Second Quarter Update

Dear Friends,

The quarter began with a short trip to Lucas, Texas, to pick up MacKenzie, a Cairn Terrier puppy. Pretty cute. Lots of training ahead – it was Linda and my first dog, and my first experience with the long process of housebreaking.

On Wednesday the 4^th I flew to Zurich. It was a hard flight, because I had a cold. It was the first Atlantic crossing in many that I had not been able to sleep. Arrived Zurich, brushed my teeth, got some Swiss Francs, and worked my e-mail on a SWISSCOM wi-fi connection, very handy. I climbed on the 8:39 train to Bern, and stepped off 80 minutes later. I had purchased a ticket online, from the Swiss Federal Railways (SBB) website the day before – very handy. There were skiers on the train – winter was still in full force, and they were headed up to the cool resorts of the Bernese Oberland where we skied in 1976. On Platform 6, I met a doctoral student carrying a sign with my name. She informed me that my lecture would start in 20 minutes. Whew! I thought it was toward the end of the afternoon. Time to stand and deliver.

We took an elevator from the train station to a terrace right in front of the University of Bern’s oldest surviving building, the equivalent of “Old Main” on a U.S. college campus. Built 1824, it was ornate inside and out, and the venue for the lecture. Very cool. We set up my laptop and headed down for an espresso, which helped a lot. The lecture, on airline alliances, went well. Afterward, my host, a young Marketing prof named Harley Krohmer, his colleague Alexander Haas, and I drove to the newer part of the campus, to their offices, then on to lunch at a very agreeable local restaurant. Asparagus soup, rabbit, a small beer, yum. We had a good visit at lunch on a range of topics. Both were Germans, and had come to Switzerland because university funding is much better. And we agreed that Bern, which has a small-town feel, is an agreeable place to live. Harley told us about swimming in the Aare River, which forms a horseshoe around the old part of the city; in the summer, he leaves his clothes by the riverbank, walks upstream a couple of kilometers, jumps in, and bobs back in a strong (more than 10 mph) current.

We then headed to the hotel, the five-star Bellevue Palace, next door to the Swiss Parliament. Enroute, we passed the “free methadone clinic,” with some very grim-looking folks milling about; Switzerland is a comfy place, but has a serious problem with heroin. Checked into the hotel, very fancy digs; Harley assured me he got a very good rate, so I felt a little better (I’m more a three-star person, as you know). Said goodbye to a couple of really nice guys, promised to return, and headed to my room for a much-needed shower. I didn’t bring any casual clothes, so I headed back out in my suit, sans necktie but avec running shoes. Looked pretty goofy, but the bounce in step was swell.

First stop was the tower in the cathedral. There was an odd sense of deja vú; it was exactly two weeks earlier that I climbed to the top of the New Church in Delft. Both cities were UNESCO World Heritage Sites. It was a clear day, and the views of town were stunning. Wandered the rest of the town, trying out the new Panasonic Lumix digital camera, which proving to be a really powerful device. Took the #12 bus to the bear pits (the name Bern is tied to bears, and the critters are on the cantonal flag). Sure enough, two pals were cavorting in the branches and stumps 20 feet below. Cool! Hopped back on the #12 and rode east to the Zentrum Paul Klee, a museum devoted to the early-20^th century Swiss painter and graphic artist (1879-1940). A friend in Dallas had mentioned the place, which opened fall 2005 in a series of three earth-sheltered buildings designed by the Italian superstar Renzo Piano. It was nearly closing time, so I didn’t go in, but walked around the grounds. Nearby were a series of new apartments that blended well with the three waves of the Zentrum. We were on the edge of town, and over the hill brown sheep were grazing. It was a very cool scene.

Took the bus back to town, and walked around a bit more, admiring the Bundesplatz, the square in front of the Parliament. The façade of the building showed the founding date of the Swiss Confederation, 1291. These folks have had democracy for a long time. Took a short nap, worked e-mail, and headed over to Le Mazot, a restaurant specializing in dishes from Valais canton (in the south of the country, by the Matterhorn), for a plate of the Swiss hash browns called rösti and a couple of Schneider dark weissbiers. Clocked out. A good day.

I slept reasonably well. The cold had moved into my left eye, and it was sort of stuck shut, and very red the next morning. Worked my e-mail before six, showered, and headed down to breakfast. Left the hotel at 6:40, rolling past the Parliament and back to the train station. I was on the 7:02 train back to Zurich Airport, bringing this journal up to date, next to a Swiss businessman working on a PowerPoint presentation. It was a clear day, and on the south horizon we could see the jagged peaks of the Bernese Oberland, like so many teeth. Was at the airport by 8:20. SBB is just such an impressive network – a great brand, if you will. It is so cool that lots and lots of people still ride the train (almost every seat on the ride to the airport was taken; it would not be burdensome not to own a car in that place.

Routine flight on Swiss International Air Lines to Paris Charles De Gaulle, heading to my fourth visit to INSEAD in Fontainebleau. I was on the right side of the plane, so I missed the great views of the Alps on a very clear day. Landed before 11, met the taxi driver Mr. Antoine, and struggled in French through a few niceties. He asked me where I was from, and when we drilled down to Texas, he said “comme Bush” – like Bush. What followed proved that English insults are well understood in other languages. I caught a short nap on the 65-minute ride clockwise around Paris (picture the airport at 2 and the school at 4:30). Got to my room, worked my e-mail, and headed over to the Marketing Department to meet Miguel Brendl, my host. We visited a bit before the talk. In addition to full-time MBAs, there were eight students from the Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, California. Despite hoarseness, the lecture was fluid and the students very engaged.

Just past five I set out for a short walk into the center of town, past the castle, Napoleon’s favorite L’Aigle Noir Hotel, the 100-year-old carousel that still delights children on a sunny spring afternoon. Took some more snaps with the brilliant new Panasonic Lumix. Stopped at a drug store for some eye drops. The skepticism that the friendly young pharmacist expressed looking at my eye made sense a couple hours later, when an e-mail from Linda suggested pinkeye. The drops did not help. Walked back to INSEAD, took a short nap, and at 7:35 met Miguel.

His grandparents were Jews, and fled Germany in the early 1930s, leaving it all behind, settling in Santiago, Chile. Miguel was born there, but the family moved back to Germany, to West Berlin, in the height of the Cold War. It was from that time, Miguel said, that he developed a regard and an appreciation for the United States. Stories like that, heard a long way from home, make you feel good. We were soon in a small town six or seven miles south of Fontainebleau, Moret sur Loing, on the ancient royal road that led south into Burgundy. We ambled around a bit (wished I had brought the camera), under a medieval gate, then into one of Miguel’s favorite restaurants, the Hostellerie du Cheval Noir (the Black Horse Inn). Miguel knew the owner, and we yakked a bit in the front room, then sat down at a very nice table in a small glass pavilion. Five-course dinner, stunning, caloric, and a nice bottle of red Burgundy (that the wine list was a book, and that the choice required quite a bit of advice from the owner were two small datapoints on how seriously the French take matters of the table!). Left the table at 10:35, said goodbye to Miguel – we covered a lot of topics in three hours – and rode with taxi driver Mr. Antoine back to campus. Worked my e-mail and shut down.

Was up before seven the next morning, a bit of e-mail, then a bowl of cereal and an equally fast ride back to the airport. Met some of my AA advertising and ad agency colleagues at the gate; they had been over filming a commercial in Madrid and Paris. Flew home, sleeping for half of the ten hours. Woke over Quebec, and brought this journal up to date, listening to the folky Old Crow Medicine Show, fiddles welcoming me back to the New World. Good to be back. Was on my bike by 4:30, a quick 12 miles, and off to a fundraiser for the Collin County Children’s Advocacy Center, which helps abused children. Fun event, but sad that we have to raise dollars for such things. The dinner invocation brought tears.

Was home a whole day, Palm Sunday, then headed west to Los Angeles before dawn on Monday, out to “supervise” the last couple days of the TV commercial, production of which had moved in two days from the Champs-Elysées to a private residence in Westchester, less than four miles from LAX. The taxi driver was cranky about the short fare. I could see the set up from blocks away – all sorts of trucks lining a residential street. Coming closer, it immediately became clear why TV commercials cost so much to produce – productivity is way low. The contrast of inefficiency with the taut nature of our business was striking, and, frankly, maddening.

Still, it was fun to be on a set; except for a “just passing through” moment when we were filming at O’Hare a few years ago, it was the first time on a set since December 1991. I soon met both of the little girls who are “stars” in the commercial, Lexi Jourden, 5, and Kimberly Perez, 8. Given the cost and import of TV productions, ad agencies prefer to have clients on hand for the “shoot,” but there is not a lot to do. So between takes I prepared a lecture for a forthcoming B-school visit, and worked my e-mail on a wireless connection the film production company provided. We were done before four, and rolled north to Santa Monica to some fancy digs (again stipulated by the production company) at The Fairmont Miramar. Nice! Worked a bit more, took a short nap to further my recuperation, and at 6:30 we head two miles south to Hal’s an agreeable restaurant in Venice. Robin Britton joined us, which was a great joy. Although she visited with some of the others, mostly it was a good chance for father and daughter to catch up on stuff.

Got a good night’s sleep, and Tuesday morning we motored south to LAX for a day of filming in the AA terminal. Always a challenge, given security, lots of equipment, and travelers, all the more so given the spike in Holy Week travel. But we got through it. And I actually contributed a few useful suggestions! At 3:30 Robin joined us to watch a bit of filming, and just before five I flew home on a brilliantly clear day. On the ride I updated these pages and reflected – in light of the loss of most of last quarter’s notes – on what a pleasure it is to keep a record of my travels.

On Wednesday the 19^th, I flew south to Austin. It’s always interesting how short trips can sometimes be among the most interesting. That notion came sharply to mind when I climbed on the Capital Metro Airport Flyer, the city bus that takes one right to the UT campus for only 50 cents. Three rows behind the driver was a middle-aged African-American man wearing a USC Trojans T-shirt and ball cap. Defiance personified, I thought, in light of the result of the Rose Bowl on January 4. It was clearly a huge Talking to Strangers opportunity, and I immediately seized it. It was John, USC psychology graduate, son of a 1941 SC grad. John’s Dad, who grew up in Austin, could not attend UT back then because of his color, so he headed west. His uncle went north to Michigan State. After graduation, John came back, and worked health care jobs. For whatever reason, he now worked at the airport, for the City of Austin Aviation Department, at, he proudly told me, $17.09 per hour. We covered a lot of territory on the 20-minute ride into town. Way more football than I’d like, but some juicy tidbits about UT quarterback Vince Young.

I rolled off just south of the UT B-school and met my host, Wayne Hoyer. We ambled off for a plate of Tex-Mex at a nearby restaurant, then headed back to his office to work e-mail. From 2:15 to 3:30 I delivered my airline-advertising lecture, after which we repaired to a paradise of beer, Gingerman, on the southwest end of downtown Austin, for several glasses of Fireman’s #4 Blonde Ale from the Real Ale Brewing Co., Blanco, Texas. Six of the MBA students came along, and we had a lively discussion across a range of topics. Among other lessons, I learned that Americans spend more on Halloween than political campaigns. That was from a soon-to-finish MBA who was marching in a distinctly different direction, off to become one of 35 fellows funded by the

Broad Foundation. The organization, endowed by a successful mass homebuilder is solely focused on improving public education, and it places these three dozen with school districts who have demonstrated a commitment to change. Houston and Fort Worth are recipients, and, typically, the Dallas district is not. After plenty of beer, Wayne drove me to the airport and I flew home, departing Texas’ way-coolest big city.

It was nice to be home for nine days. Friday morning, the 28^th, Linda and I flew up to Washington and joined up with a group of Newsweek advertisers. There are lots of opportunities to climb on these junkets, but this was only the second time in nearly five years. The weekend was built around the annual White House Correspondents’ Dinner, but the other events were far more interesting. For example, Friday afternoon saw us on a private tour of the Old Senate Chamber, used 1810-59 and restored 30 years ago. Our guide was the associate historian of the U.S. Senate, and he brought the room to life. Very cool. That evening our dinner was on the ninth floor of a new office building at 101 Constitution, just down the hill from the Capitol. The views were stunning, the food good, and the presentations fascinating. Well, three out of four. President Bush’s deputy press secretary was, well, pretty dumb. And that’s not just because we are not supporters.

The weather was perfect, and Saturday morning I rose, laced up, and trotted east from our digs, the historic Willard Hotel (whose ornate lobby was where Ulysses Grant coined the term “lobbyist”), down Pennsylvania Ave., around the Canadian Embassy (a favorite building), across the Mall to the new Museum of the American Indian, and over to the World War II Memorial, to touch the granite inscriptions of the battles my Dad helped fight. A good run. At eleven, we joined the group and rode northwest to Anderson House on Massachusetts Ave., a fabulous early-20^th century mansion, for a brunch and a presentation from Jon Meacham, Newsweek’s managing editor, on the historic connections between religion and politics. His view, across decades, was calming; religion, Meacham said “shapes us without strangling us.” He also, in an aside, told the story about how we got our national motto, my favorite “E Pluribus Unum.” The day the Declaration of Independence was signed, Franklin, Adams, and Jefferson were dispatched to develop it. Nice! Before the meal, the twice Pulitzer prize-winning editorial cartoonist Mike Luckovich, drew caricatures, and I was first in line. He pretty much captured my essence!

There was a big Newsweek reception before the dinner, and the actor George Clooney somehow showed up. We had our picture taken with him. At a distance were other folk, including Henry Kissinger and HHS chief Chertoff. On our way to dinner, we said hello to former Secretary of State Madeline Albright, a favorite of Robin’s. The dinner was more fun than when we attended in 2003, and we stayed for the entire program. Comic Stephen Colbert skewered the President from a distance of less than ten feet. We got up at seven the next morning and flew home. Washington: such a cool place, too bad the process is so deeply flawed.

The next morning I flew to Oklahoma City. Mr. Kim, a young Korean grad student who drove me back and forth to OU when I visited in January, was back, and it was a nice ride down to Norman (about 20 miles). I had returned to judge nine teams from the Gaylord College of Journalism that had prepared mock ad campaigns for American. A few were good, most were middling, and one was truly dreadful. But in those settings you gotta be positive, and by the end I was plumb wore out from all the smiling and paying attention. Flew home at seven. A long day.

Two days later, I flew to Zurich. It was a better ride than last month; without a bad cold, I was able to sleep soundly for about five hours. It was a perfectly clear day in Switzerland, and spring had arrived. As we approached ZRH, we could see farmers plowing fields; further on, a classic Swiss scene, a man herding two cows along a country lane. All was well. I worked my e-mail at gate A86; nearly, a cello student practiced, providing an agreeable backdrop, way better than CNN Airport News! I suspected trouble when the gate agent solicited volunteers for the flight to Milano. The flight was completely full, but Swiss allows freeloaders like me to ride in a jumpseat (I had a very cool cockpit ride in 1999), and I lucked out with the cabin-crew jumpseat in the rear of the A319. I introduced myself to Daniella, a very pleasant woman, who immediately explained my duties in the event of an evacuation. Very thorough, very Swiss. She then started in complaining about the new management of the airline. She had joined Swissair in 1991, and, like many airline people, lived a very different life until 2001. We were in Milan in less than 30 minutes. I had to check my bag at the gate; I missed the 10:53 train, but was downtown by noon.

On the Italian mapping site, called TuttoCittá, I noticed that the church that holds DaVinci’s famous “Last Supper” fresco was quite close to Cadorna, the downtown train station. Armed with my replacement compass (another gem lost to the briefcase thief), I set off, and was there in less than five minutes. Alas, the sanctuary was closed between noon and three, so I took a couple snaps of the exterior, walked to a taxi stand, and rode six or seven minutes to my hotel, south of downtown.

Showered, changed, had a quick lunch from a nearby supermarket, and at two met my host, Boris Durisin, from the SDA Bocconi School of Management, Italy’s oldest (1902) and best B-school. Two things quickly endeared me to him: he arrived on a bicycle, and he had a big smile. We walked the bike a couple blocks to school, and ambled around a bit. I was looking at my watch, recalling a 2:30 start time. Boris, a Swiss, was not concerned. It was a sort of “welcome to Italy, where clocks are relative” moment. In fact, Boris reckoned we had time for an espresso (called simply “coffee” in Italian) at the nearby Bar Bocconi.

There really isn’t anything comparable in the U.S. to a well stocked Italian coffee bar – they have everything, and the atmosphere is so friendly. Class began more or less at 2:45, and I spoke until 4. Then another break, back to the bar for a coffee, and back to class for another 70 minutes. It was an undergraduate class called “Competitiveness and Innovation,” so my presentation on why it’s so hard for established airlines to make money was welcome. And the students were very bright; about 70% of the 40 were Italian, with a handful of Canadian exchange students, and various other nationalities – but no Yanks. The applause was gratifyingly loud. After answering more individual questions after class, Boris and walked to Catullo, one of Italy’s best cafes, for a drink and a few yummy canapés. At 6:45 I spoke again, as a co-presenter with Diego from SDA, a small express/logistics company, to something called the Bocconi Marketing Community. About 35 alums and others attended. Afterward, an aperitivo in an adjacent room, and an opportunity to meet Sandro Castaldo, the chair of the large (30 faculty) Marketing Department.

I was really tired, but Boris said it was time for dinner, so we hopped in a cab and rode to Santa Lucia, an agreeable and very local restaurant just behind Milan’s Gothic cathedral. The place was dark, and I thought it was closed. But it was just an electrical problem, and no one seemed to be bothered. There were a few emergency lights operating. Boris knew the owner, maitre d, and most of the waiters, and shook their hands, as did I. In no time we were tucking into antipasti and a nice glass of Montalcino. I revised my expectation of seven hours of sleep! It was a great meal (Tortellini della casa in brood for the main dish), and really good conversation. Boris was very curious about our business, and we mostly talked about that, he asking some really hard questions.

Toward the end of the meal I asked him how he came to be called Boris, and he told me a fascinating story. His parents are Slovak, and left after the failed 1968 revolution, when Dubcek and Svoboda were dumped and Russian tanks rolled through Czechoslovakia. His parents were headed to Canada, and Switzerland was only a transit point, but they ended up staying. His father enrolled in ETH, the Swiss’ best engineering school. I asked Boris if his grandparents were harassed because their kids escaped. He said yes, that “the communists were not nice people.” A moment later, he added that one of his grandparents spent two years in prison for the kids’ departure. Let’s remember, dear people, how awful that period really was.

After dinner, we ambled around the cathedral, through the Galeria, and in front of the famous La Scala opera house we said goodbye. I hope to be back.

It was a short night. Up at 5:30, on foot to the Metro, back to Cadorna Station and out to Malpensa Airport. Checked in with Germanwings, a new low-cost carrier, and flew to Cologne. I had about 30 minutes to claim my checked bag, walk to the airport train station, buy a ticket, and hop on the 10:50 departure to Vallendar, home of the private German B-school WHU (I had last visited in April 2005). The ride south was lovely, on the east bank of the Rhine, and I reviewed my lecture and brought this journal up to date. I thought someone would meet me on the station platform, but no, so I wheeled my bag two blocks up a small hill to the compact campus in this small town. I met my host Heidi, who suggested lunch, which was a really good idea. One of the daily specials was ham and grunkohl, cooked kale. German soul food, yum! With a jolt of espresso I was ready for an audience of about 50, full-time MBA students and executive MBAs who were in residence.

The class on airline pricing and revenue management went well, with 30 minutes of good questions, and a few more in the foyer with coffee and cake (unlike 2005, it was too early for beer!). I chatted for awhile with an MBA candidate from Milan, another of globalization’s poster children: an Italian working for a Dutch I.T. company, he married a woman in Kazakhstan when he was working on a project for Shell. After the coffee, my friend Tobias Hundhausen, a Ph.D. student at WHU (described in the 2Q05 update), helped me connect and work my e-mail to zero. At four a friendly cab driver drove me across the Rhine to the Koblenz station. The trains from the north were running late, and it took a long time to get to the Frankfurt airport, but the ride was as splendid as ever, up the Rhine Valley, past the Lorelei and gingerbread villages.

Once at FRA, I learned that the Cathay Pacific nonstop to Hong Kong was full in Business Class. Luckily, Economy was quite empty, and I had three seats to myself, which shortened the eleven-hour, 5,600-mile ride. I have now flown Cathay in all three classes and they are quite possibly the best airline in the world. Except for the space, their Economy service was better than China Eastern’s Business Class. Cheery flight attendants, ample food, plenty to drink. The couple a row ahead in 59A and B got a whole bottle of champagne after dinner; no, I’ve never seen that on another airline.

We landed at Hong Kong’s new airport at 1:25 on Saturday afternoon, and more flight fun commenced. Dragonair, my ride to Shanghai, had canceled a flight and the remaining trips were more than full, so they sent me from the transit desk through immigration and customs to their ticket counter, where I waited. Didn’t get on the three o’clock trip, nor the one at four, but snagged a seat at five (hourly flights are good!), and was at the Shanghai airport by 7:45. On my way to border formalities, I stopped, as I did on both previous visits, and got cash at a HSBC ATM on the concourse. I chuckled as I pulled my RMB1200 from the machine, remembering a funny line, “Shansh marnie?” (do you want to change money?), from Paul Theroux’s Riding the Iron Rooster, a wonderful 1988 account of a rail journey through China. Back then, foreign exchange was tightly controlled, and “Shansh marnie” was highly illegal. Now, ATMs are everywhere.

Zipped through formalities and onto the 240 mph Maglev train. At Long Yang Road I hopped on the Shanghai Metro, a great system, riding Line 2 west across the city. It was date night, Saturday, and lots of young couples were zipping around. Two old women came begging, leathery hands, persistent. At Jiangsu Road, I grabbed a cab just as it was starting to rain. Chinese cab drivers speak almost no English, but a cellphone call to the dispatcher got us pointed to the Crowne Plaza, arriving 9:15 p.m. I had been in my clothes for 33 hours. The shower was nice.

I was up at 5:30, working my e-mail and uploading April pictures to my website, then to the bike in the fitness center. Breakfast, real food, was welcome. At 7:45, with written train information from the concierge, I set off by taxi to the Shanghai Railway Station. The place was teeming. Lots of lines. The ticket lady scanned the concierge’s writing , nodded, and sold me a ticket for the 9:30 train (the one at 9 was already full) to Suzhou, about 50 miles west. With belongings x-rayed, I took one of five escalators to a concourse, then to the. Then to Waiting Room 6, which was where passengers for train T712 gathered. A European face was clearly still a novelty. Even with the stares and without a talking-to-strangers opportunity, it's still the kind of experience I love, a shared sense of humanity. The kid picking his nose was me. The couple in their 70s; imagine the changes they've seen: Japanese occupation, the 1949 revolution, Mao, the Cultural Revolution, the rise of a market economy. Whoa. Then there was the six-year-old with pigtails next to me. Really cute. Eyeing me warily. Just before boarding, many of us watched a really cool Beijing Olympics promotional video.

Train T712 was not Theroux’s steam-powered, slightly rickety “Iron Rooster,” from the mid-1980s. The sign on the boarding steps of car 8 read “Bombardier Sifang Power,” and the car appeared to be only about five years old. I found seat 8. My seatmate was eagerly tucking into a KFC leg. Standees soon filled the aisles. Some had folding chairs. The train left two minutes early, rolling smoothly through the city. Sunday seemed to be wash-day; lots of clothes on bamboo poles extending from windows and balconies. The Transport Geek was in a good place! A toddler standing in the aisle with his mother got what may have been his first chewing gum; he ate it. In 15 minutes, the suburbs started to fall away, then began again. Passed Kunshan at 10:03. Lots of trains headed down this corridor, which runs to Nanjing. The Railway, and there still is only one, is a huge enterprise, under the control of the Ministry of Railways. It has its own paper, The People's Railway Daily, which an adjacent standee was reading.

The first order of business in Suzhou was to buy a return ticket. I somehow managed to get a ticket for my first choice back to Shanghai; the ticket lady in Shanghai said it was sold out, and the man at the wicket in Suzhou shrugged, disappeared, and came back with my favored 3:53 p.m. train back to the big city. I hopped in a taxi to Tong Li, a "water village" that is a UNESCO World Heritage site. I did not know exactly where it was, and it turned out to be on the other side of Suzhou, a city of a half-million. And clearly a booming place, with new expressways, high-rises, and lots of light-manufacturing plants. A rose-lined arterial lead to Tong Li.

At first it just seemed like a small town, but I walked on, and soon was at the ticket office for the village (about $10 got you in, not cheap for the locals). Once inside, it got interesting: a collection of large houses, gardens, and canals (hence the “water village” name). And, for an extra 20 Yuan, the Chinese Sexual Culture Museum (which cannot be described, but must be seen in person!). Artifacts in the houses were amazing, stuff from all the way back to the Qing Dynasty. Lots of furniture. A whole museum just for beds. Trained ospreys. Something for everyone. After three hours, I had seen enough. I needed a more public alternative to the 100 Yuan ($12) taxi ride, so I sought out the bus station at the entrance to the old town. Seven yuan would get me back, and it was likely to be way more fun. The Tong Li bus station lady got us in a somewhat orderly line, and sent the impatient back with a shriek and a dismissive hand. Good local advice: don't mess with the Tong Li bus lady.

Back at the Suzhou railway station, it was time for a beer. I took a picture with my camera, which attracted a group from the family that owned the cafe. I showed them my family on my PDA. A cute little boy sat down next to me to watch me make notes in my PDA. I drew him a bear in the PDA “notepad,” and he laughed. This was my first time outside a Chinese metro area, and it's clear that people are more open and friendlier: successive groups of people from the cafe watched me type these notes in my PDA. The day turned out better than I could have hoped. The café experience reminded me of a Hitachi ad I saw when I was backpacking around the world in 1973. Intended to foster a sense of universality, the ad featured a Hitachi employee working on a project somewhere in the world, with the tagline "And I am you." Words to live by in this small world.

The string of minor snafus continued: my 3:53 train back to Shanghai was running late, and the Chinese, more for reasons of crowd control than rigidity, frown on taking a train other than the one for which you have a booking. But I shrugged at the ticket controller, and she let me out of the waiting area and onto the platform. When an earlier train arrived, the conductress scolded me in Mandarin and pointed toward the middle of the train. I could see others with the same predicament, and somehow we got on, standing. Ten minutes into the journey, a train lady produced a plastic stool and directed me to sit on it – in the toilet. Good time for a short nap.

Got back to the hotel, changed clothes, and at six headed down to meet two members of the USC Marshall School of Business faculty, David Stewart, chair of the marketing department, and Bill Crookston, who I met in Shanghai the year before. We hopped in a cab and headed to a dinner for the three classes of this Global Executive MBA program, a joint venture between USC and Shanghai Jiao Tong University’s Antai College of Economics and Management. The three classes included one that had completed its studies, one currently underway (to which I would present the next day), and one about to begin. The party and dinner was at the Westin Shanghai, a really fancy place. It was another “leading edge of globalization” moment. I met some students to whom I lectured in 2005, including Michael Fan from Taiwan. I told my tablemate Jay Ting about my independent excursion to Suzhou; he replied “you are so brave.” There were speeches from USC and Jiao Tong deans, a delicious buffet dinner, lots of picture-taking, and a brief concert of traditional Chinese music (drum, large string instruments) performed by young women in ornate yellow silk dresses. Quite a scene. We were back at the hotel by ten.

I met David Stewart for breakfast the next morning, and we walked over to the school. The lecture went well, but perhaps too fast – I was done for the day at 9:30. Back to the hotel, a bit of e-mail, then a walk around the main Jiao Tong campus, which had a mix of graceful pre-revolution brick buildings, Mao-era boxes that were crumbling, and some new high-rises. At noon I returned for lunch with students. At my table of ten they were mainly Chinese, and surprisingly mobile. Many had worked in the U.S. – one for 20 years with McDonnell Douglas. At 1:30, with some dishes still to come, I said goodbye and walked briskly to the Metro, then into central Shanghai to meet Wenjie Zhao, an American Airlines colleague stationed in Shanghai since July 2005 to handle government relations; we finally got a route there, from Chicago, and began the service on April 2. It was great fun to see her in China (we met briefly in Beijing in June 2004, when she was accompanying a group of AA executives). I also met Victor Lee, our China sales manager, and others. We had a cup of tea and a yak.

At 3:15, Wenjie and I set off in Victor’s car (with driver) to old Shanghai; on her way to a meeting across the river, she agreed to negotiate price on a string of pearls for Robin. She did a great job, and peeled off. I waited for the pearls to be strung, then headed into central Shanghai for a short walk, then back out to the hotel. At six, I joined the USC program director, John van Fleet, and a group of ten students for dinner at Aburiya, a Japanese restaurant we visited in 2005. A great meal and good chatter. I especially enjoyed yakking with Betty, an energetic young Taiwanese woman whose parents sent her to New York when she was 13 to live with friends; her parents emigrated two years later. Betty graduated from Brandeis, and headed back across the Pacific. She was in the second GEMBA class, and was working for the U.K. bank Standard and Chartered.

At ten, I headed back to the hotel and clocked out. Up at 5:30, worked e-mail, and headed back to the airport, using the same taxi-subway-maglev route. When I got to gate 14, I could see the transport woes were back: mechanics were working on one of the China Eastern A340’s engines. Not good. I was headed to Seoul, and the schedule was tight. They finally fixed it, we departed, and arrived in Korea 75 minutes late. The taxi ride from Incheon Airport was $80, but the classical music was soothing. I arrived at my classroom at Yonsei University at 2:18 for a 2:30 MBA class. Just in time. I modified my PowerPoint presentation to include a picture of the mechanics working on the engine!

The pricing lecture went well, plenty of time. At four, my host, Sunmee Choi, suggested that we find a grassy place to sit, enjoy the fine weather, and answer additional questions. There were some interesting students in the class; at top of the charts was an ethnic Korean whose great-grandparents were relocated by Stalin to Uzbekistan (Joe was worried about Korean collaboration with the Japanese). Educated at Moscow State University, he spoke no Korean (MBA classes are in English); I asked him lots of questions about the 200,000 Koreans who still live among the Uzbeks. Fascinating. We talked until 5:30, when we headed to the guest house on campus, where I stayed the previous year. I managed 20 minutes of e-mail, and at six joined the students for dinner in the guest house dining room, answering questions between dishes of kimchee and bulgogi. At 7:45 I said good-bye.

Worn out, lights were off just after nine. I was returning to the U.S. the next afternoon, so I figured an early start would work well. I was up at 4:30, writing e-mail. At 7:45, two students from the class, Jennifer Kim and Sunghoon Hong picked me up in his car, and we headed off for a bit of sightseeing – past Blue House, the presidential palace, then into downtown Seoul at rush hour. We parked, had a muffin and a cup of coffee, then walked along Cheong Gye Cheon, an old stream that had been covered up as central Seoul grew. Several years ago, the visionary mayor of Seoul suggested that it be uncovered and landscaped, to bring nature back to the urban heart. The first phase of a large restoration opened in October 2005, and it was really impressive. Waterfalls, fountains, and the soothing sound of a flowing stream. Some ancient bridges had been rebuilt, and new ones of orange steel added. A sculpture by Claes Oldenburg was coming soon. All very cool, further proof of the strong aesthetic sense of the Koreans, which I noticed on my first visit. The other thing that was again evident was the strong sense of nation and pride in place; when a historically oppressed people finally get things moving, those sentiments rise, and that is a very good thing.

As we drove, we had a good visit on a number of topics. Jenny was born in the U.S. when her father was earning his Ph.D. at the University of Chicago, and returned to Korea at age 8, then back to the University of Maryland for her B.A. Sunghoon was working for a large Korean bank, which was paying for his MBA and giving him time off to study. Last stop was the National Assembly on the south bank of the Han River, then into a district called Yoido, the sort of Wall Street of Seoul, then back through massive traffic to the campus. Said goodbye and thanks.

I showered, dressed, and walked a mile south to the Sinchon subway station, where, after a few wrong turns, a young Korean fellow accompanied me to the airport bus stop. I thanked him, shook his hand, and bowed. The bus arrived, and in 45 minutes we were at the airport. Just before boarding the Japan Airlines 747 for Tokyo, I noticed a NBA basketball game in progress on a big Samsung TV at an adjacent gate. Looking closer, it was game two of the Dallas-San Antonio series. When you’re 7000 miles from home, it’s pretty cool to see Dallas’ Dirk Nowitzki score. In fifteen hours, we were back in Texas, one week and 30 minutes after departing. A good ride, round the world.

On the ride back, I finished reading The Defining Moment, a book about Franklin D. Roosevelt’s first 100 days in office that Newsweek gave us in Washington ten days earlier. I am the son of New Deal Democrats, and I was only slightly aware of all that happened in the first months of FDR’s first term, beginning March 1933. A couple of his phrases are worth presenting here. In his inaugural address, he said “happiness lies not in the mere possession of money, it lies in the joy of achievement, in the thrill of creative effort.” And minutes before he died in April 1945, just weeks before the end of war in Europe, he was drafting a speech that was never delivered; this part struck me:

If civilization is to survive, we must cultivate the science of human relationships – the ability of all peoples, of all kinds, to live together and work together in the same world, at peace.

A nice way to close out a trip to many different parts of that world.

I was home for almost a week, with no ill effects from the 24 time zones in 7 days, save for some sleep interruptions. At noon on Tuesday the 16^th, I flew to Miami. The night before, and that morning, I was not enthusiastic about the trip. That sense would turn out to be so wrong. Landed at 4:45 in light rain and rode a few miles to the Dade County Auditorium, a splendid pink stucco building that reflected the optimism of the 1950s. My acting career ended in 1961 with my role as Gessler in William Tell, so I was not used to entering via a stage door, but in I went. I was there to help present Silver Knight awards, recognizing academic excellence and community service among greater Miami’s high-school seniors. This was the 48^th year that The Miami Herald presented these awards. American has been a sponsor for about a decade.

Once inside, a Herald manager showed me to my dressing room, my name on the door. Inside was one of those mirrors framed with incandescent bulbs, and a very funky old telephone. I felt like Jackie Gleason would walk in at any moment! Changed into my tuxedo, and stepped into the hall to start meeting folks from the newspaper. It was starting to get better. About 6:30 the New World School of the Arts High School Jazz Ensemble started belting out trad jazz, and my feets were tapping. By seven, 2200 people were inside, and Herald publisher Jesus Diaz began the program. I made a few remarks, 30 seconds worth. Finalists in 15 categories were announced, and three honorable mentions in each walked onstage to receive plaques; among them was Isaac Zadikoff from Miami Palmetto High School, whose cerebral palsy did not stop him. Seeing him cross the stage in a walker brought the biggest applause of the night.

It was finally time to announce the Silver Knights in each category. I was on center stage, responsible for draping a medal on each winner, shaking their hand, and directing them to the person with the trophy, check, and AA ticket to anywhere in North America. The stories were awesome. Xavier Gonzalez, winner in General Scholarship, arrived on our shores as a young child, unable to speak English; he scored in the 99^th percentile on the SAT, and is headed to MIT. He was the first to give me a hug; others followed, including Kemy Joseph, a young Haitian-American, who turned the tragic death of his father into positive efforts against violence. The softie in me wanted to shed tears, but I was on stage. Instead, I turned on a beaming smile, which I wore for the whole remainder of the program. I was just elated by being able to stand in this window into the newest chapter of the American immigrant experience. Just awesome.

At 9:50, I was hungry and so was Jesus, so we headed a mile to Versailles, my favorite Cuban restaurant, for a Presidente beer and a plate of fish, rice, and black beans. Yum. Jesus had stories, too, pictures of a hugely successful second-generation Cuban-American. And the ride in his Porsche Targa was pretty cool. Got to my hotel room about eleven, worked my e-mail, and clocked out, but only sorta – the whole experience got me revved up. Woke at six and flew home. A top of the chart experience.

Two days after Memorial Day, I left work and walked across the street to catch the shuttle bus to the airport. A tall fellow approached the bus stop, and we began to visit. Talking to Strangers, what a joy. He turned out to be Chris Pinnock, a speedy 110-meter hurdler (personal best, 13.38 seconds; my knees twinged a bit when he delivered that time!). Chris grew up in Clarendon, Jamaica, in the dense green interior of that island; his parents had kin in Dallas, and he graduated from Kimball High School, then from A&M. He now ran and jumped and ran for a living, with a sponsorship from Adidas. But he had strained a lower disk when competing in the Commonwealth Games in Melbourne a few months earlier, and was healing until November. Somehow, American had hired him, but I didn’t find out what he was going to do. The bus ride was too short, but I managed a couple of good questions. Like “how old were you when you knew you had the gift?” First grade, when he was the fastest kid on the playground, he said. He had an easy smile and a sunny demeanor. A good guy.

I ambled onto the Silver Bird, sat down, and immediately began visiting with Stranger Two, Joe Urso, a lawyer turned entrepreneur. Really interesting guy, high powered but friendly and very sincere. We yakked quite a bit. I even performed some minor surgery on his foot; two hours into the flight, he stepped on a small sliver of china near the washroom, and I successfully removed it, fingernails functioning as tweezers. He was the son of blue-collar Italians from Connecticut, which – to this part-Italian-American – explained a lot of his genuine personality. It was a nice ride. In between the yakking, I started on a travel book brother Jim recommended, The 8:55 to Baghdad, by Englishman Andrew Eames. It immediately drew me in. A nice passage on p. 31:

[Traveling solo] can strip away all the edifice of a created life and open the traveller to new possibilities. Within the structures of the home environment, your self-image is built on the foundation of accent, friends, family, education, clothing, profession, size of house, brand of car, etc. When you are on the road, however, the relationships you make with others no longer rely on all those perceived signals, but come down to your personality alone. It’s an unfettering, liberating experience for those who can cope with it.

I can, indeed, cope with it. And relish it!

I keep a log of all my flying, and have since I started, 40 years ago. I looked back, and found that it took 5 years and 2 months to fly my first 100,000 miles. This year, it took about five months – the “odometer” spun past 100K about an hour before landing at London Gatwick early on June 1.

On arrival in London, a third, but very different, Talking-to-Strangers moment. As I boarded the shuttle to Gatwick South Terminal and the railway, a disoriented older lady attempted to exit via the entry doors. She looked somewhere between vacant and forlorn, and whispered “I don’t know where I am.” I was not in a hurry, and she needed help. “I can help you, if you trust me,” I said, and introduced myself with a smile. She nodded, and we set off. “I know my name,” she said, perhaps to reassure me that she had some presence. She was a very soft-spoken woman from South Carolina, clearly confused. I spoke slowly, and got the basics quickly. She had arrived on Delta and was connecting on BA to Liverpool, but had become separated from her husband. I walked her back to the Delta ticket counter, and introduced her to the staff. She thanked me. As I walked away, I could hear the women behind the counter barking questions at her, with no empathy or grace. I wanted to head back, but did not.

I headed on, bought a ticket to my destination, Cambridge, and downloaded my e-mail in the Gatwick railway station. Climbed on the 9:16 train to King’s Cross, and brought this journal up to date, listening to Elgar’s Enigma number 13, then the Beatles. Proper English music! The ride was fast, and when I looked up from the keyboard, there was St. Paul’s, across the Thames. To the right, Sir Norman Foster’s SwissRe building (nicknamed “the gherkin”) and his Millennium Bridge, the whole lot framed in the train window. Awesome!

I got off at King’s Cross, bought a prepaid Tube fares card, called an Oyster, to replace the one that vanished with my briefcase. Because the old one was registered, Transport for London sent me a check for the unused balance, about £14. Nice! Bought a coffee, and waited on Platform 9A for the local train. Struck up conversation with Stranger 4, a software developer from Cambridge who had spent a lot of time in the U.S. – Boston, San Francisco, even two years in Houston. We yakked on the ride north. He offered another vignette on globalization: he was in London to get a visa for India, and would head east in a fortnight to begin a development program in Bangalore – “it’s a lot cheaper, but we’ll see if it is in the long run,” he said. We yakked about the airline business, about the state of the world, and more.

I said goodbye at Letchworth Garden City, the world’s first new town, established 1903 by Ebenezer Howard, a visionary who wanted an alternative to the squalor of late Victorian urban life. Howard spoke of a third alternative to town and country, which blended both. The place has been a success for more than a century. Today it is owned and managed by the Letchworth Garden City Heritage Foundation, a nonprofit “industrial and provident society” (nice phrase, that), which reinvests all surpluses for the betterment of the town. Clear in London, it was raining in Letchworth, and I was still wearing my suit. But I popped my new compact umbrella and set out, first to the tourist information center for a map, then to the Spirella Building. Originally a corset factory, the building has been recycled into fashionable offices. I headed next into neighborhoods, looking much like any middle-class British suburb, but with lots of trees and green space. Back into the center, past town hall, parks and fountains. A good look around in 90 minutes, including a quick lunch. I’m glad I stopped.

Continued on to Cambridge, arriving at Sidney Smith College about two. The head of the university’s Judge Business School, Professor Dame Sandra Dawson, is also master of this college, founded 1596. I was fortunate to be invited to stay on my first visit to Judge in October 2005, and was delighted to be invited to the Master’s Lodge again, though Sandra was away. I visited briefly with Helen Gale, Sandra’s assistant, a smiling young woman who I learned was way into equestrian.

In the lodge’s posh White Room, I took a shower and a short nap, and set out for Judge, stopping to buy a school (university) necktie – I figured my second visit warranted such adornment! Met my host, an energetic Aussie named Simon Bell, and we headed next door to Brown’s for a coffee. We had a good yak, and I departed about four. Worked my e-mail to zero at a Border’s bookstore near the college, bought a couple of jars of Colman’s English Mustard, and headed back. Stopped in the college chapel for daily prayers, then back to my digs in the Master’s Lodge.

Worked a bit, then headed over to The Eagle, a pub on Bene’t Street with a long history, back to the 16^th Century. In the last, it was a favorite of author A. A. Milne (and thus Pooh and Piglet), biologists Watson and Crick, who discovered DNA at the nearby Cavendish Laboratory, and scores of U.S. Army Air Corps and RAF pilots stationed at nearby bases during World War II. We owe them all a lot. Had a pint of Abbott ale, short yaks with strangers, including a young woman who graduated in engineering from Cambridge last year and is about to take an 18-month assignment in the oil patch in Borneo. More globalization.

Her friend recommended a South Indian restaurant, and I ambled west on Silver Street to The Rice Box. It was just okay. Walked back to the college, picked up my laptop, and headed 200 yards west to Border’s to work my e-mail. They closed at ten, so I headed out the Green Street exit and found there was still a strong signal on the street. So I kept going, balancing my laptop on the lid of a blue recycling bin. People stared. One bloke asked me what I was doing. It was pretty fun. Clocked out just past ten.

Slept hard. Up at 6:30, shower, out the door, back to the Starbucks on Market Street for a wireless connection to my e-mail. Worked that to zero and headed back to the college dining hall, where a kindly attendant named Pat (33 years at the college) made me welcome at head table, and brought me a classic English cooked breakfast, including tomatoes. Yum! A few minutes later, a high school science teacher from Wales arrived, in town for enrichment, and after that a fellow of the college, Professor Greer, who teaches materials science. We had a pleasant chat, and I peeled off for the B-school at 8:35. Met Simon, did a bit of work, and at eleven delivered a lecture to his MBA students. After lunch, I met one-on-one with several students, including Audrey Christon, who, despite my contrary advice, was keen to get a job in the airline business. I worked my e-mail, and gave another lecture from 4 to 5:15.

At 5:30 we walked back to college and met the Master, Professor Dame Dawson, Sandra, who asked if it would be all right if I moved out of the fancy digs in her lodge, because her children and their friends were coming, unexpectedly, for the weekend. I said of course, and I shifted my stuff to a Spartan dorm room, bath down the hall. It was not quite a garret with cold water; in fact it was more than fine. In fact, rather a more authentic college experience than billeting in the White Room of the master’s lodge.

The sun was out, and it was a beautiful afternoon. We ambled over to Quayside, on the River Cam, and met five MBA students who were joining for dinner. They were an interesting and diverse lot:

Noelle, an American raised in Indianapolis and a former primary-school teacher; married to a Spaniard

Jasper, a Dutchman trained in architecture at Delft, now headed into the advertising business with Saatchi

Neeraj, an engineer from Darjeeling, India; married, with two children, his family was with him in Cambridge

Malcolm, like Simon, an Aussie, from Melbourne, contemplating a job with LVMH

Amanda, from Shanghai; out of high school, she planned to study music at USC, but could not get a visa, so studied at the University of Victoria, in Canada

We had a couple of beers in the sunshine, then walked across the street to a very fine small restaurant called Galeria, where we had a long and very enjoyable dinner. Food was great, conversation animated, across a range of topics: building design, life in small-town Spain (Noelle had great stories), the price of a haircut in India; fear as a corrosive emotion, and lots more. It was another wonderful moment on the leading edge of globalization. About 10:30 we took a group photo outside, and I said goodbye to all. Called home, walked back to the dorm, and slept – not quite as long as I would have liked.

Was up at 5:15 Saturday morning, on the 6:28 train to London, changed trains, and was at Gatwick Airport by 8:45, and home by three, in time for a much-needed bike ride. I was asleep by 8:30, because reveille was at 4 on Sunday. Robin tapped my arm, and announced the hour. She was moving from L.A. to Washington, and we were helping with the drive – Linda from El Paso to Dallas four days earlier, and me to Knoxville on June 4. Road trip! Although I appreciate the genius of jet flight, I was actually looking forward to the roll northeast. And the wheels were pretty cool; suddenly the BMW 3-series Robin leased last summer, a month after her first real paycheck, shifted from extravagant to eminently sensible. The sportwagen was smooth, stable, and got Rob-approved gas mileage.

We headed east on I-30 in the dark. I wanted to drive most of the 860 miles, because Robin did the L.A.-El Paso run solo, and would finish the last six hours the next day alone. She napped. At dawn, the mixed fields and woods of northeast Texas appeared, along with a trooper busting three girls for beer in the car (and on Sunday morning!). Traffic is surprisingly light, and the cruise control was set at a zippy 78. We crossed into Arkansas, and Robin woke. At Hope, we both chanted for native son Bill Clinton to return to lead us from the morass. At Little Rock, as we crossed the Arkansas River, we admired the new Clinton Library, all sleek and silver, on the south bank. A few miles along, we joined I-40, our path for the next 500 miles. That road is a major truck route, and the semis created a small challenge for the next seven hours. Around Stuttgart the rice fields began, spring green, and coursed by small, sinuous canals. I wanted to stop and snap a picture, but “press on” was written on Robin’s face. We crossed the wide Mississippi at Memphis, the enormous pyramid on the left, and the downtown skyline on the right. Stopped for gas and treats, inadvertently buying (it was on the counter and I was distracted talking to the friendly sales clerk) a bag of pork rinds, first time since the mid-1960s. They were tasty, and the Nutrition Facts not all that scary – 16 grams of protein in the bag!

Robin took over, and I fell hard asleep. Halfway to Nashville, we drove through some waves of rain, a couple of which were really pelting. Beyond Music City, I took the wheel for the run to K-town. This was my first time in the Tennessee countryside in years, and it is one pretty state, all hilly and green, rock outcroppings skirting the freeway, across wide rivers. Really lovely. We descended and landed at the Holiday Inn just after five eastern time. Robin showered, I headed into the parking lot to snap a picture of the kudzu, the Japanese vine that has taken over much of the southland.

Armed with local knowledge from a friend of a friend, we headed into Knoxville, to Calhoun’s, an agreeable barbecue place right on the Tennessee River, beneath the green girders of the Gay Street Bridge. Downtown was pleasant and orderly. We got a table and tucked into a big meal; I had a driver, so I enjoyed a 32-ounce mug of locally-brewed porter, malty and sweet. Life was good! Dinner conversation, like the yak on the road, was animated. Our daughter has become a much better talker in recent years. She was so excited about the move to the national capital, and I shared her anticipation.

After dinner, we motored a mile west to the U of T campus, leafy and hilly, then back to the motel. It was a cool night, a bit too chilly for a swim – the pool outside our room reminded me of the many times we’d stay at Holiday Inns the summers that I went “on the road” with my traveling-salesman Dad. Back then, with dollars short, the Holiday Inn was a splurge, usually only one night during the workweek, but we enjoyed the splash and the cachet of modernity that came with that lodging chain. The rest of the week, we were content with a generic “Land o’ Nod” motel, where a room was sometimes under ten bucks. I thought of my Dad as I dipped my foot in the water, thanking him for sending me into the bigger world.