Second Quarter Update

Dear Friends,

Six days into the new quarter, with our dog-child MacKenzie safely boarded with friends, Linda and I flew to see Robin in Washington, DC (Jack was snowboarding in Colorado). We landed at two, and Robin chauffeured us to the Washington Hilton, not far from her house. We grabbed a Starbucks and I peeled off for sightseeing – down Connecticut Ave. to the Metro, and out to Pentagon Station. Though I had passed through that station many times, I never got off. Rode the escalator up, and there was the big building, right above me.

I asked for directions to the recently-dedicated Air Force Memorial just to the west (it was not a pedestrian-friendly area) from a friendly Pentagon Police officer in a van; I also asked him which side was hit on September 11. “You’ll walk right past it, and the memorial that’s under construction,” he said. I added that I worked for American, and he looked sympathetic. I ambled on, and paused at a small temporary memorial, said a prayer, then waked past the bigger construction site and up the hill to the Air Force Memorial. It was cool, three curving stainless-steel rays soaring skyward. It reminded me of disassembling Saarinen’s Gateway Arch in St. Louis. There weren’t many people around. On the south side of the site was the history of the force back to 1907, and a list of engagements where our air power was used.

I didn’t know many people who served in the Air Force or its predecessors, but I did recall one, Prof. John Borchert, one of my geography advisers, who was a meteorologist in the Army Air Corps 1942-45, stationed in East Anglia. Not in harm’s way, but with huge responsibility, forecasting weather for bombers that were pounding targets across the channel. Thanks, John, and thanks to all those who took to the skies or worked on the ground to preserve our freedom.

Back down the hill, and along the south face of the Pentagon. Took the Metro back to the hotel, changed clothes, and headed to dinner with the ladies and Robin’s friend Brett, at my Washington fave, Georgia Brown’s, the place for cooking from the Carolina low country. Yum. An awesome meal, with great company. It snowed a bit that night and was blustery on Saturday morning. Robin picked us up and we motored into Virginia. I dropped them at the big mall in Tyson’s Corner, and continued on to the Udvar-Hazy facility of the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum, at Dulles Airport. The Transport Geek was in a good place that morning, surrounded by amazing military and civilian hardware (an SR-71 that flew from L.A. to Dulles in 64 minutes, a space shuttle, the Dash 80, Boeing’s first jetliner (and precursor to the 707), and more. It was way cool.

At lunch I had a nice Talking to Strangers moment with a 76-year-old doc from Springfield, Illinois, a retired Ob-Gyn who reckoned that he had delivered "about 10,000 babies." I thanked him. Got in the car, picked up the ladies, and headed back to Robin’s apartment. I had not yet been there, a nice place in Glover Park, northwest Washington, right across from the Russian Embassy compound. Robin dropped me at Brett’s house, nearby, and I had a couple of beers with him and his buddies. I briefly felt 25 again. Briefly.

Robin, Linda, and I had dinner in Georgetown. I needed a walk, and strode briskly back to the hotel, pausing at 22^nd and Massachusetts Avenue to admire the statue of Tomás Masaryk (1850-1937), the first president of Czechoslovakia. Masaryk was a great admirer of U.S. freedoms, and a friend of Woodrow Wilson.

We were up early Easter morning, and off to the Roman Catholic Church of the Annunciation, Robin’s parish, near her house. It was a nice service. We then repaired to her pad for a lovely brunch and champagne, then flew home. A swell weekend.

Two days later, I flew to Corpus Christi, 370 miles south of Dallas on the Gulf, an interesting and booming town. I had not been there in nearly two decades. Picked up a Hertz car and drove into town, to the pleasant boulevard that fronts Corpus Christi Bay. Corpus is home to the regional burger chain Whataburger, and I snapped a picture of their flagship, two-story restaurant (still with a roof of orange and white stripes). I walked in and enjoyed a small coffee and a huge cinnamon roll; the young woman folding souvenir T-shirts told me it was the only two-story Whataburger in the world. I continued south on Shoreline Blvd., along the bay.

It was nice to see palm trees and spring blooms of white frangipani and magenta bougainvillea. I headed north, and parked near a couple fishing from the art museum parking lot. Nearby, a larger water bird stood vigilant, presumably a socialized animal accustomed to either handouts or piscine theft. I struck up a conversation with a CC native, a cardiac researcher who now lives in Minneapolis; he identified the bird as a brown pelican, noting happily that the species was locally resurgent. He and I both snapped some pictures of the marvelous bird.

The noontime talk to the local chapter of the American Advertising Federation went well. The people were friendly and welcoming – this was my third talk this year to audiences in smaller markets, and I really enjoy being with these groups, and in these cities. I ate lunch after the talk with my host, Oscar Caballero, who told me many interesting things about the place. I worked my e-mail, then drove across a tall bridge and toured the U.S.S. Lexington, the aircraft carrier that served us from 1943 until 1991. It was a way-cool experience, from the deck to the bridge to the crew quarters, mess, and clinic below. Keeping a huge old vessel shipshape with limited funds is a huge undertaking; it was clear that the project could use more funds. Mostly, though, the visit was a powerful reminder – best expressed in an exhibit honoring a sailor named Joseph Cox Wassum, who died when a kamikaze hit his ship – of the sacrifices people made for us. Thanks, seaman Wassum. I hopped in my car, returned to the airport, and flew home.

Eight days later, on April 18, I flew to Memphis, picked up a car and 80 minutes later was on the campus of Ole Miss, the University of Mississippi in Oxford. I was really excited about visiting what I had heard was a beautiful campus. I was there to present during the B-school’s student-organized Ad Week. Instead of a motel, I pulled into the parking lot of a fancy condo owned by the parents of one of the student organizers. Really nice. Oxford is a small place, about 20,000, and the school is about 15,000.

A few minutes later, I met seniors Josh Rosa and Lindsey Thompson. They took me to lunch at Abner’s, locally known for chicken tenders (strips of white meat). We had a nice visit. After lunch, Josh drove me around the Square in downtown Oxford, built around the Lafayette County Courthouse (1872). Many had told me about the square, with its vernacular buildings now housing fancy shops, law offices, and restaurants. John Grisham, an Ole Miss alum, had described it. You gotta see it – it is a really wonderful townscape, one of the most interesting places I’ve seen in the South.

Josh dropped me at the condo, I grabbed my backpack, and walked to campus. Bought a cup of coffee in the student union, worked my e-mail, and from four to five delivered a lecture on airline advertising. At 5:30 we crossed the campus to the leafy center, called the Grove, where the Ad Club had organized a barbecue, including live music. It was a lot of fun, listening to the band belt out classic rock favorites, eating ‘cue, and visiting with students. The evening was gorgeous, clear and 65.

I walked back to the condo, changed into casual clothes, and strolled into town, to the Square. It was dusk. I sat on a bench in front of City Hall. To my left was a bronze of Mister Faulkner, and his gaze was direct. A young woman walked past, smiled, and asked how the conversation was going. “A bit one-sided, but we’ll manage,” I replied, and praised the town. That launched her into a small but friendly rant about the fancy shops on the Square. “I wish there were regular stores, with normal prices, and sales,” she said. I nodded, and wished her a pleasant evening. I circled around, looking for a place for a beer. There was plenty of choice, but I chose the wrong one, a bit too fancy, and no local beer. But I was thirsty, and the Sam Adams White Ale was cold. Walked back to the condo, worked my e-mail to zero, and clocked out.

Up at first light on Thursday morning, walked a few blocks east to the Square to snap some pictures of buildings and the courthouse in the yellow morning light. At seven, I ambled into the Bottletree Bakery on Van Buren Street, for a cup of coffee and a handmade strawberry Danish, shaped in a pinwheel and as good as it gets. It was a hip place. NPR was on. Signs behind the counter said “Be nice or leave,” and “No loitering or cat-selling.” Folk art hung on the walls. An agreeable place, and by 7:20 it was packed.

Walked back to the condo, picked up my backpack, and returned to campus. Met Dr. Bush, walked to the library for another cup of coffee (nice idea, a Java City in the library foyer), then into class at 9:30, repeating it at 11. At 12:15 we met Brian Reithel, dean of the business school, and ambled to lunch with six students. At 1:30 we had an informal session on careers and further schooling. The figurative end-of-day bell rang at 2:35, I worked my e-mail in the student union, and walked back to the condo. By 3:10 I was beneath towering cedars at Rowan Oak, William Faulkner’s home from 1930 until his death in 1962. The Greek Revival house was built almost a century earlier, and it was interesting to tour a relatively modern place, well restored, with many personal artifacts in the rooms. There was a small photo exhibit documenting his life, including a 1950 picture of he and his wife Estelle climbing on an American Airlines DC-6 bound for Stockholm, where he accepted the Nobel Prize for Literature. It made me proud. On the way home, I stopped at St. Peter’s Cemetery where he is buried. Next to the headstone was a wreath of red berries and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels.

At 5:50 I met the students and Norm, one of the founders of The Creative Circus, a for-profit school that teaches people to become advertising copywriters, designers, etc. We motored five miles south for dinner at the Taylor Grocery in the hamlet of the same name. The place was a classic. Out front, an old DX gas pump, price 45.9 a gallon; inside, it was dumpy and comfy, with patrons’ names written on the wall, antiques and junk hanging around, oilcloth tablecloths. The menu modestly said “The South’s Best Catfish,” so that is what I ate, with hushpuppies and slaw. The fish was superb. We yakked about movies. It was fun. We drove back into town, and Lindsey dropped me at Proud Larry’s, a local bar better than the one visited the night before. Before I sat down at the bar, I asked the bartender if they had beer from nearby. Yep, he replied, Lazy Magnolia, which style. I got a pint of Southern Pecan ale. Nice. The brewery is in Kiln, Mississippi, quarterback Brett Favre’s hometown, near Biloxi on the gulf. Enjoyed the glass, bantered with the staff, walked home, and clocked out by 9:30. Was up before dawn Friday morning, pedal to the metal to Memphis, and flew home.

Five days later, on Wednesday the 25^th, I flew north to Minnesota at the end of the day. Having lived in Minneapolis and St. Paul for 35 years, I’ve landed at MSP more than a hundred times, but this approach was brand new: straight over downtown Minneapolis and the Falls of St. Anthony (one of the reasons for the settlement; in the mid-19^th century, it was the largest waterpower site west of Niagara). Way cool.

I picked up a Chevy Cobalt and pressed the accelerator a bit, cruising east on I-94 and into Wisconsin. Hadn’t been there in almost two years. In 75 minutes I was zooming up the gravel driveway to the top of Windy Hill, and a hug for my old pal Ed Moersfelder, retired to Polk County (Edward’s wife Karel and Linda shared an assistant D.A. job in the 1980s). We yakked for an hour, I drank an Old Style Beer, one of Wisconsin’s favored beverages, and clocked out, windows open.

Woke before six to the sound of loons in the marsh at the bottom of the hill. Drank a pot of coffee with Ed on his deck overlooking the marsh. Counted ten kinds of birds before 8 o’clock: loon, goldfinch, cardinal, blue jay, sandhill crane, red-winged blackbird, Canada goose, pheasant, downy woodpecker, and cowbird. A lot of life around there. We ate a couple bowls of shredded wheat, and went for a walk. Ed’s land is gently rolling, the result of glaciers, and it is a modest, comfortable landscape. I commented to Ed that despite all my travel, and to some spectacular coastal and montane places, I welcome the chance to get into this part of the Midwest, where the farms give way to wetlands and the fringes of the vast northern forest. It was the start of tick season, and I pulled a few of the more benign ones from my clothes; Ed snagged a tiny deer tick, the kind that carries Lyme Disease.

It was time for chores. We drove into the county seat, Balsam Lake, and picked up, appropriately, 50 balsam fir seedlings, and planted them in a few places on his land. By then it was lunch time, turkey barbecue and an apple, then into Ed’s old truck and over to Dresser, ten miles east, to pick up a load of wood chips. On the way there, we stopped to say hello to Ed’s friend, the Rev. David Teig, who kept a subset of Noah’s ark on his hobby farm: llamas, turkeys, guinea fowl, a peacock, goats, horses, cows, chickens, and sheep, several of which had recently lambed. We saw two born the day before, a nice reminder of spring, of rebirth, and of the bounty God gives us.

Back at the house, we unloaded the wood chips with scoop shovels, and paused for an Old Style break (ah, Wisconsin!). Then we drove across a field to a small copse, loaded the truck with ironwood, drove a couple miles to Kevin Christianson’s house and unloaded the logs, stacking them neatly in early preparation for next winter’s heating needs. By then it was five and time to clean up.

On the back deck, it was cocktail hour, a Manhattan for Ed and his home-brewed porter for me, and more chatter. It was a lot of fun to visit with a person of similar values (we vented plenty, mainly in the direction of Washington), and interesting to see how another retiree sees the world and spends his days. Dinner was a superb venison shank, slow roasted all afternoon, with baked potato and steamed asparagus. Ed’s friend Roger shot the deer five months earlier. Ed is a farm boy and a lifelong hunter, and knows not only how to butcher a deer but how to cook it superbly. I’ve enjoyed venison many times up there.

After dinner we repaired to the basement and watched a movie, then to bed. Slept hard. Woke before six, again to the wonderful call of the loon. More coffee and cereal, and back into the truck to Little Falls and a couple of errands. On the way there, we stopped and walked into a small gorge in the Apple River, really lovely. We then walked around Ed’s “other land,” acreage south of the house, where they built a long cabin in the late 1970s. When we spotted the place, I was sorry we didn’t stay there, and asked Ed if I could come back in the fall for a couple days in that simple place. He said yes, and I smiled. We zipped into Amery, the “big town,” for lunch, then back to the house, where I cleaned up, put on a necktie, and drove back to the Twin Cities. Took a slower route, scenic for the first 15 miles, especially crossing the St. Croix River that divides Wisconsin and Minnesota. Stunning views north and south on a warm spring day.

By 2:30 I was yakking with geographer Rod Squires at the University of Minnesota. I was back on campus not to give a lecture, but to listen to one. It had been more than two decades since I attended a Ralph Hall Brown Memorial Lecture, named for one of the founders of my department. The presenter was a superb and interesting social geographer named David Ley of the University of British Columbia, speaking about the emigration of well-to-do Chinese from Hong Kong, Taiwan, and the PRC to Vancouver. It was a great talk. I visited briefly with Prof. Ley before the talk, and enjoyed being a geographer again, if only for a couple of hours.

At 6:30, I met my friend Tim McGlynn for dinner at 50^th and France, the shopping area (named for a street intersection) that was just a few blocks from the house where we lived when I was a child. We had a good yak. He suggested that after dinner I attend a going-away party for the daughter of another old friend, Tom Terry. Wow, I thought, more friends to see. I drove to Linda’s mother’s condo, visited for awhile and changed clothes, then zipped into downtown Minneapolis to see Tom, his wife Gara, the guest of honor, Brit, and her sister Shannon, plus Tom’s brother Bill and some other buddies from years gone by. Great fun.

Slept in (until 6:30!) Saturday morning, visited with Karen and Linda’s brother Gordy, who lives with her, then drove east to St. Paul and lunch with Ann Hathaway, a friend from my time at Republic Airlines. Always good to yak with her. A caloric breakfast at the Day by Day Café, staffed by recovering alcoholics and drug addicts. At eleven I rang the doorbell of Martha Sheppard on St. Clair Avenue. She invited me in, another cup of coffee and a yak with the widow of Wharton classmate Jack Sheppard. At 12:15 I headed east, back to our old neighborhood for the last fun of the trip, a run through the place we lived from 1978 to 1987. Saw our old house, the place we were married, and more. It was fun, a nice link to the past, and the first test of my hip since the bike crash (it was a little sore, but really pretty strong). Stopped for a Danish at Wuollet Bakery and a uncaffeinated cold drink at Starbucks, then out to the airport for the ride home. A great trip.

Four days later, Linda and I flew to Chicago and west to Shanghai, almost 8000 miles, a long ride. We landed a day later, Thursday, and got a car into town, to the hotel, shower and rest. It was my fourth trip to China but Linda’s first. She fell asleep about sundown, and I joined my University of Southern California colleagues for beer and hellos. It was my third time teaching in their Global Executive MBA program (GEMBA), a joint venture with Shanghai Jiao Tong University. Several of us repaired to a restaurant in Xintiandi, a renovated set of early 20^th century buildings, all very hip. Our eatery was owned by a Taiwanese movie star who was into colored glass of all kinds, and the fixtures were way cool. We had a good meal, but by ten my head was almost in the (homemade) ice cream.

Up the next morning and out the door, to show Linda the Bund, the early 20^th century commercial buildings (originally, most of them were foreign banks) on the west bank of the Huangpu River. Revived at the Westin, then set off for old Shanghai. That visit lasted about ten minutes. It was humid, crowded, and Linda did not like the hawkers (“CD?”, “Watch?”). So we hopped in a cab to Xintiandi. Lunch was at a swell Thai place. Walked around a bit more, and were back at the hotel by three. Stayed around the neighborhood that night.

Saturday morning was time for obligatory shopping (something I obviously don’t do when I’m solo), but it was relatively painless – a pearl necklace for Robin and pearl earrings for Linda, and we were done by noon. Dropped the stuff and headed back out, into the French Concession, the neighborhood that France established (and essentially governed as an enclave) for a century, from about 1840 until the end of World War II. Started the tour at that venerable Chinese institution Starbucks, then zigzagged west, past some lovely old buildings and parks. At six we packed off to the Westin for a GEMBA celebration, two alumni groups, the current students, and those admitted to the fourth GEMBA program, which starts in the fall. Speeches and a nice buffet dinner. Back at ten.

Sunday morning saw me break away. Two-plus days in China and no rides on public transportation had the Transport Geek edgy! Walked west and caught the Metro Line 3 south, then rode Line 2 west to the end, at Songhong Road. Judging by the gentle stares, they did not see a lot of foreigners in that neighborhood. Walked across the street and spent 30 minutes in Xinjing Park, which was hopping (it was the end of the May 1/Labor Day holiday week). There were kite flyers, musicians playing solo violin and clarinet, guys on the basketball court, old folks reading and gossiping. A nice scene. Retraced my steps and suited up for my lecture. Linda came along, first to lunch, then to my talk from 1:15 to 3. The Jiao Tong business school campus is separate from the rest of the school, and is only a couple of blocks from the hotel, down Fahuazen Road.

Except for a brief talk to a service club in Richardson five years back, she had never heard me present. It all went well, with engaged students and great questions at the end. I think Linda was surprised at my facility. We walked back, I changed out of my suit, and we headed to the Four Seasons Hotel for high tea. It was very nice, little sandwiches and cakes, a pot of Earl Grey, and a string quartet to entertain us. That was dinner. Back to the hotel, a couple of beers, and an early lights-out.

Monday morning we headed back to People’s Square (for the taxi driver, I had written our destination in Chinese characters, and he could read them!), to the Shanghai Urban Planning Exhibition Center, five floors of displays on the past and future of this vast city, including a huge (perhaps 75 feet in diameter) scale model of the place in 2020. Elsewhere some wonderful black-and-white photos of old Shanghai. Very cool. The exhibits gave us a sense of the interface between the former Communist centrally-planned economy and more Western concepts of planning and development – and a sense of the fervent Chinese belief in progress.

Back to the hotel, brought this journal up to date, car to the airport and a long flight home. On the way back, I watched Clint Eastwood’s “Letters from Iwo Jima,” a very powerful movie, and it fit a return flight from East Asia. We were home by 9:30 p.m. A swell trip.

Three days later, on Thursday the 10^th, I was back on the exact same 777 that flew us from China to Chicago; while I spent three days at work, it had been to London and back. We landed in Frankfurt in nine hours. I was on my way to a return gig at the Warsaw School of Economics. Then we derailed, to mix transport metaphors. I had always understood that airline employees traveling on passes needed to go to the main ticket counter rather than the transit desk, so I went through immigration, then noticed that my connecting flight on LOT Polish Airlines was running 20 minutes late. “Plenty of time,” I thought to myself, and headed to the Admirals Club for a shower. I entered a long line at Lufthansa (which handles LOT in Frankfurt) at 8:20, for a flight at 9:35. When I finally got to the front, the trainee was having a lot of trouble checking me in. “We have a new departure system,” her supervisor told me. I smiled. Twenty minutes after greeting me, she said, “I’m sorry, but the flight is now closed.” I was amazed, but as a non-revenue passenger I had no rights. I could see a mess developing, because a later flight would make me late for my 1:30 p.m. lecture. She finally got me processed and my bag checked for an 11:50 departure, arriving Warsaw 10 minutes after my lecture was to begin. I was using bad language, aloud, as I walked through the airport.

I e-mailed and phoned my hosts and explained the situation, minus the detail above. The only bright spot was a fellow AA employee on the same flight, Pete Gold, a sales rep in San Francisco, who recognized me. We had a nice visit. The flight was a bit late, but I shook hands with one of my hosts at the airport at about 1:50, and was on campus by 2:20, but Marchal explained that the prof decided to cancel the class rather than allow me to condense it to 40 minutes. I was really disappointed, but the school people were kind and understanding.

I met Agnieszka Zydlewska, one of the program managers for WEMBA, the Warsaw Executive MBA, a joint venture of the Warsaw School of Economics and my University of Minnesota’s Carlson School. It was fun – and just a little bit strange – to see U of M logos and symbols 5600 miles from my alma mater. She bought me a cup of coffee and a sandwich, and we had a nice visit. I then ambled five blocks east to the Hotel Reytan, in a quiet neighborhood of embassies and apartment buildings. Agnieszka and Marchal wanted to escort me there, but I assured them that a Ph.D. geographer could make his way there.

I had a bunch of pent-up energy, so I laced up and went for a run, just as thunder boomed and the rain began. But it was a light rain, and it stopped halfway into the 20-minute trot through the Mokotow neighborhood. It felt good to work through the earlier fiasco. Back at the hotel, I worked my e-mail to zero and took a short nap. At six I dressed and headed out, first to an ATM for some Zlotys (Poland is now in the EU, but it will be five years before they use the Euro), and into a newsstand for a public-transport day ticket, unlimited rides for less than three bucks. I headed north into the center, and back to Browarmia, a brewpub on the “Royal Route,” a street lined with historic churches and government buildings. It was a mild evening, perfect for sitting on their front deck and watching Friday night unfold in the Polish capital.

I then ambled to Honoratka, a restaurant in the old town that had been in business since 1826 (I found it in a local magazine guide that looked legit). It was in the basement of an old building. People were friendly and welcoming. I ordered veal tongue. The waitress hesitated, a pause that reminded me of Colette Desjean, owner of a small Paris restaurant I frequented in the mid-1990s, who paused when I ordered veal kidneys, repeating the French name – “Rognons, monsieur” – and pointing at her kidneys.

The veal tongue was superb, in a horseradish sauce, with dumplings, a side of tomatoes, onions, and sour cream, and two glasses of Okocim Palone, a nice dark beer. As I ate my dinner, I wondered what, since 1826, these walls have witnessed. They have outlasted a lot – in just the last century, Nazis and Soviets. Whoa! I walked west on Senatorska, snapping pictures of the National Theatre and some other buildings that were nicely illuminated. Hopped tram #36 back to the hotel and clocked out.

Woke up with the first light, at 4:30. I flopped around for awhile, and before six laced up and headed a few blocks east to Lazienki Park, green and lush in lovely morning sunshine. The surprise there was a flock (gaggle?) of peacocks, noisy and colorful. Ate breakfast (blood pudding was one of the dishes, always a treat!), and hopped trams toward the center, stopping to snap pictures of a pure white baroque church and the old building of the Warsaw Polytechnic. Headed back toward old town, stopping to admire the monument to the 1944 Uprising.

There’s a story: toward the end of the war, on August 1, 1944, a ragtag group of Polish insurgents try to retake the city. They claim some wins, but are soon crushed, and surrender 63 days later. The Nazis killed 40,000 fighter and 120,000 civilians, deported the rest, and razed the city. Reading the story, tears came to my eyes.

I ambled around the old town (which was thus completely rebuilt in the 1940s through ‘60s), back west to watch a student rally in support of a united Europe (a nice counterpoint to the uprising monument), then to a noon organ concert at the Basilica of St. John (built 1398-1406, and rebuilt after 1945). At one I headed back to the hotel, grabbed some lunch fixings at a local grocery, suited up, and headed to the Warsaw School of Economics.

At 2:30, I met my young host, Jacek Pogorzelski, a recent Ph.D. teaching on contract in the WEMBA program. The lecture went well, 2.5 hours, good discussion – rare but welcome are people who really poke at issues, and a couple of the students were well informed about the U.S. airline business. After that, we motored back over to Lazienki Park, to a restaurant in the trees called Belvedere, built in an 18^th century Orangery. Inside were tables tucked in and around lush plants; the effect was like dining in a jungle, but with Polish food. I had a white borscht soup and a nice piece of grilled perch. Jacek drove me back to the hotel and I clocked out early.

Was up early again, read and wrote, ate breakfast, and took the train to Warszawa Centralna, the central station, where I caught the 08:50 InterCity to Gdansk, on the Baltic. I found my reserved seat, in a compartment occupied by a fellow in an Oxford University sweatshirt. A good sign. I asked if he spoke English, he replied “yes,” and I introduced myself to Tomasz Mizera, 35, an interesting fellow: Ph.D. candidate at Lublin Catholic University, real estate manager for Hewlett-Packard Poland; member of the Catholic society the Order of Malta (need to research that one) Like me, he traveled a lot when he was young – he left home after graduating from a “culinary high school,” and worked as a cook on two oil tankers and a small, deluxe cruise ship in the Mediterranean. Tomasz was headed up to the family beach house at Gdynia, north of Gdansk. It was a pleasant ride, a four-hour Talking to Strangers experience.

Tomasz pointed out the first of many bright-yellow fields of rapeseed, more happily renamed (by Canadians) Canola. Further on, we passed Malbork castle, which he said was the largest brick structure in Europe. Soon we were in Gdansk, and said goodbyes. I hopped in a taxi and rode a couple miles west of town to Willa Jolanta, rental apartments I found on the Internet and reserved via e-mail. When I buzzed on the Intercom, a boy answered. He spoke English and he buzzed me in. Stefek was about 13; his parents must not have been home, and he handled the check in with skill. It felt good to be contributing to the new entrepreurial spirit of Poland, though the website fibbed a bit about proximity to the center! In no time I was out the door, down the hill to the tram, riding back into town.

And what a town. Absolutely stunning. Eye-popping. Like Bergen, Amsterdam, Bremen and Tallinn, Gdansk was a member of the Hanseatic League, the 15^th and 16^th century equivalent of today’s EU: a group of places that banded together and traded for the benefit of all the members. And what prosperity had been built here – beautiful architecture of various styles (heavily influenced by the Dutch). Like Warsaw’s old town, the historic core here was flattened in WW2, but by the Red Army, because Danzig (as the Germans know it) was under Nazi control. More on that in a couple of paragraphs. Long Street, ulica Dluga in Polish, was just a remarkable collection of buildings. I spent about four hours wandering in and out of churches, down cobbled alleys, along the river, and to the top of the tower in the town hall. In addition to houses and shops belonging to burgers, there were some remarkable pieces of industrial architecture, too, including the Great Mill, completed in 1350 and at the time the largest industrial building in Europe, and the Crane, on the river, used to lift cargo and ship masts; men walking in two wheels much like enormous hamster wheels provided the lifting power. Remarkable.

I finished the day at the Monument to Fallen Shipyard Workers, on the edge of the massive Gdansk Shipyard. This is where Lech Walesa organized the first bloody strike against the Communist authorities, in December 1970; this, then, is one of those pivotal places in the decline of state socialism in Eastern Europe. One of the memorial plaques, ended with some fine words: "A sign of hope for fellow citizens that evil need not prevail."

Just before six, with very sore feet, I trudged back to Long Street for a beer and notetaking for this journal. The town hall carillon began pealing the sound of Europe. A separate, competing bell began tolling loudly, more than six times. A symphony of sorts, and I hoisted my glass. I paddled slowly a block north to the Restauracja Gdanska. It was traditional, even kitschy, but the white borscht soup, and Polish hunter's stew was wonderful. Lech’s photo could be found in several places.

I hopped the tram back to the foot of the hill, climbed back to Willa Jolanta, and called Linda to wish her a happy Mother’s Day. It was the first time in all 25 years of her superb motherhood that I wasn’t home, and it made me sad. But the call cheered me up!

Woke early again on Monday morning, ate a simple breakfast the innkeepers put in my room (and fridge), and headed back downtown. Put my suitcase in a locker and hopped another tram out to the port, to see a historic lighthouse. It took awhile to track it down. I kept showing Poles a photo from the town brochure, and they kept pointing. In fact, the first person I asked, a smiling young woman, saw me 15 minutes later – she hopped off a bus and pointed at the lighthouse, by then only a few hundred meters away. Polish kindness, again.

The lighthouse was built in 1894, and is said to be a twin of a light in Cleveland, Ohio. It was the first in Northern Europe to have an electric light. And it was the place where World War II began, when Germans fired a machine gun from the light, before dawn on September 1, 1939. Whoa. Unfortunately, it did not open until 10, and I didn’t think I would have enough time to see it and make my 11:35 train. Walked back to the tram, rode into town, and visited the Cemetery of Nonexistent Cemeteries; in the words of the town brochure, it “commemorates all burial grounds that have been lost in the city’s history, destroyed in stormy events and war turmoil.” Because of its long trading links to the rest of the world, Gdansk prided itself on openness and tolerance, and this memorial, opened in 2002, recalls that spirit. The base of the inscribed tablet consists of broken pieces from Christian, Jewish, and Muslim, headstones. A nice sentiment.

Walked across the street, grabbed my bag, and hopped on the slow train to Warsaw. This time my compartment comrade was an older Polish fellow, smiling but mute. I read for most of the ride, but paused to savor the fragrance from the acres and acres of yellow Canola blossoms, akin to lilacs. Unlike the train the day before, this one was old school, with windows that opened – the experience took me back to Europe trips in the 1970s. The gift of travel comes in many forms, and at 1:29 on May 14 it was the chance to see an older farmer dismounting from his bike, bound to check on two Holstein cows lazing in a lush, shady meadow.

Arrived at 4:20, tram back to “my hotel,” quick shower, suited up, and headed back to Warsaw School of Economics for a presentation to their MBA alumni association. Fifty people turned up after work, and the talk and question-time went well. Afterwards there was wine and snacks. I visited with several interesting folks, then headed to dinner with Piotr Zinkiewicz and Magdalena Skiba. Another great Polish meal, cucumber soup and roast duck. Headed back to the hotel, worked my e-mail, and fell asleep.

A short night. Up at 4:45 and out the door, to the airport for a 7:05 Air France flight to Paris (happily, getting on was a smooth experience). Landed at ten, got some Euros, and picked up a Hertz Renault, my first rental car in Europe for almost eight years. I had some trepidation. But “onward” is one of my mottos, and in no time I was sailing along the A1 toward Paris, bound for Normandy. I missed a key turn, resulting in a 25-minute detour through a couple of leafy towns west of the city (and, I confess, a short run the wrong way on a one-way street). I was back on the A13 tollway soon enough, cruise control set on 130 km./hr., heading west.

Off the highway and onto narrow country lanes, and by 2:40 I was in the parking lot of the Normandy American Cemetery, directly above Omaha Beach, site of the D-Day invasion on June 6, 1944. It was everything I expected it to be, and very moving. I ambled down and walked the beach, then headed back up, stopping to note that troops of the First Division had fought there way up the steep slope to a small plateau by mid-morning on June 6, with more than 600 losses in that one unit. There is a limestone memorial, opened 1954, with maps of battles of the Atlantic theatre and a more detailed map of the flow from the beaches into Normandy. Behind the memorial is a semi-circular wall, the Garden of the Missing, with the names, units, and home states of 1,557 Americans unaccounted for after battles in this region. I passed the tablets slowly, calling out the first names of the men from Texas and from Minnesota. May they rest in peace.

I was reminded of the brief message General Eisenhower gave the troops as they awaited orders to go ashore, words I read beneath the statue of him in Grosvenor Square, London, and on a wall of the World War II memorial in Washington:

You are about to embark upon the great crusade toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty, and skill in battle.

On the way to the parking lot, a nice TtS moment with Joe, a retired maintenance engineer from United Airlines. Before we got to our shared industry, though, he brought up our President Bush, with nothing nice to say. He made me laugh. I hopped in the car and headed east. After deciding not to stay in the larger town of Bayeaux, I headed back into the country, and found a farmstead B&B just outside the hamlet of Escures. Florence Haelewyn (a Welsh-sounding surname) welcomed me to a house built about 1800. She and her husband Gilles are farmers, with dairy cattle, wheat, corn, and other crops. It was nice to be in the country. To slow down after a pretty frenzied day and a half, I sat at a small desk in my room and brought this journal up to date.

At 6:30, I motored into Port en Bessin, a larger town a mile away, right on the Atlantic. It was past time for a beer, and the barman at a seafront brasserie drew me a glass of Affligen, from an abbey brewery in Belgium; the monks have been making beer since 1074, so the glass was tasty! I sat out front, under an awning. It was still raining lightly, and about 50°, but I felt warm. The salt air smelled great, the play of gulls provided ample visual effect, all was well. I trundled next door to the Hotel de la Marine for dinner, Normandy mussels in cider and cream sauce (superb! I sopped up all the broth with bread); grilled aile (in English, skate, actually a ray), with a curious texture; and a sort of apricot mousse cake, with hazelnut-flavored crumbs beneath. Yum! I was happy. Motored back to the hotel and was asleep by 9; it was still light, but I conked instantly, and slept hard for more than eight hours, the best night in a long, long time.

I was on the road by six, stopping for gas, coffee, and a sweet roll. All was normale until my first exit west of Paris. An accident slowed us for about 10 minutes; the wrecked car suggested a dead driver. Further along, another accident, then a huge traffic jam, 30 minutes to go 2000 feet. Then we appeared to break clear, only to hit a detour that was not well signposted. I simply did not know what to do; Hertz map was not highly detailed, and I elected to head north, into the city, to pick up the usually-choked Peripherique beltway, driving a few miles east to the A6 freeway that runs close to Fontainebleau, my destination (and where I was due at the Hertz office on Rue Grande in less than an hour. I crossed the Seine, the highway petered out, and I was on a street choked with traffic. At one point, right in front of me, a huge truck was attempting to back up. It was time to get a bit aggressive. I made it to the beltway, which though busy was flowing about 30 mph, and was soon on the A6, pedal to the metal, 140 km/hr. Whoopee, I thought, I might make it after all. Off the A6, onto the feeder road to Fontainebleau, where a radar camera zapped me – stay tuned for news on whether Hertz charges me for a speeding ticket (it would be my first ever, sigh).

Once in Fontainebleau, I got a bit disoriented, and missed the turn. Doubled back, past the huge castle. I was just about to ask “Ou est Rue Grande?” when I noticed a street sign – we were on that very Rue! Pulled up to Hertz at 10:46. The agent spoke no English, but I managed to mangle French and get his okay to fill the tank ASAP. Even with the detour for gas, I was parked at 10:57. And really, really happy to hand him the keys, collect my stuff, and wheel a mile west to the Hotel Victoria on Rue de France. At that point, I would have predicted it would be a long time before I again rented a car in France.

Checked into the Vic, changed clothes, and walked five blocks to INSEAD; it was my fifth visit to this impressive B-school founded in 1957 by General Doriot, who had studied at Harvard Business School before the war. Worked my e-mail to zero (I had been unconnected for a day and a half), and enjoyed a nice lunch, yakking with a Lebanese guy, MBA from Wharton, who was working in Kuwait. He said he’d be in touch about a speaking gig there!

After lunch, I moved into a visitor’s office and did a bit more work. At five I left school, walked back, laced up, and ran through the garden of the chateau. Nice! Met my host, Miguel Brendl, for dinner at seven at a little creperie. We had a nice visit, introduced with the news that he had that very day accepted a position at Northwestern’s Kellogg School. He had a lot to do, so dinner was fast, and I headed home.

Returned to my office the next day, worked a bit, and at 2:00 Miguel and I team-taught a class on crisis management. It went very well. Afterwards, he introduced me to a colleague who would become my new INSEAD contact. I said my goodbyes and walked back to the hotel.

Some 32 hours after being stressed on Rue Grande, I was back on it, but totally relaxed, sitting on a bar terrace across from the castle that several kings built, enjoying a glass of Leffe, another beer from Belgian monks (slogan: “A Cult Beer Since 1240”). Nice! I headed up the street, had a light dinner of mussels ‘n’ fries (soul food in Brussels, and pretty tasty in France, too, though the mussels in Normandy were better). Headed back to the hotel, called home, clocked out.

Up at 5:40, out the door, onto the bus to the train station in nearby Avon. Commuters packed the express train into Paris – really fast, 36 minutes to Gare de Lyon. I hopped the other suburban railway, the RER, riding one stop, where I’d catch the line to the airport. But I needed a little dose of Paris, so I rode up four escalators and surfaced. And was glad I did, for right in front of me was the massive St. Eustache Church, consecrated 1637. Awesome. I walked down the street. I was in the 1^st Arrondisement (district). I spotted a restaurant where we ate in September 1999 (back when I led our Food & Beverage team, and we were moving from Orly to Charles De Gaulle airport. Au Pied de Cochon specialized in all things porcine (particularly trotters), and the neon sign above the door read Jour et Nuit. I peered in, and, sure enough, at 7:30 people were drinking champagne and having a really good time. Ya gotta love Paris! I reversed course, and hopped the train to CDG.

That’s where the day’s excitement began. I was next in the AA security line when Terminal 2A was evacuated. Someone had left a bag and a box out front. Chaos ensued, but no panic. The police politely moved us several hundred yards down the access road, where we waited about 90 minutes. At one point there was an explosion, about the sound of a big M80 firecracker. Still no panic. The French mostly smoked and yakked on their mobile phones. I chatted with a Canadian fellow, ate two pain aux raisins and a cup of stout coffee. Business resumed, checked in, and flew home. I was happy to be on the Silver Bird. It was a good trip, but a long one.

I arrived at Café Pacific in Dallas only five minutes late for a celebratory dinner with Linda and Jack, the lad poised to graduate with a BBA from SMU the next day. Cheers and congratulations. We headed to a Baccalaureate service that night, then home. MacKenzie was happy to see me and vice-versa. Graduation the next day, a brunch for friends the day after that. Lots of salutes. We are proud of him.

The next weekend included Memorial Day, and I spent a lot of time those three days thinking about all who served us, casting my eyes heavenward to remember my Dad and his comrades-in-arms. Thanks.

Two weeks without flight, and I was eager to get back “on the road.” On Friday, June 1, I flew north to Nashville with AA colleagues Chris Koller and Boyce Adams, two young guys who work on our college marketing program. Rented a car and in no time was on the campus of Vanderbilt University. I had driven around the school briefly in 1989, but this was really my first time. An awesome campus, leafy, with plenty of old buildings and a range of new ones. Walking to meet Chris and Boyce (they had driven separately), I spotted a plaque on an outside wall of the Sarratt Student Center:

Today I am going to give you two examinations, one in trigonometry and one in honesty. I hope you pass both, but if you must fail one, let it be trigonometry.

– Madison Sarratt (1888-1978), Professor of Mathematics

We had a brief meeting with a woman from Vandy’s student life department, but our real reason for being there was to present an AA case study to the “Accelerator” program at the Owen Graduate School of Management. Class was 45 undergraduates who show management promise. The afternoon went well, bright students with good questions. We would return a few weeks later to listen to how five student teams solved a marketing case (other participating firms included Whirlpool, FedEx, and Lexus). We stayed after class, answering questions, and time got a bit away from us. Fortunately, rush-hour traffic was lumpy in only a few places, and we made it back to the airport with time to spare.

The next day, Saturday the 2^nd, I flew to London, my 120^th visit to the Old World (not a boast, just a reflection on my great good fortune). There are many ways to chart my long experience in these places, but one caught my eye on the train from Gatwick Airport to London Blackfriars: a fellow was wearing a faded ball cap that said “Shepherd Neame,” and I recognized it immediately as a small brewery in Kent; I first sampled their produce 30 years ago at the first-ever Great British Beer Festival.

At Blackfriars, I ambled up the hill to 10:15 “mattins” service at St. Paul’s Cathedral. Magnificent. Choir was 21 boys (7-10 years old) and 18 men, plus organ. It was Trinity Sunday. The bells pealed for a long time before and after the service. But the sound that was most memorable was the choir’s voices, which carried for six or seven seconds up into the dome. It was a brilliant clear day, and I walked through the City to Canteen, a great restaurant in the new Spitalfields Markets (a complex designed by the great Sir Norman Foster), specializing in well-prepared local foods. I had eaten there six months earlier.

At noon I met my young friend Marcos Sheeran, an Irish-Spanish fellow I first met at the South American Business Forum in Buenos Aires last August. He had finished a Master’s in Industrial Engineering and was interning with Procter & Gamble in London, prior to joining Bain & Co. in Paris in August. A very bright guy with an interesting background, and s (shared) positive view of the world (his e-mail address says it all, “lovingeachday@”). We had a nice lunch and a good chat. At 1:45 I peeled off to nearby Liverpool Street Station, and caught the 2:28 to Cambridge.

It was still really nice weather, and I walked the 1.5 miles from the train to Sidney Sussex College, my home in Cambridge. This time I was lodging in an ordinary guest room, not the posh Master’s Lodge, but to my delight my digs had a private bath. Time for a shower, for sure. I did a few things on my computer, and re-read the account of one of my geography mentors, John Borchert (I’ve written about him before), when he was an Army Air Corps meteorologist in nearby East Anglia from May 1943 to September 1945.

At 6:10 I walked down to the college chapel for Choral Evensong (I last attended seven months earlier, so I am sort of a regular). Entering, given my earlier attendance at St. Paul’s, I wondered if it was possible to worship too much. Nah, nope. The small chapel contrasted nicely with the vastness of the cathedral, and the choir’s voices really filled the room, which is filled with carved oak. The Rev. Steve Chalke, a former Baptist minister and now head of the Oasis Trust, which provides development aid to poor countries, spoke on the continued scourge of slavery. It has not been abolished. He cited cocoa plantations in the Ivory Coast, brothels in Thailand and in this country, and more. Grim. He was a very persuasive speaker.

The chaplain, Peter Waddell, invited worshippers to enjoy a glass of sherry in the college library, but I was feeling the need for a pint at The Eagle, my favorite pub in town, and I made fast for their “back room,” called the RAF Bar, where airman of the U.S. 8^th Air Force and the RAF wrote their names and messages on the ceiling, using lighters, burning candles, and lipstick. Another opportunity to say thank you. I ambled back toward college, and ate a jungle curry at Bangkok City, a small café on Green Street. Seated, a small wave of loneliness washed over me, and I thought of my Dad on the road for 30 years, often eating alone four nights a week. My occasional solo meal was, by comparison, nothing. Headed back to the college and clocked out. A full day, with angels nearby.

Was up early the next day, out the door for a run along the River Cam, downstream from the colleges. I trotted past a lock on the river, and quickly sized it up, gaining a lesson that will be useful two months’ hence (stay tuned). Back to college, off to breakfast in the 17^th-century dining hall with the senior tutor, Lindsay Greer, and a couple of guys from SAPPI, a South African paper firm, in town to learn about some new papermaking technologies. Ambled to the MacKenzie-Stuart Law Library in the college to do some AA work, then to Starbucks for a Wi-Fi connection and e-mail, then over to the Judge Business School to meet host Simon Bell. It was my fourth visit, and good to be back. We met the new Dean, Arnoud De Meyer, for a quick sandwich and yak, and I spent some of the afternoon chatting one on one with students. Nik, a Polish-speaking Hindu, and Parnell Pang, who grew up in Hong Kong and San Francsico, were that day’s poster children for globalization. Some fascinating stories.

At 5:30, I headed back to college, washed my face, and went out for a walk. I hadn’t been to “The Backs” (the backs of several colleges, along the river) for awhile, and made fast for the Anchor pub. It was a lovely evening, clear and cool, perfect for a half-pint of Timothy Taylor bitter, watching punters on the river hustling the eager tourists and maneuvering the flat-bottom punts (we might borrow their expertise to help us “turn” our aircraft more quickly!).

At seven I met a varied group for dinner at Loch Fyne, a seafood place near the B-school. There were seven students: Evis from Albania; Julia from Russia; Henry from the UK, but the last 15 years in Germany; Kevin from Michigan, moving to Chicago the following month; Igor, a petroleum engineer from the 16^th Arrondisement in Paris; Ivy, from Taiwan; and Nik, the Indian mentioned above, plus Simon. It was a lively dinner, much like the previous three Simon has hosted. Topics ranged widely, including the U.S. Pension Benefit Guaranty Corp., the changing relationship between wireless network providers and handset makers, and the role of cabbage in curing both hangovers and equine foot woes. Fascinating stuff, and a lot of fun. Simon peeled off on his yellow bike to catch the 9:28 train to London (where he lives), and I ambled home.

Up the next day, to Starbucks at seven for e-mail, then breakfast at Sidney Sussex, then to school for a two-hour lecture on advertising, with some very bright students. At 11:35 I walked to the train station, hopped the 12:09 to Stansted Airport, and flew low-cost carrier Germanwings to Cologne, landing at 5:10. Six-year-old Melida was sitting in 3F, directly in front of me, and she was restless. Fingers connected, and we had some fun, a good diversion for two bored travelers. Her American mother and French father live in Cologne, so she speaks three languages. More global people, albeit pint-sized!

Before boarding the train to Koblenz, 80 minutes south, I stopped at a souvenir shop and bought a tiny replacement bottle of 4711, the original men’s cologne (from Cologne, get it?), my favorite. I’ve had a huge bottle at home for more than a decade, and for about an equal amount of time I would fill a tiny 4711 bottle for traveling; a month earlier I dropped it in the bathroom of the Frankfurt Admirals Club, and was sorry, until I remembered that I would be in Cologne in four weeks, and could get a little replacement. Hooray!

On the ride south, I listened to three trumpet works from the 18^th century German composer Johann Fasch. South of Bonn, the former capital, the hills that flank the Rhine began, and castles on top. This is just a wonderful part of Europe. Arrived Koblenz about 7:15 and walked a mile to my hotel, on Jesuitenplatz in the old town. I met my friend Tobias Hundhausen for dinner. I’ve known him since he was an exchange student at SMU five years ago; he’s just completing his Ph.D. at WHU, the business school across the Rhine from Koblenz (and my destination), and works for Lufthansa’s Cargo Division. We ambled a couple of hundred meters to the Altes Brauhaus, a restaurant run by the nearby Königsberger Brewery. Late spring is spargelzeit, the season for white asparagus, so we had some, along with pork schnitzel and a large beer. It was fun to compare notes on the airline business (I don’t think he is a “lifer”!), and other topics. He had just come back from a couple of weeks in southwestern Missouri, where he was a camp counselor when he was a teenager. I said goodbye and left the hotel in search of a Wi-Fi connection (the hotel’s was not working). Found one, and sat on a stone bench in Munzplatz and worked my inbox to zero. Slept hard.

Up at seven, breakfast, and back to the Wi-Fi hotspot, but it was not working. So I wandered nearby streets holding my laptop like a Geiger counter, searching not for a different sort of radiation. Found one, sat down on the steps of a small dress shop, worked my e-mails, and headed out for a couple hours of touring. Down to the confluence of the Mosel and Rhine rivers, the famous Deutsches Eck (German Corner), site of an enormous 1898 statue of Kaiser Wilhelm I on horseback. Big Willy was the guy who unified Germany the first time. I had seen the monument many times, but had never climbed up to the base of the statue; from that vantage, the corner looks like the bow of a ship – very cool. Continued on, into St. Castor’s Church (consecrated 1499, destroyed 1945, rebuilt 1953), with a spectacular Romaneseque ceiling. Wandered a bit more, returned to the hotel, suited up, and caught the #8 bus across the river to Vallendar and WHU – my sixth visit.

At noon I met Sandra Boedeker, a friendly young woman with a nice smile, who helps run the MBA program. Another colleague, Susen, joined us and we headed up the street (Vallendar is a small town; Koblenz a city of perhaps 100,000) to Traube, a very nice restaurant in an old, half-timbered house. We sat outside, and struck up a conversation with the former dean, Prof. Klaus Backhoff, who was a good storyteller. An enjoyable lunch. Headed back to school, set up shop, and met 20 full-time MBA students: 8 Germans, 4 Indians, 3 Chinese, 1 Greek, 1 Mexican, 1 Australian (it was the first time in awhile that there were no Americans). I was not quite sure how to classify Ying Ying Bauer, Chinese, married to a German, except to name her that day’s poster child for globalization!

Two 90 minute lectures with a short break in between, time for a piece of strawberry shortcake. We were supposed to end at 5:30, but the students were peppering me with questions – as they were during both talks. We finally adjourned to a nearby garden for refreshments and more questions. They wanted to know a lot: about September 11, about personal-injury lawsuits, and, ultimately, about politics. It was lively. At about seven, the students left. I helped Sandra put the leftovers in a refrigerator (we agreed that wasting food was a very bad thing; she was surprised that I was willing