swing just south of us, and we were able to pump up with the Trojan marching band. We were guests of The Miami Herald, and headed into the stadium and up to their suite, which was way-deluxe. The game started slowly, but soon Matt Leinart and the Trojan scoring machine kicked into gear. The OU fans in front of us left at halftime, not much strutting as they departed, presumably headed for their hotel bar.

With the game well in hand, I was thinking we'd head out early, thoughts dashed by indignants Robin and Linda (what was I thinking?). We stayed for the trophy ceremony, then walked back to the car, north on I-95, and ultimately to a Fairfield Inn off the freeway at Boca Raton. Heads hit pillow at two, up at five (yow, three hours!), north again (the Miami flights home were hopelessly sold out) to West Palm Beach, and home. A lot of coffee made me reasonably productive, but I was in bed at 8:20 that night, the Trojan fight songs still bouncing around my head. With that, the football season concluded; all the rest of the pro playoffs were nothing. And I doubt I'll ever have another chance – or the inclination – to be the fan that I was for USC's four winning seasons. Just very cool.

A day later, I motored into downtown Dallas for jury service. My four hours in the Frank Crowley Courts Building gave me a glimpse of the world in which Linda has worked for most of the last three decades. From the Central Jury Room, we were assigned to a court, and headed upstairs. Waiting for jury selection to begin, we waited in the hall. One could not help but overhear a young punk crowing, "We was racing . . . going 120, cop coming at us . . . Got off, man . . . bad-ass lawyer . . ." I wanted to spank him. Clearly, the law had not spanked him. The court wants us to be fair, to be impartial, then it makes us wait in the foyer with people who clearly have little respect for their fellow citizens. Ugh. We were ushered in, and voir dire began. I answered a couple of questions, asked one, and was dismissed. I actually was hoping to be called to service, on a DWI case with a smirky young woman defendant and a cocky trial lawyer who affected a "just folks" demeanor.

On Friday, January 14, Linda and I flew back to Miami, for the annual Arts Recognition and Talent Search weekend (look back at the 1Q updates in previous years for the story on A.R.T.S.). Robin flew in from L.A. – we've gotten good at rendezvous at MIA – we hopped into a Hertz car, and zoomed off to the Margulies Warehouse, a photography museum that was site of two events that night, the visual arts exhibition and readings from 20 winning writers. Unhappily, because of weather delays, we arrived too late to yak with any artists, something we really enjoyed last year.

We did hear all 20 writers read excerpts from their work. There were some very good ones, some mid-range, and a number of them, like every year, seized with various shades of angst. We hung around for a bit, then hopped in the car and motored through the old part of Miami, past old commercial buildings and corner shops and lots of little houses, across the Miami River, back to Versailles, for a late dinner. Late to us, but not to Latins, and the blaze was buzzing. Had a plate of fish in salsa verde (parsley and garlic and lemon), rice, and fried plantains, with a couple of welcome Presidente beers. We all split a piece of chocolate cake. It's a great place for people-watching, and I often wished I had a paragraph about each diner: place of birth, age, occupation, brief story of how they got from there to here. We headed into downtown Miami on Calle Ocho, found the hotel, checked in, and parked the car. Worked e-mail, and clocked out.

Was up at 7:30, and out for a run. West on 2^nd Avenue, I passed several homeless men foraging through dumpsters. I stopped at the parking lot and paid the attendant (no one was there the night before), then headed south toward Brickell Avenue, passing through what I think of as "Jackie Gleason Miami," affluent housing from the 1950s, now in the shadow of the massive high-rise condos that are springing up everywhere. The contrasts in housing density are a signal feature of modern Miami. I saw it again as I ran along the shore of Biscayne Bay. A few walkup apartments and even a lovely one-story house with red-tile roof (a doctor's office) were holdouts in a vertical landscape. I trotted back along Brickell and over the Miami River, just in time to witness an historic moment for South Florida. Few would understand the significance, but the wrecking ball was taking the last few hits at the Dupont Plaza Hotel, the first big postwar hotel in downtown Miami, opened 1958. Not much was left, so I ran fast back to the hotel to get my camera. I even figured out how to take a short video of the demolition. I looked out our hotel window an hour later and it was gone.

Linda and Robin were a little pokey, but we got on our way after ten. It was rainy and not too good for sightseeing, so they asked if we could visit the Shops at Bal Harbour, an upmarket mall in the beachfront town of the same name, north of Miami Beach. I dropped them, then headed north on the beach road, A1A, into Broward County, taking pictures to document the changing tourism landscape. Here, too, high-rises were taking over. In the northern part of Hollywood, a few miles up from the enormous Westin Diplomat, there were some simple old motels. I parked on Jackson Street, close to the beach, and wandered the neighborhood, past an attractive stucco B&B, some old houses, and a couple more old motels, no doubt now catering to seasonal visitors who wanted warmth but could not afford newer digs. The place felt nice, homey, friendly.

I motored south and in a few minutes was surrounded by flash, in the Zodiac Room at Neiman-Marcus. Whew! But lunch was good. We headed back across town, to the University of Miami, for the students' classical music concert. I must have had brain flatulence that morning, because I told Robin and Linda the music began at three. We arrived at 2:40, just in time for final bows. Oops. They were good-natured about it. We headed back into town via the older, leafy neighborhoods of Coral Gables, and Calle Ocho.

Unlike previous years, the evening gala was not in a downtown hotel, but out on Miami Beach, in their arts district. It was colossal, a party rambling over several buildings and tents, activity everywhere. We had a great time. One of the high points was Mikhail Baryshnikov's acceptance speech for an honor. I knew it would be a departure from the norm when he began "Fellow Democrats . . ." His remarks were focused on the need to fund arts education, and his pointed remarks about other Administration priorities caused more than a few patrons to squirm.

Sunday morning, we got up early, and headed back to Miami Beach, to South Beach, for breakfast at the recommended Front Porch Café on Ocean Avenue. Fun times, then out to the airport and a bumpy flight home.

Two days later, on Tuesday the 18^th, I flew north to Toronto for the start of the winter lecture season. It was close to zero F. when I walked out of the terminal, with a stiff wind. Whew! Like last year, I took the low-cost route into town; for C$2.25, the Toronto Transit Commission runs the Airport Rocket, an express bus to the west end of the subway line. In 40 minutes, I was walking north on Bedford Road, briskly. Jay Lilge, co-owner of the Lowther House bed and breakfast was waiting for me. He offered a warm welcome, and showed me to my room on the third floor. For the second time in two months I was in agreeable, small-scale accommodation, truly home-like. Lowther House is in a lovely brick Victorian Gothic building, and inside are wood floors, antiques, and modern bathrooms. It's a great place.

I heard the doorbell at 7:40, and knew my friend Tony Lea had arrived. We visited briefly with Jay, then departed with Tony's wife Joanne. We had a great, spicy dinner at the nearby Indian Rice Factory, a long-established Indian place, and caught up. I've known Tony for nearly 30 years, back to when he was a visiting geography prof. at Minnesota. Was "home" before ten, in time to watch the CBC news, always a good way to reconnect with this country I know pretty well and regard highly. It was cool in my room, so I climbed under a nice comforter. Slept hard, for more than eight hours.

Mara Lederman, my host at the Rotman School of Management, part of the great University of Toronto, was due for breakfast at Lowther House at nine, so I had some time. I bundled up, Jay insisting on lending me his rubbers to protect my shoes, and off I went for a good walk through campus. It was snowing lightly, a nice scene. First stop was Soldier Tower, a war memorial I've written about before; the powerful inscription inside its archway bears repeating:

Their story is not graven only on stone over their native earth, but lives on far away, without visible symbol, woven into the stuff of other men's lives.

Next stop was Tim Horton's, Canada's favorite place for morning coffee. A nice place to warm up and zip up with a large cup. Then back to Lowther House, where Linda Lilge had prepared a yummy big breakfast for Mara and me. She's a young professor of strategy, friendly and energetic (and really smart). We had a good yak, then walked to Rotman, where I worked my e-mail and gave an off-the-record interview to the transportation reporter from The Globe and Mail, Canada's national newspaper.

From 12:45 to 1:45 sharp I delivered my stump speech to a lunchtime seminar group of about 50, including alums, faculty, and students. A lively and interactive session. Mara had to pull me away from people continuing to ask questions well after 2:15. We headed to lunch at Bar Mercurio on Bloor Street, a stylish, informal place (Canada is full of places like that, with a great setting, wonderful food, and very smiling service; standards are high up there). Headed back, worked e-mail down to five or six, then back downstairs to lecture Mara's MBA strategy class on airline alliances. We had two hours, a great luxury, and again the session was highly interactive. I think we produced satisfied customers!

At 6:15 I met a longtime faculty member, Joe De La Cruz, who had a long interest in the airline business. We were only able to chat for ten minutes, because I was due to meet my friend Jeff Angel, former P.R. guy at Canadian Airlines and British Airways, now president of Gray Communications' P.R. arm in Canada. Jeff was waiting at Lowther House; we jumped in a cab and headed south to the Air Canada Centre. He had scored awesome tickets to the Toronto Raptors-New York Knicks game, row eight, directly at center-court. Wowie! As always happens on visits north – and as always reported in these pages – I paused and looked around the arena and smiled, because every Canadian, more than 16,000 of them, all had health insurance. Things are genuinely kinder and gentler north of the border. (Does that cost money? Yes. Would I pay for it? Yes.) Jeff and I got caught up (it had been 14 months since he stayed overnight with us in Dallas), laughed a lot, and saw a great game – neck and neck until five minutes to go when the Raptors blew it open, winning 98-81. Jeff dropped me at Lowther, and I clocked out. A swell day.

Was up before six. Jay was up, a superb host, with the breakfast table prepared, including The Globe and Mail on the table. The front-page article immediately caught my eye: a wildcat strike by Air Canada ramp workers the night before had caused chaos. Hmmmm, might make it harder to get to Montreal. Yes, it did. Flying standby on another airline, you're at the bottom of the list. Didn't get on the intended nine a.m. flight. Nor the ten, the eleven, the noon. At 12:05, I called my host at McGill University, Demetrios Vakratsas, and gave him the bad news: no lecture at one o'clock.

I had a quick lunch, and decided that rather than climbing on American's mid-afternoon flight back to DFW, I'd still try to fly to Montreal, if only to see how long it took to get there, knowing that I still had a seat on the 5:45 p.m. departure from there to home – hell, the day was a write-down anyway! The one p.m. flight left without me. I asked a friendly gate agent working that flight if I was moving up the standby list. She said yes. I smiled and told her that the last time I had any trouble flying standby on Air Canada was August 1969, when I got pulled off a Calgary-Winnipeg flight in Regina, Saskatchewan. She replied, "Get out!" It was true. In the 1990s, when American owned a chunk of Canadian Airlines, I flew Air Canada a lot, mostly to and from Ottawa, without a hitch. So I guess it was payback time, big time. I wandered back to Gate 120. At 1:50, they called my name for the two o'clock bird. I hollered out a big "woo hoo." Reserved Canadians stared, but I was exuberant. A middle seat, 28E, for the 48-minute ride northeast was right on.

At 3:30, we landed at Pierre Trudeau International Airport, recently renamed to honor Canada's colorful and forward-thinking prime minister from 1968 to 1979, and from 1980 to 1984. I checked in with American, smiling broadly when the counter agent handed me a boarding pass for seat 6F – a reminder that I've never taken my "not standby" privilege for granted. Worked my e-mail for 70 minutes, climbed on a 737, and flew home, enjoying the company of an affable Indian immigrant who earned his MBA from the University of Minnesota; among other topics, we reflected on our great good fortune not to have to shovel snow any more!

A week or so later, on January 28, Robin and I, buoyed by our successful short trip to Fort Worth on December 31, headed for another small-distance adventure, rolling south to downtown Dallas and into the Dallas Museum of Art to see the "Splendors of China's Forbidden City" exhibit – 400 artifacts from the reign of Emperor Qianlong. The Big Q ruled for more than 50 years in the 18^th century, when China's territory was about its present size. The exhibit, on its last U.S. stop, was absolutely astonishing. Qianlong had some nice possessions – ornate furnishings, sable hats, brocade coats, jade carvings, the works. It was big fun.

Five days after that, Linda and I climbed on the Silver Bird for London. A nice flight over, five hours' sleep, ready to roll. When my feet hit ground, on the jetbridge, I smiled broadly, for this was my 100^th trip to Europe. Hundreth trip, smiling again as the taxi motored north on Park Lane, and another smile for 100 journeys as I jogged south, an hour later on Hamilton Terrace. These were not smug grins, but smiles of joy and thanksgiving at my good fortune to be able to see the Old World so often.

As we have many times before, we stayed with Tim and Missy Griffy, former Richardson neighbors, in St. John's Wood. Linda and Missy were yakking when I returned from the trot, and I join the visit. Missy cut me a piece of daughter Claire's 16^th birthday cake. Nice. Showered, put on a necktie and a pink shirt and headed out the door. It takes ten minutes to get to the St. John's Wood Tube station. On the way, I listened to Copland's WW2-era "Fanfare for the Common Man." I walked past a couple of people who were old enough to have been in London in those years. I wanted to engage them, to ask what one thing they remember most. Instead, I whispered a prayer for all the common men who made it possible for me to walk free on Blenheim Terrace and Loudoun Road.

It was good to be back on public transport, to see, at 12:10 on February 4, a young man who seemed Levantine, with big dreadlocks, son on knee, and his English grandmother next to them. The Beatles "Long and Winding Road" was in my ears. It fit well. I got off at Farringdon, wandered back toward Robin's former flat on Crawford Passage, then south to the Smithfield Market, now London's wholesale meat market. A security man told me that it runs from two a.m. until nine or ten. Indeed, the place was mostly shuttered, men in rubber overalls hosing down walls and floors. On a central street was a set of exhibit panels that celebrated the 50^th history of de-rationing – it seems hard to believe that the Brits continued to live with ration coupons for a whole decade after World War II. And I thought, do not forget – never forget.

We had lunch across the street, at Smith's of Smithfield, on Charterhouse St. At table were two AA marketing guys, the new account director for our U.K. ad agency, Chris Macdonald, and two agency colleagues. It was strictly a get-to-know-the-new-guy event, and was a great deal of fun. Chris and I will get along just fine.

Next stop was a quick visit with Prof. Naufel Vilcassim, Deputy Dean of the London Business School. We discussed airline stuff for 45 minutes, met a colleague, and I headed back to the Griffys. Changed clothes, loaded up the Honda CRV, and headed north into massive traffic jams. It took more than hour to clear the last of the blockages, then we were gliding cleanly along the M11 motorway north, then east toward Newmarket, off the highway and northeast on a country lane a mile or so to Snailwell, our destination.

After a couple of calls on the mobile, we found our weekend digs, The Old Rectory; this largely 18^th-century house, once home to the various rectors of the village church across the lane was now the property of one of Tim's college pals from Rice University. Bruce had done well in business, and because he spent his junior year nearby at Christ College, Cambridge, decided to buy the place and fix it up. Seldom used, he was happy to open it to Tim, Missy, Linda, and me. The caretakers, Paul and Avril, greeted us and showed us through the house. It was museum-like, charming.

We dropped our bags, jumped back in Tim's CRV, and followed Paul and Avril south, through Newmarket, a town of about 20,000 and the center of the English horse-racing trade, to the village of Woodinton and the 17^th-century Three Blackbirds Inn. We had a nice dinner, learned a lot about Snailwell and the surrounding country, and drove back. Snailwell's only retail establishment, the George and Dragon pub (1842), was still open, so Paul, Tim, and I walked over for a last pint. It was disappointing inside, modernized to resemble a green hospital corridor, but the characters rolling dice across the bar, smoking, and joshing were genuine.

Tim and I were up with the first light, out with our cameras, capturing some scenes from the property and the village. Paul and Avril had three horses, two goats, and a small flock of chickens. Avril prepared eggs straight from the hen, toast, and coffee, and set out for a look 'round. First stop was the stunning Norman Cathedral at Ely, built in the several decades before and after 1100. Old. It was the most remarkable cathedral I've seen in England, perhaps in all of Europe. We spent a long time inside, admiring views in all directions, especially up to the ornate, fan-vaulted ceiling.

Next stop was Cambridge, 20 miles southwest. We parked the car on the fringe of the center and walked. Enroute to lunch at the venerable Eagle pub (described in the third quarter 2003 and second quarter 2004 updates), we passed the famous Cavendish Laboratory; a plaque next to the main entrance noted that this was where the electron was discovered – an important find, we agreed.

After lunch, we ambled up and down King's Parade and Trinity streets, visiting the famous chapel at King's College, the quadrangle at Trinity, and other college sights. Tim and I scrambled up the narrow, winding staircase to the top of the tower at Great St. Mary's, great views in all directions. We strode north toward the round church, west to Magdalene College, then back to the car by way of a cup of hot chocolate to warm a damp (but thankfully rainless) day. We drove back to Snailwell; Tim's GPS navigation system, which speaks to users in a calm voice, erred, and my human-analog "system" guided us home. We rested briefly, and set out for dinner at Newmarket.

Sunday morning, after another breakfast of fresh eggs, we intended to supplement the few local worshippers across the lane at St. Peter's (built 1070-1220), but the sign inviting us to 9:30 service was incorrect. We wandered the village and the rectory's paddocks a bit more, then said goodbye to Avril and Paul, and drove into Newmarket. Not much open at 11, so we made fast for the American Cemetery west of Cambridge, the resting place of 3,811 soldiers, sailors, and others from World War II. It was a moving experience, a good place to thank God for freedom, and the sacrifices of those buried there. We then drove south toward a National Trust property, but did not stop after noting the sign that said the old house was closed – and that everyone in the muddy car park was wearing gum boots. We found agreeable midday lunch at the White Horse in the little village of Barton, a few miles west of Cambridge, then motored south, back into London traffic.

At four I laced up and went for a wonderful run along Regent's Canal, east toward the zoo and Camden. The endorphins were pumping as I walked home, but the high dropped low 30 minutes later when I realized that I left my backpack with camera and PDA back at the White Horse. Big doh! Tim called north, confirmed that Mark, the new landlord, had it securely behind the bar, and I set off to fetch it back. Here's the recovery chronology:

17:41 Out the door on foot, ran-walked to the Tube station.

18:08 Arrived King's Cross railway station. Sprinted to the West Anglia Great Northern tracks (that I had been to Cambridge a couple times recently was helpful), bought ticket, looked for the 18:15 nonstop express. No track was posted on TVs. Finally a new platform number was posted, so I sprinted there. Big crowd, no train.

18:20 The inbound train arrived. As the riders disembarked, this Transport Geek was looking longingly across the platform to Track 6, where a navy-and-orange Great North Eastern Railway express sat; I was focused on the First Class and Restaurant carriages; the table lamps inside cast an inviting glow.

18:22 My train departed. Dozed, finished daily prayers, continued to read Steinbeck's Travels with Charley.

19:07 Arrived Cambridge. Briefly scoped out local bus schedules for service to Barton, but they did not operate on Sundays.

19:18 Hopped in a taxi. Yakked with driver, mainly about his elderly parents.

19:31 Greeted Mark the Landlord, visited briefly, shook his hand, thanked him. Bag on shoulder less than two hours after confirming the loss. Whew!

19:37 Began walking the four miles back to Cambridge. It was not just thrift, or a need to don the hairshirt – a walk just seemed to make sense. The decision to walk put me on collision course, described below. The ramble was pleasant. Along the way, the prospect of a pint at the Eagle danced briefly at the front of my mind. It also might have prevented the collision.

20:27 Approaching the station, I glanced at my watch, recalled a London train at 31-past, and took off at sprint pace. Missing that train might also have kept me from the wreck with Suzy . . .

20:31 Departed Cambridge. Made some journal notes, resumed reading Steinbeck; thus far the book had been just okay, but for the first time in his account of a long U.S. road trip in the early 1960s, he related a happy engagement with fellow travelers:

Attitudes toward strangers crop up mysteriously. I was downwind from the camp [of French-Canadian families harvesting potatoes in Maine] and the odor of their soup drifted to me. Those people might have been murderers, sadists, brutes, ugly apish subhumans for all I knew, but I found myself thinking , 'What charming people, what flair, how beautiful they are. How I wish I knew them.' And all based on the delicious smell of soup.

The passage made me smile and laugh. I've got the Grateful Dead in my earphones, and I'm thinking maybe this "cock-up" (as the Brits would call it) wasn't so bad.

21:38 Arrived London, hopped on the Tube, back to St. John's Wood. Nearly home, on Abbey Road, a distraught woman approached me with a sad tale – she said she had just found her husband in bed with another woman, dashed out without her credit cards or cash, and could I help her get to her mother's by Guildford? She had not been drinking, and seemed genuine. I took down her name (Suzy Simpson), address, mobile number, and such, "loaned" her £60, and off she went. She was either truly in need or a convincing actress. It turned out to be the latter, but keep reading.

22:10 Back at 89 Clifton Hill, for another piece of Claire's birthday cake, then to sleep. It was a long day.

I was up at dawn to work e-mail down to zero, kiss Linda goodbye, and set off on foot for Paddington Station, and the Heathrow Express. Before leaving, I rang Mrs. Simpson, to tell her I was going out of town, and she could drop the money with Missy.

I flew BA on the short hop to Paris. Outside the bag claim, I shook hands with a smiling taxi driver holding an ESSEC sign, and we set off on a very fast drive across the rolling countryside southwest to Cergy-Pontoise, a suburban "new town" 20 miles northwest of Paris. Dropped my stuff at the Novotel hotel, walked across to ESSEC, and into a packed lecture hall. I greeted my friend Jeanine Picard with pecks on both cheeks (Savoir-faire? Mais oui!), and met the new head of the hotel-management program, an Irishman named Peter O'Connell. The lecture went well, with good questions. Then there was the customary reception outside the lecture room, but this time Mumm's provided some really nice champagne. I would have stayed for a couple hours, yakking with a very international group of students (half French, half not) and sipping some nice stuff, but Peter, Jeanine, and Sunmee Choi, a Cornell Hotel School Ph.D., rounded me up for dinner at our favorite, La Taverne du Mâitre Kanter, down by a little marina on the River Oise. We've eaten at this place – part of a chain that serves mainly hearty Alsatian fare – every time but one. We tucked into choucroute (sauerkraut), sausages, ham, bacon, and a large glass of Blanche de Bruges white beer. A lot of the conversation focused on Sunmee, who was teaching briefly at ESSEC, and headed the next day back to an appointment at Yonsei University in her native Korea, where her husband taught Christian theology. I made a pitch for a lecture there (I've never been to Korea). Worked my e-mail and punched out.

Retraced my steps to London Heathrow, and back down to Paddington. At the Terminal 1-2-3 stop, a family with a lot of luggage climbed aboard, smiling and chatting. Their baggage tags showed they had just come from Ho Chi Minh City, Hanoi, and Paris. They were happy, and even though they had not flown American, I felt happy and proud of our business – those smiles were part of what we do, every day. Hopped the Tube to Bond Street and the EasyInternetCafe on Oxford Street. Worked some more e-mail, then continued by Tube to the London School of Economics. I was early, and sat down on a bench to watch the swirl of students, and read a bit more Steinbeck.

LSE brims with serious and smart people, generally left of center (the place was founded a century ago by the Fabian Society, an earnest group of moderate socialists and other world-changers that included George Bernard Shaw). As I read, a lass next to me caught my attention: she was stylishly dressed: pale pink high heels, charcoal pedal-pushers (I know there's a modern term for them, but that's what I call 'em), designer denim jacket. Unlike the others in sneakers and jeans, one of whom greeted her with kisses on both cheeks. Across the street, Amnesty International had set up tables. It was fun to watch the ebb and flow.

At one o'clock, I met my host, Sir Geoffrey Owen, and we repaired to the faculty cafeteria for lunch and a good chat, then to class from two to three-thirty. A couple of students, German and Tunisian, still wanted to talk, so we crossed Kingsway for a coffee. Geoffrey left us, and we stayed for more than an hour. They were great kids, bright, and curious not just about the airline business, but about career growth, about life as a grown-up.

Took the Tube back to St. John's Wood and walked "home" (I am going to miss staying with the Griffys – they return to Dallas this summer). Missy was sick Monday morning, so she had not heard about my encounter with Mrs. Simpson. She had not yet delivered the cash, so I rang her again, and she said, yes, yes, she was still out with her Mum, soaking up some "TLC." She'd drop the money the next day. An hour later, at dinner, I told Tim the story, how I believed her. "So did I," said Tim. My jaw dropped a second or two before Missy's. Yep, Mrs. Simpson had scammed him six months ago, when he was taking out the trash. But Tim's a CPA and a honcho at a big accounting firm, so he only lost 20 quid! Deep sigh.

The next morning I tracked down the local station of the Metropolitan Police. I told the constable, an older, seen-it-all fellow, that I felt pretty stupid. He told me that the police could not do anything, because at this point no crime had been committed. That Mrs. Simpson was a clever addict. I then headed east to Peter and Tony's Continental Hairstylists near Kings' Cross Station; they remembered meeting me in October. We had a nice chat while Tony gave me an expert trim (his trembling hands were cause for some concern, especially when wielding the straight razor on my neck, but I emerged unscathed). We yakked about a range of things. Peter's sage view on the world: "It's the same everywhere – people are nice and the politicians are not."

I headed back to LSE for a quick meeting with Kathy Hammond, one of my London Business School hosts who left there a year ago for something called Duke Corporate Education, a joint venture between the U.S. school and LSE. Duke CE might be able to use my teaching services in the future, we agreed. At noon I headed east to St. Paul's. I had not been there since December 1993, on the day my friend Jack Sheppard died. As I entered I looked up and remembered dear Jack.

It was Ash Wednesday, and at 12:30 there was Eucharist and imposition of ashes. The service was immediately below the dome, chairs arranged in a semicircle. The music was from South Africa, three black South African singers and a pianist. The church universal, again. Their voices echoed up and up. While sitting there, I heard other, fainter echoes: of terrible oppression of black people in southern Africa, of bombs falling in the vicinity 65 years earlier, of modern injustice. The order of service was familiar, the words similar though not identical (the Anglicans have streamlined some stuff, including the Apostles' Creed and Lord's Prayer). It was a great opportunity, much like Easter last year at Westminster Abbey. I wandered around the western churchyard and into Paternoster Square, a very agreeable new townscape north of the big church.

I jumped on the Picadilly Line and headed west toward Heathrow, for a meeting at our regional offices in Hounslow. An Indian family that reminded me of the one in the film "Bend It Like Beckham" (the area near Heathrow has large South Asian communities) sat next to and across from me. Indeed, all seven people on the seats opposite me came from elsewhere in the former Empire.

I had not been to what I used to call "Fort Hounslow" (American's outpost on the eastern frontier of airline battles!) for more than three years. It was three and I had not yet had lunch, so I stopped at the Safeway supermarket across from the offices, and picked up a sandwich, yogurt, and a banana. The Indian checkout lady remarked on the late lunch. I replied that I'd been busy, running hard. "That's why you're so skinny," she replied. "That's what my wife says, too," I replied.

Ate lunch, worked e-mail, said hello to a few old friends, had the meeting, and headed back into the city. The ad agency had booked a table at Notting Hill Brasserie, a very fashionable spot, and we had a really fun, late dinner. Chris Macdonald, the new account guy I met five days earlier at Smithfield, was in good form. His former acting experience was clear. We were howling. At midnight, John Atmore, the McCann London "brain guy" and I grabbed a taxi.

Head hit pillow at 12:30, up at 6:30, out the door, back home. Finished Travels with Charley. Was in my office by 3:30. The 100^th trip to Europe: eventful, memorable, fun.

Was back at the airport Saturday morning for the nine o'clock Silver Bird to Los Angeles. I was bound for the last father-daughter event at Robin's sorority (the four years have gone quickly), and I was pumped because we were going back to the Santa Anita horse track, east of Pasadena. Robin picked me up at 10:30. Skies seemed to be clearing, which was good – and rare, given all the rain that has fallen on Southern California this winter.

We were in the very deluxe Turf Club by 11:30. Robin's friends Ally Ude and Elizabeth Evans shared our table, with their dads, Ken and Brent. We had a lot of fun. Robin and I actually won two races, but with modest payouts. Came really close once. Enjoyed a huge lunch. The track is lovely, with great views of the nearby San Gabriel Mountains; that day, with all the rain, they looked like Hawai'i, lush green with low cloud hanging on them. We stayed through the sixth race, headed back to the airport, and I flew home at 6:30. A good day.

Six days after finishing Travels with Charley, a happy bit of circularity unfolded. Toward the end of the book, Steinbeck stopped in New Orleans to take a look at the frightened white people protesting the integration of the public schools (this was fall 1960). He saw one of the three objects of their fear, a small African-American first-grader. Steinbeck's narrative exuded outrage, and disappointment. On February 16, I was at Priscilla Tyler Elementary School in west Dallas, a school segregated not by law but by our social behavior. I was there for the monthly reading, and for Black History Month Ms. Davis, the librarian, set out a range of books about African-Americans. One book, Through My Eyes by Ruby Bridges, caught my attention. I opened it. And there was the little girl that Steinbeck wrote about. I read the book to a third-grade class. I asked them if they knew the word "segregation." Yes, they did. The book took almost an hour to read, and some students tuned out, but it was worth it if only for the earnest young man with the cross around his neck, who listened intently the whole time.

On Monday the 21^st, I flew north to Chicago. My old friend Gary Doernhoefer, an American colleague from the 1990s and recently retired (at age 47) as General Counsel for the online travel agency Orbitz, met me at the gate and we jumped on the CTA Blue Line, then the bus across Addison Street, the Red Line north, and the Purple Line to within two blocks of Northwestern University. Gary and I were guest presenters in Anne Coughlan's marketing-distribution MBA class at the Kellogg School of Management (Gary attended the evening lecture downtown last year and contributed a lot, so we decided to form a team). We had a good yak on the long ride to Evanston (he sorta wanted to take a taxi, but that seemed like a bad idea to me when we could ride the CTA for two bucks!).

Anne had lunch boxes waiting for us, and we had a good visit. Class ran from 1:30 to 3, when we hopped in her car for the ride downtown to the evening class. Gary has lived in Chicago on several occasions and like me, he knew the city well. We had dinner with the evening MBA students before class, then repeated the show. As usual at Kellogg, lots of good questions.

Gary was still doing some part-time work for Orbitz, and had booked a hotel nearby, so we walked over. He checked in, and we decided that the extra bed in his room might beat a couch at Cousin Jim's so I dropped my stuff in his room, and we headed north for a quick beer and tapas with Jim at Lucille's, his neighborhood bar. It was a short visit, so we didn't do our customary rant; mostly Jim and Gary traded insights on residential construction, something Gary recently finished and Jim had in progress.

I was up at 6:15 and out the door at 6:40, walking west on Grand to Halsted, stopping to snap a couple of pictures of changes in the downtown landscape: a oversized McDonald's complete with huge golden arches, under construction on Ohio St., and some very agreeable row houses on former industrial land along the North Branch of the Chicago River. Hopped on the Blue Line at Grand. At the next stop, a young United first officer boarded and began reading a GMAT study guide. I was intrigued by what might have been going on, so at O'Hare I engaged him: "Once you finish business school are you going to go back and fix your airline?" I asked. He laughed, and we visited while walking toward the terminal. I told him what I did, and for how long. We exchanged notes on instability and agreed that things were a mess. I was back at my desk by noon.

On Thursday, March 3, Linda and I flew west to Vail for the American Airlines Celebrity Ski, an annual event – described in last year's first-quarter update – where we raise in two days a million dollars for Cystic Fibrosis research. We got up to Colorado quickly. Above a little town called Kremmling, I wished I were in the cockpit, as I had been many times before (after September 11, the FAA tightened the rules to prohibit most non-pilots in the cockpit). From Kremmling, I knew the rough outlines of the precise approach into Vail – 15,000 feet up, left turn, heading 190 degrees. I looked down to see the empty west: I counted just nine lights in my entire field of vision. Descending, we made a right turn, onto a heading of 250 degrees, straight down the Eagle Valley toward Runway 25. In the last minutes of flight, I could see U.S. Highway 6, one of the original trunk highways built in the 1920s and '30s, running parallel to Interstate 70. And I remembered rolling west on Highway 6 on our first visit to Colorado 39 years earlier. I remembered how excited Jim Arnold and I were back then, headed toward Aspen. And I got excited again – it's hard not to be awed by the scale of the mountains, the steep slopes, the red rocks. Very cool.

We landed and got our suitcases, but my ski bag did not arrive. No problem, there would be extra boards to borrow the next day. We hopped on a bus and headed up the valley, arriving just in time for dinner. By 9:30 we were worn out. Woke up the next morning with an altitude headache, not a pounder but definitely there. Ate breakfast, borrowed a sweet pair of new K2 skis, and headed out. I've written before about the fun of quick chats with strangers on ski lifts, and that Friday was no exception. Best of the day was a ride on the Orient Express lift in Vail's Back Bowls, with a Cornell-trained physician's assistant (a PA) from New York. Clinical stuff fascinates me, and she filled my head with scenes from her work day in cardiac surgery – I especially liked her reference to a cordless handsaw, and was impressed with how much actual stuff she could do.

We had dinner that night and clocked out early again. Skiing is tiring work! By Saturday morning my head was clear and we had another fun day skiing, including a rather slow run down the race course. I'm not sure I'll ever be a ski racer, but it's a rush swishing through the gates.

Was up at five Sunday morning. It was a day when things needed to move according to plan. The bus back to Vail airport left at six, and we were downvalley way before the 8:22 departure. My seatmate back to DFW was James Sikking, the TV and movie actor, and an interesting, bright, and funny guy. We yakked for a good bit of the flight, about the world, education, kids, the books we were reading.

Landed at 11:25, home by 12:30, and out on bike for 11 miles. Riding the Trek was interesting that day – I noticed in the first few miles that I seemed more wobbly, and figured out why: cycling is not skiing. You have to keep more careful control. On the slopes, you need only read the terrain and stay clear of other skiers and snowboarders. But on the road there are curbs and SUVs! Back home, I packed a new suitcase and left the house 75 minutes after arriving, back to DFW, north to Chicago. That ride was mostly through cloud. It was clear in Chicago, and when we took off just past dusk for Syracuse you could see the whole of the Windy City outlined by those orange-hued streetlights. We sailed right over Belmont Harbor on Lake Michigan, then east over Grand Rapids, the radial roads that flow from downtown Detroit, Southern Ontario, and into Syracuse.

I picked up a Taurus from Hertz and motored south on I-81, then west on local roads to Cornell. What I wrote in the last update about helping them select a new Dean for their School of Hotel Administration was true, but only part of the story. The other part was that I was a finalist. I had made the cut from 170 to 20 to 4, and was on campus to try to persuade a whole lot of people that they should choose me. The School had reserved an enormous suite for me, and there was a welcome plate of nibbles on the table. I organized some stuff and fell asleep.

I was up on Monday morning at 6:30, and into the first meeting at 7:30. Between then and four on Tuesday, I was in sixteen "poke and prod" meetings with students, faculty, staff, and alumni. I gave a large presentation on Monday afternoon, met the president, and did best to sell my "hybrid candidacy" – unlike the other three finalists, who were pure academics, I had experience in both industry and academia. Lots of people asked a variant of "how are you holding up?" Clearly, they had never worked in the airline business, for this was not that hard. In every meeting I delivered the "real Rob," plain-spoken, not overly analytical. The decision will be made at the end of April.

Tuesday was pure winter, howling winds and blowing snow, which slowed the first part of the drive back to Syracuse. The Interstate was clear, and it was pedal to the metal, in ample time for a 6:30 flight to Chicago. I then headed to Minneapolis, to speak at the U of M's Carlson School of Management. I was excited to be returning to my alma mater. Picked up another car and was in Chuck Wiser's house in Bloomington by eleven.

Up at seven, on a clear, cold day. Laced up for a run around Hyland Lake, and was glad that Cornell had given me a red wool cap, because I needed it that morning. I drove into 50^th and France, the shopping district just east of where I grew up, and enjoyed a raspberry-cream cheese danish and cup of coffee at the Wuollet Bakery, a neighborhood fixture for decades. Then drove my Dad's favorite local route into downtown Minneapolis and southeast to the university's West Bank campus. Free parking nearby was almost a thing of the past three decades ago, and it was completely impossible now, so I motored into a ramp across from the Carlson School, and set off on foot.

First stop was the Geography Department. Not many friends left there, so imagine my delight when I met Prof. John Fraser Hart, a member of my Ph.D. committee, on the stairs. He invited me to his office for a quick chat (he had class at ten). Fraser is over 80, and is still publishing research. He became animated when he showed me maps from the manuscript he was submitting to the Geographical Review. We had a wonderful, fast visit, he gave me a book, and I headed out to explore more of the campus. His enthusiasm for the land and the people reminded me why I became a geographer.

Next stop was the Elmer L. Andersen Research Library, named for a wonderful former governor and university regent, and an informed, thoughtful voice in Minnesota for six decades. Then across the long bridge that spans the Mississippi – the school is on both banks – smiling as I strode briskly. Some quarters in the early 1970s I walked that bridge five times in a morning, back and forth to classes. Passed the Weisman Art Museum, designed by Frank Gehry, and into Coffman Memorial Union, the student union. The building had been closed for several years for renovation, and the new work was truly superb. Then back across the bridge to meet my host, Dan Stangler, an MBA candidate, and David Hopkins, a marketing prof. We had a good chat, then left to set up my talk.

Target Stores sponsors a series of lunchtime talks, and provides free lunch, which I suspect was the draw, but I did my best to explain the challenges of our business. Before the talk, Dave and Pat Borchert, son and daughter-in-law of the great Prof. John Borchert (see 2Q 2001 update), said hello. Pat is just finishing her Ph.D. at Carlson, and has landed a job teaching at the U of M's Duluth campus. They attended my talk, then we had a quick lunch to catch up on stuff. The Borchert family are an impressive bunch – everyone is smarter than smart. I went back to Dan's office for a short visit, and stopped into the new Regis Center for the Arts (home of the Studio Arts Department).

I drove back toward the southwest suburbs, to visit briefly with Rick Fesler, the fellow who had a powerful role in propelling me into the travel business, for it was Rick who hired me to apprentice at his new travel agency in June 1969. I had a good chat with Rick and his wife Eddi. Went back to Chuck's house, worked my e-mail, and at six drove back into the city for dinner at my favorite Black Forest Inn.

When Dan was setting up the visit, he mentioned dinner with faculty and students, and I tendered a polite request for dinner at the Black Forest. At table were two faculty members and six students, and we had a fun and lively dinner. Dan was especially interesting, telling stories of playing football at St. John's (Minnesota), under coach John Gagliardi (the winningest coach in college football). After dinner, I spotted Eric Christ, the chef-owner, and hopped up to say hello. We've been coming here for 34 years, and Eric has always been in the kitchen. It was a pleasure to see him.

About 9:30 I drove back to Chuck's, and he was there, home from Florida for a couple of days. We yakked for about an hour, and I clocked out.

Was up early the next morning, greeting a couple inches of fresh wet snow. Headed back down to "the U" for a morning lecture. It felt really good to be back on this campus that had been a big part of my life, way back to attending Gopher football games with my Dad. The lecture was about airline advertising, and turnout was large. At the start we had some problems with the projector, so to buy time I did a headstand; Dan later reported that it was a first at Carlson. After the lecture I visited with more students, jumped in the car, drove back to the airport via the scenic West River Road, and flew home. I'm so glad to have reconnected with the U of M. It has been and still is a wonderful place.

I had kept up with e-mails and phone messages for the past eight days, but Friday the 11^th was still a circus at work. Finished, drove home, and Linda and I met our Louisiana friends Hal and Jill Hickey at Rockfish, our neighborhood fish eatery. I write "Louisiana" here because a lot of the conversation focused on Hal growing up in the small town of Winfield. It was a fascinating personal geography. Toward the end of the meal Jack and Robin stopped in to say howdy.

We headed home. I repacked. Got up and pounded out 15 miles on the Trek at 6 a.m. Saturday, then the two kids and I flew back to Vail. Linda had work early the next week. We landed, picked up another Taurus, and sped east to lunch at Avon, then up the hill for spring break at Beaver Creek. It was good to be back there, too.

We unpacked, and headed out. I had my ski gear and was ready. Was on the slopes at two, by myself, skiing fast and hard. Was back in the condo by 4:30 for the first of many Scrabble games. It was such a joy to be on vacation with Jack and Robin – the last time was 2003. We headed into Avon for dinner at China Garden. The owner is the aunt of Pearl Wu, who Robin met some years ago at a summer program in New York, and it was fun to reconnect. Auntie told us that Pearl had graduated in economics from Emory, and was doing volunteer work in the Marshall Islands. After dinner we watched the gloomy but excellent Road to Perdition. Then nine hours of sleep. Nine hours!

All three of us were on the lift Sunday morning at 8:32. It was snowy. Did one run with the kids, then they waved me off. We met for lunch. I skied my buns off, racking up 71,000 vertical feel Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning. At 2:30 it was pedal to the metal, back downvalley, to fly home. In my haste I had forgotten my drivers' license in my ski pants, and worried about missing the flight, but the airport folks assured me it happens all the time, and I could be a "selectee" for additional screening. Cool. Nice recovery!

Was home by eight, worked Monday and Tuesday, and flew back to Vail that afternoon, for the rest of the week. I felt like part of the jet set. Well, sort of. But that mobility that I never take for granted is just so handy.

Was back in the condo by six, time for Scrabble, then over to Toscanini for plates of pasta. Another long sleep, then up for skiing. Robin and I skied hard the whole morning (she's as fast as me), then she peeled off at noon to pick up Linda, who had finally finished her work. Back in the condo, it was time for e-mail, Scrabble, and beer. We headed back to China Garden for dinner. Same pattern the next day for St. Patrick's Day. Skied hard. And enjoyed the many lift rides talking with strangers – a union electrician (that's the phrase he used), a retired executive from Marsh, a couple from Munich celebrating his 75^th birthday (I told him he was my hero for that day), a high-end residential architect originally from Teheran, an Oklahoma banker and wheat farmer, and more.

The ladies headed to Vail for shopping, and Jack and I drove up there at 4:45. It was time for a Guinness at the Ore House on Bridge Street. So great to be back on that little road first visited 36 years ago. We sat out on the deck in blowing snow, for the great people-watching, and yakked about life. We all met at Los Amigos for dinner, and Jack peeled off for some revelry with friends.

On Friday, having racked up 200,000 vertical feet in three days of skiing, I decided to take the day off. (Yep. I am getting old!). Jack and I climbed in the car and motored west, through the spectacular Glenwood Canyon of the Colorado River, then southeast to Aspen. I had not been there since July 1977 when friends Greg and Annie Paske were married in a meadow outside of town. It was so cool to be back. Jack shared my interest in what looked the same and what had changed. In brief, the place has become wildly upmarket, but the basics of the town were still in place. We found the Mountain Chalet, where we stayed on our first ski trip "out West" in 1966. Pinocchio's, known for pizza, burgers, and 3.2 beer, was gone, as were lots of other things. Little Annie's was open for lunch, and it was nice to be there after 31 years. After lunch we walked around a bit more, tried to look up a high-school classmate who has worked for the county for decades (he had the day off), and drove back to more Scrabble and NCAA basketball on the tube.

Flew home at noon the next day. It was great to be together, and I tried not to get sad about these events going away.

On Thursday the 24^th there were three drivers at home and two cars in the driveway, so I rolled out of 1704 Cheyenne on Jack's yellow Vespa, east to the DART light-rail station on Arapaho Road, then into downtown Dallas. It was like a mini-trip en route to work, a little adventure. Rather than rolling all the way to Union Station, where I would catch the connecting train west to the airport, I got off and wandered through downtown, snapping some pictures that are here: http://www.robbritton.net/RecentPhotos-T&L/RecentP-Mar05/Mar05-PhotosIndex.htm.

That was the last travel of the quarter.

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