Second Quarter Update

Dear Friends,

Eight days into the quarter I took wing, briefly, setting down in San Antonio the morning after the men’s college basketball championship. Droves of fans were flying out. Hopped into a spotless new taxi of Ken Salazar, and immediately started my first TtS episode of the quarter. An interesting small-world yak: he grew up in Richardson, Texas, and lived in the house next door to our former residence, though he moved out six years before we arrived. We covered some distance: public education, winter in the north, the virtues of San Antonio. He dropped me at the south end of King William Street, the axis of a historic neighborhood of fine old stone houses from the 1860s to 1900s.

San Antonio is unlike Dallas and some other Texas cities in that it remembers and honors it past, and does not pull down the wonderful old buildings that convey sense of place. And there’s no better place to savor that sense than along King William. I started at Guenther House.

Carl Guenther emigrated from Germany to Fredricksburg, 70 miles west. Sensing greater opportunity, he moved to San Antonio, and built a house and mill at a bend in the San Antonio River south of the center. He built a millrace, important millstones from France (one of which I saw), and began milling flour in 1860 at what is now the south end of King William Street. So many Germans lived in the area that it became known as Little Rhine, or, more colorfully, Sauerkraut Bend.

Ambling north, folks spoke to me, that Texas friendliness that has made me smile for the two decades I’ve been lucky to live there. One lady, on the phone, greeted me; we exchanged small talk. I complimented her on the neighborhood. “You should buy my house,” she said.

At the north end of the district, I paused on a bench in the front yard of the Italianate style Anton Wulff house (1869-70). It is now home of the San Antonio Conservation Society, established in 1924 “to preserve and to encourage the preservation of historic buildings, objects, places and customs related to the history of Texas, its natural beauty, and all that is admirably distinctive to our state . . .” A noble purpose, to be sure, and one that brought a big smile to this naturalized Texan’s face. I sat and typed some notes. A prosperous-looking man (he looked like a lawyer) said “That’s a very pleasant office.” I agreed, and told him how lucky I was to have it.

I continued the northward wander, into downtown, completely made over for tourism, the economic anchor of modern SA. It was the day after the NCAA men’s basketball championship, and the place was still bustling. I wandered into the Westin, and smiled, thinking of my father; as I have written before, his advice “on the road” was to seek out the clean restrooms in a hotel. I did that, then plopped down in the lobby, turned on my laptop wireless transmitter, and proceeded to work my e-mail for 35 minutes. Were he on the road today, he would have added that amenity to his advice!

At eleven, I walked across downtown and met my host, Beverly Ingle. We hopped in her big Ford pickup and drove a couple miles north to a really cool venue: the renovated former stable of the San Antonio Brewing Association, once makers of Pearl Beer. More evidence that this special place reuses, rather than demolishes, its past. I gave a nice talk to the local ad club. American’s sales manager showed up, and we visited. She gave me a lift to the airport, where we chatted with our general manager. Ellen peeled off, and I sat in Charles’ conference room, working my e-mail. About 3:15 I heard a commotion. A moment later, he came into the room and told me the FAA had just grounded our entire fleet of 300 MD-80s. Bad news, for that species of Silver Bird was to wing me home. I sat and listened to the crisis unfold, then reckoned that the smartest idea was to rent a Hertz compact and drive home.

I was rolling east on I-210 by 4:15, a little cranky at a bunch of things. Hit Austin right at rush hour, edged along, then back at 70 mph north on I-35. It’s an unpleasant drive, but the alternative was more so. I got to Fort Worth by 8:10, and swerved into a Taco Cabana parking lot for a plate of enchiladas; I really wanted a Tecate beer, but still had 15 miles in the rent car and 35 in my own. MacKenzie was waiting for me at 9:30. The walk was therapeutic.

On Wednesday the 16^th I left home at six and drove to Dallas Love Field. I had not been there in years. The pedestrian approach and front lobby were like a European train station, and the place was bustling like a bahnhof. Flew on American Eagle to Austin (back again!), hopped the #100 Airport Flyer bus, 50 cents, and in 20 minutes I’m in front of the pink-granite Texas State History Museum, wander into the lobby, smiling and feeling proud to be a Texan. A bit later my friend John Morton pulls up, and we head to Starbucks for a cup and a catch-up. At 11 I met my usual UT host Wayne Hoyer, and we ambled over for a plate of enchiladas and a good yak. Delivered back-to-back lectures, then headed to Scholz’s Beer Garden, an Austin institution for almost a century and a half. A dozen MBA students joined us for informal banter – the second-year students all had jobs, and good ones: at H.J. Heinz, KPMG, Wal-Mart. We stayed a bit long, and I made my flight with five minutes to spare, a bit too close for comfort.

The following Sunday evening I flew to Little Rock. My hosts told me hotels were full, so I tracked down an agreeable B&B, Robinwood. After a short taxi ride, I innkeeper Karen Ford and her mom Miriam welcomed me to a 1925 Prairie-style house, and up to a big room, nicely fitted. They showed me to a fridge full of soft drinks and beer. Free. Wow. Way better than a hotel. Next morning I had a nice yak with them. Karen was a 26-year Wal-Mart veteran, retired into the hospitality business. Miriam spent 30 years teaching elementary school in North Little Rock. Nice people.

Walked outside to admire the fine old houses in a historic neighborhood, and at 8:15 I met my host, Ashley Wimberley, a friendly young Arkansan. We motored to breakfast with Sam Cooper, the president of the local “ad club.” (formally, chapters of the American Advertising Federation). A local place was closed, so we headed to IHOP (my first time since September 2002, yes I remember). Had a nice time, then motored back downtown, through the redone entertainment quarter, yellow trolleys clanking along, then east to the William Jefferson Clinton Presidential Library, a remarkable structure on the south bank of the Arkansas River. No time for a visit, next trip. Adjacent to the library was the old Rock Island railroad depot, red stone, now the Clinton School of Public Service. Across the street were the headquarters of one of my favorite charities, Heifer Project International, which for 60 years has donated livestock of all kinds, from big cows to tiny honeybees, to the world’s poor (including Americans in Appalachia, remote New England, and elsewhere). It’s a pleasant town, Little Rock.

Ashley’s office was a couple hundred yards from the state capitol, so I ambled up the hill for a look at an imposing 1915 building. Like the visit to Wisconsin’s capital six months earlier, nothing impeded a good look at the seat of government – indeed, the signs on the glass doors of senior-officials’ offices all said “Welcome.” Nice. Had a good look around. And, wandering into the governor’s reception room, I said hello to the new man, Gov. Beebe. I know that the doings of state government are often opaque, but the sense of openness feels good.

At eleven we headed back downtown, to the Little Rock Club, at the top of a high-rise, and I gave a talk to a nice group of folks. Ashley drove me back to the airport, and I flew home.

Repeat. Next afternoon, I flew to Frankfurt. I always try to combine school visits, but when you plan months in advance it doesn’t always work, so this was a one-stop trip, to the University of Bern (Switzerland). We landed Frankfurt 35 minutes late, and because of the hoops involved when you’re flying on an airline pass (gotta enter the country, go to ticket counter, etc.), I missed my connecting flight to Geneva. Briefly, I was out of the travel groove, muttering some bad words to myself as I was stuck in two security-screening queues and a long queue to clear German departure control (immigration). But I got back in the groove, on the noon departure, and was in Switzerland by 1:15, and downtown by 1:35. Since January 1, the Genevans have offered free rides from the airport to the city, via train or city bus. Ya gotta love that!

Bought rail tickets to Bern and Bern-Zurich, and ambled down the hill to the shore of Lake Geneva (locally Lac Leman). I had not visited this compact and very international city for 14 years, though little had changed. Every other retailer on the street seemed to be selling watches or Swiss army knives, or both. Along the quay, the private bankers held forth. (I admire the Swiss, but am a bit cynical about those institutions; one could only imagine the shenanigans that preceded many deposits.) Stopped at my favorite-since-1972 Swiss supermarket Migros, and bought a $3.60 tuna sandwich and a couple of small apple-mango yogurts, and ambled back to the train station.

Caught the 2:45 train east along the north shore of the lake, past orderly villages and farms. Spring was in full bloom: leaves sprouting from the grape vines, apple blossoms, the rapeseed fields beginning to become yellow. Across the lake, the French Alps were visible, lots of snow still on the tops. The train filled; you may recall from an earlier update that the Swiss Federal Railways operate one of the densest and most used networks in the world. Everyone rides.

Just east of Lausanne, we left the lake and began to climb, over a low pass to Fribourg, a provincial city. East of there, we crossed one of Switzerland’s linguistic divides, the street and business signs shifting from French to German. I left the train at Bern, and walked in light rain across the Aare River to my hotel, a flashy new place attached to a casino. Laced up and did 20 minutes on an exercise bike, showered, and headed to dinner at the bottom of the Altstadt, the old city that lies inside a U of the Aare. The bears, from which the city takes its name, were sleeping in their pit. A sign nearby announced that they soon would have a much larger new home, with space to wander free.

I headed into the Altes Tramdepot, a microbrewery and restaurant in, duh, the old streetcar barn, and ordered a Weizen. It was fresh: the brew kettles were 15 feet from my bar stool! Jack actually beat me to this place, visiting in 2004 or 2005, and recommended it. Inside, there were lots of Swiss Army guys – maybe the bar is close to the Swiss Pentagon! Whew, beer and food were seriously expensive, now that the franc is at par with the dollar (on my first trip here, in 1972, it was four to the dollar). After a mug at the bar, I sat down with strangers, in the European style, ordered a salad, brats, and another beer. I was full, and so tired I worried about tipping over on the mile walk home. I made it, and slept hard, nine hours, with the balcony door open.

Thursday morning, I ambled back to the train station, up some stairs, and to the original main building (1824) of the University of Bern. I skipped the $25 hotel breakfast (it’s usually included in European hotels, but not there). The cafeteria in the basement was not open, so I ambled off campus to a classic European neighborhood place, Cafe Parterre, on the corner. Cappuccino and chocolate-filled pastry, 7.00. Back to the classroom, where the coin-op second cup of joe was a bargain at $1.70.

Just before eight I met Bettina, a Ph.D. student who made arrangements, then my host Harley Krohmer, a good guy. He apologized for not taking me to dinner. He was busy with family stuff (he has a two-year-old, Sophia), and I completely understood. This was a true “parachute lecture”; I prefer more interaction, but sometimes it’s not possible. Harley reminded me that Swiss students can be shy, but I managed to prompt some dialogue, and a few laughs, and loud applause at the end. Harley dashed off, Bettina handed me a C-note (100 Swiss Francs = $100), and wished me a good lunch, and that was my second visit to UniBern.

At 10:30, my work done for the day, I ambled back to the hotel and scrubbed plan A, which was a day trip to Lucerne, an hour away. Plan B had been brewing since I arrived and saw the Hotel Allegro's fleet of bikes. I changed clothes, got one – and a blue helmet – and was off. Destination? Interlaken, 37 miles southeast. I had a vague idea how to get there, which in Europe is all you need – clear and abundant signs take care of the rest.

I coasted downhill, on the sloping Kornhaus bridge, and into downtown Bern. Traffic was easy, and respectful of cyclists. A positive early sign. I pointed the two-wheeler southeast and found Thunstrasse, a good start, for the town of Thun was the first waypoint, 18 miles southeast. Two young Swiss soldiers were standing guard in a driveway. I waved as I went past, then stopped and turned around. Time for Talking to Strangers:

Me: Do you speak English?

Soldier 1: A little

Soldier 2: Really well. I was born in California.

Me: Is it okay if I take your picture? I will understand if not.

[The soldiers converse in German; there’s some hesitation]

S2: Okay, but no building in the background.

Me: Of course.

Camera: Beep

Me: See, one of the reasons I wanted to take the picture is that I really admire the Swiss system of mandatory service.

S1 and S2 smile.

Me: In the U.S., the volunteer Army has meant that we’ve assigned defense to the poor and working class, and that’s wrong. When my Dad served in World War II, he served with everyone. I doubt we’d be in Iraq right now if we had universal service.

S2: Yeah, it would be different if the politicians’ kids had to fight.

Me: Gotta go. Thanks and auf wiedersehen.

I rode on, and the town began to disappear, yielding to pleasant countryside. About 30 minutes in, the first smell of fresh cow manure. I actually like the smell, it’s genuine, and it reminds me of roots, to back when I spent a week each summer working on the Kellys’ dairy farm in Wisconsin. I didn’t notice any cows with bells, but almost all the sheep I passed were clanging along in the lush spring pasture. I made it to Thun by 12:45, parked the bike at Migros, bought lunch fixings, and pressed on. Whoops, wrong turn, and soon I was grinding up a 600-foot hill, on a series of switchbacks – the “Panorama Route” meant up! After a bit of work, I was in the forest, cool and green, with signs of logging, then whizzing downward at a good clip. The snow-clad peaks of the Bernese Oberland peeked in and out of cloud. – these were mountains I knew from skiing there for a week in the winter of 1976.

The Transport Geek found the perfect venue for lunch: the train station at the hamlet of Lattigen bei Spiez. Plus the shade under the platform roof was nice – I didn’t have sunscreen, and could feel my increasingly large forehead toasting. Riding on, I snapped a picture of a sturdy-looking woodsman making simple fenceposts – a key job in a nation of pastures. I rolled into Spiez, a pleasant resort town above Lake Thun. Stopped at another Migros and found the only cheap thing in Switzerland: 1.5 liters of their store-brand fizzwater cost 30 cents. Back onto Highway 6, the yellow stripe separating cyclists and motor traffic. The ride thus far was on a combination of paths – the highway, separate bikeways, and combined walking and biking paths, unpaved in a few places.

The most common activity of homeowners I saw was serious spring gardening. The Swiss love their land, collective and individual, and folks were raking yards, tilling gardens, planting flowers. The farm folk lived in combination structures, house and barn under a single roof. Cozy. Past Spiez, the views of the lake were splendid. At this point, I was going downhill a lot, and it seemed like I was getting a free ride. Down, down, and I was right along the lake for several lovely miles. The landscape had changed from farming to tourism, but at an agreeable small scale, in little villages like Faulensee and Därligen. The approach to Interlaken (between Lake Thun and Lake Brienz) was pleasant, but the town was seriously touristy. I thought “Wisconsin Dells with cuckoo clocks.” I had planned to celebrate my arrival with a beer on a terrace, but made fast for the Interlaken East train station, bought a ticket for me and one for the bike, and was outta there.

Back in Bern in under an hour, ride from train station to hotel, and entered the lobby triumphantly. The friendly young woman who set me up five hours earlier was amazed when I told her where I went. It was a lovely day, a perfect adventure. There’s no better way to really get to know a place than on a bicycle.

Took a quick nap and a shower, headed down to the hotel bar to trade a drink chit for a glass of local Gurten beer, and headed into town to find dinner. It was a nice spring evening, and the city was full of people, some headed to the theater, some coming from an event of some sort, some headed to shops open on Thursday evening.

After checking a few menus, I settled into a nice table at the Restaurant Krone, and enjoyed salad, several kinds of grilled fish on bed of fresh asparagus with hollandaise sauce, and weissbier from Kloster Andechs in Bavaria, brewing since 1455. Bern is small enough that entering diners knew folks at next table next to mine, and stopped to visit. It made me smile.

Wandered back, called home, clocked out. Up at 5:30 on Friday, check e-mail, find out that my flight from Zurich to New York was going to be 2.5 hours late (as I wrote in the last update, sadly, the nonstop DFW flight, which we flew for many years, started losing lots of money). Got the train direct from Bern to Zurich airport, checked in, and headed to the lounge. Did a ton of work, climbed onto a 767, and flew to Kennedy. Got through Customs, only to find another delay, in my flight home to Texas. It was leaving at 8:30, so I headed over to LaGuardia, eschewing a $35 taxi for a $7 ride on public transport – the AirTrain, subway, and Q33 bus, a little slice of New York. Hopped on the 6:20 flight. We took off, and flew an odd pattern. Something seemed amiss. Sure enough, we had some mechanical problem which they fixed in flight, but we had to stop in Nashville for gas. Arrived DFW at 11:30, home to see MacKenzie leaping with joy at the back door. Woof!

On the last day of April, I flew north to Chicago, then north almost to the pole, left turn, and 14 hours later landed in Shanghai. Barbie Yu, a kind AA person met me (“because you are a VIP,” she said), and walked me through immigration and customs. Stopped for cash, and we continued to the Hainan Airlines ticket counter to check in for a flight to Xi’an, 1100 miles west (I was lecturing back in Shanghai in a few days). The flight was not for three hours, and she was told to stay with me, but I sent her back, insisting I could check in myself! Along the way, we visited a bit; she was excited because she just learned to drive.

I quickly saw that a seat at a domestic airport, or on an intra-China flight, was a wonderful window on the emerging middle class. What TtS moments I could have if I only spoke Mandarin! The flight to Xi’an was routine, with little trays of beef and noodles and some other delights, plus a free warm beer. We landed about nine, zipped out to the airport bus, and rolled into town. It was a long way. We arrived smack in the middle of May Day (like Labor Day) festivities, and downtown traffic was impassable. At the bus stop, right on the main drag, a taxi driver approached me, proposing to charge 30 yuan, then 50, to drive me to my hotel. “No meter,” he said. It sounded like a fleecing, but I was tired. Once we got off West Road the ride was short, zooming down a narrow street with lots of little snack bars, and members of the Hui minority, who are Muslims – Xi’an was the eastern end of the Silk Road, and thus a mixing place for centuries. The hotel, which I booked online two days earlier, had no record of my booking and was full, but a kind young guy walked me a block to a large tourist hotel, the New World Grand. Fifty-one dollars a night buys a pretty nice place, and I finally was able to take a shower.

Slept hard for four hours, then up for two, sort of half-asleep, then just up, working my e-mail, and reading the Wikipedia article on Xi’an, which was useful. More than eight million people live there; it was for many dynasties the capital of China; today it’s a center of high-tech, R&D, and China’s space program.

I normally don’t eat hotel buffet breakfasts, but this one was a bargain at the equivalent of $7.50, allowing a feed that would last all day. Fortified, I hopped in a cab and headed to the bus station, then quickly onto Route 306, which rolled northeast to the reason most tourists visit the place – the thousands of terracotta (clay) warriors unearthed in the late 1970s at a place called Bingmayong. Plenty of folks stared at the foreigner, but I smiled. It took awhile to get there. It was a smoggy day; perhaps every day is that way, and already warm. We rolled past Xi’an Polytechnic University and the Xi’an University of Science and Technology, evidence of the commitment to technical advancement.

I was glad I got to Bingmayong early – the crowds were already massing, but the three earthen pits that hold the statues were big enough to allow a good look without bumping into others. Here’s the story: in about 200 BC, Emperor Qin Shi Huang commissioned the thousands of clay fighters, horses, bronze weapons, and other stuff to secure his empire in the afterlife. The statue bodies were mass produced, but the heads were individually rendered, and reflected the enormous cultural diversity of the empire. The statues were originally painted in bright colors, but most of that is gone. Pit 1 is the biggest and most reconstructed, and holds 6000 soldiers in 11 passageways, stretching 600 feet. It was eye-popping.

I drank a Coke and walked back to the bus stop. As you know, the Chinese have fully embraced commerce, and the return route handily led passed a sort of strip mall, with hawkers of all kids. It was a good time to avoid eye contact. Hopped the 306 bus, and in an hour was back in central Xi’an. Rather than a taxi, I walked back across town to get a feel for the place. It was Friday, and a holiday for many workers. Xi’an was clearly more country and provincial than Shanghai – the new buildings were plainer, there were fewer name-brand stores, and one still saw handcarts and rickshaws. Further on, a seamstress plied her trade right on the street. The knockoff retail culture was in high bloom; I spotted an Amarni emporium, taking off on the Italian designer right down to the stylized black eagle. Then there were the Chinglish signs, like “discover the life having style.” Say what?

Took a nap for a couple hours, which was really good, then got back into touring mode, riding south across town to the Great Goose Pagoda and Da Ci’en Si temple, two Buddhist structures and grounds from the 7^th Century. Pretty cool stuff. Climbed 300 feet to the top of the pagoda to admire the view, then down to wander the grounds. I finally got the answer to why temple (and other buildings’) roof-corner ridgelines carry a series of metal critters – it turns out they are the children of the larger dragon one sees closer in on the ridgeline. Cool!

North of the temple complex was a large, new park, nicely done, with bronze statues depicting past heroes and mythical figures, like Gongsun, a female sword dancer. Folks, and especially their kids, posed for pictures next to the life-size statues. I hopped in a cab back to the hotel, and it already had passengers in the back. They got out, paid, and the driver turned off the meter. More tricks, I thought. At the hotel, I gave the driver the same amount as I paid to get to the pagoda, and he was cranky, but I told the bellman what happened, and he started yelling at the driver. Like most places, not running the meter is illegal.

I washed my face, rested a bit, and headed back out for an early dinner, to De Fa Chang, which I found in Frommer’s online guide to the city. Dumplings are a Xi’an specialty, and this place was said to raise them to high art. It did not disappoint. Bustling would be a good word. I sat at a table with a handful of young Chinese guys, and we worked through a little sign language and their few words of English. They wanted to have their pictures taken with me, and I happily obliged, between bites of dumplings, plus a couple of interesting side dishes – one of kidney beans, walnuts, and celery, the other a sort of watercress. Really good. A bus boy practiced a little English with me, noting that I was left-handed. It was all cheerful, and very local. De Fa Chang was a long way from P.F. Chang’s. Outside, a neon sign declared that it was “a time-hongored [sic] brand since 1936.”

Although I still woke up in the middle of the night and thrashed for a couple of hours, I got seven hours, and felt better. The hotel dining room was full of an American tour group, collectively whining about various things (why do they leave home, I wondered). I was soon out the door, into high wind, lots of dust, and then big splotches of rain. I headed to the Muslim Quarter. The mosque was closed, and I walked some really old streets into the middle of town. The McDonald’s that I dismissed the night before looked like a really good place for a cup of brewed coffee (the hotel used instant), and I sit in the big picture window and watched the Saturday-morning scene unfold. The rain stopped, and I pressed on to my intended destination – the main south gate of the ancient wall that was built in Ming times to completely enclose the city. Although it was still windy, when I got to the wide (perhaps 50 feet) top of the wall, I could not resist renting a bike. The original plan was to ride the whole way around, almost nine miles. Maybe I could just do a little, and off I went, westward, bucking a stiff wind. Workers smiled and yelled encouragement. So I did the whole thing, in 50 minutes. I saw no other cyclists, save for a couple of wheezing backpackers at the very end, close to the rental center.

The young woman who rented the bike was amazed. She didn’t understand me when I said, boasting a bit, that I am to bicycling grandfathers what Yao Ming is to NBA basketball! Maybe the coolest fact I learned on the ride was that the sentry outposts were spaced every 120 meters, because the maximum range of an arrow fired from a guard’s crossbow was 60. Cool!

I rode a taxi back to the Muslim Quarter, and walked the rest of the way to the hotel through an urban landscape that looked unchanged for more than 50 years. Small shops were selling all manner of food. There were sides of beef and lamb, grains and legumes, eggs and chickens, cooking oil, spices, and lots and lots of people selling prepared foods – steamed buns, falafel, etc. Fascinating.

I showered, hopped the bus to the airport (enroute to the bus stop, once again a taxi driver tried to hustle me, in this case suggesting I ride his cab all the way out), and flew back to Shanghai. Landed at 5:20 and was due at a party and dinner sponsored by the University of Southern California – my hosts for this trip. This was my fourth time teaching in their executive MBA program that is a joint venture with the local Shanghai Jiao Tong University. I claimed my suitcase, made fast for a men’s room, and changed into a suit, with white shirt and striped tie in USC cardinal and gold. Ready to work the crowd! Hopped on the speedy Maglev train and the Shanghai Metro, and in 35 minutes was downtown. This was a way different place from Xi’an, much more sophisticated and modern – you didn’t see young women in calf-length, powder-blue canvas sneakers in Xi’an! A few minutes later, was in the ballroom foyer of the Royal Meridian Hotel, beer in hand, meeting new people. The evening was fun, but a bit long, and the bed was welcome.

Slept all the way through the third night in China, up at 7:30, breakfast with my host, marketing prof. Joe Nunes, then out the door for a brisk walk and a ride on the Metro to the brand-new Shanghai South Railway Station, a truly impressive facility, the nicest, most spacious depot I have ever seen, anywhere in the world. It was crowded with people returning home after the Labor Day weekend. Headed back in light rain, past the people selling eels and live fish, the U.S.-style convenience stores, the whole mix of old and new. Global brands are highly visible here – from the Metro I spotted a huge billboard for Hansgrohe (German) faucets, then an enormous (aren’t they all? IKEA store.

I suited up, and Joe and I went to meet the students for lunch at the Golden Anchor, a familiar restaurant close to the Jiao Tong business school. As in past years, we had a lively lunch discussion, especially with a young American to my left, who had grown up in China (his parents, who were education experts, were invited in the first wave of normalization in the late 1970s). He went back to high school and college in the U.S., but moved to China in 1994, married a local woman, and is quite settled. I delivered a lecture, then fielded some very lively questions, and was done just after three. It’s a long ride for a single lecture, but I really enjoy the experience – of all the schools I visit, it is one of the most global experiences.

At four we listened to Mu Yao Zhou, the former Vice Mayor of Shanghai, an interesting guy who told us that last year the city’s GDP grew 13.5%. Whew. Someone asked about the biggest challenges facing the city, and he said #1 was managing rising expectations, ahead of #2, the environment. Interesting. At five there was a reception, though he did not attend. At seven we headed out for dinner at a Mediterranean place in a lovely old house; I would have preferred local food, but we had a good meal, capped with a really yummy mango soufflé. Slept hard.

Up at 6, then 20 minutes on an exercise bike, and a nice walk around the block. The rain had cleaned the air, and it was a cool morning. The old folks in the neighborhood were doing their t’ai chi and stretching exercises, schoolkids with red neckerchiefs (Chairman Mao would be so happy; the East is still red!) were walking to work, and folks were chatting on the street. Early morning is a great time to observe this vast place.

Wandered the city by Metro and foot, no new places, then back to the hotel, shower, dress, and out to the airport for the long march home. A swell time in Cathay. I walked in the front door, to a jumping MacKenzie, after ten PM.

On Saturday the 10^th we built a wheelchair ramp for Hazel, a young black mother who clearly was very sick. Her two smiling kids watched a small group of Lutherans find a way to help their mom get out of the house. It was an early Mother’s Day gift. And that’s why we build them. Got home at two, kissed Robin’s and Jack’s mother (a superb parent, for sure), ate an enchilada, packed a bag, showered, drove to DFW, and flew to London. Trip 129 to Europe. Nine hours later, we landed at Heathrow, not Gatwick. Weird. On the way in, a sign of the changing European landscape: huge fields of yellow canola (rapeseed), the raw material for biodiesel – one wonders what was previously planted.

Hopped the train and tube over to Kings Cross station, bought a ticket to my real destination, Cambridge (up for the twice-yearly lectures), and walked a mile south to meet friend and former AA marketing whiz Athar Khan, who now works for a company that operates pilot-training centers. Athar got stuck in traffic and was a bit late, but we quickly found an agreeable small Indian restaurant on Gray’s Inn Road and tucked into a tandoori lunch and a chance to catch up on things.

He dropped me back at Kings Cross and I caught the 2:15 express to Cambridge, the city bus into town (like many high-amenity cities, the town burgers of the 19^th century did not allow the railway into the center), and a short walk to my Cambridge “home,” Sidney Sussex College, founded 1596. I love the place. In addition to teaching in the university’s Judge Business School, I had long wanted to do some seminars at the college, and that day was my chance.

My assigned guest room was spacious and nice, but had no shower, so a quick bath got me in shape for my “A Yank Looks at the Upcoming Presidential Election” session. My host was Sidney’s Senior Tutor, Rev. Keith Straughan, a great fellow. Six students and the chaplain, Rev. Peter Waddell, showed up and we had a great yak. A couple of the kids were very well-informed, none more than Angela, a black woman. Turns out she was Kenyan, third-year medicine student, and from the same people of western Kenya as Senator Obama. Whoa!

After the session, it was time for chapel, Choral Evensong. It was Pentecost Sunday, and the guest preacher, Prof. Rosamunde McKitterick, was arrayed in scarlet gown. The choir, though small, was very powerful, and the service was truly wonderful. Afterward a glass of sherry and a short visit with the college’s fellow in clinical medicine, Dr. Paul Flynn, then to dinner. I had not dined at high table in the Hall since my first visit nearly three years earlier. I was the only diner without gown (should I buy one?), but we processed in, a bell was rung, and Keith uttered the compact, two-word grace, Benedictus benedicat (“May the blessed one give a blessing.”).

My tablemate David, was an agreeable older fellow holding the title of “fellow commoner” at Sidney; he was at the college in the early 1960s, a math major, and now retired after a career as an actuary. We enjoyed a really nice dinner, then seven of us repaired to the Knox-Shaw Room for cheese, fruit, and port. Old school, and a great deal of fun. Just past nine, we parted, I called home to wish Linda a happy Mother’s Day, and fell fast asleep. A long, great day.

Up at seven the next morning, back to high table for a “proper” English breakfast – eggs, sausages, beans. Then over to Starbucks on Market Street to work e-mail on a Wi-Fi connection, then to Judge Business School (where there was a faster Wi-Fi link). Worked a bit, surfed a bit, ate a small lunch, and at 2:30 delivered a lecture on advertising to M.Phil. students – a different kind of degree, not the MBA, open to people immediately after their baccalaureate. So it was a younger group, still quite diverse, but not as experienced as the MBAs. And I had a new host, Omar Merlo (my Aussie mate Simon Bell is returning to Australia, to chair the Marketing Department at the University of Melbourne). Despite the name, Omar is Swiss, but schooled in Australia. A nice fellow. Walked back to college and took a short nap, then ambled around town, stopping to admire the Grand Arcade, a downtown shopping mall that took a long time to complete; it was impressive, and I suspected that the town burgers demanded something well designed and solidly built.

Just before six I headed into the Eagle pub on Bene’t Street for an obligatory visit. Enjoyed a half-pint of Abbott ale, and wandered south to meet Omar, Jan Heide (from the University of Wisconsin, discussed in the 4^th Quarter 2007 update), and a MBA student who I met on my last visit, Gary Yamada, a graduate of the Cornell Hotel School. Happily, we repaired to my favorite Cambridge restaurant, Loch Fyne, for wonderful seafood. I had a half-dozen plump Scottish oysters, grilled scallops (also from Scotland), and a gooey sticky pudding. Yum. Omar and Jan were heading for beer, but I went back to get my laptop to work e-mail, but I could not find a Wi-Fi connection, so I clocked out fairly early. Slept hard for four hours, and was up for good. That was okay, because I needed to be at the train station for a 5:45 express back to London. And I noticed that my digital watch, which doubles as my alarm clock, stopped working (dead battery); I had set my PDA alarm as a backup.

Got back to the big city, took the Tube to Paddington and the Heathrow Express back to the airport, and flew Lufthansa to Hamburg. I had never been to Germany’s second-largest city, and was excited to be there. The clear weather followed me, and it was simply gorgeous. Bought a day ticket on the HVV, the local transit system, and hopped on a bus. The first impression was excellent and welcoming – a very leafy, comfortable, and clearly well-planned place. Took a U-Bahn, originally called the Hochbahn, because it is elevated in many parts of the city, then an S-Bahn train, and was at the Zleep Hotel, part of a small Danish chain, by about one. I booked the Zleep online for €56, about 80 bucks, which is really cheap for big-city Europe. I did some Zleep research – I didn’t expect much, and I got a bit more – a clean, sparsely-furnished room, very helpful staff, and a free big breakfast the next morning. Changed clothes, got a map, and was out the door.

First stop was the pier on the Elbe River where the tourist boats depart. This is one of Germany’s big rivers, and I last saw it well upstream, in Lutherstadt-Wittenberg in 1999. In Hamburg it is tidal, and the harbor was teeming with traffic – oil tankers, container ships from China, barges, even a Royal Caribbean cruise ship. Hamburg has traded for centuries; it was a member of the Hanseatic League, a collection of cities stretching from Amsterdam and Bergen (Norway) in the west to Tallinn, Estonia, in the east, that understood the power of trade as early as the 12^th Century. Hamburg and Bremen have been for several hundred years Germany’s largest ports; indeed, both are city-states under the 1948 German constitution. The sense of wealth and purpose clearly remain.

Ate a plate of grilled fish and white asparagus, and hopped on a boat. Not a tourist boat, but HVV route 62 – a floating bus – that cruised about five miles downstream to Finkenwerder and back, stopping every ten minutes or so. It was way fun, and a great introduction to the longtime engine of the local economy. We passed shipyards and cranes, the historic Fischmarkt in the Altona district, wonderful old brick warehouses converted to condos, and some very sleek new glass and steel apartments. This was a cool place.

Hopped the train and headed into the center, to the town hall, the massive Rathaus constructed in 1897 on a very ornate older design. An eye-popping place. From there, I headed to Main Church of St. Peter, the largest Lutheran church in the city. Built on foundations of a church from 1195, the neo-Gothic building that now stands only dates to 1849. The tower in the pointy spire was open, and up I went, over 400 feet, for swell panoramas of the city. The left church door has a bronze lion that is said to be the oldest art object in Hamburg. I then walked west to the St. Nicholas Church, a memorial; the church was bombed in 1943 and not rebuilt. Inside the walls were plaques and commemorations, and a touching bronze sculpture called The Ordeal, depicting a Holocaust survivor sitting on a pile of actual brick rubble, hands on face. I then headed to St. Michael’s, the best baroque church in North Germany. Disappointing that photography was not allowed. I was worn out, so headed back for a welcome nap

I was back out about six, down into the Altstadt, the old city down by the water. You didn’t have to look hard to evidence of Hamburg’s long tie to the water – for example, I passed a store with a sign that read “Hamburger Tauwerk-fabrik / Johannes Stopschinski Jr. It was a store entirely devoted to ropes, an essential for sailors, especially those that needed the wind to get to America, Africa, or Asia. I walked inside and asked permission to take photos, explaining to the man at the counter that his was a signal Hamburg establishment. He seemed surprised that I “got it.”

Closer to the harbor, the red-brick warehouses from the 19^th and early 20^th centuries were way cool; many were along canals. And behind them, right on the harbor, were dozens of building cranes – Hamburg is redeveloping the water front with more housing, a new university, and a concert hall. Time for a beer! I headed into a microbrewery called Gröningen in the cellar of a wonderful Baroque building (1762). Then a few blocks west to Deichstrasse, a historic sailors’ and shippers’ street, and into the Deichgraf restaurant for the second fish meal of the day, a herring tartare appetizer and a plate of grilled plaice, a small (and somewhat bony) fish served with lots of chopped bacon (the Germans do like their pork, and so do I). Yum! I was full.

After dinner, I ambled around the old town a bit more, then took the (elevated) U-Bahn west, right along the north bank of the Elbe into the comfy neighborhoods I saw earlier in the day, then to St. Pauli, on the west end of the Reeperbahn, Hamburg’s sin district, a place that has catered to sailors, voyeurs, and others for a long time. There were strip shows, dirty-movie dens, casinos, and bars. But there was also Akan, a little-of-everything store run by Arabs. A friendly guy found a watch battery for me, installed it, and still only charged the equivalent of $4.50. Amazing! Slept really hard, catching up on deficits.

Next morning, I was up early, breakfast, stored my luggage, and headed out the door. Bought another HVV day ticket, and rode back to snap pictures of town hall in better light. Then I headed out into a couple of inner-city neighborhoods to get a sense of ordinary landscapes. The housing stock is solid and attractive, and the dominant type I saw were walk-up apartments, usually four to six stories, in buildings that were 80 to 100 years old. Really nice stuff. Clearly a place with high quality of life, and cleaner and more orderly than Berlin, the last big German city I saw. Ambled through the university, hopped a bus for a mile or two, and wandered a bit more in the center.

At ten, I joined a tour of the town hall, in German (I didn’t want to wait for the English version at 11:15). The place was even more impressive inside, with ornate chambers of the lower and upper house (remember, it’s a city, but also a state). Lots of gilt, amazing carved wood (for example, the railings in the gallery of the lower house chamber resembled ships’ hulls, with portholes), seriously fancy wall coverings, and remarkable light fixtures.

After the tour, I wandered back toward the port, back to Deichstrasse, then onto the Hochbahn for another quick look at neighborhoods. At 12:30 I was back at the hotel, grabbed my suitcase and backpack, and headed to the main train station. Worked my e-mail, had a sandwich, and hopped on the 1:46 train south, headed to teach at WHU, the private business school in Koblenz, 60 miles west-northwest of Frankfurt.

The train was one of the newest and very comfy intercity expresses, the so-called ICE3, and was packed. We rolled south across the fertile North German Plain, past farms and towns, through Bremen and Münster (where I teach, but late in the year), then into the industrial Ruhr region, past the enormous cathedral at Cologne, the old postwar capital at Bonn, then to Koblenz.

Hopped a cab to the Alstadt and the Hotel Lorenz on Jesuitenplatz. At 7:15, met Sandra Boedeker and Susen Schilo, two of my hosts at WHU, the private German B-school where I was lecturing the next day. We walked a few blocks east to the Rhine. It was great to be in that part of Germany again, so scenic, the river beneath bluffs and old castles. Dinner was at Pegelhaus, a restaurant in the building that once housed the people who kept records of river flow and flooding; on the side of the building were various high-water marks. Another fish dinner and some beer and good chatter, then across the old town for an ice cream.

Sandra arrived on her bike the next morning at 8:50, and handed it to me. Awesome! A bike ride! I headed down to the Deutsches Eck, the German Corner, where the Mosel River meets the Rhine – I wondered whether to head south, down the Rhine, or west, up the Mosel. I chose the latter, and soon was pedaling hard on an older racing bike; I was not ungrateful, but the brakes and gears reminded me of progress in bike technology since the 1980s. The distance signs said Kobern-Gondorf was 20 kilometers (12 miles), and though I needed to be back before 11, I committed to making it. The combined bike and footpath was welcome, but on the south bank it petered out a bit out of town, and I was on the shoulder of a fairly busy highway. But the day was fine, and the scene of bluffs and steeply terraced vineyards superb. Workers were tending the vines, pruning and spraying. On the river were barges and river-cruise ships.

I paused to chat with a serious bike tourer from Berlin, on his way back from Paris. Whoa! He asked me to snap his picture, I obliged, and pedaled on. And soon was a sign for my destination, after only about 45 minutes. Wowie! I crossed a bridge and soon was on a better path – a narrow road only for walkers, bikers, and the vineyards. That was really nice. Passed through Winningen, an attractive village; a tourist boat must have docked, because the narrow streets were awash with visitors. Pressed on, greeting walkers and bikers along the way. I was back by 10:45, wearing a big smile after 25 miles.

I showered, dressed up, and caught the #8 bus across the river to the WHU campus in the small village of Vallendar. Met another host, Heidi Hoffmann, who introduced me to my lunch partner, Bernadette Conraths, head of executive education and a really interesting woman. She had a varied background. This was her second stint at WHU, and she had also worked as a tour guide in Sicily, as a journalist, and with the European Foundation for Management Development in Brussels. Really enjoyed the lunch, a salad with salmon and fresh white asparagus, a spring tradition all across Germany. We were at Die Traube, a cozy, half-timbered place. Bernadette suggested a glass of wine with lunch, first time before a lecture. “When in Rome,” I thought!

I started two back to back lectures at 2 and ended about 4:40, with a short break. There were 20 students, a bit more than half were German, the rest from India, Argentina, the U.S., and elsewhere. A good group. We then repaired to the hall for cake and coffee (juice for me) and informal chatter. Some nice kids.

Susen and Sandra dropped me at the hotel at six, I worked a bit of e-mail, then headed out for a beer and dinner, back to the Altes Brauhaus, where I had dined the year before. In the interim, the German smoking ban had taken effect, hooray. I ordered a beer, sat on a stool, and surveyed the scene – barmaids joshing with regulars, a man with a dachshund at his feet, a large group of rowdy youngsters in the corner. It was really friendly, and ripe for TtS, but I kept to myself, enjoying the scene. The stool and vista were comfy, so I ordered dinner there, an enormous plate of pork schnitzel, asparagus, and potatoes. Huge. Burp!

Though it was raining lightly, I needed a walk, and headed east to the Rhine, then to the Deutsches Eck, then up the Mosel and back to my hotel. Did a bit more work and clocked out. Up early the next morning, quick breakfast and onto the 7:48 train up the Rhine valley to Mainz, then across to Frankfurt Airport and home. Headed to the office, then returned to DFW early that evening, Friday the 16^th, to pick up Robin and Dylan Caroline, coming to attend Jack’s graduation the next day (he has earned a Master’s in Accounting). It was great to see them.

Four days later, on Tuesday the 20^th, I flew south to Houston Hobby Airport at the end of the afternoon, hopped in a cab, and headed toward the suburban Galleria and my hotel. I was there to speak to the Houston Ad Club the next day. At 7:15, I met my host, Allison Bond, and we zipped off to dinner at a wonderful place called Benji’s, not far from Rice University. The Houston urban landscape is fascinating, largely because there are no zoning ordinances, which produces some interesting mixtures and hodgepodge. We yakked along the way. Dinner was wonderful, both the meal and the company.

Was up at six the next morning and onto an exercise bike, then met former neighbor Phil Conway for breakfast at the hotel. Phil is now a honcho with JPMorgan Chase. We caught up on family, jobs, and such. At 11, another ad club host, Paola Furber (her business card listed her title as “Marketing Guru”), picked me up and drove me to the speech venue, the Junior League of Houston. If you know that organization, you just know that the building was really nice, and the meal wonderful. It was a big group, more than 100, attentive and welcoming. After the talk, I quickly ate my entrée, then hopped in AA sales manager Karen Hooper’s gleaming white Porsche (“My husband is in the energy business” were her first words after she pointed to her ride), and we motored the long way north to Intercontinental Airport. I had forgotten how far it was, but we had a good yak about our goofy business. Flew home.

Rinse, repeat. I was at the airport at 9:30 the next morning, and winged north to Minneapolis, to deliver a paper at a marketing conference at the U of M’s Carlson School of Management. We landed at 12:25, I didn’t have to be there until a reception at 5 (good timing!), so I decided to fly up a little early and poke around a downtown I knew very well from the 1960s through the ‘80s. Hopped on a train into the city; it dropped me a block from my hotel, the new Graves 601. From its website it looked pretty hip, and I’m suspect of those places. My suspicions proved correct right from entry: the check-in desk was nowhere to be seen. The concierge stand was there, but unattended. I ambled down a couple of empty halls, concluding that it must be upstairs. Up the elevator to four, and suggested to the unfriendly young man that a sign in the lobby would be helpful. He shrugged. Up to room 716, me thinking “I’m not hip enough to stay in this place.” Changed clothes, worked my e-mail for free at the Starbucks nearby, then out on foot to have a look.

First stop was the new Minneapolis Public Library. About the time I became a library user, in 1961, they opened a new central library, and back then it was a marvel – I loved going there s a kid. But the city outgrew it, and the new building, on the same site but much larger, was a gem. Designed by superstar Cesar Pelli (the guy that did the new terminal at Washington National Airport), it was both attractive and functional. A window case in the lobby caught my eye – rather, the Twister game “board” did, and I walked over; a panel inside told me that as part of Minnesota’s sesquicentennial the library was hosting an exhibit on Minnesota innovation. Whoa! As a believer in the brain power that has flowed in my native state, I immediately zipped up to the second floor and the Cargill Room.

What a treat. Here’s a partial list of what I saw (and photographed):

Water skis

Rollerblades

The Tilt-a-Whirl amusement ride (1926)

The “black box” flight recorder, invented by James “Crash” Ryan (I am not fabricating

his nickname!)

The aircraft autopilot (Honeywell, 1941, and just in time)

The heart pacemaker

Scotch tape

Post-it notes

Spam (the food, not the other)

Cheerios

The wire-and-paper twist-tie

The shopping bag with paper handles

I left with a big smile, proud of Minnesota.

Ambled along, admiring buildings new and old. And lots of recycling: the old Farmers and Mechanics Bank was now a Westin Hotel. Stopped to see my friend and Federal judge Mike Davis, but he had the day off. Continued south to the Minneapolis Grain Exchange. In all my years there, I had never seen the trading floor. Up I went to the 4^th floor. The floor was closed, but I admired the ornate décor, and asked a fellow with a blue trading smock and a large number badge what they still traded – just spring wheat, the stuff that helped make Minneapolis just after statehood. Cool.

Walked around a bit more, headed back to the hotel, suited up, and hopped the train to the West Bank of my alma mater. It was almost exactly 30 years ago that I earned my Ph.D. I was happy to be there, smiling, thinking back to all that “the U” gave me. Simply: like what I wrote about Wharton last quarter, it changed my life. The reception was just getting started. I greeted the fellow who invited me, Rajesh Chandy, and plunged into a bunch of conversations with interesting strangers – faculty, other speakers, students. Fun.

At 6:45 we drove back downtown to a very hip new restaurant called Chambers. Again, too hip for me, and I was skeptical, but the food was sensational: a starter of pea soup, so fresh it made me see bright green! Sitting to my right was Greg Michaels, a marketing director at Kraft Foods in Chicago and fellow Minnesota Ph.D. Greg lived in Berlin as a kid, and we fell into a long chat about postwar Germany. To my left was David, with a market-research firm in Philly, also interesting. Across from me a honcho from Carlson Marketing. The entrée, walleye in a sensational crisp and spicy batter was truly awesome. Wow. Nice meal. Walked back at ten, called home, and clocked out.

Up at six, back to campus, tub of Starbucks and a huge apple fritter, and a little banter before a morning of presentations. After lunch it was my turn, and it went well – this was new ground, presenting at an academic marketing confab, but I think I did okay. After my little show, they put me back in front, filling in on a panel for a guy who canceled at the last minute. Fun to field more questions. Done at 3:45, train back to the airport, and a flight home on the eve of a long Memorial Day weekend. We took off and as we rose, I could see my Dad’s resting place in the big soldier’s cemetery, a good moment to give thanks and remember what all of them did for us.

I was on the ground for almost two weeks, so it felt good to drive to the airport after lunch on June 10, and fly up to Music City, Nashville, and a couple of presentations at Vanderbilt the next day. Landed at 4:45, into a cab, to a fairly bleak Best Western that my colleague had booked and prepaid before deciding to fly up the next morning. No matter. Worked my e-mail, made some calls, and ambled off toward dinner. The hotel was well located, on the edge of Music Row, the center of the local recording industry, and just north of the Vanderbilt campus. Earlier that day, quick research identified the Blackstone Brewery just 0.7 miles from the hotel, and I ambled west on Division.

First stop was Owen Bradley Park, named for a pianist and producer (1915-98) who was, a plaque declared, “the architect of the Nashville sound.” A bronze of Owen at the piano, sheet music for “Crazy” (Willie Nelson), was the centerpiece of the circular park; nearby, inscribed on stone on the ground were the names of artists and titles of tunes he produced: Loretta Lynn, Patsy Cline, Ernest Tubb, Conway Twitty, and others. On benches nearby were two people: a black man with a guitar in a black case, talking to himself, and a homeless guy with a supermarket cart full of aluminum cans. I pressed on, spotting big buildings belonging to titans like BMI and ASCAP, as well as small recording studios, a guitar repair shop, and the like. Music City, that’s it.

In no time I was quaffing a Maibock at Blackstone, nice, then a Porter, sweet. Stayed on my stool at the bar and tucked into battered cod, mashed potatoes, cole slaw, big yum. It was the sixth or seventh brewpub visited this year – there’s nothing better than homemade beer. Ambled back to my room, watched the Lakers beat the Celtics, and clocked out.

Up early the next morning, down for the free breakfast, along with a couple dozen seniors from Oklahoma, on a bus trip. Out the door, toward Vanderbilt. First stop was The Upper Room, a chapel belonging to the Methodists, who had a big complex there. Welcoming senior Methodist ladies directed me to a superb place for daily prayers. Behind the altar was a carved wooden bas-relief of the Last Supper, very striking. Out the door (“y’all come see us again”), back on the street and an odd building caught my eye, so I detoured to something that looked like Gaudi would have designed in Barcelona. How did it get there?

Dropped my stuff at the school, and set off for an amble around the campus. To call it leafy, or even leafy² would not quite get it right. Just amazingly verdant. I spotted a huge tree and wandered over; a plaque identified it as a Burr Oak alive longer than our republic. Snapped a couple of pictures of that, for sure. In her huge limbs, the squirrels for which Vanderbilt is famous chased each other. Wow, I thought, better than TV.

Headed back to the Owen School and settled into teaching, introducing myself to students in the Accelerator, an intensive summer business program for undergraduates. After lunch I delivered an introduction to the airline business to the 85 kids in the program, and teed up a sales problem for them to solve. We were in a large classroom in the law school, next door to the B-school, and I delivered the talk beneath the watchful eye (of a painting) of the Honorable Thurgood Marshall. It was a bright bunch. A grad student who was helping with the program drove us out to the airport, an interesting ride. Pat was an Army captain, an experienced helicopter pilot, a leader. My take based on the 30-minute drive: I’d follow him into battle. Flew home. An interesting day.