Second Quarter Update

Dear Friends,

At about three on the first day of the second quarter, I spoke with the vice-provost at Cornell, who told me that they were not sending my name forward to be Dean of the Hotel School. Yes, I was disappointed, but the feeling only lasted a little while. As I looked out on a crystal-clear spring day in Texas I reminded myself that this was a pretty good place to live. As a silver 767 sailed a few hundred feet over me, gliding toward runway 36L, I was reminded that despite its obvious messiness, ours is a very cool business, and that I had a great gig here at American. And I knew that had I taken a job at one school, I would have sorely missed the enormous variety of teaching on more than 20 campuses on five continents. Onward!

On Sunday the third, I was cleaning up some stuff in my home office, and finally sorted through what are almost sure to be the last color slides I took, 2001-03, just before I went digital. Some nice snaps there: central London on a stunningly clear autumn day; the eye-popping ruins of Ephesus in Turkey; the Davå power plant in northern Sweden, the one that is more than 98% efficient. These pictures are now filed geographically with the thousands of slides from 30+ years of travel. Although the convenience of digital is wonderful, there was something a little sad about handling the last of those yellow Kodak boxes, grasping the edge of the slide and turning it toward the light to reveal an image and produce a memory.

Six days later, on a clear Saturday morning, I set off with experienced ramp builders Van James and Jim Cook, a committed novice named Veronica and her daughter Marilyn, and two high-school seniors from a nearby suburb to build a couple of ramps in Hamilton Park. The neighborhood, less than five miles from home, is an African-American enclave, developed in the 1950s and '60s, and surrounded by much more affluent areas in North Dallas. The condition of the homes varies, and our first assignment was for a very poor old woman still in the hospital. We finished by 11:30 and moved on to the second ramp. This was a custom job, and the team had spent a few hours on the frame. The first thing I noticed was the client, sitting in his chair, right inside the front door, watching carefully. I opened the door and introduced myself. We were both Roberts. In addition to the chair, he was on oxygen, two tubes running into his nose. We visited briefly, Robert telling me that one of the great things about the ramp was that he was once again going to be able to help his wife bring in the groceries. That's why we build them.

A little while later, one of my co-workers was fitting a threshold to smooth the way out the door, and I finished the task. I was face to face with Robert, and we visited a little. "You've been on the earth long?" I asked. Robert said 74 years. He volunteered that he had managed a liquor store at Lemmon and Mockingbird for 40 years. "Did you get held up?" I asked. Only once, he replied. Lucky. Later, Robert told me that he had lived in this house for 50 years. "I picked out the place when it was just a foundation," he said. Keeping Robert and his wife in their house of half a century is also why we build them.

When we finished the ramp, Robert tried it out, moving the motorized chair down the ramp, back up, and down again. His grandson, who had been shooting baskets next door, came over. "Now your gramps can roll over and shoot baskets with you." The grandson smiled. That's why we build them.

Three days after that, on April 12, I stepped onto the 5:05 nonstop to London, for the first teaching since the happy days in Minnesota a month earlier. A hydraulic leak delayed us for 85 minutes, and when we arrived at Gatwick at 9:20 the race was on, because I was due to give an airline-basics lecture at McCann-Erickson in central London at ten. I would of course be late; the question was one of degree. I chuckled when the immigration inspector asked me, "Have you been here before?", then sped onward, narrowly missing the 9:35 express. I tuned in local composers, Elgar, Purcell, Lennon, and McCartney, for the ride into town, plus Jack's old rock band Jhombi, for some extra energy. Continuing the practice of talking to strangers, this time in the train vestibule as we crossed the Thames just short of Victoria Station, I had a nice yak with a young man carrying a ukulele. It turned out he had broken his hand six months earlier, and his favored instrument, the guitar, was a stretch, but the smaller unit worked well. Lots of benefits to the uke, he said, and he also liked to bring it to work, "to annoy people in the office."

Hopped on the Victoria tube line, three stops to Warren Street, got compass bearings, then a run-walk eight minutes southeast to the McCann offices, arriving 10:51. The lecture went well, ending with headstand. Our new account guy, Chris Macdonald, and I then headed a bit west for a wonderful lunch at the Charlotte Street Hotel, a boutique hostelry favored by ad and film types. The dining room was noisy and lively. And the Gressingham duck was superb. Back to McCann, grabbed my suitcase, walked to the tube, on to Paddington, then Heathrow, then Paris.

At Charles De Gaulle Airport, I breezed through immigration and customs, met Mr. Raoult the taxi driver, and set off south, to Fontainebleau and the INSEAD business school. The ride was mostly silent, except for a bit of broken English and battered French. But the freeways were fluide, and we were at the Ibis Hotel on Rue de Ferrare by 8:30. I unpacked, showered, put on sneakers and set off to see the famous castle. Took a couple of snaps, wandered the centre ville a bit, then headed back to iron my trousers and work E-mail.

Was up early Thursday morning, in front of the hotel to meet my host, Erin Anderson, at 7:15. We walked around the corner for breakfast at Le Grand hôtel de l’Aigle Noir (the Black Eagle, one of Napoleon's symbols). I took an immediate liking to Erin, an American. We drove to INSEAD and the first of two lectures at 8:30. My first visit, a year earlier, was shorter and I did not gain an appreciation for what a cool place it was. Their basic "customer proposition" is a MBA in 12 months, and that idea attracts a hugely international student body, clever young people well aware of the opportunity cost of time in school. That day I met students from not only France, but Italy, Spain, Ghana, Korea, China, Brazil, Egypt, and even the U.S.

The first class went well, and we walked to Erin's building. (Remarkably, she was one of the only hosts in 16 years of lecturing who took the time to memorize a good chunk of my bio, and thus to introduce me without reading it.) We stopped for an espresso and a chat about future teaching prospects at the school; right from the start, Erin liked my presenting style. Headed to a visitor's office, where I worked E-mail and did some other stuff. At 11:45 we walked to the central cafeteria, buzzing with activity. The afternoon class went equally well. I worked some more in the office, and headed back to the hotel, snapping some pictures of architectural detail along Rue Royale. At five I laced up and headed into the king's gardens for a quick bit of exercise. It was a good place to run, past the first buds of spring, trees sprouting leaves, and the magnificent castle as background.

Showered and walked back to school. It was Africa Week at INSEAD, and in the student-union equivalent, West African drummers were pounding away, and students were enjoying themselves, guzzling Czech beer and rocking to the beat. Because the program is short, many students bring their families, and there were a number of young children in the crowd – in strollers, in arms, at mom's breast – that gave the place a humanity seldom seen in graduate business schools. Good thing Cornell dinged me, I thought, because this kind of variety would have evaporated. Lucy from Ghana, who organized the whole week, brought me a beer. I yakked with Christine from the morning class (she had been an Aspen ski bum for seven years), and in a true small-world moment I met Ruben Sanchez Souza, a Mexican-Brazilian who was a star in American's 2003-04 ad campaign in Latin America. Yep, I remember his face from the TV commercial and the magazine ads!

At 7:45 Erin and I headed into the center for dinner at the Caveau des Ducs, a cave from the 12^th century and a nice place for dinner. Joining us were eight students: Tim from the U.K, Alice from Hong Kong, Isil from Turkey, and four others. Each of us said a few words of introduction. Our host was an especially interesting person. The daughter of an U.S. Army officer, she grew up all over and graduated from high school in a small town in California. She earned her Ph.D. at UCLA, and met her husband, a Frenchman, there. Taught at Wharton for more than a decade, and received an offer to move to INSEAD about a decade ago. And why not? It's a very, very good life there.

It was a classic French dinner, nearly three hours. By the end, I was sated and plumb wore out. I wished the students great careers, kissed Erin on both cheeks, and headed a convenient 30 feet to the Ibis, E-mail, and a good sleep.

At 8:26, Mr. Raoult drove me in light rain to the train station at nearby Avon. The 8:53 suburban train to the Gare du Lyon in Paris was right on time. We glided through the king's forest (Bois du Roi), stopped at a station of the same name, and at Melun, then nonstop into the city. Seated in a rear-facing seat and looking at my fellow travelers, I thought again of those nasty anti-French bumper stickers at home; my questions for those who affixed them: have you seen France? Spoken with a French person? Seen the streets where, only six decades ago, the blood of civilians flowed past bombed homes? No, probably not.

Hopped the RER train to Gare du Nord. Picked up my ticket for the 10:55 train to Cologne via Brussels and Liege. I had a bit of time, so I walked out of the station and onto busy Paris streets, snapping a few pictures. Ten or fifteen minutes after departure, the Thalys train was gliding along at almost three miles a minute. Fast. I had never been east of Brussels, and the landscape of Belgium’s Liege province became pleasantly hilly. We started to run behind schedule, and I began to fret about my seven-minute connection in Cologne. By the time I got off the train, it was departure time three platforms away. I ran fast, to find, happily, that my connecting train was running five minutes late!

We rolled south. At Bonn, two people entered the six-seat compartment. Soon I was again talking to strangers, lively conversation with two very global Germans – a young fellow who earlier that day had completed his exams for a degree in chemistry and was headed to Israel for two weeks of touring, and a woman in her thirties who worked for a humanitarian agency of the German government, bound for Frankfurt for the 78^th birthday of her mother-in-law. Both had been all over the world: two years ago he rode his bike, by himself, from Colombia to Patagonia; she had worked for two years in North Korea. Remarkable.

We arrived Koblenz and I met my young host, Tobias Hundhausen. I had met him the last time I was here, at the private B-school WHU, in 2002, and he had visited me in Dallas in early '03 when he studied for a semester at SMU and passed the CPA exam. Tobias told me he was making good progress on his Ph.D. at WHU, working part-time for Lufthansa, and in his spare time developing a small software firm that was helping Du Pont (and, he hoped, other U.S. companies) comply with the Sarbanes-Oxley law. An energetic fellow!

We stopped at my hotel, I checked in, washed my face, and we headed across the Rhine to WHU. Worked my E-mail a bit, grabbed a coffee, and at six on a Friday afternoon began a lecture to what I reckoned (given day and time) was a big crowd – perhaps 30. It went very well, and in the German tradition the applause was long and loud. After the talk we processed to the foyer where there were ample stocks of one of my favorites, Erdinger weissbier from Bavaria, and a good supply of conversation, too. In the second small-world moment in two days, I met Solveig, a young woman who turned out to be Robin Britton's German twin – not only a graduate of USC, but a double major with international relations and communication. Whew!

Dinner began at nine, just two others, Jürgen Weigand, my WHU host, and his wife. A nice meal at an Italian restaurant in Vallendar. Taxi ride back across the Rhine to the hotel, a few E-mails to work, and a good sleep after a long day.

Up seven hours later, a gloomy morning, but not raining. Laced up and took off along the west bank of the Rhine, past the tourist-boat quays and some massive buildings belonging to the state government of the Rhineland Palatinate, to the Deutsches Eck, the German Corner, where the Moselle River joins the bigger one. At that historic site stands a massive statue of Kaiser Wilhelm (1859-1941) on horseback. It's very cool. It's actually a monument, and I trotted up the steps and around the back of the horse and king, then back down. On the return trot, I raced a scrap barge on the river, and won. A good run.

At 9:30, Tobias picked me up. He had offered several weeks earlier to do a bit of sightseeing. I suggested Heidelberg, the university town on the Neckar River, about 100 miles south. In no time, we were on the autobahn and clocking more than 100 mph. Before we left, I fretted that we would not have enough to talk about, but we yakked the whole way – about his family, his software firm, his work at Lufthansa, the airline business, and his extensive experience in the U.S., beginning with a high-school year in a small town in southern Missouri.

As we approached Heidelberg, he called his brother, who regularly visits his girlfriend in Heidelberg. It was sunny in Heidelberg, and I was excited. On the way into the Altstadt (old town), we passed directional signs for the headquarters of the U.S. Seventh Army, and the Patton Barracks. Heidelberg has had a strong American presence since May 1945. We parked underground and began walking the old town. The place was packed with visitors, including scores of Americans.

We headed into the Heiliggeistkirche, completed 1508, and now a Lutheran church. I spotted a sign telling us we could climb to the top of the tower for 60 cents, and off we went. As always, the views from the top were well worth the huff and puff. Oliver joined us there. We chatted a bit, then descended, heading a couple of blocks south and west to the core of the university, which spreads all across the town. Founded 1386, it's the second-oldest in Europe, and very cool. We zipped into the ornate library. Like many buildings in town and the castle on the slope above, it was built of red sandstone. Continued on, to a funicular that carried us above the castle, so we could walk down and down again.

Time was a little short, so we skipped the castle tour (I must and will do it on a return trip), though we did ramble through the courtyard and in to see the largest wooden keg in the world, capacity almost 60,000 gallons. Back in the day, the royals were concerned about a long siege, and believed in laying in supplies of essential goods. Oliver's girlfriend, Sabina, joined us for a huge lunch at Scheffel's Kulturbrauerei. I had roast pork, two enormous dumplings, and very fruity red cabbage, and two Maibocks, dark beer brewed in the spring.

At four, we said goodbye and it was pedal to the metal to Frankfurt, right into the high-rise downtown, past bank after bank, to the offices of Goldman Sachs. We picked up Hannes Gsell, another WHU student, parked, and ambled across part of downtown to the old opera house. We enjoyed a coffee in a sidewalk café in front, and visited a bit more. Like Tobias, Hannes, from Ingolstadt, Bavaria, had much experience in the U.S., including high-school years in St. Cloud, Minnesota (at WHU the day before, I met a young man who lived in Wichita Falls, Texas, with distant relatives; it was cool to meet three Germans whose American experience was heartland, not coastal).

At about six, I said goodbye to Tobias, and Hannes and I hopped in a taxi. He was headed back to work (the life of a young investment banker is pretty nasty all over the world), and I insisted on taking the train back to Koblenz. Tobias lived close to the Frankfurt Airport, and it was a waste of time and energy to drive me 75 miles, then back. I found a train to Mainz and a fast connection onward to Koblenz. Walked back to the hotel in the fading light, had a salad for dinner, and was in bed by 10:30. A wonderful day.

Rose at 6:30, ate breakfast, walked back to the station, took the train to Frankfurt Airport, and flew home, arriving in mid-afternoon. It was cloudy most of the way, but there were some spectacular views of a still-mostly-frozen James Bay, three hours north of DFW. Was on my bike pounding out 25 miles by 4:30.

Three days later, after giving an 8:00 presentation to visitors from American's European Management Development Program and doing a bit of work, I flew 187 miles south to Austin, for my second visit to the University of Texas. American upgraded two members of the Army's Airborne Division, behind me in First Class. They were returning from Iraq, and were excited to be back in Texas. We didn't eavesdrop, but their excitement made them loud, and one could infer something about the mind of the soldier from their conversation. They were lifers, sergeants, in their early fifties, and they had lots of stories. They perceived themselves has warriors, but – and I mean no disrespect here – there was something almost childlike about them, a hearkening to backyard battles. Their banter made for an interesting ride.

The flight was an hour late. I hopped in a cab, and we were at UT in no time, but too late for the big buffet lunch in the faculty club like a year earlier. So we trotted downstairs for sandwiches, and ate quickly in host Wayne Hoyer's office. Class started a few minutes later, MBAs, and full of questions about airline advertising. An old friend from AA in the 1990s, John Morton (who now writes speeches for our execs and those at Dell and other firms), joined the class. It was great to see him – we still lament his departure.

At four I gave another talk to a jointly sponsored group of undergraduates and MBA students, my stump speech on woes in our business. At 5:30, I got my reward – a visit to Stubb's, the sensational barbeque and music joint on Red River Street. Awesome! A group of students joined Wayne and me, and we drank beer and ate fried green tomatoes, onion rings, chicken wings, and other healthful foods. A lively discussion of airline topics, summer internship plans for the 1^st-year students, job plans for those about to graduate. A fun time. Wayne drove me back to the airport, and I flew home at dusk, Texas crooner Tish Hinojosa singing about Austin, Tejas, en Espanol. A good day in a very cool city.

Nine days later, on Friday, April 29, I ambled onto the 10:15 Silver Bird west to Tokyo. It’s a 12-hour flight, but it went very quickly, with only a short nap in toward the end of the flight. Watched Motorcycle Diaries, listened to music, polished my upcoming presentations, and started reading The Secret Life of Bees. My seatmate seemed curious about my reading choice; perhaps he was thinking it was a “girl’s book.” I don’t have those sorts of hang-ups, and after my brother (a huge fiction reader) recommended it a few days earlier, I tucked it in my briefcase and really enjoyed the first 100 pages. There was some nice coincidence: as I was getting into the novel, through my earphones came Rimsky-Korsakoff’s “The Flight of the Bumblebees.”

Arrived Narita Airport a bit early, met Hideki Higuchi, an AA airport supervisor, who had my onward ticket to Shanghai and Seoul. I bowed and thanked him. Took the shuttle bus to Terminal 2, got my boarding pass, went through security, and then happened upon some travel serendip. At three o’clock in the foyer of the shuttle-train station was a mini-concert sponsored by the airport authority. Pianist Atsuko Shimanouchi accompanied to quite capable young opera singers, Naomi Takeuchi and Katsuyuki Nakanishi, who crooned a mix of serious and show tunes (I especially liked Naomi’s version of “Amazing Grace.” A good crowd of transit and originating passengers paused, and everyone enjoyed it. We don’t have cool stuff like this at DFW!

I’m sure American paid for some small part of it in landing fees, and it was money well spent.

They came back at three for a repeat performance, and when Ms. Takeuchi repeated the spiritual, my eyes looked toward heaven, and I thought about my Dad. It was six decades ago, right about now, that he returned, broken and hurting, from this country. How far our world has come since.

While listening to the concert, I also charged up my new laptop (unfortunately, I could not make a borrowed in-flight adapter work, so I drained the battery on the trip across the Pacific).

I worked my E-mail from a JAL business-class lounge, climbed on a China Eastern plane, and flew 1000 miles west to Shanghai, passing right over the top of Mount Fuji. A very cool sight. Landed at seven p.m., breezed through immigration and customs, and met Johnson Dong, a program coordinator for the University of Southern California’s Global MBA program, my Shanghai destination. We headed into town in a big Shanghai GM Buick, and arrived at the Crowne Plaza Hotel an hour later.

Checked in, said goodbye to Johnson, took a much-needed shower and headed back out (my westbound Pacific strategy is to get really, really tired on arrival). I hopped in a cab and headed east to Aburiya, a Japanese restaurant in the trendy Xintiandi district. After a little zigzag, I met John Van Fleet, a USC alum who runs the MBA program in Shanghai (bringing the school to the students is a pretty cool idea), and Eric Arnold, CEO of a port project 35 miles south (a joint venture of the Shanghai city government and a huge Dutch port firm called Vopak). I had eaten enough, so had a couple of Yebisu beers and a lot of good chatter.

Soon Echo, Eric’s Chinese girlfriend, arrived, another very interesting person. The People’s Liberation Army spotted her smarts as an early teenager, and for the next 18 years – until just recently – she was in the PLA. But not as a soldier, as an orthopedic surgeon. Fascinating. We talked about a lot of stuff – China in general, her work, her family, local culture in the smaller city where her kin live, and more. I could have listened to her stories for hours, for it was another clear window on the enormous transition taking place in China. Head hit the pillow at 11:30, long ZZzzzzzz.

Woke up early, about six, and it was raining hard. I was hoping for a street run, but settled for a ride on a boring exercise bike in the hotel fitness center, where the TV was carrying the Dallas-Houston NBA playoff game. At eight, I met my Los Angeles USC host, marketing prof. Joe Nunes, a very good guy, for breakfast. He was pumped up, because he learned the night before that he had gotten tenure at the Marshall School of Business. Had a good yak, a bowl of congee (rice porridge), dim sum, and other tidbits. After breakfast the weather turned worse, full-tilt thunderstorm, so stayed in the room and worked my E-mail to zero.

At 10:30 I hopped in a taxi and headed to the “old city”, which despite the rain was packed. It was Labor Day, May Day for us, long live the Heroic Workers! There were a few interesting things to see, including a couple of Buddhist temples. I paused for a cup of tea in the Mid-Lake Pavilion, built in 1783 and Shanghai’s most famous tea house. Nice young ladies served me a variety of teas and asked about me – where was I from? Did I have family? And they told me a lot about various teas. I then met Cullen, a tout who spoke really good English. He was pleasant and not persistent, but I still ended up paying far too much for some bulk tea and a very cool silver dollar from the 1920s Republic of China.

The rain persisted. In mid-afternoon, I took a taxi to Nanjing Street, the main shopping street in modern Shanghai, bought a knit shirt from Giordano, to China what The Gap is to the U.S., then took the Metro west to Jiangsu Road, then a taxi (flagfall is 10 Yuan, $1.20, and you ride a long way before the meter starts to rise above that). A short nap seemed sensible, and snored hard for 55 minutes.

At six I met Joe and another USC faculty member, Bill Crookston, a “clinical professor,” which meant that he was hired for his ability to share his substantial real-world experience, and was not expected to do research (sounds like what I do!). We had a drink and piled into a taxi for a short ride to a huge restaurant called Xiao Nan Guo; we ambled into the basement, to a private room arranged by a volunteer “Chief Entertainment Officer,” a local MBA student who knows food. Dinner was a great deal of fun. About 20 students, roughly 40% of the class, joined the banquet – a huge variety of food, the most exotic of which was snake (it did in fact taste like chicken, and took a lot of gnawing on small bones to extract a small amount of meat). A sample of the students at our table: a Pakistani-Canadian, from Regina, working in software in Seattle; Jim Liu from Beijing, most recently working for Intel in San Jose; Matt Cooper from Cleveland, who had been working in Shanghai for 12 years; and Mike from Taiwan, with a family construction business and a large stake in Taiwanese baseball teams. Needless to say, it was a fascinating meal. At one point I leaned over to Bill the USC prof and remarked that he and I were pretty much in the middle of globalization. Headed home, worked E-mail a bit, and clocked out.

Woke up early Monday morning, to greet fair weather and cooler temps, and at six I laced up and headed south on Panyu Road. The Chinese rise early, and the streets were full of life. More than a few people pulling carts laden with stuff. A few people walking dogs, mainly Pomeranian-looking hounds. Lots of older folks doing t’ai chi; I watched an eighty-something man go through a series of movements with the grace and fluidity of someone one-fourth his age. Shanghai has a lot of nice parks, and the one on Huashan Road was hopping – people reading the newspaper, a few joggers, walkers, and a large group exercising to classical Chinese music. Quite a scene!

Showered, ate breakfast, and headed over to the Jiao Tong University’s Aetna School of Management, where I lectured last year. Showtime started at 9:30, and the lecture went well, with lots of good questions afterward. Listened to Joe Nunes’ lecture, and in the middle of it I had to remind myself that I was in the People’s Republic of China, led by a Communist Party! Remarkable. I ate lunch with students, listened to Bill Crookston’s talk, and peeled out at three. Hailed a cab to the Jiangsu Road Metro station, jumped on an eastbound train, crossed the Huangpu River, and got off at Long Yang Road. Soon I was going really fast – faster than I’ve ever gone on land, on a magnetic-levitation train the Germans built in the hopes of building more of them. Less than four minutes after departing, an LED readout at the front of our coach read 431 KPH – about 250 MPH. Whew! The 18 km. journey to Pudong Airport took eight minutes. Checked in, and took off for Seoul, my first visit to Korea.

At Seoul’s sleek new Incheon Airport were the first clues that this place had money – an enormous terminal brimming with locals returning from overseas; Samsung flat-panel TVs showing loops of commercials for their latest mobile phones while we waited to clear immigration; new cars on display. Outside customs, Kyung Wook Ko, Hyung Jun Kim, and Jeong Yeon Lee, MBA students at Yonsei University (the best private university in a country where education is paramount) welcomed me and drove me the 30 miles into town and onto the Yonsei campus, to a simple but spotless room in a guest house. In the first 90 minutes in Korea, it was clear that my image of Korea was wrong – I knew that the republic was well on its way to being a fully-developed industrial state, but it was clear from the well-appointed airport, the huge expressway into town, and the many shops on the main avenue of the Seodaemun district west of the campus, that the place was already at that level. Said goodbye to my new friends, called home, and clocked out.

The room faced east, and the sun rose at 5:35. I was up and out for a quick walk around the campus at seven. Built on a slope, the Yonsei grounds were really lovely, with lots of trees and flowering plants – azaleas and others were in full bloom. I learned that a day earlier the school marked the 120^th anniversary of its founding by an American missionary. Apart from the Philippines, Korea is the most Christian country in East Asia – fully a quarter of Koreans are Christians, and one sees spires all over town, most topped with red neon crosses. I was still a bit surprised when I happened upon a group of students praying aloud at 7:30 in the middle of the campus. They sounded fervent.

At eight I met my host, Sunmee Choi. I met Sunmee at ESSEC in Paris in February (described in the first-quarter update). It was great that I was able to teach at her school less than three months later. Sunmee had just moved back to Korea after an extended period of study and teaching in the U.S., and was now reunited with her husband, a Yonsei theology professor. She told me she was acclimating well, and really enjoying being back in her native land. We talked about a lot of stuff, had a great Korean breakfast: haejangguk, a spicy, miso-like soup with sprouted beans and greens, rice, and, of course, kimchee, the national dish, a very peppery preserved cabbage.

Sunmee told me that Korean society was in remarkable flux. The Confucian social order was threatened by growing gender equality (she was one of the first women hired in the Yonsei School of Business), affluence, adoption of Western culture, and other factors. A good time to visit.

At 9:15, one of her students, Song-Hae, arrived to lead me on some sightseeing – more Korean hospitality. We walked a bit more on campus, then headed south to the Sinchon subway station, pausing for a Starbucks, which seem to be on every corner in Korea, too. Took the subway east to the foot of Namsan, another of several large hills right in the city. As we walked, Song-Hae told me lots of things about herself, and her openness was an interesting window on Korea. Coincidentally, her father worked in airline marketing like me, for Korean Air, and Song-Hae had spent most of her 23 years in Europe. He parents were atheists, but after briefly adopting Buddhism, she became a Christian. She exuded some “born again” bliss, but in a good and very genuine way. She was a very sweet and sincere young woman, and when she asked my opinion I felt like an uncle!

We took a bus up then partly down the hill, then hiked back up one side to a get a truly spectacular view of downtown Seoul and much of the north and west of the enormous metropolis. Then down again, and north into the sprawling Namdaemun Market. These places are always really interesting, and this was no exception, brimming with the familiar (counterfeit Vuitton bags, Coca-Cola) and the exotic, mainly food: huge bowls of crushed red pepper, dried silkworms (crunchy!), preserved fish, eels, and more. I could have wandered for hours. We continued north through Myungdong, and down what translated as “The Young and Lively Street,” packed with every name brand in the world. We zigzagged through Tapgol Park, which was largely filled with older men, retired guys wearing sport coats and hats, many of whom looked they had lived hard lives, in an era less comfy than the present one. At the park, as at several other places we visited earlier, there were statues of leaders of Korean’s struggle for independence and nation. One could infer from those alone how passionately the Koreans wanted to be free, rather than oppressed by the Chinese and thrice by the Japanese. A strong sense of nation – a good thing.

We headed for Insadong, a lively, somewhat touristy district of art galleries and little restaurants on side streets and narrow alleys. Indeed, the galleries, some of which bore the name “art space”, were another indicator of economic development – here was a nation where people had the money and the inclination to buy fine art. At 1:30 four more students joined us, and we had a Korean lunch at a tiny spot. I could have toured a bit more, but I forgot my cap and the sun had been working on my balding head, so we took a bus back to campus, 15 minutes west, through two tunnels. I said goodbye to my hosts, worked my E-mail in the basement of the B-school building, and walked back to my room to “suit up” for the lecture at six p.m. It had been a very pleasant day, in weather and sights and new friends.

I met Sunmee, we had a short visit with Prof. Lee, the associate dean, and the lecture began. It was a big success judging from the loud clapping at the end. Sunmee had asked me to be “inspirational,” and I did my best to convey to the students, both undergraduates and MBAs, the importance of being internationally fluent. I continued that at dinner, down the hill at a shabu-shabu restaurant, a place where each person cooks his own food in hot broth. It was great fun. After dinner we headed up the street for a final beer, and yak with the students, then back up the hill to much-needed dozing.

On Wednesday, departure day, I was up and out the door at six, determined to see as much as possible that morning. I walked east from the guest house, right below the university’s New Severance Hospital, an enormous building that was being dedicated that afternoon, and further proof of Korea’s full arrival as an industrial power. I took the subway to the main railway station; on the trains and in the stations two kinds of people caught my eye: soldiers and hikers, the latter of all ages but generally dressed in knickers, leggings, and hiking boots, and with a name-brand daypack on their backs. I had read that the Koreans greatly enjoy the outdoors, and here was proof. The transport geek ambled around the brand-new station, then walked through downtown, spending a bit of time on a wide boulevard called Sejongno, site of the U.S. embassy, a dreary-looking building. It seemed enormously well-guarded, dozens of police on all sides, a tank-like vehicle with water cannon at the ready, a truck labeled “SWAT Team,” and more. I asked a passer-by if they expected trouble that day, and he replied that it was “as usual.” I circled the block, took a photo of the backside, and of people waiting in a line that ran along two sides of the building.

On the south side, I engaged a stranger, a friendly-looking African-American soldier who had to come from Iraq to square away an immigration issue for his foreign-born wife. Even before I knew why he was there, I launched a rant about the inefficiency of U.S. immigration and the shame of subjecting people to long waits. He nodded vigorously, and said, "you can pay your taxes online, but somehow you can’t do this stuff – it’s just bull----," he said. Totally nuts, and embarrassing.

Took a subway ride south of the Han River, to a “second downtown” called Gangnam, wandered a bit, then rode back north to Gyeongboknung, the palace of the Joseon Dynasty, that ruled Korea from 1392 until a century ago. I didn’t have much time left, so I raced around, snapping pictures of the buildings, some architectural detail, and the soldiers in colorful ancient-style robes who were rehearsing the changing of the guard an hour hence. Interesting stuff. At ten I left the palace grounds, hailed a cab, and was back on the campus in ten minutes. Last task was to find a Yonsei University T-shirt for Robin. It was not easy, but a kind young man gave me one that said “Yonsei Global Festival.” These are a very hospitable and wonderful people.

I headed back to the guest house, worked my E-mail, showered, and at 11:30 met Kyung Wook, who again had his Dad’s big car. The original plan was for him to drive me back to the airport, but that seemed excessive. Instead, we drove a mile west to a bus stop and I hopped an airport express bus, and arrived Incheon Airport at 12:30. Checked in, and at 1:40 climbed to the upper deck of a Japan Airlines 747 (it had been seven years since I had been upstairs on a 747), and flew east to Tokyo Narita, using the 90 minutes to finish The Secret Life of Bees. Changed terminals at Tokyo, and climbed onto our Silver Bird back to DFW. A sensational trip, especially my first visit to Korea.

A week after returning from Asia, I headed west again, on the 11^th, to Los Angeles for what were sure to be happy moments: to the 122^nd commencement ceremony at the University of Southern California, and to see our dear Robin walk across the stage and receive her B.A. I was pretty jazzed on the ride out there, Van Morrison, Bob Marley, and Eric Clapton providing up-tempo music. The joy was a big part, but gratitude was another – that Linda and I were able to afford these four years, which coincided with a very rotten period at American (on the evening of September 11, 2001, less than three weeks after she started at USC, Robin offered to return home; you can imagine my reaction). So we’d made it through; finances became a bit tattered, but we made it. Cause for celebration! Whoopee!

Landed on a gorgeous spring day, clear air thanks to rain the day before, and hopped on a shared-ride van north to Century City, visiting on the ride with an Australian couple stopping over for a day from Europe to Sydney. Arrived at the Park Hyatt, dropped my bag, and walked down the hill to a shopping mall and to dinner with Linda, Jack, Robin, and her roommate Alissa. We had a quick meal, because the youngsters were eager to move on to a party. The grownups went back to the hotel, I worked my E-mail, and clocked out.

Was up early the next morning, out for a quick run on a very cool morning, ate breakfast with Linda, read the paper, and generally relaxed. At eleven I walked a couple of blocks south to Pico Blvd. and jumped on the Big Blue Bus, Santa Monica Municipal Lines route 7, west to that town. When I boarded and asked the cost, the driver quoted the regular fare and the seniors’ fare. I smiled and replied “I’m not that old,” dropping three quarters in the fare box. Fellow riders were largely Latino, and young, and the Carlos Santana tunes that flowed through my headphones seemed to fit perfectly.

Got off opposite the famous Santa Monica Pier, walked it, taking in all the diversity and activity, even at noon on a Wednesday. Admired the SMURRF, the Santa Monica Urban Runoff Recycling Facility, which recycles storm-sewer runoff into “gray water” suitable for irrigation, industrial use, etc. Very cool. Wandered downtown S.M., changed quite a bit since I was here 16 years ago to help dedicate a purpose-built youth hostel on 2^nd Street. The hostel still looked very good.

Met USC business professor Bill Crookston for lunch at one, at a great seafood place right on Ocean Avenue. I met Bill 11 days earlier in Shanghai, and it was fun to get to know him a bit better. We had a good yak, then I jumped on the Big Blue Bus and headed back to the hotel, changed clothes, and the four Brittons headed into downtown L.A. for dinner with Robin’s main sorority friends, at Café Pinot, an agreeable place on the grounds of the Los Angeles Public Library. We allowed plenty of time for traffic, and there was little, so we were there early. Put a few minutes to good use inside the library, viewing the stunning murals in the rotunda of the former main reading room, and some other splendid architectural detail from this 1932 building.

We shook a lot of hands and had a drink before dinner. Lots of interesting people, but at the top of the list was Bridget Lewis’ grandfather Jack, still going stronger than strong at 87. We covered a lot of territory: oil prices, oil production, real estate, his recent move to a very cool assisted-living facility in Carlsbad, north of San Diego. Dinner was wonderful, with great food and company. Bonus on the way home was an unplanned ride through Koreatown, just west of central L.A. I felt like I was back in Seoul.

Head hit pillow at eleven and rose at five on graduation day. We were parked at the sorority house lot by 6:15, and I ambled down 28^th Street to meet Robin and her friends at the 9-0, a dive bar on Figueroa Street. USC tradition propels graduating seniors, friends, more than a few parents there for a mimosa or Bloody Mary starting at 5:30 on the big day. By the time I got there, a line snaked around the building; after waiting 15 minutes, a side door miraculously opened, and in I went, luckily finding the sorority gang. They were about to leave, so my total time in the bar was about five minutes, but I can now say that I’ve been there!

Grabbed some coffee and a cinnamon roll and sat down on the front steps of a USC building on Figueroa for a little al fresco breakfast and a thanksgiving prayer. Then headed south to find Linda and Jack, who had already staked out good seats for the main ceremony. It was a nice event, high point of which was a brief but solid speech from USC graduate Neil Armstrong. I expected little, and was way impressed, especially with his single chunk of advice:

You can lose your health to illness or accident, you can lose your wealth to all manner of unpredictable sources. What are not easily stolen from you, without your cooperation, are your principles and your values. They are your most important possessions, and if carefully selected and nurtured will well serve you and your fellow man.

I was hoping to hear the great USC fight songs, and at the end of the ceremony I was not disappointed. That was the moment for a few tears, for thinking about Robin’s four years at this special place. I’ve written before: she sought out a school with lots of spirit, and she found it, exponentially. At 10:15 we headed to the separate, smaller ceremony for the Annenberg School for Communication, where they read her name and I could give a loud whistle as she received her diploma.

At noon we walked back to the Kappa Kappa Gamma house, to a reception for graduates, hugs, congrats, pictures, and a bit of lunch. Jack peeled off to spend two days with an SMU buddy. I had a nice yak with a couple of other fathers. We then loaded Robin’s car with some stuff and headed out to her new pad, on Barrington St. in Brentwood, almost to Santa Monica. Linda had seen it a few weeks ago, and was enthused, as was I – a nice place in a lively, young neighborhood. We unloaded, headed back to the hotel, where I changed clothes and we picked up another load. Changed clothes again at 5:20 and drove to The Ivy, a highly-regarded café on Robertson, just east of Beverly Hills, for a celebratory dinner. Toasts to the graduate, a fine meal, and great conversation with our young adult. Robin was excited to be joining Weber Shandwick, the big P.R. firm where she had interned in the summers of ’02 and ’03. In fact her office was two blocks north of the restaurant, and we swung by on our way back to the hotel. It was good to put pajamas on, to work my E-mail, and to snore by 9:30.

Given lack of dollars, this may well have been our summer vacation, which was fine. Linda and I had bought the hotel stay at the Celebrity Ski auction in Vail in March, and we were enjoying the suite at a very fancy hotel, sitting on the seven-stories-up porch on a lovely Saturday morning, conversing, drinking coffee, relaxing. Linda commented that it was the longest that I had sat still in a long time! At ten, Robin and Alissa picked us up and we motored south for a caloric breakfast at our favorite Uncle Bill’s Pancake House in Manhattan Beach. We had not been there since late November, and it was a treat to sit on the patio and tuck into a big breakfast with the two college graduates. They dropped us at LAX, and headed back to laze on Manhattan Beach while we zipped home. On the way home I transferred photos from the digital camera to my PC, and while listening to Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance” I put a photo of Robin the Graduate and brother Jack onto my PC desktop – nice! We arrived at 6:45, and was home in time to pound out 20 miles before it got dark.

The next week, on Wednesday the 18^th, I flew south to Mexico City, first time there in nearly three years. When the airplane door opened, I heard my name, a first indicator that my genial host, our sales director for Mexico, Antonia Gutierrez – Tony to all of us – had rolled out the red carpet. One of her colleagues insisted I ride in a golf cart to immigration. I do not like fuss. Tony met us a few minutes later, and we rolled into the city at dusk, wheeling into the wonderful Hotel Camino Real. Built for the 1968 Olympics, the hotel is all angles and my kinds of colors: cerise, magenta, bright yellow. It makes you smile! Practiced a bit of Spanish with the front-desk clerk; though not my intent, it was enough to get a really nice room upgrade.

Dropped my bags and Tony drove us less than a mile into the posh Polanco district to Casa Hevia, a very agreeable restaurant. Waiting for us at a big round table in the corner were José Manuel, Guillermo (known as Memo), and Rebeca from McCann Erickson Mexico, and Benedicta from American. A duo played old-fashioned show tunes and such on an electric piano. It was comfy. I established almost instant credibility when I suggested that we eat local, and we did. Appetizers included some pretty exotic stuff: escamoles, ant larvae harvested from the roots of the agave cactus; gusanos de maguey, often called a worm but actually the caterpillar of a nocturnal butterfly, which also lives in agave; and machitos, which we had enjoyed in Monterrey many times before, barbecued animal innards (José Manuel said "Rob, the less you know about these, the better."). The agave also supplied us with some very refined tequila, carrying the numerical brand “1942.” After plates and plates of appetizers, we were getting full, so the main course was simple cabrito (kid goat) tacos. For a final shot, José Manuel and I had Dobel, which was tequila and goat’s milk, which he dubbed “the Bailey’s of Mexico.” By the end of the meal, I was declared a local through and through. “No soy gringo!” I declared, and no one disagreed.

I snored a lot that night, I’m sure, but was up at 6:30 and out the door for a quick walk. Destination was the wonderful independence monument commonly called el Angel de la Independencia. The map showed it in range. Compass in hand, I headed down Victor Hugo (streets in central districts are themed – around the hotel they were authors and philosophers), crossed the busy thoroughfare Melchor Ocampo, then down the “river streets,” Mississippi, Duero, de la Plata, to the famous leafy boulevard Paseo de la Reforma. I looked east and saw the angel, and behind it the sun rising. The statue was begun in 1843 but not dedicated until September 16, 1910 – like many things in 19^th-century Mexico, it took awhile to get what the people wanted. Snapped some pictures of the angel, whispered a prayer of thanks, and headed back to the hotel.

On the way back, I experienced “recovered fluency.” I snapped a picture of an agreeable art nouveau house. When I turned around, a policeman wished me “Buenos dias,” and shook my hand. Everything for the next 40 seconds or so was in Spanish. He wanted to know why I took that picture. I explained that I was a student of cities, with a strong interest in architecture and in historic buildings. He explained it was a bank. I’m sorry, I said, I am only a tourist from Texas. He smiled and said goodbye. I smiled too.

Tony picked me up at 8:15. I felt a little insulted when she asked "how's your stomach?" We laughed. It took awhile to get across Chapultepec Park in rush-hour traffic, but the conversation and the scenes were pleasant. We passed the wonderful and famous Museum of Anthropology. Traffic opened up, and in no time we were out in a new town, Santa Fe, and in a fancy American-style shopping mall. Our destination was La Ciudad de los Niños, the City of Children. It was literally that, kid-sized “city” with shops and restaurants and a fire station and shoeshiners and lots more – like the computer game SimCity, but real. Very cool. American is a sponsor. We went on a very high-speed tour with Xavier, one of the principals.

We then headed to McCann-Erickson to meet our new team and see a crisp presentation. It was a good update. We had a quick lunch (one of the new people warned me about peppers in the ham and cheese tortas, but José Manuel was quick to tell them that Rob was not a gringo! From there we headed downtown to American’s offices, right on la Reforma, almost under the angel’s wings. We have several floors in the building, and there’s a call center that handles Spanish-language calls from many places in the Americas as well as Spain. We met a class of new employees headed up to a new call center that would open soon in Monterrey, and I gave a little speech to welcome them to AA and to this great business of getting people together. Tony drove me to the airport; we had talked a lot in her car over the past day, and it was a joy to get to know her – and I was not surprised when she told me “I love my country” as we lurched along in a traffic jam. I love Mexico, too, and have since my first visit there in 1970. At the airport, I bought a bottle of quality tequila and flew home.

On Saturday, May 21, we built wheelchair ramps. Steve Blow, a popular columnist for The Dallas Morning News, joined us for most of the morning. We had been trying for several years to get him to come with us; in about 1999, he helped us keep our modest warehouse when a new building tenant wanted to throw us out, and thus was aware of the project.

Steve is a great writer and a wonderful human being, and it was fun to ride down to South Dallas in his pickup. We yakked the whole way about the project. First stop was a ramp for Phillip, a 42-year-old who recently lost both legs to diabetes, and urgently needed a way out of his house. Pete Heinkel led a team of volunteers from the UT-Southwestern Medical School, eight second-year med students. We got the project underway, then Steve, John Laine, and I headed to a nearby site, a smaller ramp for Ms. Garrett, age 87. John and I would build the ramp, with more than a little help from Steve.

The Garrett house was something to behold. Though modest, it was clean and very well-maintained. The yard was beautiful. Source of all this order and grace was Ms. Garrett's energetic daughter Mary. Mary was exactly like beekeeper August Boatwright in The Secret Life of Bees, described above. She was the quintessence of an African-American woman in charge. As we built the ramp, she was busy in the back yard, painting and assembling a weedwhacker. Her spunk was inspirational, and I told her so.

The day was sultry -- unseasonably hot (already 95 at 10), humid, and still, and both projects were in full sun. But we needed to free the prisoners. That's why we build. We finished the small ramp and John and I returned to Phillip's project, which still needed another hour of work – the med students were willing and enthused, but inexperienced. We were close to heatstroke when we finished; I suppose having all those nearly-docs nearby would have helped! Six days later, The News published Steve Blow’s account of the morning (go to www.dallasnews.com, and you can read it). It was a wonderful endorsement of our work.

The following Saturday, I was up at 5:30 and out on my bike for a quick ride, then out to the airport, onto the Silver Bird to Los Angeles. This was a triumph of good sense – Linda wanted to rent a truck and drive some stuff out to Robin’s new apartment. I did the math and a trip to IKEA, plus my free labor, was almost the same amount of money, and much, much easier. “What was she thinking?” I mused as we headed over West Texas. Robin was sitting in 3F, her last ride in First Class on my travel privileges. She mourned the loss!

We arrived LAX on time. Hertz had upgraded the car to an Explorer, which seemed fortuitous, given the load of IKEA stuff to haul. Robin and Linda were already at the store 15 miles east of LAX in Carson, trying out sofas and such. By one o’clock we were away, the Explorer stuffed with stuff that would never have fit in a Taurus! Driving I-405 with no rearview mirror was a bit unsettling, but traffic flowed well. When I exited the 405 at Wilshire, and rounded the cloverleaf curve, I could see hundreds of small American flags. In front of me was a small part of the Los Angeles National Cemetery, and it was Memorial Day weekend. Beneath every flag a hero, a preserver of freedom, a life and a purpose for which we must always be thankful.

I was unpacking stuff before two. Spent the afternoon assembling a large chest of drawers. Robin peeled off to parties in Orange County, which made me a bit cranky. But spirits buoyed before seven, when we cleaned up and headed west on San Vicente Blvd. toward Santa Monica. It was a lovely, cool evening, and it was one of those “this is why 30+ million people live in California” moments. Just a stunning landscape – palm trees, spring flowers, joggers and cyclists, some splendid older houses. Just awesome. After a minor traffic jam in downtown Santa Monica, Linda and I were soon toasting each other at our 27^th anniversary dinner at Ocean Avenue Seafood, with a view of the blue Pacific. After a wonderful meal (high point for me were fresh oysters from Fanny Bay, British Columbia), we motored south on Lincoln Blvd. to our cheapie digs at the Radisson LAX (smarter yet would have been to sleep in the apartment, but Linda didn’t know Robin was overnighting elsewhere until a few days earlier).

Was up before seven, and back in assembly mode on Barrington Street, Brentwood, by 8:30, knocking out two smaller pieces in no time. Linda also set one up, then departed for IKEA to exchange a defective piece on the big chest (let’s simply say that our first experience with the vaunted IKEA was cheap, but less than swell). Struggled to try to set up a wireless network for her relatively-new Mac, before giving up and walking up to San Vicente for takeout lunch at Baja Fresh. Hung a few pictures, then ambled south to a liquor store to buy a celebratory beer. We got a lot done in 28 hours! The ladies drove me to the airport. When I gave Robin a hug, I told her she was on her own now – we had gotten her as far as we could, and she needed to take over. Sat in the Admirals Club for an hour, musing about my role as a parent – this really was something of a watershed moment, and I was happy for it.

Eight days later, at 3:30 p.m. I flew to Nashville, first time to Music City in more than a decade. Todd and Rachel, two young people from TM, our ad agency, picked me up at the airport and we motored a few miles north to the vast Opryland USA complex, to attend the National Addy Awards, an annual competition for the best creative advertising across a range of media. The pretext for attending was that American had won a silver award for our www.whyyoufly.com website. I seldom go to these sorts of industry events, and had never been to the Addys, so I was slightly skeptical.

We ambled into the hotel and found the Addys reception, which was in full swing. Queued for a Budweiser and toasted my new friends for their award. We somehow got on the topic of my hitchhiking career, and they were fascinated with my stories – the daily trips from the U of M to work, a journey across Australia’s Nullarbor Plain, and such – that seemed at the time (and for me still do) to be a normal part of coming of age in the U.S. in the early 1970s. And they loved the fact that my traveling-salesman Dad would not only pick up hitchhikers but after sizing them up would give them the keys and climb into the back seat for a nap. My eyes looked briefly heavenward and I saluted that cool guy and his “no fear” attitude.

We joined the others at our table, four online advertising whiz-kids from Kansas City and a husband-wife team who owned a film-production company in Cleveland, and Uzi, a fellow whose firm did some of the technical work on our whyyoufly website. He was to my right and Todd was to my left. Conversation was agreeable, dinner was predictable, but when the awards began we really kicked into gear. Three hours of looking at creative work – most good, some truly stupid – is an interesting way to spend an evening. The good work tended to be truly splendid. The film producers at our table, for example, put together three in-theater commercials for the Ohio Independent Film Festival that made fun of windbag filmmakers, quickly adding, in written word, “Not invited to this year’s festival”. They were hilarious. A good evening. By ten I was worn out, headed to my hotel room, worked my e-mail, and clocked out.

Foraging for breakfast the next morning, I saw a whole lot of “hot rods” (now there’s a term not used much these days!) in the Radisson parking lot. Turned out to be the 2005 Hot Rod Power Tour, a massive, week-long road trip from Milwaukee to Orlando sponsored by Hot Rod magazine. Some very cool hardware; took some pictures of my faves, the Chevys from ’54 to ’57. Very sweet. The parking lot on that warm morning was a trip backward four decades, to the intersection of a childhood interest in hot rods and summers on the road with my Dad. I felt like he was just around the corner, loading his sample cases in his Oldsmobile. Flew home, and was back at my desk by 11:30.

On Saturday, June 11, I rose at 5:30, and headed to build a wheelchair ramp. John Laine, a new and capable fellow named David, and I banged out 24-footer by 10:30. Check and done. Home to have an early lunch and shower, kiss Linda goodbye, drove to DFW, and flew to Frankfurt. I had a good sleep enroute, culminating in an astonishingly vivid travelogue dream (does it surprise you that my dreams are often trips?), two hours' of color entertainment, focused on forgetting where I parked my rental car in Toronto. What would Freud reckon?

We landed late, and out on a “hard stand” rather than a gate, which meant a bus ride to the terminal, then a dash across to Lufthansa’s counters, which were jammed. I politely asked a security man if I could move to the front of the line, given that it was less than 30 minutes before my connecting flight to Bremen would depart, and up I went. But the gate seemed about halfway to my destination, the very end of the “A” concourse. I’m glad I’m fit. Made it with about 14 minutes to spare, hot but happy.

We landed on time at Bremen. While waiting to get off, I had one of those rare “talking to strangers” moments that was unsatisfying. My seatmate had just been traveling in the U.S. and was cranky about airport security. That was okay. But when he started ranting about “the energy it takes to make all those ice cubes” the conversation ceased.

Bremen airport is very close to town, and the #6 streetcar line stops right in front of the terminal. Hopped on the 10:08 tram and was at the main railway station by 10:30. I changed out of my suit and into khakis and sneakers. The room with lockers was clean and almost totally empty, and Germany is a pretty relaxed place, so, well, I just swapped my trousers right there, hung my suit on a hanger I brought along, put it in a locker, and was out the door before 11.

I picked up a town map at the tourist office, and set off. The Bremen website had a good list of main things to see downtown, so I had an idea of where to go, and headed south to the main square, a very attractive ensemble: the 12^th-century St. Peter’s church, the town hall (celebrating its 600^th birthday in 2005), the 16^th-century chamber of commerce building, a row of gabled houses, and the upstart Bremen parliament building, only 40 years old (Bremen is city-state, one of the 16 constituent lander