Second Quarter Update

Like most mornings over 16 consecutive spring visits to Cornell, April Fool's Day dawned rainy and gloomy. No matter, since it was a day wholly inside. At breakfast, I hooked up with the Hospitality Industry Council (HIC), and one of our twice-yearly meetings began. Lots of candid chatter, poking fun at fellow members, but plenty of useful comments and ideas for the Hotel School associate dean who chairs the sessions.

At ten, I left the group to teach, as I have since 1989, in the Airline Management class. My longtime host Mac Noden retired last year, and Prof. Mary Tabacchi has taken over; she had clearly done a good job of priming the students on the basic structural issues facing the U.S. industry. The teaching assistant and a first-year student knew more about the business than probably 90 percent of people who actually worked in the trade. Indeed, I had to rein in the younger, to keep him from gaining control of the class! It was a lively session. Returned to the HIC meetings, ate lunch, and continued until about four.

Worked my e-mail, and at six headed to the hotel bar for a reception, the official start of Hotel Ezra Cornell, the 79^th annual event where students run the hotel, stage panels and seminars, and network with alums and industry people. I immediately fell into a series of lively conversations with grad students and seniors, a couple of whom remembered me from previous visits. Enjoyed a quick dinner set up for speakers, and headed back to work from my remote office in room 907 (I try to keep current with e-mail and other stuff while on these gigs).

Up at 6:30 the next morning, laced up, out the door for my annual run on campus, north to Beebe Lake, and up to the nice waterfall on Fall Creek. First visited in '89, I've seen the falls on almost every trip, and – as I think I've written before – I find something comforting in a cycle that puts me next to the rushing water. I always thank God for that. Back to the hotel, off to the kickoff event of the weekend, a panel discussion with some hoteliers, then to an hour with the two airline "groupies" from the day before; one of them e-mailed me after class, begging for an hour with just them and me. Why not? Then lunch, another couple of educational sessions, e-mail and calls back to the office. At 5:45, I headed to a reception before the awards dinner, spending most of the time visiting with a wonderful young man who that day learned he had landed a job as an assistant F&B manager at the Four Seasons Hotel in Washington, DC. He was pumped, and I was very happy for him (later that night, he won an award that paid all expenses for a ten-week jaunt through vineyards in California, Italy, and France). The dinner was fun, though long, and I clocked out at ten, knowing that reveille was at 04:30.

Ithaca Airport was fogged in the night before, and our flight to Pittsburgh was late; missed the connecting flight to DFW, but was still in our driveway before two, on a gorgeous spring day. Out on the bike, then NCAA basketball. Nice to be home.

The next day, Palm Sunday, Linda and I helped serve communion at church, something we do several times per year, with great joy. I spent a fair bit of time early that morning and late afternoon sending out the first quarter update, including posting to the website. It takes time, but it's worth it. As I was working the files at the end of the day, listening to John Williams' inspiring "American Journey", I remembered my Dad, as I had several times that day. Thinking about my great fortune to have a mobile and interesting life, I celebrated him as the provider of lift under my wings, early in my life and through my teenage years.

On Wednesday, April 7, Jack Britton and I, both very pumped, climbed aboard flight 78 to London. I was in 1J, my favorite perch on the 777. Paying customers – the folks that make these trips possible – took all the remaining chairs in First Class, so he sat in Business Class. Hardly steerage, but no chance to yak, so I cranked up the MP3 tunes of his former rock band, Jhombi, and it was almost like he was next to me, pounding out the rhythm on his drums.

We landed at 10:30, zipped through the airport, onto the Gatwick Express to Victoria, then a taxi to the Griffy's home in St. John's Wood, the third visit there in as many months. They were back home in Dallas and Hot Springs, Arkansas, for Easter, and gave us the keys to their townhouse. Wow! They are the kindest, most generous friends, and we are so grateful not only for the use of their home, but also their wonderful support of Robin during her semester in London.

Jenny the Border Collie greeted us at the door. Smarter than a lot of people, Jenny was a good companion during the hours we were at the townhouse that weekend (we only hope we were happy to provide her with some replacement love during the days that her masters were away). Jack and I showered, unpacked a bit, and were out the door at 12:40, off to meet Robin at 1:15. I don't like to be late, so we quickened the pace to the Tube stop; we were at the designated meeting point, a Starbucks opposite the British Museum, by 1:10. Hugs and kisses, and out the door for an afternoon of non-nodal tourism.

What's that? For years, my ideal touring strategy, with roots in geographical training, has been to mix "seeing the sights" with having a look at more ordinary landscapes, the places that people who live there inhabit. (I will never forget the tour guide in Tahiti in 1976 or '77 who told the busload of Americans I was shepherding that they "could close their eyes, because there was nothing to see until we reached the next stop"; we were rolling through an absolutely stunning landscape, ancient taro fields left and right of the bus, towering green peaks above us, waterfalls; this "nothing" was pure non-nodal tourism.)

The afternoon's non-sights consisted of two landmark buildings by Sir Norman Foster, Britain's best known contemporary architect. First stop was the new City Hall on the south bank of the Thames, a few hundred yards west of Tower Bridge. This is the home of London's lively mayor, Ken Livingston, and the London Assembly, 25 elected members from across Greater London that "investigate issues of importance to Londoners, and hold the mayor to account for his policies, spending, and administration." And what a home. Just stunning. After security screening, we ambled down a ramp and spotted the first cool thing, a hand-tinted aerial photograph of Greater London. We walked down, and right on top of the city, way bigger than Gulliver, orienting ourselves first to airports (easy to find), then to our digs in St. John's Wood. We headed upstairs to the assembly chambers, then down a circular ramp, and out into bright sunshine, a nice contrast from the steady rain when we entered the building.

We headed across Tower Bridge, and into the City (financial district). It was past lunchtime, and we grabbed sandwiches at a McDonald's-owned-but-way-different Prét a Manger, and walked a few hundred feet south to Seething Lane Gardens, open space for at least 350 years. London diarist Samuel Pepys was peeping down (well, his bust anyway) as we ate our sandwiches. Lunch completed, we ambled north, past the gruesome trio of skulls marking the entrance to the burial ground of St. Olave Church. It started to rain, and we still had 50 minutes until the start of our next visit, so we made fast for a cozy Starbucks. Coffees in hand, we repaired to three overstuffed chairs. Jack remarked "this is like a vacation in the old days", and indeed it was great to have us all together (minus Linda, who arrived the next day).

We had a nice chat, then headed south to 30 St. Mary Axe (a curious street name, apparently the combination of a street named for a former church and an alley named axe), Sir Norman's newest London work, the UK headquarters for Swiss Re, the reinsurance firm. This is the building the Brits have nicknamed "the erotic gherkin", a bit redundant, though it does resemble a 40-story pickle, or perhaps, well, you know. American has done business with Swiss Re in the past, and our former-client status was enough to get us invited in, to meet our former account guy, David Stewart. He showed us around a couple of floors, and gave us a fascinating primer on reinsurance, including showing us the "slip" for American's last policy with Swiss Re. Very cool education, and a stunningly cool building. Not yet completed, David invited us back in a few months, for "a proper tour, all the way to the top".

Jack and Robin peeled off to her flat, and I headed toward St. John's Wood, detouring to the interesting, nearby headquarters of Lloyd's. A block away, on Lombard Street, police were dealing with a seemingly abandoned car; in the post-Madrid world, they were all over it, and I quickened my step.

At six we walked the 40 steps across to the Clifton pub, and at 6:10 our friend Terry McGrath arrived (I've described Terry in previous updates; she's our ad-agency account exec, but also a good friend). Her new husband, architect Andy, was supposed to join us, but was detained at work. We had a great visit, focused on the kids explaining fraternities and sororities to a fascinated young woman from Northern Ireland. "Terry, it's all tribal", and she instantly knew what that meant.

A little after eight, "that Ed guy" – Robin's boyfriend then – arrived. We had another beer (Jack was of legal age in the UK, and was enjoying his pints of Guinness, curious for a kid who just a few months ago was quite happy with Fanta Orange), and walked south for a quick dinner. Then bed, much welcome.

Jenny nuzzled me at 6:45, eager to be let out. I laced up and headed south on Hamilton Terrace and other streets to the Regent's Canal (described in the previous update), then west to "Little Venice", where the Regent's meets the Grand Union Canal. A good trot. Bowl of cereal and Jack and I were out the door in sunshine, Tube to King's Cross Station and the 08:51 local to Cambridge. It was foggy most of the way. We ambled into the center, already feeling smarter.

First stop was Downing College, then on to Pembroke, Queen's (Erasmus of Rotterdam, namesake of the Dutch university visited three weeks earlier, lived and taught here 490 years ago), King's, Gonville and Caius, Trinity (founded by Hank 8 in 1546). Jack and I were both digging it. Stopped to get Jack a souvenir, a crested Trinity school tie, then into Great St. Mary's Church, where the choir in scarlet tunics was rehearsing Easter music. Lunch at the venerable Scots institution McDonald's, the north to the round Norman church, built 1130, and predating the university by 15 decades. West across the historic bridge on the Cam, to Magdalene (high point there was the chapel, where Jack opened a bound Book of Common Prayer, dated 1764; yep, old school). East, past the aggressive, no-doubt-on-commission boys hawking punting rides on the Cam, to Jesus College, then back down Trinity Street and King's Parade, left on Bene't Street to The Eagle, the pub that was a haunt for American airmen 1942-45, for the inventor of Winnie the Pooh, and for the gents who discovered DNA. South on Trumpington Street, east to the station and the 15:15 fast train to London. Back to the townhouse, where Linda was napping. Worked my e-mail, while Jack, worn out from two days of "must rise, must tour" was hard asleep.

Past six, the ladies and I crossed the street for a drink and visit at The Clifton. There was news that week, of Robin landing a summer job at the White House (yes, that one), so there was plenty to yak about. Past eight, we roused Jack, still dozing, and sauntered north to Bhan Thai for a curry. That I had eaten there as many times in 2004 as our favorite neighborhood restaurants says something about mobility! Back to the flat and a good, long sleep.

Was up at seven Saturday to wet streets but only an occasional drop, laced up and out the door, south on Abbey Road, past that famous crosswalk, to Regent's Canal, west almost to Little Venice, and home. Made coffee, showered, read the grim news from Iraq. Out the door past nine, four of us ambling south on Hamilton Terrace, very fancy, onto Maida Vale and Edgeware roads, then west to platform 11 at Paddington, where the 10:21 to Windsor & Eton Central waited.

Dozens of trips to England, and none, ever, to Windsor Castle, the largest inhabited castle in the world. The place was crawling with tourists. Chock a block. Everywhere. We queued for tickets, but the castle keepers must have learned crowd control from Disney, because the rest of the visit moved quite smoothly. The State Apartments were dazzling, stunning, remarkable. Only shortcoming was that photos were prohibited. A drag for me and for Jack, who is quickly developing some aptitude with his digicam.

After seeing all of what was open to the public, we left the gates, patronized that great Scottish fast-food emporium yet again, and walked north across the Thames to Eton College. Unhappily, most of the college was closed, so we headed back to Windsor, and to the 14:45 train to Slough and on to Paddington. By 2:30 I had peeled off and was headed to Harrod's. Seems like every American visitor visits, but I had only been there once before, and briefly. I mainly wandered the wonderful food halls, watching Belgian chocolatier Stefan van Zandt decorate eight-inch Easter eggs, sampling Jamon de Jabugo, Cinco Jotas, ham from the Spanish black-foot pig, a small plate of which stood opposite a freezer full of Scottish haggis (I photographed both the egg guy and the pucks of haggis before I saw the sign that said no photos; Robin later told me that photos are only allowed in the little shrine to the owner's son, Dodi Fayed, and his friend Princess Diana). I did spend there, 95 pence for a tube of Colman's mustard, browsed the maps and prints department, then left.

I headed north to Hyde Park, then east and north into Mayfair, to Grosvenor Square. Since the 1930s, the U.S. Embassy has been there, since 1960 on the entire western side. As I approached, I could see that side of the square had been closed to car traffic. Prudent, I supposed, but a sad comment on what this world has become. Indeed, there were many police outside, keeping an eye on the place. I headed toward the wonderful statue of General Eisenhower on the northeast corner of the embassy grounds. A gift of the people of Kansas City, Missouri, it was a wonderful sight. Elsewhere in the green park is other strong U.S. influence. In the center are a statue of FDR and a monument to the Eagle Squadron, 244 Yanks who served in the Royal Air Force prior to U.S. joining World War II; and at northeast end is a small, unremarkable row house with a weathered plaque noting that John Adams, first American ambassador to the U.K. and second president, lived there in the 1780s. On the southeast corner, in stark contrast to our fortress compound was MacDonald House, the Canadian High Commission (equivalent of an embassy for commonwealth countries), where not a guard, nor even a video camera stood watch, a reminder that very different countries occupy North America! I walked north to Oxford Street, and hopped on a bus for St. John's Wood.

Worked my e-mail, watched rugby with Jack, dressed, and at 6:30 Robin's friend Ed arrived. We had a glass of wine, and at 7:15 I wandered down to Abbey Road to hail a cab. We five, plus Richardson kids Scott and Erin Sage, ate dinner at La Famiglia in Chelsea, where we dined in early February. A fun meal, average age just 30.

Easter Sunday – Alleluia! He is risen! – dawned clear and chilly. Jack and I rolled out of the house at 8:30, suitcases in tow, on the Tube and at Victoria Station before nine, dropped our bags and walked east to Westminster Abbey, joining a short queue at 9:20 for the 10:30 services. Robin and Linda arrived twenty minutes later, to what was then a very long line. We were into the magnificent sanctuary by ten, walking slowly down the left aisle, over the markers for Charles Darwin, Edward Elgar (whose "Enigma Variations" I am enjoying as I type this), Benjamin Britten, and others. We were seated in the eighth row of the east side of the transept, almost right beneath a marble statue of a stern Gladstone, prime minister in the 1800s. He may have been glowering at Jack.

The worship was spectacular, awesome. The London Brass joined the Abbey's choir and organist. During the processional, in this place built 1722-45, I had a small revelation: I have always valued the Christian church for its universality in place – people worshiping the same God in many lands. At that moment I saw universality in time, too, thinking of people praying to the same God through centuries. An obvious point, perhaps, but that idea plus all the stunning music lifted me up toward the ceiling. Truly, I was floating there, above the stained glass, and even above the exterior buttresses and vaults that could be seen through upper windows. The experience was truly remarkable.

At 12:10, in bright sunshine, we kissed Linda and Robin goodbye, walked back to Victoria, hopped on the train to Gatwick and onto the Silver Bird, home to Texas. A truly great trip, as Jack said "like a vacation in the old days".

A couple of weeks later, on a Tuesday morning, I climbed on the 8:00 a.m. jet to Chicago. My seatmate Howard, a very frequent traveler, wore me out. An young entrepreneur who had started and sold at least two successful companies, he was full of good ideas about how to run an airline. Bill Oakley and Shep Kellam, two creative directors from our ad agency, and I jumped on the train for the Loop. At Clark and Lake we jumped in a cab for the Hancock, where we were conducting focus groups (qualitative research on advertising, capturing the opinions and impressions of real customers and prospective customers).

My hotel was nearby. I was excited to be staying at the Allerton, a hotel I remember from childhood drives along Lake Shore Drive. Back then, at the top in neon was the name of the hotel and "Tip Top Tap". Spatial memory, as I have written before, is an interesting thing, and I recalled that the hotel was north of where in 1968 they built that massive, 95-story John Hancock Center. But memory is often faulty, and after a quick query of a doorman at a fancy condo on Lake Shore, I headed south of the Hancock to the Allerton, which now carries the Crowne Plaza nameplate. Sadly, the Tip Top Tap sign is gone.

In between the afternoon focus groups, I confess (mea culpa, mea culpa . . .) that Bill Miller from our ad agency and I headed up to what is perhaps Hancock's successor to the TTT, the bar on the 95^th floor for a mid-day beer. A rare occasion, that, and it seemed a bit sinful. But I got over it! After two more focus groups, we ate dinner in a pleasant but hugely overpriced Italian restaurant, and I clocked out with my south-facing window open, a wet breeze ruffling the curtains.

It gets light early in Chicago, and I was up at 5:50 and out the door in 20 minutes, briskly walking south on Michigan Avenue, back to the CTA and the Blue Line to O'Hare. At 6:49 the train, on an elevated track, past the North Avenue Baths. Built in 1922 as communal baths for Russian and Ukrainian immigrants, the place was a crack haven in the early 1990s before gentrification swept through this part of the Windy City. Condos now. But what was notable was how many times I've gazed south from the train and seen these baths. The continuity of Chicago visits, "these same streets", these were frequent thoughts during the 21 hours here. I poked a couple of buttons on my PDA to bring up a picture of my grandparents, Jim and Ann Fredian, who spent most of their lives within five miles of where the train rolled, ditto the picture of Ann's mother, the stout Ottilie Palluck, who emigrated from Brandenburg to this vicinity in the 1880s.

I flew back to Texas, but to Austin, not DFW. Plunked down $11.75 and rode shotgun with Mr. Wade, the friendly driver, on the SuperShuttle into town. He dropped me in the middle of the University of Texas campus, across from the memorial to the Confederacy. It had been a couple of years since Jack and I toured the campus, he as a prospective student. It is just an awesome place, huge, tree-lined, very diverse, decidedly nonconformist and left-of-center, quite unlike any campus I had visited in a long time. It reminded me of my U of M. I made my way to the McCombs School of Business, where the students looked much closer to the ones I usually teach! I met my host, Wayne Hoyer, who chairs the Marketing Department, and we ambled east to that huge stadium. Atop the east stands was a very fancy club, where we had a caloric and very friendly lunch. I met Wayne Hoyer last December when lecturing in Münster, and he suggested a visit. We agreed that there was something odd about that meeting place, and that in all my lecturing I had never made it to the premier B-school in my home state.

At 8:51 on Monday, April 26, 2004, on a crystal-clear morning, I looked out the window, and saw one of our 777s on approach to Runway 35L. It was a common sight, but one that, almost forty years after first getting interested in this business, was still exciting. This business is tough, but it sure is cool. I smiled broadly, looked up at the sun glinting on the fuselage, and recited my mantra: This is who I am. And this is what I do.

The first May trip, on Monday the third, was really just a variant on the journey to work. It had been quite awhile since I had taken public transit to work. Since January, I had been using Robin's car while she studied in London. Well, she returned on April 29, and that Monday she needed her car for a trip to the dentist and elsewhere. So at 5:54 I hopped on Jack's yellow Vespa and, necktie flying, zoomed east to the DART station at Arapaho Road. Fun! Then into downtown Dallas, reading The New York Times like a commuter in countless other parts of the world. Then west on a swell double-decker train of the Trinity Railway Express. It was a bright blue day, and the ample rain of the past two weeks had worked its magic. Spring green was everywhere. I listened to Barber's Adagio for Strings, a good choice.

And along the right-of-way that once belonged to the Rock Island Line were stacks of new concrete ties, signs of investment. Good signs, for investment in transport infrastructure is essential. That's not the airline guy's idea – it should make sense to any American citizen who's paying attention to the health of the nation. It is tax money well spent. Further along, almost to my destination station, CentrePort, I noticed that the new ties and fresh ballast had already been installed on the eastbound track. Hooray!

Although I did not leave town for several weeks, I still had some adventures, but closer to home. Two of them happened on May 14 and 15. On Friday morning, the 14^th, after working at my desk an hour, I drove west to Alliance Airport, where American maintains part of its fleet. I had not been there since a Saturday in early February 1991, when Robin, Jack and I drove out to watch a film crew capture takeoffs and landings in our newest airplane, the MD-11 (it turned out to be a disappointing performer, and is no longer in the fleet). The place had changed enormously since then, with all kinds of development around the airport, including our enormous hangars.

We were there to discuss how to market our excess maintenance capacity and skills at the Kansas City overhaul base we inherited from TWA. But the real fun followed, with a tour of the facility, through the engine shop, and out into the bays, where a big 777 was in for some modifications. Through the seat shop, the galley shop, the place where we maintain the emergency slides and life rafts. Fascinating, all of it, and another reminder of the huge complexity of our business, which is one of the things that drew me to the industry. It is a complexity that our customers seldom see and almost never appreciate: the mechanic who knows how to install new fan blades on the Rolls Royce Trent engine that can get you to London in eight hours; the craftsman who keeps the in-seat video working, so you can watch a movie on the way there; the woman who tests and re-packs the inflatable emergency-exit slide that we hope no one will ever use.

The next morning, Saturday the 15^th, Robin came along to build a 40-foot wheelchair ramp for Ms. Johnson on Fernwood St. We had a great time. She actually asked the night before if she could join me, and I was honored and delighted to have her on the project. Not surprisingly, she applied her enormous focus here, too, and we made a very productive building pair. Ms. Johnson's 14-year-old son Pete watched the building intently, and just after noon she motored down the ramp an into the street on her powered chair. As always happens, that moment of truth brought tears to my eyes.

On Monday morning the 17^th I flew north to Chicago, zipped through the terminal and onto the CTA train, jumping off at Addison, across the street, and onto the #152 bus east. The ride afforded a good glimpse of urban change and stability. A mile or so along stood a brand-new Target store, part of that astute retailer's march into inner-city neighborhoods (that they do so effortlessly contrasts with the ham-handed Wal-Mart) Further on, students wandered around Lane Technical High School, as they have since 1908, when the school opened. Further on, the gentrification so typical of the innermost neighborhoods of Chicago was evident in new construction and renovation of older walk-up apartments. Fascinating stuff. I jumped off just past Wrigley Field, up the stairs and onto the Red Line north to Howard, and the Purple Line up to Evanston, off at Foster Street and on foot four blocks to the Northwestern University campus, for my annual lectures at the Kellogg School.

My host, marketing prof Anne Coughlan had lunch waiting. It was good to see her; she's a swell person and has been helpful in the expansion of my teaching network. We had a quick sandwich and headed to class. A repeat, with updates, of a lecture on airline distribution. After class I stayed around to answer questions, worked my e-mail a bit, and headed south to downtown, a lovely drive on a mostly clear day, the huge inland sea glinting to our left. At five my old friend Gary Doernhoefer joined us. Gary is a former colleague at American; he left in 2000 to join Orbitz, the online travel agency, and I asked him to join us for the evening lecture, figuring he could add a lot of value when it came to discussing trends in online distribution. Zip, zip, and the lecture was over. We said goodbye to Anne, walked a few blocks to Michigan Avenue, and hopped in a taxi north to Cousin Jim's. I had e-mailed Cuz about Gary joining us for a couple of beers.

Two of Jim's and Michaela's sons, Jack, 4, and Charlie, 3, stayed up to see "Uncle Rob" (with only one true nephew, I appreciate the relative title!). We had a quick visit, Jack declaring that he had vomited earlier in the day, and helpfully informing me that his brother was now also ill. Then Gary, Jim, and I headed across the street for beer and lively conversation – three lads with strong opinions on current affairs, none with kind words about the state of our nation. It was good fun.

Off to sleep, up at 6:20, quick chat with the boys and a kiss to their little sister Katie (now 2), and out the door, south to the Fullerton CTA stop, and north on the Purple Line, retracing my route the day before to Northwestern. Walked across the lovely, leafy campus to the Allen Center, where Kellogg does its conferences and executive education, a great view of the lake on a crisp spring morning. Into the center to meet the director of the Transportation Center, Bob Gallamore, and two of his colleagues. The center is an interdisciplinary outfit, with folks from Kellogg, the Econ department, and civil engineering. I knew about them back in the mid-1970s, when I used their superb library for my graduate research. Almost 30 years later, it was great to widen my Northwestern contacts. And the center had all kinds of photos, art, and other stuff that delighted this transport geek, especially some cool "train stuff".

I spent the morning and lunchtime in informal meetings with students and faculty, gave a lecture at one, and one of the Kellogg faculty, Jim Dana, kindly gave me a ride back out to O'Hare. Flew home. A great two days.

Four days later, on Saturday, May 22, I got up early and pounded out 27 miles on the bike in a stiff wind. Got home, drank a mug of coffee, and drove Linda and Robin to the airport. They were headed to Washington to get Robin settled in for her White House summer job, which started the following Tuesday. I got back, got a haircut, and started the annual spring garage cleaning. A prosaic task, helped along by a powerful vacuum. But as in previous years there was a "moment of truth", when I moved Robin's softball mitt, Jack's skateboard, Micro scooter, basketballs, and some other balls. I'm not sure they'll ever use those things again, and that made me think back. How quickly the time passed. The kid who caught the fly ball flew off to work in the White House; the other kid, who begged me to buy the foldable scooter at the KaDeWe department store in Berlin in 1999 is just about to finish SMU summer school. How quickly we move through life.

President Bush was live on Fox, dedicating the World War II Memorial. There was something nicely karmic about that moment – the many Filipinos in the room did not know that Captain Clifford Britton helped liberate their country in late 1944, but I did. No one was really watching the TV, and I claimed a seat close to the set. Even via television, the speech and the scene on the mall in our capital was moving, and I was the only one in the room with tears in my eyes. I thought of my Dad as I saw the close-ups of the old guys with their medals and ribbons and canes. Thanks to all of them. An article in that morning's New York Times noted that WWII veterans were dying at a rate of about 1200 a day – but there's still time to say "Thanks" if you see one of them.

I climbed onto a brand-new China Eastern A340-600, a very cool plane, and off we flew, west 6500 miles. Before takeoff, I spent some time with the English-language Shanghai Daily; though it looked and read much like a U.S. paper, a more careful look revealed some subtle cultural differences, as in the article about the pressure on Chinese high school students as they prepare for end-of-school and college-entrance exams:

Pies as the key to admission to Peking University or perhaps MIT? Nice! It's a long ride across the Pacific. I did my best to stay awake during the 13 hours, so I was ready for collapse when I arrived in the East; I did some reading "homework", limited napping to a couple hours mid-flight, and even watched two movies (rare that I use the inflight entertainment). The on-demand video system tended to Chinese action films and to well-worn U.S. movies that seemed like they had passed through some wholesomeness committee of the CPC. Actually, I didn't mind watching the 1994 film "It Could Happen to You", a very sweet tale of life in New York. Toward the end of the flight, I began visiting with my seatmate, who turned out to be an interesting fellow, a cotton trader from Tennessee who has just started a financial-information service that he wants to build to be "the Bloomberg of the fiber, yarn, and textile business."

Landed at Pudong Airport at about seven p.m. Sunday. They don't do daylight time here, so it was just getting dark (the sun came up the next morning at four). Immigration and customs were a breeze – I was, I guess, still expecting the old Soviet model of airport processing. Grabbed some cash at a HSBC ATM (yes, this was the People's Republic), and was on my way. The brand-new, whiz-bang 240-mph magnetic-levitation train made its last trip at 5:30, so I bumped into town on a cheap ($2.40) bus that badly needed new shocks. Dropped me at a city air terminal right above the Jing An Temple station of the Shanghai Metro. A taxi to the university's guesthouse? Nah. Too easy. Bought a prepaid card, and zipped east on the No. 2 Line, then south to what I guesstimated was the closest stop to the guest house at the Aetna School of Management at Shanghai Jiao Tong University, my real destination. A ten-minute cab ride got me close, me pointing to the address written in Mandarin on my PC. My gut told me the driver went too far, and he did. But with no language skills I had to be resourceful for the last three blocks. I was ambling down a totally local street, with street cats and little barbecue joints and produce stands. Local color within two hours of arrival. With a helpful last vector from a young English speaker, I landed at the reception desk. It was good to be home. Got to my room – a rather fancy version of a dorm – changed clothes, and headed out to buy some bottled water and stretch my legs before clocking out at 10:45.

A first vignette from the once-land-of-Mao: the support pillars of several Metro stations I passed were covered with Budweiser signs. On the trains were flat-panel screens that played Disney commercials, among others – though they helpfully and briefly flashed the name of the station seconds before arrival.

My strategy of not sleeping for 20+ hours paid off in a long doze almost to wake-up time. It was raining, not a good omen for a day off to see Shanghai. I showered, walked around the enclave that was this B-school campus, and headed off in search of breakfast. Found that in a totally spartan cafeteria, truly People's Republic, where the smily young women ladled me a bowl of congee, Chinese rice porridge, a hard-boiled egg, a steamed bun filled with sausage, and 6 ounces of milk in a plastic bag. It was totally local. The employees and few students in the place at 7:15 seemed amazed to see a foreigner chowing down, and on their kind of food. The meal cost 3 yuan, 37 cents.

First priority was to find a Metro stop. Uncharacteristically unprepared, I did not have a very good map, but I managed to get to the second- or third-closest stop! Hopped on and rode east into Pudong, the "new town" on the east bank of the Huangpu River. Eye-popping, and less dense than I expected, with wide streets and pleasant landscaping. Skyscrapers and cranes everywhere (I later learned, perhaps apocryphally, that one-sixth of the world's building cranes are in this city). I walked northwest on Century Avenue, toward the tallest building, the Jen Mao Tower. The Grand Hyatt lobby is on the 54^th floor, so up I went, to get a good map and admire the view – though it was rainy, you could still see a lot.

 From there I walked west on the premier shopping street, Nanjing Road. The Shanghai No. 1 Department Store, from the communist era, was still there, but so were lots of chains, boutiques, McDonald's, the works. I drew the line at McDonald's, but figuring that breakfast was local and dinner would be local, I visited Subway, the eatery. After lunch I headed to the French Concession, dating to the second half of the 19^th century, when European colonial powers ran roughshod over China, and in this case grabbed or negotiated essentially sovereign territory for several square miles. Much has been pulled down, but a surprising amount still stands, and behind thick vegetation one could see mansard roofs, steep gables, mullioned windows, and a landscape looking very much like a bourgeois French suburb. Some of the houses and flats had been converted to retail, as at a place called Xintiandi, where Starbucks, trendy bars, and boutiques vied for tourists' attention.

I toured Dr. Sun Yat Sen's house, which had a good collection of family furniture and artifacts. Zhou Enlai's (second in command after Mao) house was less well preserved, but you got the general picture. As in France, plane trees lined the streets. An altogether pleasant landscape. Here, in the Bund, and elsewhere in the city one could still see lots of Art Deco design, for this was a growing city in the 1920s and '30s, and that's what people with money built. Also noteworthy were the many plaques listing preservation designations from the municipal government – in a place developing like crazy, the city appears to have taken a stand to preserve old buildings, and that is good.

Toward the end of the stroll through the French Concession, on Fenyang Road, I noticed a bunch of stores selling musical instruments. I can read the landscape, and it suggested a music school nearby. Sure enough, the Shanghai Conservatory of Music appeared; one could hear horn practice in full measure. It had cleared off and dried out, and from mid-afternoon onward it was a beautiful day, perfect for touring.

After trekking perhaps eight miles since 8:00 that morning, I returned to campus about 5:45, plumb wore out. Stopped in to meet one of my hosts, Wendy Wang, worked my e-mail, and even caught a 20-minute nap before Phil Zhou, a new friend from China Eastern Airlines, picked me up for dinner. He had e-mailed me a couple of weeks earlier about taking me to his "favorite little restaurant for spicy food", and off we went, to the western suburbs near Hongqiao Airport, and a piquant meal at Xiang Shui Dong. The food, like Phil, came from Hunan. Every dish was flecked with red pepper, and there were dried garlands of peppers all over the restaurant. Coming from jalapeño-land, I felt right at home. But the restaurants in Texas don't have a large portrait of The Great Helmsman, Chairman Mao on the wall! He kept an eye on me.

Phil was an interesting young man, 34, with China Eastern for ten years, now heading up development of their revenue-management systems. He told me he took his Western first name from pro basketball coach Phil Jackson ("such a cool guy" he said), and was totally current on the Lakers vs. Timberwolves playoff series! Phil knew all the people at American who have worked on the alliance with his company, and we had interesting conversation. His father and grandfather both practiced traditional Chinese medicine in Hunan. Phil ordered way too much food for two, but I was pleased that he packed up all of it to take home. I nodded my head when he said "I don't like to waste food."

I took a taxi back to the dorm, call home, and fell off to sleep, waking once for the catfight which seemed to be just outside my window.

Was up early, about six, went for a quick run around the small B-school campus (the main campus is several miles south), got some breakfast at a local convenience store, and grabbed a cab out to Phil's office at Hongqiao Airport. He asked me to give a lecture, so I spoke to about 15 people on airline advertising. After some total shyness, several asked very good questions. Said goodbye, grabbed a taxi back to town, and met Wendy and my other hosts for a very delicious and huge lunch with my hosts. Professors Pei and Huang had lots of experience in North America, spoke good English, and were very friendly. Tucking into yet another course at a restaurant near the campus, I smiled and remembered my favorite thought at moments like that: and I get paid for this! What a sweet life.

The lecture ran from 3:30 to 5:30, plenty of time to speak slowly, and plenty of time to answer lots of questions. These were bright students. After the formal question period, I stayed for awhile to answer questions and show some AA commercials on my laptop. I left the classroom at 5:55, changed clothes, and was out the door ten minutes later, walking northwest toward the Pearl Line of the Shanghai Metro. This line ran mostly above ground, north, then northeast and east. I got off at the Shanghai Railway Station. This transport geek was eager to see a Chinese train station, but I tried to enter on the wrong side, and did not want to walk way around to buy the required "platform ticket". The scene on the north side of the depot was sad. I had read earlier about the peasants in from country who find enough money for rail fare, then get stuck in the big cities. As they sat on their big plaid nylon bags, their sad, desperate faces told a story of a place in transition.

I hopped back on the Metro, down to the Bund, for a walk along the promenade between the nicely-illuminated buildings and the river. Across the Huangpu in Pudong the lights shined bright. It was quite a scene, and I wanted to relax with a beer; I knew of two rooftop bars but both were off-limits – the one in the venerable Peace Hotel was closed for a private party, and the one in the flashy M on the Bund restaurant was only open to dinner patrons. So I walked back toward Nanjing Road. The huge lunch had worn off by eight, and I only wanted a light meal, so I ambled into Ajisen, a Japanese noodle chain ("Since 1968" read the waitresses shirts).

I got six solid hours of sleep, but was up with the birds, and out the door at 5:30, by taxi to city air terminal next door to the splendid Jing An Temple, whose graceful curved tile roofs contrasted brilliantly with the highrises all around. I got the first bus to the airport. The elevated roadway through central Shanghai afforded great views. Was at the airport by 6:30; the departure was the exact opposite of arrival – lots of hoops to jump through: quarantine forms and temperature check, immigration, security, more security. The China Eastern people gave me a ticket to enter their First Class Lounge, which was very fancy. Flew to Hong Kong, landing about 10:30.

Zipped through the airport and onto the speedy airport express. With a quick taxi ride, I was at the Park Lane Hotel in Causeway Bay by a little after eleven. Worked my e-mail for 90 minutes and headed to the top floor for a meeting of marketing people from the oneworld alliance, an annual gathering (we were in Madrid last year). Good meeting. But the high point of the day was the evening outing to the Hong Kong Jockey Club in Happy Valley, one of two horse tracks in the city. It was a remarkable sight, a track completely surrounded by highrises (we were less than a half mile from the hotel). Our Cathay Pacific hosts completely outdid themselves. Just way cool. We bet on the ponies in between an enormous and wonderful dinner.

A little history: the track had been there for more than a century. After the Japanese ceded control in 1946, it was decided that racing profits would go toward rebuilding a society that World War II wrecked. In the mid-1980s, when Deng Xioping was negotiating the handover to end 150 years of British rule, he reassured nervous citizens that under the "one country, two systems" policy things would remain much the same as they were. "The same horse racing, the same dancing", he promised. Today, the Jockey Club is largest single taxpayer in the city, generating 11.2% of total revenue, and contributing US$128 million to local charities. I felt better about losing a few dollars!

I left the track before the races were over, but wanted to work my e-mail a bit more. Was up at 6:30 the next morning, rode 20 minutes on a fitness bike, and headed back for a full day of meetings. At 5:30, though, I was back out the door, riding my favorite double-decker tram to Wan Chai, past Stephen and Stitt, the lions in front of the HSBC building, and onto the Star Ferry to Kowloon. I walked to the Peninsula Hotel for a beer. Musicians on the mezzanine (flute, violin, piano) were playing the theme from "Love Story". All was well. Headed back across the harbor, grabbed a Thai curry for dinner, worked my e-mail, and clocked out.

Was up early again on Friday morning, June 4, out on the train to HKG airport, and north to Beijing on Dragonair, headed toward my lecture at the Guanghua School of Management at Peking University. My seatmate was an agreeable and interesting Aussie, Bruce Coyne, retired from the Australian government and now with a firm that contracts with his government's overseas development office (akin to our USAID) on various projects in poor countries. Bruce had been the Australian Trade Commissioner in Washington and Tokyo. It was a pleasant ride, with lots of chatter.

Outside of customs, I met Jingbo Lu, a young woman holding a sign bearing the AA logo. We walked to a car, and zipped across the northern suburbs of the capital to the hotel. Checked in and we had lunch. She told me she was from a small place, Natong, north of Shanghai. She was a graduate of Peking U., and was the sole daughter of peasants (her word). There was something remarkable about her telling me her background while eating lunch at a fancy hotel (she settled the bill with a Visa card) – a nice vignette on Chinese upward mobility. I suggested that her parents must be very proud of her, and she replied yes, they truly were.

I worked my e-mail for an hour, jumped in a taxi to the university, and had a short meeting with John Wen, director of the business school's external affairs, and Changqi Wu, Associate Dean. Both had degrees from overseas, Dean Wu a Ph.D. from Louvain in Belgium, and Mr. Wen a MBA from the University of Western Ontario.

Just before four, we walked to the classroom. Dean Wu explained that final-exam time had just begun, and it was late on Friday, so he was not sure how many students would come to hear my lecture. The room was packed, standing room only. In the back hung a "Warmly Welcome" banner with my name and American's name, and the podium held a huge spray of flowers. Both were firsts! I nailed the lecture. We ended at six, and students swarmed. "Please, may I have your name card?" Lots more questions. Dean Wu pulled me away. I invited two students who wanted to talk more to hop in taxi with me. We yakked on the 20-minute ride to the hotel, and for awhile longer in the hotel lobby. It was a very cool experience. But almost sensory overload.

I washed my face, and zipped back out, by taxi to Hou Hai, an area by the northernmost of the old Imperial lakes in central Beijing. I had a quick bowl of noodles and a beer, because I was watching the clock. At eight I took a taxi to the St. Regis Hotel, arriving at exactly the same time as four AA colleagues, including our Chairman, who coincidentally were in the capital to meet with civil-aviation officials about the prospect of a Chicago-Shanghai route. We had a beer and yakked a bit about their banquet, replete with many toasts with straight shots of the clear liquor called Moutai. Better them than me!

At about ten I headed back to my hotel, west across Chang'an Avenue, right past Tienanmen Square, scene of the killings fifteen years to the day, June 4. The square was much different a decade and a half on, and there was no sign of protest. Clocked out. A long day, and a fascinating one.

Like every morning for a week, I was up early on Saturday morning, laced up and headed northwest along a canal behind my hotel. The Chinese also rise early, and there was a lot going on before seven: lots of folks fishing (some with multiple rods, but I did not see a single catch); swimmers of all ages; seniors practicing their t'ai chi; people doing aerobic dance to rhythm from boom boxes; folks working exercise equipment (older than the hardware in Shanghai, but in good repair); couples playing badminton without nets; a handful of people washing their cars with water from the canal. It was a cool scene.

After breakfast, as I was heading out for touring, I held the elevator for an American-looking couple. I asked where they were from. "A suburb of Dallas", one replied. "So am I", I said, "which one?" "Richardson", they said. "Me too", I replied. It was another small-world moment, meeting Courtney and Richard Tanner far from home. I had actually met them before, and Ms. Tanner knows Linda.

I decided to repeat my happy experience in Shanghai, and see the sights at my own pace. Hopped in a taxi, and rode east to the Beijing Exhibition Center, which I had seen the night before. A very cool building, built in the Soviet modern style in 1954, sporting a spire topped with a red star on top, and the dove of peace beneath it. Hammers and sickles on pillars in front contrasted nicely with the yellow umbrellas that read "McDonald's, I'm lovin' it." Lots of activity along this street – kite flyers, pedicabs, bustle. A teenager wearing a T-shirt that read "Product of the Affluent Society" walked past.

It was time to ride with the people, so I jumped on the Beijing Metro, east several stops to Yonghegon Lama Temple, an enormous Buddhist temple built 1694. It was crowded with tourists, but also with the faithful, offering incense and praying. Faith, of whatever kind, is a good thing. Toward the rear of the temple grounds was an enormous Buddha, almost sixty feet high, carved from the trunk of a single sandalwood tree.

The quest for a ceramic cat with upturned paw turned out to be a remarkable challenge. I walked past several of them in Shanghai, but didn't want to lug fragile stuff. First stop was into the Beijing Grand Hotel, where a kindly manager directed me a few blocks east to the department stores on Wangfujing Street. This was early in the search, and there was bounce in my step. But after almost an hour of language gap (I had drawn a pretty good picture of the cat on my PDA) I was nowhere close, in and out of six or seven stores. I managed to find a new friend, a young artist who spoke English and who sensed my determination. Her agenda was to show me her art, and I did detour fifteen minutes up some back-alley stairs to a small gallery, where I bought a pretty cool folk-art painting. At a large crafts store we found one of the cats, but it belonged to the owner. And we spotted a tiny, beautifully carved wooden one, but that would not do.

Then a breakthrough! Eureka! My artist friend persisted with one clerk, who pulled out her mobile phone (remarkable fact: more than half of adults in Chinese cities have one), and confirmed that a market in west-central Beijing had them. Off I went, with the name of the market written in Mandarin on a scrap of paper – that's how you get around in taxis, because the drivers' English is limited to "okay" and "no problem". What had now become an ordeal ended quickly at the Tian-li Market on Fuchengen Avenue, aisles and aisles of Chinese kitsch. Two cats in the bag (the asking price was 68 yuan; I protested, and the young woman dropped it to 38, so I bought a pair, just over $9). I headed back to the hotel, dropped them off, and retraced my route the day before, north to Peking University. The campus looked interesting, so I opted to end the touring there.

It turned out to be commencement day for some departments and schools, and I congratulated two young people, one in cap and gown and one not, who had both just completed their first degrees in economics and law, and who were headed to grad school in law in the autumn. They vote as the best representatives of the new China, and I took their picture.

I walked back to the newer, south part of the campus, past signboards announcing upcoming lectures (five days earlier, I had seen one announcing my show in Shanghai, and, sure enough, my face was on a sign in Beijing, too). It was time to slow down after a quite frenzied day. I knew I'd find a place to get a beer on the edge of campus, and I did. At 6:05, I sat down outside a little café, under an umbrella advertising Nanjing Beer, and managed to order a large (600ml) bottle of the stuff. It cost 3 Yuan, 37 cents I don't think I've ever paid so little for a cold one! Brought this journal up to date on my PDA, watched the scene unfold as dusk descended, and generally reflected on my week in China.

What came to mind? Lots of stuff. But two lessons. First, and most important, I've come to see China in a different light. Even for someone who has been traveling internationally for more than 30 years, the lesson is simple: being there makes a difference. Prejudices fall away. In this case – and in the case of a visit to Japan some years ago – I came to understand that the government is not the people. No, I don't like many of the policies that the national government promulgates, but those are not the works of the men and women I saw in the streets or in the classroom. I simply don't know how to make these words plainer. It's also fair to say that I even came to have a better appreciation for the job that the Chinese government faces, managing the well-being of a billion souls. In the end, learning stuff like this is why travel is such a wonderful gift.

Second, I saw in China the idea that at any level of wealth, societies make decisions based on what is important to them. I saw in China – a place we in the developed world describe as poor – a willingness to invest in things that matter little to the wallet, but matter greatly to the spirit. The largest and best example of that is in landscaping. Expressway medians and shoulders are planted with shrubs and trees. Planters filled with bushes abound in residential areas. Parks are well equipped. Boulevards in new places are amply set with green life. That is impressive.

After the beer I headed back to the hotel, tucked into a splendid Saturday-night buffet – the high point of which was Peking duck, very yummy – worked my e-mail, and climbed into bed. Was up early again on Sunday, out the door, and back to the airport. Checked in, jumped through the departure hoops, and flew straight east and a bit south on Japan Airlines to Tokyo. Like I usually do, the music I chose from my laptop library were tunes from home, in that case four cuts from Jack Britton's old band, Jhombi. They fit, and brought a big smile. It was raining in Japan, so I decided not to attempt a short excursion, opting to read and write in the Admirals Club. At 5:40 I hopped on our Silver Bird, nonstop to Texas. As the 777 pushed back from the gate at Narita, I saw one last glimpse of the East: as they always do, four ramp workers waved continuously for perhaps 30 seconds as the big plane pulled away; then, just as the tail passed them, they all bowed deeply. Wow.

I worked a little on this update, read, and took a nap across the Pacific. When I awoke and opened the shade, we were just past landfall on the Oregon-California border, just south of where my brother Jim lives. The trip across the empty and clean American West – traversing the rangelands of Nevada, the Bonneville Salt Flats, Colorado's spectacular San Juan Mountains, and our Texas Panhandle – was a great welcome back to this wonderful land.

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Early June marked the 40^th anniversary of my first lightweight road bicycle (a "racing bike" as we called them back then). I remember vividly the excitement of that Saturday morning, heading down to the Wheel Goods store with my Dad, with part of the $85 cost in a wad of bills in my hand, picking out the orange Gitane from Nantes, France, and heading home to put it together with the help of my handy friend Chris MacPhail. Our ten-speeds gave us a head start on what our bikeless peers would not secure until they got their drivers' licenses three or four years later; what those bikes meant to us that summer before eighth grade was, simply, freedom. We could go almost anywhere in Minneapolis and St. Paul in a day, and, without our parents' knowing, we did!

At the same time, we also hooked up with the American Youth Hostels, an organization to which I returned (1989-98) as a board member, in part because of all the swell memories from back then – the Sunday-dawn bike rides capped with a pancake breakfast, the touring rides of 50 or 60 miles a day, and more. AYH was all about the confluence of physical and mental health, and the sure knowledge that travel would broaden minds (the founder, a German schoolteacher named Richard Schirrmann, had that epiphany in a trench in World War I). I bought all of it, and those lessons are still with me, every single day. In Dallas, and Shanghai, and London, and Mountain View, California, and everywhere I go.

I've put in thousands of miles on skinny-tire bikes since then, and I've learned and re-learned a few more lessons. First, there is nothing better than fitness. It's not just about keeping weight in control and other physical benefits, but also about mental health. The bike gives resilience and confidence. Second, from the vantage above those funky curved handlebars and the bun-busting narrow saddle, I've come to have a dissenting perspective on American transport – it's what propels me to small, fuel-efficient cars, public transport, and two-wheel-borne errands. Third, and this has become more pronounced as cars have grown larger in recent years, the bike teaches humility, and that perspective of feeling smaller – what many of us also feel when we look to the heavens on a starry night out in the country – is a good thing.

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I was home for nine days, and on Wednesday, June 16, we headed back west, to San Francisco, on a route south of the line described above. It was cloudy and bumpy much of the way, but it cleared over the Sierras, and we had some stunning views of the land near Yosemite, specifically the landforms called exfoliated domes, which are the smooth rock mountains that Ansel Adams photographed so well; and there was a waterfall, right out of an Adams image. A very cool welcome to California. We landed, and I stopped to say hello to our S.F. airport manager, my friend Art. Had a nice, brief visit, and wandered over to the Airtrain, a rail shuttle similar to the one in Newark. A short ride on that got me to the new Bay Area Rapid Transit (BART) line into the city. The transport geek preferred that to a taxi with the rest of my colleagues. The ride was largely underground, but the elevated sections afforded cool panoramas of this, perhaps America's most visually interesting large city; in the near distance in alleys and backyards was the accumulated stuff of this affluent nation

It was a quick game, and at 9:30 it was time to meet Mark Hennessy, a friend since 1963 (and described in an update exactly two years earlier). Mark invited me to try out his new leather sofa overnight. First, though, we stopped to meet his oldest son Brian, just out of law school. Mark basically raised his three sons himself, and Brian is clearly a real star, having landed a job with a big law firm. We stopped at Brian's loft a block from the stadium (it was a train wreck inside), then jumped in a cab and headed a couple miles south to Mark's loft; he moved into the city after his youngest son finished high school. Awesome views of the bay and the downtown skyline from his balcony. We yakked for an hour or so, and I clocked out.

The couch was narrow but perfectly serviceable, and I slept soundly until six. Showered and dressed and had a couple of cups of coffee, toast, and yogurt, and continued a good yak with Mark. At 6:50 we walked a few blocks to the 22^nd Street Caltrain station, where we entered Mark's world – he is responsible for the Caltrain commuter-rail right of way between San Francisco and San Jose. At 7:16 we climbed on their new "Baby Bullet" train, a southbound express. Mark gave me a running commentary on the quality of the railbed, and we continued our chat, ranging across a bunch of topics. I said goodbye and climbed off at Mountain View, south of Palo Alto, and walked west, through downtown Mountain View, where Asian restaurants – Thai, Thai, Thai, Korean, Vietnamese – were the clear anchors of commerce, occupying the 1910- and 1920-era buildings that once housed haberdashers and barbers and hardware stores.

I arrived at Tellme at 8:15, well ahead of my colleagues who rode down in some fancy car. It always feels good to arrive under my own steam. Greeted Esther the receptionist, poured a cup of coffee, and tried three ways to connect to the Internet to fetch my e-mail; there was something curious about being in the heart of Silicon Valley and not being able to get to the 'Net! At nine the team arrived, and we started a good meeting. Tellme develops cutting-edge automated solutions for the telephone – but don't think about those clunky "for X, touch one, for Y touch two" systems of the recent past. These folks have figured out voice-recognition with a remarkable collection of talent: systems people, human-factors experts, linguists, creative geniuses, music composers and more.

It was a really cool opportunity, spending a day with a company emblematic of this region, known for its enormous trove of inventive human capital. The within-two-weeks contrast of this place with China, the future of low-cost manufacturing, was provocative. And it was fun to poke around their open-plan office (even the CEO sits on the shop floor), admiring the kitchen with the commercial espresso machine, the free food and drink, the photos of Tellme employees (lots of piercings), the bikes leaning on desks, the little foldable scooters for zipping around inside. A very interesting day. Drove south 10 miles to the San Jose airport, worked my e-mail for an hour, and flew home.

Six days later I took wing for the last time that quarter, heading northeast on a clear day to Boston for a short meeting, then south to Miami for a meeting of American's Miami, Caribbean, and Latin America Division (MCLA). I've written about these meetings before and I enjoy them very much – more hugs than many weddings, the chance to see old friends from far away. The dinner program was given over to annual awards, and it was fun to see so many people get recognized. I gave a short talk the next morning, stopped briefly in Coral Gables to see the MCLA chief, my friend Peter Dolara, and flew home.

Before signing off, one more story, or, if you will, a lesson. It's about engagement. Making contact with others. You know that I like to talk to strangers. But this is about brief, useful, connections with people we do not know. My ramp-building friend John Laine and I got on this topic on June 12, when we were returning from a hot, grueling day of ramp construction. We stopped the big truck at the downtown gates of the Dallas North Tollway. John paid the toll, made eye-to-eye connection with the African-American man in the booth, and exchanged a few trivial words. "Engaging people, especially folks who don't look like you, is important", John said. He is a wise man. And that moment stuck with me. Five days later, tired from a long day in California, I engaged another toll-taker, late at night at DFW airport. Trying to plumb his provenance, I asked if he was from South India. His eyes lit. He smiled. "How did you know?" he asked. "I'm a geographer", I replied. I know some of this stuff. "What state do you come from?" I asked. "Kerala" he replied. "I know Kerala", I said, "spicy food". Yes, he said, his eyes now twinkling. That's engagement.

Buying new a new car-license sticker a couple of weeks later, a similar exchange. I was studying the face of the young supermarket clerk, in tandem with her name tag, that read "Shanoush". "Does your family come from Iran?" I asked. Again, an eye-twinkle and "Yes! How do you know that?" "I know these things", said I. "Wow!" she replied. I yakked a little about Iranians in the U.S., their large community in L.A. I would have gone on happily, but a customer behind me was waiting to buy a lottery ticket. So off I went, feeling good, even talking to myself about the value of engagement.

So, my friends, my summer wish for you is safe and happy days, and contact with others. I feel blessed by those moments of engagement, whether at the neighborhood supermarket or a world away in Shanghai.

 Where do you want to go?