Second Quarter Update, 2003

After a long wait for Canadian immigration – they are screening much more thoroughly these days – I hopped on a bus for downtown. The freeway ride into the city mostly traverses industrial and warehousing districts, but for the last few kilometers (yes, our northern neighbors have converted to the world standard; how long will it take the U.S. to catch up?) you cruise above a dense working-class neighborhood of west Montreal, street after street of 19^th-century row houses and the walk-up apartments with outside staircases, a distinctive feature of this city. My field of vision also captured five or more church steeples, reminders of the strongly Catholic tradition of the town. It was good to be back in this place, first visited in 1967, when, at age 15, we got to visit the big expo67 world's fair without adult supervision.

I got to my hotel just minutes before my host, grad student Jonathan Weiner, picked me up for my lecture to the MBA Marketing Club at McGill University, one of Canada's best. I did not bring a coat, but the brisk walk across the campus warmed me up. Although students were scrambling to finish their papers and prepare for final exams, fifty or sixty turned out for the talk, a very international group. After the session, we hopped in cabs and motored up to a fondue restaurant on the trendy Rue St.-Denis, where I enjoyed my first fondue meal in years, including caribou, deer, and wild boar cooked in hot oil. I also enjoyed a couple of bottles of Maudite, a potent dark beer (was the devil on the label a clue?) from a Quebec microbrewery. There were five of us, Jonathan and two other students almost done with their MBAs, a first-year student just elected as club president, and a professor who has done a lot of consulting in the airline business.

Back at the hotel, I worked my e-mails, and head hit the pillow for a short night. Up at six, out the door, and walked downtown to the airport bus stop, past buildings I clearly recall from previous visits. Grabbed a quick breakfast in Gare Centrale (Central Station); though I had been there several times, I never noticed the beautiful blue and white friezes that ringed the upper walls of the main waiting room, depicting Canadian scenes of agriculture and industry. Beneath the people harvesting wheat and paddling canoes were words from "O Canada", their national anthem. Nice.

Six or seven visits to Quebec over a span of three dozen years has provided a sort of time-lapse perspective on the increasing expression of French culture. Language has been a divisive issue in Canada, but in la belle province the matter is settled. I've been able to see in the Montreal landscape the transformation of the place. To say it in the vernacular of youth, French rules!

Hopped on the airport bus. Chatting briefly with the driver, I was reminded of how kind and helpful Canadians are to visitors. This is a country that has long recognized the economic value of tourism, and it shows, not just in Montreal, but all across the country.

I flew to New York. The approach to La Guardia took us straight south over the Hudson, above Manhattan, directly over Ground Zero, turning northeast to LGA. Spectacular on a clear day. As usual, rather than jumping in a cab all the way to Manhattan, a taxi took me only to Jackson Heights and caught the subway, both to save some dollars and to immerse myself in the diversity that is New York. I had a pleasant lunch meeting with three ad execs from The New York Times, a short meeting with their nytimes.com cousins afterward, and as a bonus a chance to see how the paper was "made up" – the people who arrange the mix of articles and advertising on each page. Very cool. Then on to a bit of shopping. What? Rob shopping?

Yes. Next month is our 25^th wedding anniversary, and a ring for Linda is in order. Suffice it to say that by the end of my amble up Fifth Avenue I was more knowledgeable about diamonds than when I began! Hopped the subway back, and the local Q33 bus to La Guardia, and flew home.

On Saturday morning, April 5, Linda flew off to Los Angeles for a highfalutin' sorority tea, and after a few chores around the house, I set off for a bike ride. I usually go 25 miles each weekend day, and I started off to do that. It was a lovely spring day, and I was feeling strong. Past White Rock Lake in East Dallas, I decided to go a bit further, into downtown on the Katy Trail, a new bike and foot trail on a former right-of-way of the Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railway (M-K-T = Katy).

On the way to the trail, cruising west on Belmont Ave., I trailed a red pickup truck with Texas plates that identified the owner as a Purple Heart recipient. I could see that he was an older fellow. At a stop sign, I noticed a bumper sticker that read "Veteran of the Battle of the Ardennes" (one of the last big pushes in World War II, it was part of the famed Battle of the Bulge, the largest land battle of that war). I stayed behind the pickup, and at the next stop sign, I came alongside the truck. I smiled at the lady on the passenger side, and gestured for her to lower her window. She smiled at me, and opened the door, and I said, "I saw your bumper sticker, and I just want to thank you for your service during the war. Thanks for what you did." The driver smiled and I rode on, into the city.

Five days later, on Thursday the 10^th, I flew north at sunrise, to Minneapolis. My sister Carroll had called earlier to tell me that my mother, almost 82, had fallen and broken her hip, and was in the hospital. So up for a visit.

Over west-central Iowa, after finishing some "homework", I scanned the list of music on my laptop player, I clicked Copland's short "The Promise of Living" (from the opera "The Tender Land"). It was a good choice, for I needed some uplifting music in advance of what I expected would be a hard visit with my mother. I repeated the five-minute work three of four times, tying it to the familiar and gentle Midwestern landscape below: the regular grid of the fields, interrupted by small rivers full of snowmelt; the small towns every ten or twenty miles; the railways and highways running with and sometimes diagonal to the surveyed grid. The panorama beneath our wings reminded me of the great John Borchert, eulogized in my Second Quarter 2001 update. John's last years, indeed his whole life, was the promise of living; his zeal for the land and how people use it was remarkable, and his curiosity and participation endless. I wanted that image of vigor and twinkle to! carry me through the coming hours.

In no time I was at Abbott Northwestern Hospital in south Minneapolis. It was a lovely spring day, breezy but with bright blue skies. I found Room 2476, Bed 2, and there was my mom, sleeping. I kissed her and she awoke. She recognized me, a good thing, and smiled. We chatted, I gave her pictures of Jack and Robin, reminding her of their ages. My mother still projects brightness and determination – "life is what you make it", she said toward the end of our visit – but left to herself she descends into a world of depression and gloom. Unfortunately, that is where she spends most of her days, and has for many years; layered on top of that is dementia and memory loss. But we kept the visit sunny. I showed her pictures of her father and uncles on my PDA, as well as her parents' wedding portrait. She rattled off the names of the other four in the wedding party without effort, but could not recall how many children we have. We had a nice visit. She complimented m! e on my coat and tie; fashion has always been important to her. She noticed my fifteen-year service pin. We hugged, tears filled my eyes, and I rolled my bag out of the hospital, and south on Tenth Avenue.

A taxi to the airport would have been fast, but anonymous. No, a little adventure on MetroTransit, the bus, was in order. So I walked two blocks to Lake Street, an aging commercial arterial that runs east-west across south Minneapolis, and hopped on the 21 bus eastbound. The landscape looked only slightly different from 20 or 30 years ago, but the bus patrons looked much different, with many more brown and black faces than before. Although these Twin Cities are the whitest large metropolitan area in the U.S., the inner cities have become far more diverse in the 16 years since we left. I got off at 27^th Avenue, walked across the street, and a minute Randy and the 7E bus pulled up, bound for the airport and the Mall of America.

I didn't actually learn his name until later in the ride, but I liked him instantly. Maybe it was how he greeted each passenger and provided helpful directions, or perhaps it was the "20 Years Safe Driving" patch on his right sleeve. The real fun started when Becky and her daughter got on at 50^th Street and 42^nd Avenue. They knew Randy, and the banter in the front of the bus entertained us all. They were big gals, bound for Fort Snelling, and Becky liked to talk. It was a nice ride, with chances to talk to strangers. How I love that!

I checked my voicemail and for the first time in almost sixteen years of flying American in and out of MSP I stopped in to say hello to our airport manager, Lee Brechtel. Lee told me his staff meeting was starting in a few minutes, and asked if I'd like to say a few words; "it's not often someone from Headquarters comes this way", he said. So I did a ten-minute here's-what-we're doing talk and promised to send up a PowerPoint slideshow about the department. Jumped on the 12:38 flight to Chicago, having packed a lot into three hours.

I had a couple hours in Chicago, so I went to our airport offices, said hello to folks I know, and worked my e-mails. Climbed on a flight to Philadelphia, and enjoyed a perfectly clear ride the whole way, with landmarks clearly visible – like the leaky Davis-Besse nuclear power plant on Lake Erie. The end of the flight was over the ridge-and-valley landforms of Pennsylvania. It had been awhile since I flew over them in daylight, and I had forgotten how empty of people they were. Closer to Harrisburg, the ridges get lower and the valleys wider, and the Susquehanna River wiggles north. Surveying the magnificent scene, I thought again of John Borchert; for sure, would know the name of the small town nestled in the hollow directly below us.

We got stuck in a holding pattern and I missed my connecting flight to Elmira, New York, 180 miles north. Fortunately, there was another one at ten. The US Airways Express flights leave from the opposite end of what has become a very large terminal, but the walk was pleasant, with exhibits of youth art, U.S. flag history, and handsome photos of sculptures and public art in the city. I didn't actually sit in the white wooden rocking chairs that were everywhere in the building, but I certainly approve of the concept – very homey! I dozed through the 40-minute flight, picked up a silver Taurus, and motored 35 miles northeast to Ithaca, for my 15^th consecutive spring visit. Head hit pillow at 12:30. The view of the Cornell bell tower from my room was familiar and comforting.

Was up less than six hours later, and into a meeting of the Cornell hotel school's Industry Advisory Council. Had an enjoyable lunch in downtown Ithaca with my long-time host at the school, Mac Noden; we covered a lot of topics in a couple of hours. Went back to the hotel, worked my e-mails and phone, and at four I laced up my new Asics running shoes and took off for a trot around Beebe Lake and to the falls on Fall Creek. It's a tradition. Had time for a nap before dinner.

At 5:30 I headed into a reception, then onto an awards dinner for the school. Lots of alumni, faculty, and students. Nice conversation at dinner, a chance to see old friends, and a spectacular meal. Back to the room, worked some more e-mails, and turned off the light at 10:30, not bad, except I had to get up at 4:15 for the drive back to Elmira. Whew!

After a remarkably thorough TSA inspection (frequent travelers have by now noticed the inverse relationship between airport size and screening rigor; I counted ten Federal screeners for this tiny airport!). We left at 6:05 in clear skies, a nice view of the Chemung River beneath us. It clouded over, and we landed in Philly in a cold rain. Ambled back to the American gates and flew home, in deep nap most of the way.

The following Thursday, I was able to do something that would not have been possible before the Internet: I tracked down a long-lost friend, Kenny Saxe. I met Kenny, then a Montreal resident, in December 1969 on a chairlift above Aspen, Colorado. To find him, I just typed his name into Google and followed a couple of links to Montpelier,Vermont, then to switchboard.com for his phone number. "Hi, Kenny, it's a voice from your past, Rob Britton . . ." What fun that is! We exchanged e-mails and photos the following week.

Weekend travel had caused me to miss ramp building for a couple of months, but on April 18 I got back in the groove. Working with the tireless John Laine, Delta Captain Larry Rollow, and an Eagle Scout candidate, we dodged raindrops and lightning bolts and built a 24-foot ramp for Jessie Wilson on Waco Street. Not just for her, but for her son, too, who heretofore could not visit his mother because he also uses a wheelchair. So we four paved the way to an easier Easter dinner the next day. We smiled. That night, Linda and I headed back into the city, to the Boho-hipster district called Deep Ellum, to catch Jack's band, Jhombi, in a paid (yep, cash) gig at The Door. They were great; I again had to grip myself and not jump up for a dance, which surely would have caused almost infinite embarrassment.

On Easter morning, Alleluia, the four Brittons rose before dawn, drove at high speeds to the airport ("we should have left earlier" was Linda's refrain; she was right, as usual). We climbed onto the Silver Bird and took off to the north, into clear skies, a palette of blues and grays to the horizon. Your correspondent was reminded again of what a cool business this is. That coolness stood in stark contrast to the firestorm that arose a couple of days earlier, when our trade unions reacted angrily to revelations of differential treatment for executives (no, I am not among that number). Landing at Chicago O'Hare 100 minutes later, I grinned again, for the privilege of being part of an enterprise that can carry 130 people 801 miles in that little time, and with great comfort and safety.

We jumped in a Hertz car and in no time were sailing southeast on the Kennedy, soon parking the car in front of Cousin Jim's old house on Altgeld Avenue. In fact, Jim and his boys Jack, 3, and Charlie, 2, were in front of the house when we pulled up. In no time three of my other cousins, their spouses, and children piled into the house, and noise and chaos reigned. For Linda and me, faced with an empty nest in just four months, this was as good as it gets! We snapped pictures, yakked, laughed, ate, hugged. Without strong extended families on either Linda's side or mine, we are grateful that Cousin Jim and his folk have adopted us.

We motored back to O'Hare, and while waiting for our flight home (and Robin's airplane back to L.A.), Jack announced his college decision: SMU, with the Hunt Scholarship. A good choice. Hopped on the jet, and were home by 8:30.

That pleasant day contrasted starkly with Monday the 21^st. The mood at our corporate headquarters was grim. People were mad. How, they asked, could our CEO have stolen defeat from the jaws of victory. Veteran employees, people even more gung-ho than me, were seething. In nearly two decades in the business, it ranked as the second most awful workday, right behind September 11, 2001. By the end of the week, much had changed. A new CEO, new agreements with the three unions, and for the third time in as many weeks, we swerved around bankruptcy.

At noon that day, I left the building to fly to Washington. On the way out, I ran into Lisa Arpey, wife of Gerard, our new CEO. We had a nice chat. She's a really sweet person. I parked the car, headed to the airport, and climbed on flight 1948.

We've all been wondering about the temperament of our flight crews and other of American's frontline people, in the wake of all this business turbulence. On flight 1948, at least, we need not fret. My first hint was when the captain, Jim Baird, was greeting customers in the gate before we began boarding. Walking aboard, he shook every customer's hand from the cockpit door. Then there was flight attendant Paula Hooks, possibly the cheeriest and most helpful employee I have ever seen. It was just remarkable, and it made me feel happy and proud.

We landed at National about 4:30, in a light rain. I hopped on the Metro, and in no time was at the Farragut West station. Sprinted a block and half – well as much sprinting as one can do with a suitcase and briefcase – in the rain, a bit heavier than when we landed. Checked in at the fancy St. Regis Hotel, and met Linda, who had flown up earlier. Washed my face, and headed downstairs to meet our hosts. We were attending a Newsweek customer function for advertisers. Unlike many corporate people who make big purchase decisions, we seldom go on these kinds of boondoggles, but this one sounded cool: a chance to listen to the magazine's editors and an author, and a ticket to the White House Correspondents' Dinner the next night.

Friday night's event was a reception and dinner at a nearby law firm, chosen because it had a terrace with a view of Lafayette Park and the White House. Before dinner, we heard from Newsweek's Evan Thomas, some light commentary on politics and Washington. Dinner was lively; we were sitting with our hosts, Jim and Terrie Lonergan (Jim's the magazine's Southwest salesman), and some other magazine folks.

Then Senator Jay Rockefeller (Democrat of West Virginia) took the podium, and delivered a very sobering and substantive speech on intelligence challenges the U.S. faces. The senator discussed the need for 1) greater coordination among the 15 (yep, fifteen) Federal agencies that have an intelligence role; and 2) some clearer and more moderate thinking on domestic intelligence gathering. What a treat to have access to minds like his.

I was up at 7:45 the next morning (after a very rare nine hours of sleep), out for a trot in light mist. South through Lafayette Park, to the growing barricades around the White House, around the Old Executive Office Building, past the FDIC, to Constitution Avenue, the Vietnam War, Korean War, and Lincoln Memorials, then into Foggy Bottom, at the massive State Department complex, where the 20-minute mark slowed the pace to a brisk walk. Groups of people, mainly women, were ambling northwest on Virginia Avenue; they carried no signs, nor hollered, so I assumed it was not a demonstration. Indeed, two walkers told me it was day one of a 40-mile walk to raise funds for breast cancer research and prevention. I yakked for a minute with them, wished them good luck and dryness, and headed down New York Avenue, pausing to admire the offices of the American Institute of Architects (you'd expect a nice building, and it was), past our Air Transport Association, and ba! ck to the barricades.

I don't like them. They signal fear. The night before, a Newsweek editor told us that one of the underlying reasons the President invaded Iraq was to show the world that the U.S. is strong. How can we look strong if our own leader is surrounded by a bigger and bigger security perimeter that prevents the citizenry from admiring his historic home? Another block on, I saw, for the second time in six weeks, the banner hanging from the church wall at 16^th and I Street: "Be strong and of a good courage. Be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed, for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest". That is precisely the guidance we all need. As I've written before, if we respond to threat by being afraid, the terrorists win. It's as easy as that.

Showered, had some coffee and yogurt, and headed over to Decatur House on Lafayette Park for a brunch and speech by historian Michael Beschloss. Just a wonderful talk, mostly stories about presidents, especially the colorful Lyndon Baines Johnson. Yakked with some more nice people, took a tour of the 1818 house that Commodore Decatur built (unfortunately, the docent was weak).

Linda and I then headed east to the National Building Museum, a Smithsonian facility that was originally the (war) Pensions Bureau. Designed by Army General Montgomery Meigs and built in the 1887, the building is just spectacular. I had heard great things about the place, and it did not disappoint. Just terrific. High point was an exhibit on Mount Vernon as the birthplace of historic preservation in the U.S., which included the original weathervane atop the building, the dove of peace with an olive sprig in her mouth. This city makes us proud of our past and our today – a wonderful feeling. We walked back, noticing the new Americans touring the capital: Indian families, the women in saris, the families of newly arrived Mexicans and Central Americans. That made me proud, too.

We suited up (black tie) for the big dinner, which was underwhelming. There was a Newsweek reception visited by some famous and wannabe-famous people. The presence of the Secretary of State, Chairman of the Federal Reserve, Senator John Kerry, Robert Duvall, and Dr. Ruth created a sort of zoo-like atmosphere. I settled for a brief chats with the Yang Jiechi, Ambassador of the People's Republic of China to the U.S. (a remarkably young and informal guy who could have been a software engineer from Silicon Valley); General Richard Myers, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff (a nice guy); and his aide, Lieutenant Commander Dan Cheever, F-18 navy aviator, father of triplets and husband of a former Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. He was swell.

Dinner was crowded, noisy, and almost unpleasant. Maybe the happiest moment was the Marine Corps Band playing the national anthem, which caused me to smile and think of another soldier, my dad. President Bush spoke briefly and somberly, mainly about two U.S. journalists who died in Iraq, Michael Kelly and David Bloom. We were back at the hotel by 11.

I woke at 7:45, to a bright Sunday. I wasn't going to run (I planned to ride my bike when I got home, later that day), but the blue sky propelled me onto the street, past the red tulips-on-steroids in Lafayette Park, southeast to the Capitol, up the hill, and down Massachusetts Ave. to #1363, home of my friend Carl Nelson. Under 25 minutes. Rang doorbell three times, no answer, left my name in twigs on the front steps, walked to the Eastern Market Metro station, and rode back home. Showered, drank coffee from the Burger King across the street, rode to National Airport, and flew home, above a perfectly clear America, our homeland. A nice trip.

Eight days later, after a weekend spent around the neighborhood (including two games at the high school ball diamond, where our Pearce team beat Greenville to advance to the next round of playoffs), I rose at the usual time, stopped at the office, then headed to the airport. The flight to Chicago was more than full, and two sky marshals were trying to wedge aboard, so I opted for the cockpit jumpseat, and the chance to get a good view out the front window. A couple of really nice pilots, Captain Hayley Witwer (yes, a woman!) and F/O Mark Ramins, both out of our New York crew base. The ride was nice. They liked riding with a former geography professor, testing him with rivers and towns along the way. I liked their words about the shared sacrifice that we hope will allow American to weather the current storm. The approach took us right over the top of O'Hare, out over the big lake, and back in, landing to the southwest on Runway 14R.

Hopped on the CTA Blue Line, riding to Addison St., then on the 152 bus east to Wrigley Field and the Red Line, which took me north to Howard, then the Purple Line to Evanston. It took awhile, but it cost $1.50 and gave me a good chance to catch up with the work I avoided sitting in the cockpit. Biggest task was to review notes for two presentations to Prof. Anne Coughlan's Marketing Channels class at Northwestern's Kellogg School. It was my sixth visit to the school. The first lecture went well, and we hopped in her car for a nice drive to the school's downtown campus. Ah, that ride along Lake Shore Drive on a fair spring day! I worked my e-mails, made a couple of calls, grabbed some quick dinner, then set to work in the second lecture, to evening MBA students. Both groups were, as always, filled with really bright second-year students, nearly all of which had found jobs.

I left the building at dusk, walked west to Michigan Avenue, north a block, then west to State, jumping on the Red Line. In no time I was at Cousin Jim's house. The kids were already asleep. Visited with Michaela and Jim, then the boys headed to Lucille's, their neighborhood bar, for some nice chatter and a couple of glasses of wheat beer.

Up the next morning really, really early, to the sounds of little kids ("Daddy, I have a poop" was the alarm clock). Out the door, back to O'Hare, and into our flight attendant crew base there, for an 11 o'clock "Advertising Update". Lunch with some of my friends from my two years running Food & Beverage, and flew home. A lot of yakking, structured and otherwise.

I was home for about ten days. It was nice. Robin came home from her second year at USC, and the house was full, a fullness that brings a smile. Jack was whirling about, to and from activities preceding his high-school graduation on May 24. We spent a lot of time at the high-school baseball field, watching the Mustangs, which include a number of Jack's longtime friends, advance to the state quarter-finals before losing the final game in extra innings. And we spent some hours in the high-school auditorium, for an awards ceremony, and for the last school choir concert; once again, I could tune my aging ears exactly to Jack's contribution to the a cappella, and it was a sweet sound.

Saturday, May 17 was a happy day. The night before, after the baseball defeat, I slept soundly for six hours, but awoke at five, excited by the prospect of traveling that day. It's worth noting, I think, that a person who travels so much still gets jazzed about a trip, and that morning I was wide awake with anticipation. I flopped a bit, then got up at 5:45, pumped up the bike tires and took off into a stiff west wind. I was cloudy and much cooler than previous days, which energized me to ride 18 miles. Ate a bowl of Cheerios, showered, kissed Linda, and took off for the airport and a flight to New York.

I was headed to a wedding. Those are always special events, but this was one was really special. Flavius Stan had already married Francesca Sartira, in a civil ceremony; this would be the church one. You may recall Flavius, but let me briefly reprise the story of our friendship. On Christmas Eve, 1995, The New York Times published his essay "The Night of Oranges" (attached as a bitmap file). At the time, he was an exchange student at a private school in the Bronx. Touched by the essay (I read it to our family at dinner that night), I sent him a letter at the school, and many months later he responded. I finally met him in 1997, and I try to see him whenever I'm in New York. He earned a B.A. from Columbia and an M.A. from NYU, and currently works at the International Peace Academy, a NGO attached to the United Nations. Flavius is a living example of the genius of a nation that has long believed that opening our land to people from all over will make ! us stronger and better.

We landed at La Guardia at 1:15, I sent some e-mails, and hopped on the Q33 bus to Jackson Heights. The bus was crowded. Out the window, for several blocks, one saw flags flying in front of nearly every other house; though a neighborhood mostly of new arrivals, the patriotic sense was clear. Caught the E train, and in ten minutes was walking south on Third, headed for the chapel of the U.N. Church Center at 44^th and 1^st Avenue. A few blocks north of the church was a bit Turkish-American Day festival, lots of hoopla in red and white, the national colors of Turkey.

I arrived at the church and began meeting friends and family. Flavius' father was there from Timisoara, Romania, as were both of Francesca's parents, from Torino, Italy. The ceremony was nice, with the classic readings from Genesis and Paul. We mingled a bit afterwards, then headed to the reception, at the home of Peter and Amy Bernstein on E. 72^nd Street. I had never been in a fancy New York apartment; this one occupied the entire floor of the building, and it was swell. There were lots of Bernsteins there, all of whom figured prominently in Flavius' financial and familial support in the early years. They are his family in America. Many good conversations with interesting people, lots of whom were, not surprisingly, also new arrivals in America. Toasts, hugs, great food, a nice cake.

I was out the door just before dusk, on foot across Central Park. The sight of a fellow in a suit, briskly rolling a suitcase and briefcase, drew a few stares. At Central Park West, I headed north to 104^th Street, then west. Suddenly I was traversing an income and class gradient, and soon was passing public housing and people who looked much different than those close to the park.

At 104^th and Amsterdam, I arrived at my quarters: the youth hostel where I had stayed when I was a member of the national board member of Hostelling International-USA. True to the original precepts of hostelling, I arrived under my own steam, prompting a chuckle as I entered the lobby. It seemed like a good place to stay; I had not been in one for several years, the price was right, and it would make for great chatter with Jack, who is about to head to Europe, staying in hostels in several countries.

I'm still friendly with the people who run the organization, and they had arranged a bunk in an otherwise empty room. That was good, because I was worn out. I changed clothes, wandered into the chapel for evening prayers (the chapel was a vestige; the building, from 1899, was originally built for the Association for the Relief of Respectable Aged Indigent Females), then up to 106^th and Broadway to find the M60 bus stop for the next morning's ride back to La Guardia, then west to the bluff above the Hudson, pausing to admire a bronze statue of German-American Franz Sigel. Then to bed.

The hostel was noisy, and I slept lightly. Up at 5:50, wash up in the communal baths, and out the door. The M60 left the stop on time, eased north, past Columbia University, then east on 125^th, the main artery of Harlem. Past the Apollo Theatre, across the Triborough Bridge, past the angel-topped headstones in St. Michael's Cemetery, and to the airfield. Flew home, landing at 10:30.

The week of May 24-31 was intense. Lots of stuff happening, and lots of emotion. On the 24th, Jack graduated from J. J. Pearce High School. As expected, tears welled when I saw him process, and again when he collected his diploma. But I was fully together when, as senior-class president, he delivered the farewell speech (attached as a Word document; hope you enjoy it). We are so proud of him. Joining us were Linda's mother and sister; as well as Shiela Dyson, Jack's 6th-grade teacher at the Math-Science-Technology magnet school. A strong African-American woman, she was a force for better in Jack's life, and we were so honored that she took the time to be there.

We had a nice dinner afterwards, then Linda and I worked an all-night graduation party (well, okay, your scribe was able to clock out at 1:30!). Quite a day. I was grateful for time that week to ride my bike; on those sorties I was able to sort through all of what happened over the past eighteen years; such happy memories. And memories on top of those: on the 27^th, Linda and I celebrated our silver wedding anniversary, and your scribe delivered – and got high marks for – the diamond I chose weeks earlier in New York (in return, I got a way-cool flat-panel computer monitor). Celebratory dinner at an agreeable slice of Provence in a North Dallas strip mall was a delight. And that raspberry souffle for dessert, whew!

On the last Friday of May, I rode a dozen miles at dawn on the black Trek, and drove down to the Paul Dunbar Learning Center for the last chance before summer to read to Ms. Arenivas' fifth-grade class. Before reading, I delivered Jack's old drum set to Mr. Whitney, the band teacher, who was happy to have it. The class was enthused to see me; I had been reading to many of them for a couple of years, and we've become friends. I read a nice story, Sweet, Sweet Memory. Then it was the moment of truth: Ms. Arenivas handed out the results of the Texas standardized test, called TAKS, of reading, math, and science. I'm not exactly sure why she chose to hand them out with me present, but I think my role was to underscore Ms. Arenivas' words.

Some students jumped up and down, others were quiet. A couple had tears in their eyes. It was a touching moment. I was not sure what to say, but I knew I needed to be inspirational. I did my best, emphasizing the importance of reading, and the opportunity to improve over the summer. I also talked about the importance of self-control, of learning to do the hard stuff over the easy, fun stuff. One thing was certain: neither George Bush nor William Bennett had been in a classroom in a poor urban neighborhood on the day the kids got their standardized test scores. I saw their faces, and looked into their eyes, and knew that the task of raising and educating children is a big, complex one, not given to glib "no child left behind" rhetoric. All sorts of thoughts flooded my head as I drove out to work. More emotion, yes, and some reason, too: signing up, in my mind, for another year – and probably more – of reading.

The next day, Robin headed to New York for an eight-week summer internship, and three days after that Jack climbed on the Silver Bird for a month of backpacking through Europe, Eurailpass in hand. My kind of trip. Back home, the place was way too quiet. Empty. Whew, I think to myself and voice to Linda, this is going to take some getting used to. You know it's coming, the empty nest, but there's nothing you can do to prepare.

It felt good to take wing on June 9, more three weeks after my last flight (might be a record for time spent on the ground). At mid-day I flew southeast to Miami. The radio that morning told of storms in Florida, and by the time we were over the Gulf of Mexico they had settled over Dade County, closing the airport. So we held for 45 minutes over Fort Myers, my seatmate nervously looking at his watch. We then came in, landed, and waited 15 more minutes for lightning to abate and a gate to open up.

Ninety minutes later, I was at a reception to kick off the last chunk of consolidation of American's worldwide advertising into a single ad agency; in 2002 we brought Europe, Central and South America, and Mexico under one umbrella, and now it was time to swap out a handful of small agencies in the Caribbean for the McCann-Erickson team. There were a range of interesting people at the party, held on the top floor of a hotel a mile from the airport. We could watch our Silver Birds landing to the west, toward a golden sunset. It was a nice scene. The next morning I gave an introduction to the airline business, then spent the afternoon reviewing our #2 and #3 Caribbean markets, the Dominican Republic and Jamaica. Very different places.

I flew home on one of our enormous and way-cool 777s, listening to Copland and Bach, and reading an autobiographical essay by geography professor John Borchert, who I eulogized two years ago and have mentioned in previous updates. His son has put a number of these essays on his website, www.borchert.com. They are fascinating reading. Here's an excerpt, from a turning point in his life. It was September 1945 and John had just been discharged from the Army; at the urging of his wife, Jane (a subscriber to this update, by the way), en route home to Indiana from Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, he stopped to see a Geography professor at the University of Wisconsin:

That passage had huge currency as I flew home that June evening. As I looked out at the weather system over the Gulf of Mexico, I knew, thanks to my physical-geography training, what was out there. Working my e-mails at 7:30 that morning, before my lecture to the advertising people, came an invitation to lecture in September at the Stockholm School of Economics. To be a teacher, even an occasional one, is a great calling. I know why John wrote that he was "hooked, for good."

On June 14, my ramp-building pal Greg Nichols and I built ramps for Mr. Gardner and Ms. Neal, for her son actually, who recently had a leg amputated. Despite the full-sun building sites, doing the work felt so good. The next day was a different kind of Father's Day. For the first time since 1982, there was no child to hug (even that year, I could pat Linda's belly and say hello to a developing Robin). Sure, the swell presents were there (new biking shoes from Linda and a cool Ferragamo tie from Robin, the fashion queen), and a sweet e-mail signed "Ciao, Jack, Roma", but my eyes teared up several times that day.

At 3:30 that day, I kissed Linda, drove to the airport, and flew north to St. Louis, my first visit there in nearly two years. Hopped on their handy light-rail line, Metrolink, and zipped downtown. By 8:10 I was in the left-field grandstand of Busch Stadium, beer in hand, greeting my hosts from the Travel & Tourism Research Association. I was there to deliver the keynote address for their annual conference the next day. The evening was fun – I met a bunch of interesting people, including Prof. Chuck Goeldner from the University of Colorado, really the dean of academic tourism marketing, and his wife Jacqui. Iowa natives, really nice people, with some mutual friends of mine. Because I got to the stadium event late, I missed the dinner, so repaired to the hotel for my first-ever room-service meal (I am not making this up). I think eating in a hotel room is a bad idea, but I was highly motivated to see the last half of the last game of the NBA championshi! p, and the San Antonio Spurs did not disappoint.

The speech the next morning went well. Stayed around to yak with some folks, then hopped back on the train to the airport, arriving in time for lunch with David Cush, a former boss who now runs our St. Louis hub. We had a good visit – I had not spoken with him for a couple of years. Worked e-mails in his office, flew to Chicago, worked in the Admirals Club for a few hours, and hopped on our nonstop to Calgary for part two of my Canadian dental adventure. It was a clear early evening, perfect for sightseeing: up over the tony North Shore suburbs; the big nuclear power plant at Zion; then west across Wisconsin, right over Camp McCoy (where John Borchert was discharged in 1945 – see four paragraphs above). We continued west-northwest, right over what used to be David and Katherine Kelly's Pixy Farms dairy operation east of Hudson, Wisconsin; across the wide St. Croix River; above White Bear Lake and the pleasant suburbs northeast of St. Paul; over another nuc! lear plant at Monticello, Minnesota. Then it clouded over.

The clouds came and went for the rest of the journey. I ate dinner and read more of John Borchert's wonderful reminiscences about growing up in northern Indiana. John would have approved of my keeping track of our progress during the clear patches, using water features to navigate this empty part of North America: over Devil's Lake, North Dakota, the Mouse (Souris) River, Old Wives' Lake in Saskatchewan. On the northern horizon was the mighty South Saskatchewan River, flowing east toward Hudson Bay. The skies had cleared well enough to navigate with some landforms, too, like the Cypress Hills on the Alberta-Saskatchewan border. Then appeared the great Trans-Canada Highway, a wide ribbon stretching to the horizons and beyond – east to St. John's, Newfoundland, and west to Vancouver. One could only think about the pioneer Europeans finding their way across this land, without the benefit of an atlas and a view from 33,000 feet!

We landed at 9:15 and it was still light. In December, the immigration inspector gave me the third degree when I told him I was in Canada for dental work; this time, the cheery young woman smiled when I told her my plan, adding "and to stick it to overpriced American dentists". Picked up a Hertz car, motored to the hotel, and multitasked, working my e-mail, and watching the CBC-TV news program, The National, which in an hour provides an opportunity to get up to speed with the situation north of the border (assuming, of course, you know the basic lay of the Canadian land, which I do).

The next morning, I was up early and out the door, stopping for breakfast at Tim Horton's, a signal Canadian institution that sells coffee, doughnuts, and other baked goods. I got my bran muffin and milk, and sat down to watch the parade of patrons. And what I saw was that everyone, every single one, had health insurance: the Chinese teenager in the Oakley cap washing the windows; the prosperous-looking couple reading the Globe and Mail, the construction worker in the Labatt's Beer T-shirt. Every one. Regular readers know that I am on record in total support of a single-payer plan for health coverage. Canada shines on this.

I drove south, then west on Memorial Drive, along with other rush-hour commuters headed downtown. The radio was tuned to a Country station, and the traffic report was classic: delays from a dead deer on Canmore Trail at 37^th, and cows on the road southeast of town! Across the Bow River, and into the large city center. For a city of about 900,000, the downtown is huge. Canada shines again: across the country, civic leaders recognized that maintaining downtown vitality is key.

Into the parking ramp in Dr. Lovick's building, the Pakistani attendant studying my Texas driver's license – left as a deposit – intently. All was proceeding normally in the chair and then disaster struck: the implant did not implant, and was in Doc's fingers. He was astonished. I was crazed. But the answer to failure (it was my bone structure, not his technique) is always swift, decisive recovery, so we turned to Plan B: a bridge. Yep, Doc, go! They called the lab and they said they were "pretty sure" they could build one in 24 hours. In an hour I was out of the office. The dental-tourism adventure turned interactive, when I volunteered to drop the molds at the lab – it would give them another hour and the bridge-builders could better assess the right shade of coffee-stained ivory! So there I was, face to lace with Ludvik, slightly tousled but no doubt a supreme craftsman, and a fellow ceramist. They were debating the proper shade. When they were happy, I! thanked them in advance, and departed.

I drove west, tuned to CBC Radio 2, the coast-to-coast classical-music service. Samuel Barber's famous "Adagio for Strings" came on. If you know that work, you know that it is great music for reflection, and I began to reflect – but then the Safeway supermarket presented itself to the right, and I wheeled in to buy provisions for the next part of the day, a "power hike" in the Rockies. Loaded up, I headed west on the Trans-Canada Highway, and smack into a huge traffic jam from road construction. Through that bottleneck, I spotted a hitchhiker and pulled over. It had been almost four years since I gave the last thumber, Peter, a ride from Bratislava, Slovakia, to Trencin. It was time. This fellow had a nice smile, and was a sweet and probably slightly retarded person, hitching from Saskatchewan to visit his sister in Vancouver. We motored west for 35 minutes, until I said goodbye and turned south on Alberta Highway 40, the Kananaskis Trail.

I stopped at the Visitor Centre in Peter Loughheed Provincial Park. This whole chunk of Alberta, known as Kananaskis Country, is an enormous recreational area, purchased and maintained with dollars from the Alberta Heritage Fund, which gets its dollars from oil and gas royalties. The Heritage Fund supports a range of activities – senior-citizen housing, rural education, recreation, and more. Canada – or more precisely Alberta – shines again. At the Visitor Centre, I queried park ranger Duane Fizor about my intended day hike, seven miles one-way to Three Isle Lake. It would be 1:45 by the time I got on the trail, and I wanted to know if I could do the round-trip that afternoon. At first he said no, but I pressed him, and he allowed that a fit person could do it. So off I went, promising to e-mail him a report on trail conditions.

The first five miles were a breeze. Duane told me where the grizzly bear sow and two cubs were ranging, so I made plenty of noise in that stretch. No problem – no bears but plenty of bear turds on the trail. Then the challenge began, as I headed into snow and finding the trail became difficult. Okay, I left the trail, but I had a good topographic map and a compass and I could navigate. Up and up I went, above 7,000 feet until I crested a ridge and looked down on Three Isle Lake. So down I went on a snowfield, sliding and occasionally digging in. Found the trail at a campsite, said hooray, and started heading down again. But there was another snowfield and I got off track. I was bushwhacking now, in the woods and on rocks. I spotted the trail, hooray again, and vectored toward it, down some steep, steep terrain. Hands in snow and hands on rock, and, I realized twenty minutes later, God's hands on me, slowing me as I descended.

I was happy to rejoin the trail, and continue down the valley. At the first bridge across Three Isle Creek, I stopped for a break, to cool my feet and clean my legs in the 40-degree water. I continued, past the Forks campground, where the Upper Kananaskis River and the creek converged, and on. The light was behind me, a soft light. Back in the bear range, I made noise again, counting my steps from two to ten, then again, and again. I was back at the car by 7:05, draining the by-now-warm liter of orange juice, yakking with a fisherman from British Columbia, and swatting at mosquitoes.

The drive back to Calgary was pleasant. At dusk, the animals appear, and I saw deer, elk, and Rocky Mountain sheep. I stopped at Kananaskis Village – where we had vacationed in August 1990 – and drank a lot of water and a ginger ale. Back on the Trans-Canada, I again tuned in CBC Radio 2, in time for Bruckner's sensational Fourth Symphony, "The Romantic". Whew, that was nice music for motoring. Back into the city, east on N. 16^th Avenue, to a Chinese strip mall, not unlike what we have in Richardson, Texas, to find some dinner. And I found it at the oddly named Pebble Street (must have been a translation), where every other diner was Chinese (always a good sign). An appetizer of Thai shrimp cakes, a main course of spicy Szechuan noodles, and a cold ale from Calgary's Big Rock microbrewery. Nice. The hotel was right across the street, a big plus.

Talked with Linda, worked my e-mail, and fell into a major sleep, with the windows open and a nice southerly breeze. Woke up before seven, turned on the news, packed, and was out the door. Motored around for an hour, taking some pictures, and met my friend Norah Carmichael and her son Mark for breakfast at the hole-in-the-wall Riverside Café north of downtown (and just down from the onion domes of St. Vladimir's Ukrainian Orthodox Church). Norah had worked for years for Canadian Airlines and its predecessor companies, and we became friends in 1997, when I was in Corporate Communications. When Air Canada bought Canadian in 2000, she said goodbye, and now sells real estate. Mark, a week from getting a driver's license, is a great hockey player and a nice young man. We had a swell visit.

I climbed into my rented Taurus and motored to the University of Calgary to have a look at the campus, then south across town to Heritage Park, then back downtown for my mid-day appointment. Ludvik had come through, and the bridge looked perfect, and fit even better. I thanked Dr. Lovick and his assistant Laurie, paid the bill, visited with the friendly receptionist Nazma, then motored north to the airport, and flew home. A successful trip – lots of adventure, meeting new friends and old, and a smile Made in Canada. And she shines yet again!

Friday, June 20, was a hard day. I spent much of it working on a RIF, a reduction in force, in our department, more collateral damage from the enormous downturn in our business. I told our entire department at a staff meeting last year that laying people off is a sign of corporate failure, that it is the worst possible thing to do. Sure, we do what we need to do to manage the enterprise, but the burden weighs heavily when one thinks about the impacts of the layoffs. And having to say goodbye to people you have known for years is painful.

The next day, Larry Rollow, Lisa Welch, three young volunteers and I built a ramp for 88-year-old Sina Carter. She was happy to have it. When we finished, she came out and just raved and raved about it, thanking us profusely. It felt good.

The day after that, I motored out to DFW at noon and flew to Miami. Storms over South Florida were way bigger than they were two weeks earlier, and we arrived five minutes after my connecting flight to Madrid was to depart. Happily, all the outbound flights were also delayed – never was I happier to see a late flight! On the flight to Miami, I listened to four tracks from Jack's rock band Jhombi; it was nice to hear his drums and feel a connection, however tenuous, with our son – almost as good as his e-mails from Munich and Berlin.

This town (made a bit more visible by 20^th -century Spanish composer Joaquin Rodrigo's "Concert for Aranjuez") was for centuries a royal retreat, and today reflects a range of architecture and varied visions of town planning. UNESCO recently designated Aranjuez a World Heritage site, so it was a perfect place for a hot-afternoon excursion. I changed clothes, grabbed my camera, and headed back onto the Metro to the Atocha railway station.

Dinner comes late in Madrid, so I took a short nap before heading out at 8:45 to a neighborhood tapas bar, where I had a nice plate of cod with garlic, and coconut pudding for dessert. While eating dinner, I got to thinking about Madrid and its place as the seat of Spanish empire. I wondered if 400 years ago someone near to where I was eating dinner was complaining about the impenetrable clay soils of North Texas, the same ones that bedevil me when I dig in our gardens! It was worth a muse. But only for a little while – I was asleep by 10:45.

The next morning, I enjoyed an ample buffet breakfast in the hotel dining room, then met my colleagues. We were in Madrid for a twice-yearly meeting of the Marketing Steering Group of the oneworld alliance, and I introduced myself to people from Finnair, Lan Chile, Iberia, and British Airways. We hopped in a minibus and headed out to the airport, where we met all day in a lovely house that was a sort of conference center for Iberia. Before lunch, Charlie Stewart-Cox from Cathay Pacific, the airline of Hong Kong, arrived, with a dismal account of their effort to survive the SARS crisis (57% of their flights canceled at the peak of the hysteria).

The Iberia people were outstanding hosts: lunch lasted two hours. The open-faced smoked- salmon sandwiches that were listed as "canapes" in the menu printed just for us would have sufficed, but there were five more courses. Happily, a couple of cups of strong coffee kept us awake through the afternoon. We adjourned at 5:30 and headed back to town. I worked my e-mail and again had time for a short nap before we headed to dinner at nine. Iberia hosted another superb meal, at the restaurant Asador Guetaria. We rose from the table at midnight. Called home and clocked out for a short night.

Toss, turn, toss, turn. Too much food the day before! Rose at 6:45, laced up, and took off south on Calle Serrano to Retiro Park, Madrid's huge green lung. It was several degrees cooler beneath the trees. Ran north, showered, ate some fruit, and we headed back to the Iberia house for more meetings. We finished at one, headed to the airport, and flew to London Heathrow, then on to Chicago, and finally Dallas. Head hit pillow at 12:40.

Was up at 6:45 the next morning. Re-packed my bag, clean undies and such, and headed to work. The day sped past, and at four I went back to the airport and flew to Washington, DC. Had a delightful conversation with my seatmate, Prof. Walter Salmon, retired from the Harvard Business School's Marketing Department. It was a nice contrast with the creep who sat next to me the day before, from London to Chicago, a fellow who exuded bad karma from every pore. Professor Salmon offered additional validation that we need to fix our fare structure, providing ample testimony from recent personal experience. Travel is so broadening! We landed at 9:30 and I hopped in a cab to Carl Nelson's house a mile southeast of the U.S. Capitol.

You know Carl – he's our Associate General Counsel in Washington, a longtime friend, and perennial host when I visit Washington. We yakked a bit that night, but I was plumb wore out, and was fast asleep by 10:45. We rose at six for "Dawn Patrol" (last described in the Third Quarter 2002 update; we've been doing these early bike rides for ten years now). On the way up to Washington, I thought of a new itinerary: a tour of the embassies northwest of downtown. Carl was skeptical, but after seeing the first few "up close" he was convinced. It was just a terrific ride, past old buildings and new ones (the new Turkish Embassy is especially nice), past legations of large countries and small. Past the red phone booth in front of the British Embassy and the stone elephants flanking the doors of the Indian mission. Especially noteworthy were the many new statues and busts of democratic pioneers in formerly totalitarian or repressive places – the Lajos Kossuth, a 19th-century Hungarian, Tomas Masaryk, president of Czechoslovakia in the early 20^th, and others.

On the way back we paused at a couple of interesting monuments, including one to Albert Einstein in front of the National Academy of Sciences. Passing one of the Smithsonian museums on the mall, Carl and I both noticed the six men supervising the progress of a single construction worker; it seemed all the more silly because today and Monday we at American will reduce our management ranks by another seven percent. We're lean – why aren't they? It made us cranky.

Back at Carl's, I showered, we ate breakfast with his wife Mary, and I headed off to a day of meetings. Flew home in late afternoon, happy to be in Texas for awhile.

And three days later, the quarter ended.