Third Quarter Update, 2003

Three days later, on the 227^th anniversary of the founding of the republic, Jack and I flew east to Birmingham, Alabama. At 31,000 feet, I remembered to look upward, toward Heaven, to thank my Dad and others who struggled and suffered so we would have this day off, this freedom, these opportunities. We landed and picked up a Hertz car. I had the small foresight to throw an Allman Brothers Band CD into my daypack, and we grooved south on music from this quintessential Southern band of my youth. Jack pronounced the tunes "awesome", which made me feel good.

Perhaps our grooving on "Ramblin' Man" or another hit song was what caused me to miss the exit, but soon we were clearly going the wrong way. Our intended destination was my friend Jim Grotting's house on Lake Martin, 75 miles southeast of Birmingham; we had visited three years earlier, so I was sort of familiar with the directions. But failure is all about quick recovery, and in no time we had new vectors – south on I-65, then east-northeast on Alabama 22. The freeway was boring, but Highway 22 was a perfect window on the rural south: past shiny new factories close to the Interstate; through thick pine forests; loaded logging truck tailgating me through the curves; mobile homes everywhere, some immaculate others sporting the classic collection of large household discards on the front porch or yard; across the Coosa River; past a gas station with a round, white-and-blue Pure Oil sign (anyone remember those?); into Rockford, its tiny downtown still hosting ! a Rexall drug store and an old stone jail, now the county historical society. I was almost sorry to re-connect with the correct route.

We arrived at Jim's at 3:45, hugs all around (Jim and I went to high school together, and he attended St. Olaf College with Linda). We met Tom Sullivan, his wife Kathy, and daughter Erin. They were visiting from Duluth, Minnesota, where Tom is a flight instructor for Cirrus Design, makers of a new generation of small airplanes. Jim's Cirrus SR-22 was in the shop following a lightning strike, and Tom's visit provided Jim a chance to fly this sweet airplane. I put on my sneakers and we hopped in the car for a short drive to Willow Point, a small private airstrip nearby. Nelson Cooper, a local physician and Jim's neighbor, joined us; he wanted to fly the Cirrus, so up we went.

After a good flight, we returned to the house for beer and a good visit before dinner. After dinner, we watched a great fireworks display. Then bedtime.

Was up at seven the next morning, and in a chair on the dock with a mug of coffee soon after. Nice! Jim and his swell wife Ann joined me, and we had a great yak. Nothing like the continuity of old friends. After breakfast, we went back up in the Cirrus, landing at nearby Alexander City for fuel and a visit with a couple of other folks. Then Tom asked me if I wanted to fly it. I just could not refuse, so I climbed into the left seat. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Britton speaking . . ."

Tom gave me a quick intro to rudder/brake pedals, to the throttle, the stick (the plane does not have a conventional yoke), and some other basics. We taxied out, practicing pedal work a bit. Then it was time for takeoff. At 68 knots, Tom said "ease the stick back, Rob". And as John Magee, an aspiring American fighter pilot serving in the RCAF wrote in 1941, "I Have Slipped The Surly Bonds of Earth . . ." Okay, maybe that's a bit dramatic, but it was just way cool to take flight. We didn't fly long, south 15 miles to Willow Point, set up for the landing, and, yes, your scribe landed the craft. Was I scared? No. Were my palms sweaty? They were dripping!

Yes, it was time for beer. And lunch. And a short nap. About six, the rain stopped and we headed out on Lake Martin for a nice boat ride. The lake is actually a dammed portion of the Tallapoosa River and some tributaries, and is really scenic. The recent affluence was readily visible in some very large and some ostentatious houses on the lake, including the palace of Mr. Scrushy, the soon-to-be-indicted head of HealthSouth. We treated Jim and Ann to dinner, and headed back.

The next day, Sunday, the Sullivans took wing and headed north to Chicago and Duluth. Jim took Jack and I tubing behind the boat. After three crashes I climbed into the boat, and Jim's son Ben took my place next to Jack, who could not get enough watery punishment. We headed over to say howdy to Buffy and Randy Marks, a wonderful couple who we met on our first visit in 2000. It was good to see them again. We had a nice visit, headed back to the Grottings for lunch, then back to Birmingham and home to Texas. A great start to the quarter. Gotta buy a pilot's log book to record my first 0.20 hours of flight!

On Friday, July 11, after a very long week, I left the office at 2:30 and flew north to Chicago, landing at Midway Airport just before six. Made some phone calls, hopped on the Orange Line train, and was in the Loop before seven. My bed was in a quite unlikely spot: the House of Blues Hotel, chosen to appeal to the group of young Congressional staffers to whom I would speak the next morning. This 51-year-old in navy blazer looked decidedly out of place in the hip lobby. But the place was cool – eclectic design and décor, live music in the bar, the works. At 7:30 I joined the group, sponsored by the Congressional Economic Leadership Initiative, basically a bunch of large companies that underwrite a trip like this – paid weekend in Chicago, plenty of time for fun, nice place to stay, sightseeing, all for the cost (the participants) of a daylong seminar on a topic dear to us. I met a couple of people, had a beer and a plate of pasta, and went back to m! y room to work my e-mail.

Rose at 6:30, showered, and strolled over to a nearby White Hen convenience store for a large coffee. Sat in a pleasant little park and read the Chicago Tribune, then went to set up my computer. I was one of five panelists in a session on airline-industry restructuring; my fellows were two Wall Street investment analysts, one academic, and a Southwest Airlines captain who moonlights as a consultant on labor matters. It was a lively session, and quick. I was out of the hotel at eleven, at Midway by 11:35, and onto a flight home at 12:11.

Somewhere over northeastern Missouri, my seatmate, a young woman, noticed my consulting the compact road atlas I sometimes use to "navigate", and she asked if I knew where we were. She was friendly and interested, and we had a nice conversation for the rest of the flight, across a range of topics. Abeer, daughter of a Palestinian father and a Jordanian mother, grew up in Abu Dhabi but went to high school and college in Columbia, Missouri. She was a retail bank manager in suburban Chicago. To me, she exemplified E pluribus unum, and more specifically an acculturated Arab – splendid counterbalance to newspaper articles about Middle Eastern extremists that we have wrongly allowed to enter the U.S.

The next morning, Monday the 14^th, Linda, Jack, and I headed to SMU for an orientation. They were there for two days, but I had to leave at 11:30. Still, the morning session was interesting and worthwhile – and a huge contrast with the "there's the line to register" approach when I began college 34 years ago. Parting from Jack was a little sad.

At one I flew to Hartford, landing just before 5:30. Kip Hamilton, who manages two of our big call centers, picked me up at the airport, and we drove back roads to our Eastern Reservations Office, in a light and brand-new building not far from the airport. I was at the ERO to present our 2003 Advertising Update. We had two sessions that night, at 6 and 7:15, after which one of the managers drove me a mile east to my hotel. Worked my e-mail for three hours, had another room-service dinner (the second of my life, following the June debut), called home, and clocked out.

Was up at seven, and down to breakfast with Steve Santoro, another AA manager, then over to the ERO for three back-to-back shows. At 12:30, I was done, but not before Elaine Lowe, a res agent, gave me my very first back and neck massage, in a massage chair the employees raised money to buy. Whew, that felt nice. I don't have any comparisons, but she certainly seemed to have the touch. I was loosened up.

We drove into downtown Hartford to have lunch, passing by the old ERO, in a former department store. A dump. Several managers and I had a nice lunch at a French bistro, then drove back to the office. I worked my e-mails and climbed on the Silver Bird at 6:45. I had the good fortune to sit next to a very cheerful fellow, Jim Roach, recently relocated to Dallas with EDS. When he sat down, we greeted each other, and he remarked that he was happy to have an agreeable seatmate, because so many people in First Class are so grumpy. "Whatever happened to civility?" he asked. Indeed. We had a nice visit.

You know that these updates almost always remain focused on my to and fro, but occasionally move into other spheres. And British Prime Minister Tony Blair's brilliant speech to Congress on July 17 warrants such a foray. The whole thing was memorable, but take a moment to think about what he said toward the end of his address:

On Monday, July 28, I flew north to Minneapolis for my mother's memorial service. She lived a long time, nearly making it to her 82^nd birthday, but her life had been a struggle for many years. On the flight north, I listened to Copland and Bach, looked at some pictures of her as a child and young adult, and remembered back across almost half a century of memories. We landed before noon, I picked up a car, and motored to my sister Carroll's house. Mom's death hit her hard; she was always the closest. As we did for our father's funeral, we put together a poster of old photos and memory items, including the pink swimsuit mom wore in the early 1960s (it was still in her closet forty years later). I delivered it to the funeral home, then drove a few blocks to the new Edina Public Library to e-mail the obituary to the Minneapolis Star Tribune and work my e-mails.

Being in the library brought back some nice memories. Almost five decades ago, mom took me by the hand to the original Edina library, in an old house less than two blocks from our house on 50^th Street. Once I was old enough to go there myself, I did, and discovered a world of possibilities in all those books. Before leaving the new building, I tracked down what looked like the oldest librarian, hoping that perhaps she had worked in that old house on 50^th Street. She had not, but knew of it. I introduced myself and told her a little about my mom and our trips to the old place. I like to make connections like that.

I got in my Ford and drove east on 50^th Street, past where the old library was, and parked the car at 50^th and France, the 1930s-era shopping area that was walking distance from our house, and the location of my sister's shop. The stores had, of course, all changed, but the Dairy Queen was still at the east end of the strip. I walked past, bought a Subway sandwich, and returned for the DQ for a chocolate malt. This was another place to which we walked in the old days; we only had one car, and my dad had it "on the road" most weeks of the year, so we walked a lot and rode buses.

All those memories, and a warm (not hot) summer day. I was almost having too much fun, given the circumstances, but then I thought of my mom and could almost hear her words of encouragement, something like "I'm gone now, Robin (what she called me), and you can't do a damned thing about it (she was fairly profane), so you go on and have fun, okay?" So I did.

On the way back to the car, there was one more stop, at the Storm Company, a picture-framing shop. Back in the 1950s and '60s, it was Thayer and Storm, a framer and a hobby shop, and it was the latter that interested my brother and me. I entered the store and called out "Arne?". Arne Storm was the proprietor back then, and still was. Remarkable. He came out of the back room. I asked him to imagine that it was 1963 and the shop window was filled with plastic hot-rod models, then asked him if he knew who I was. He said "yes, you look familiar." I told him I was Jim Britton's brother, and we immediately laughed and subsequently had a nice chat. He's still going strong at 74.

Back at my sister's, I paddled around a bit, worked some more e-mail, and we headed down to the Black Forest Inn for an early dinner. I've written about that place before; it's a favorite of mine, and Carroll's. We had a good yak across a range of topics, and got home about eight. I picked up my brother Jim at the airport at ten, we drove to my mother-in-law's house, and after a short visit I was out cold.

Rose at six, laced up, and met my friend Chuck Wiser at Lake Harriet, one of a string of pleasant small lakes right in the city. We ran around Harriet and Lake Calhoun, seven miles, and caught up – I had not seen Chuck, my first boss in the travel business, in nearly a year. At 8:30 I went to the airport to pick up Cousin Jim (it was good of him to fly up from Chicago), and at nine Linda, Jack, and Robin arrived. We motored back toward Edina, grabbed some breakfast, and in time headed to my sister's house and to the service.

For a funeral arranged on short notice, we had a good turnout, with a few surprises. Another early mentor, Rick Fesler, was there, as was Mr. Jensen, my 12^th-grade English teacher, who happened to read the obituary in the Star Tribune. As I did when my father died, I gave the eulogy.

After the service, we headed to Carroll's for lunch and a nice visit with friends and family, then back to the airport and home to Texas. It was a long two days, but I was happy we gave mom a good sendoff.

I was able to dig out on Wednesday, July 30. That night, Robin and I climbed on a 757 and flew west to Los Angeles. We arrived about 10:30 and walked to the international terminal next door, to check in for a Cathay Pacific nonstop to Hong Kong, 7,255 miles west. We had confirmed seats in Business Class, very fancy, but could standby for First Class – as good as it gets. They asked us to return to the ticket counter at 12:45, so we sat at a table and read and watched the people. The late-night departures from LAX are either headed to Asia (between 12:40 and 1:40 a.m., we counted one nonstop every 12 minutes to Taipei), to Mexico, or to Central America. Here were hundreds of people returning to their native lands to visit, and one could see the hopes and dreams of new Americans in a sweep of the eye.

At the appointed time, Cathay assigned us seats 4D and 4G in First Class, and we climbed aboard. It was 2:45 a.m. by the time we had dinner, but we still had 12 more hours of flying, so it wasn't hard to fall asleep – especially when Cathay gave us pajamas, a duvet, and a fully flat seat. We live in the sky, literally and figuratively. After eight hours of snoozing I woke up, watched a bit of "on demand" video, and ate some breakfast.

We landed at Hong Kong's gleaming new airport at 6:15, cleared formalities, and hopped on a very shiny train into the city. Everywhere we looked on the ride in, there were high-rises. Our hotel was walking distance from the train station. We stayed at the Mandarin Oriental, a fixture here for nearly a half-century; normally that would have been too pricey, but in the wake of the SARS crisis we got a very good deal. Happily, a room was ready at 7:15. It felt so good to shower.

Why Hong Kong? Robin wants to study abroad next spring semester, and Hong Kong is one of the possible venues. She wanted to have a look. I agreed in about a nanosecond, so there we were, looking out the window at I.M. Pei's Bank of China tower at eight o'clock on the first day of August.

Robin is a great traveler, energetic in the Britton "must rise, must tour" tradition, so we were out the door at 8:30, bound first for a large cup of coffee, then to the H.K. office of her school, USC, just to say hello. We had a short visit, then headed to the tourist information office, then out for some sightseeing. First stop: the Central and Mid-levels Escalator, longest in the world. It's actually a set of escalators that climb about 600 feet, and provide a great introduction to the dense commercial and residential landscape of this city of 6.7 million. At the top, we jumped in a taxi, across and down the slope to the lower terminus of the Peak Tram, a funicular that claims to be the steepest in the world. From the top, great views of the city and harbor.

Then back down, and on foot back to the hotel. The core of the Central district is linked with second-level skyways much like in Minneapolis, and we wandered through them to find a lunch venue. Robin got a plate of spaghetti and I got a daily stir-fry. A practical, motherly-looking woman joined us a few minutes later. We introduced ourselves and told her why we were there, then proceeded to have a delightful conversation. Her parents moved here from Guangdong Province in the 1930s, she was an architect with the government, and had two children studying overseas, one at the Rochester Institute of Technology in New York, and the other at a boarding school in Brighton, England. When we left, I reminded Robin about why I always talk to strangers.

Back at the hotel we read the South China Morning Post cover to cover, then hopped on the MTR (subway) and headed east three stops, then on foot to the H.K. office of Weber Shandwick, the P.R. firm where Robin has been interning these past two summers. We had a nice visit with the local chief, Simon Eldredge, an Aussie. Robin was keen to learn about prospects for an internship down here, too, and Simon told her that was possible. When we left the building, I gave her a high-five and she said "Job. Check". We were getting a lot done. We returned to the hotel, donned swimsuits, and headed to the pool on the 24^th floor. It felt good to splash around for an hour.

Just before six, I suggested we head to dinner, already booked at a place I read about in The New York Times, by way of the Star Ferry, the famous old boats that connect Hong Kong Island with Kowloon on the mainland. That was also good because it meant another mode of transport that day – a boat added to planes, trains, escalators, taxis, funiculars, and subways. Only the bus was missing! The pier was only two blocks away, and we were across to Kowloon and in the lobby bar of the Peninsula Hotel by 6:30. Nice! The Peninsula is celebrating its 75^th anniversary this year. The lobby was a nice piece of work from the period, with great gilded plasterwork, big arched windows, and lots of people enjoying the end of the week. To get to dinner, we took another Star Ferry back across the harbor to Wan Chai, then walked a few blocks to Victoria City Seafood. When we sat down, what appeared to be deep fried guppies intermixed with peanuts suggested ! we could get very adventurous, but settled for some more familiar dishes. A tasty dinner. We jumped in a taxi back to the hotel, where the message light in our room was flashing. Alas, the beneficent hotel manager, Mr. Lowe, had upgraded us to a suite, and though we were ready for bed, we moved out stuff down to the 18^th floor, to a palace with harbor views. Wow!

Lights out before well before ten. We expected that if we really wore ourselves out we'd be adjusted to the time change, and we were. I only woke up briefly that night, and Robin slept right through. Rose at 6:30 on Saturday morning for a 20-minute sweat-run in the 85-85 combination of heat and humidity. Even a slow run was drenching. But the morning light was agreeable, and the early street life interesting, including a couple of groups practicing T'ai Chi in Statue Square. Robin was up a few minutes later, opting instead for the air-conditioned hotel fitness center. We had some breakfast and set off for a day of touring. We decided to ride the funky old narrow-gauge tram that runs east-west across Hong Kong Island, coasting west to the neighborhood called Kennedy Town. The view from the upper deck of the streetcar is great. When we returned, we decided on the spur of the moment to head to Macau, the former Portuguese colony 20 miles west. We bought ferry! tickets and hopped aboard a fast boat, arriving just after noon.

After a long wait for immigration, we jumped on a bus (another mode of transport, for our trains and planes collection) into the city center. It was very hot there. We got off at the Praca Senado, a little area of Portuguese colonial architecture that endures, and ate lunch in a McDonald's (once per trip is okay). Hopped in a cab and for the first time in years got taken for a ride along a very circular route, although the total fare was still only $2.50. Admired the ruins of the Sao Paulo church that burned in 1835, walked back into the center, had a beer in the shade, hopped the bus back to the ferry, and sailed home to Hong Kong. Macau was interesting. Robin liked it because she got another stamp in her passport. It was far less tidy than Hong Kong. The Portuguese influence was subtle but recognizable. There were casinos everywhere – folks in this part of the world like to gamble, and the streets were full of workers in black trousers, tuxedo sho! rts, and bow ties.

We were back in the hotel by five. Cooled off, worked e-mail, enjoyed the harbor view from our balcony. Dinner that night was in a fancy place Robin had found, an Asian-fusion place called Vong, conveniently located seven floors above us in the hotel. The view was stunning, and the food way outpaced my skepticism – our five course tasting menu was superb. Was in bed by 10:30.

Unfortunately, time-zone-funk (I refuse to use the J-phrase!) hit Robin that second night out; she woke at 3:30 and could not get back to sleep. So we were both up at 6:30 on Sunday morning for workouts, me outside in Chater Garden and surrounding streets, and she, perhaps more sensibly, returned to the air-conditioned fitness center upstairs. We had breakfast and set out for the Chinese University of Hong Kong (CUHK), the host institution of the USC/Annenberg program Robin is considering. The school is up north in the New Territories, so we rode the subway, then the Kowloon Canton Railway (KCR), then a university shuttle bus. CUHK is built on the slopes, so our campus tour was literally downhill, back to the train station. It's a typical-looking postwar British university (I've seen them on three continents), pleasant and orderly, with boxy concrete buildings.

We climbed on the KCR and rode up two stops, then took a taxi to a "wishing tree" at the Lam Tsuen Buddhist temple, established 1771, and dedicated to the worship of Tin Hau (Goddess of the Sea), Man Cheong (God of Literature), and Kuan Ti (the God of War). You buy a Sunkist California orange for HK$5 (about 70 cents); it's tethered to some document with ribbon. You write your wish on the paper, then toss it into the tree. My first attempt came back down, but the second one lodged. Less fortunate was the young Japanese tourist who almost beaned us! No pitching career imminent.

That accomplished, we headed back into town, to the street markets in the Mong Kok district, then to the Museum of History to see a terrific permanent exhibit, "The Hong Kong Story". Excellent interpretation, great artifacts, very well done. Let's simply say that the last 180 years, coinciding with the arrival of Europeans, has been an interesting period. Addicting millions of locals to opium in the name of trade balance is one of those colonial activities that's hard to defend.

It was time for some refreshment, and we ambled south to the Peninsula Hotel for afternoon tea. Superb! A good chance to cool off. After tea, Robin returned home and I zipped around a bit more. We watched a movie on HBO, then hopped on the Star Ferry for dinner at, yes, the Hard Rock Café. It was a good choice. We were in bed by 9:30 after the third long day in a row. Our daughter is a real trooper.

We slept well, and got up at 6:30. Robin headed again to the hotel fitness center, but I decided to give my knees a rest. When she returned, we packed up, had breakfast, and went our separate ways. Robin went shopping, and I jumped on the tram, headed to North Point on the east end of Hong Kong Island. Those old, skinny double-decker trams are such fun to ride. It took awhile to get over there, but the reward was great – since arriving, I had been wanting to visit a open-air food market – what locals call, in English, a "wet market" – and here it was. Whatever you hankered for, here it was: meat, fish, vegetables, fruit, herbs, dried stuff. Plus clothes, shoes, hardware, the works. Took a bunch of pictures – people buying stuff, close-ups of fish and produce, a microphoned fellow hawking Made in China electric drills for HK$150 (about twenty bucks). No one hollered at me. I wandered around for about an hour watching the whole scene.

I headed back to the hotel about eleven, showered, put on a striped necktie, and we headed out to the airport on the fast train. We checked in early, Robin hoping to scoop up another First Class seat for the ride back to California. Our flights were scheduled to leave within five minutes of each other at about four, but hers was delayed by an hour, so I gave her a hug and kiss, and flew north to Tokyo for a couple of days of business.

Second, the local economy is clearly changing, away from manufacturing based on cheap labor; as the city becomes integrated with China, the yet cheaper workforce just north will, in time, submerge local shops and factories. The day we left, I bought a pair of Chinese-made shorts for six bucks in a trendy store – sure, they were marked down, but even the regular price was just $15. I'm not sure how much longer my Lands' End dress shirts will say "Made in Hong Kong". Maybe for awhile, if Hong Kong entrepreneurs can market quality vis-à-vis the poorer quality image of Chinese manufacturers. It will be interesting to return in another ten years.

The Cathay Pacific 777 landed at Tokyo Narita about 9:20. It took awhile to get through immigration and customs, and the smiling, bowing hostesses at the ground-transport counter told me the last fast train into the city had departed. I had to take a bus to Tokyo's central station, then a taxi to the hotel. Unlike Hong Kong, where there are ATMs every fifty feet, there did not appear to be a single one in the airport arrivals hall. Surely there'd be one at the main train station, but no. Aieeeeeeee. The Japan visit was not off to a good start, and worse after the taxi meter spun up the yen equivalent of $21 for a 1.5-mile ride in no traffic. Bought yen with U.S. cash at the reception desk of the New Otani Hotel, paid the taxi driver, checked in, and clocked out, sleeping soundly.

Woke up at 7:15, dressed, and met Akio Yamaguchi for breakfast downstairs. I met Akio in 1998 when he was doing some P.R. for us on contract. He has moved on, losing us but gaining Microsoft, a fine trade! We had a good visit. He has consulted for a range of U.S. companies, and has been a fan of our nation since he spent a year in a small Oregon town as a high-school exchange student.

With compass and map in hand (and helpful strangers pointing the way a couple of times!), I set out for Nikkei Business Publications, bound for a 10:30 lecture on the airline business; aware of my teaching interest, their U.S. rep had set up a presentation to 20 people from the business side of Nikkei, which publishes the Japanese analog of Business Week, plus dozens of specialized magazines for a range of industries. Two translators helped out. After the talk, we had an enjoyable, multiple-course Japanese lunch at the Hotel Okura, and they delivered me to the Tokyo offices of McCann-Erickson, our international ad agency.

Spent the afternoon at McCann, getting a good introduction to airline advertising in Japan. At about five, with storm clouds moving toward the city, Yukiko, a young woman who is our day-to-day contact, and I headed by subway to Meiji Jingu, a large Shinto shrine in the Shibuya district. It was raining lightly when we entered the park-like shrine grounds. By the time we bowed and left, it was pouring, and the small umbrella Yukiko loaned me (I left mine in my briefcase back at the office) was rather ineffective. By the time we returned to the subway, we were completely soaked. "You can't get wetter than wet," I explained. It had been some time since I was that damp!

We took a couple of trains back to the Aoyama neighborhood, then a taxi, lurching through a rain-induced traffic jam, arriving at a restaurant just after seven. Another multiple course repast, mainly fish and seafood, with plenty of Yebisu beer and a lot of laughs with two people from AA's Tokyo office; Yukiko; Jeff, a Canadian who was a senior person at the agency; and Hideaki, a smiling Japanese fellow who was Jeff's deputy.

On Wednesday the 6^th, I paused after rising to pray for peace on the 58^th anniversary of the first use of an atomic bomb at Hiroshima – a few hundred kilometers south of my hotel room. After breakfast, I trudged with an increasingly heavy suitcase to the Akasaka-mitsuke subway stop and hopped two rush-hour trains to Hibiya, a station almost directly underneath American's Japan offices. At 9:30 I gave the same advertising update that I delivered three weeks ago in Hartford, though more slowly and with fewer idioms, to about a dozen Japanese marketing employees of American. I then worked my e-mail for 90 minutes, and set off for a walk around the neighborhood.

First stop was Tokyo station, to get my ticket for the airport train and to admire the newest generation of Shinkansen bullet trains. The one I photographed had an engine that resembled a platypus! Then it was into the new Tokyo International Forum, a soaring convention center designed by Rafael Viñoly, then west to the grounds of the Imperial Palace, abundant green space in stark contrast with the density of the city beyond the moats. Back to the AA office, picked up my stuff, walked to the station, and hopped the Narita Express out to the airport. Checked in, went to the Admirals Club and met my old friend Masahiro Arimizu, American's airport manager. I've known Arimizu-san for a decade; he's a terrific guy, always with a broad smile. We had a quick chat about the business and other stuff, and I climbed aboard the Silver Bird, back across the Pacific. A great trip.

The following Monday, August 11, I hopped on one of American Eagle's new small jets and flew north to Cincinnati. It gets hot in Brazil, where these planes are made, and the engineers have equipped them with highly effective air-conditioning, always nice on hot days like that one. Thunderstorms were blocking the northeast departure "highway" from DFW, which made us an hour late. Judy Rhoads, with whom I had worked during my two years in Flight Service, picked me up at the airport and we zipped downtown to American's Central Reservations Office (CRO), which she now manages. The CRO has been in the same building since 1948! Like our other call centers, it is shrinking, but several hundred people still work there, a very senior group, and very enthusiastic. I delivered the same show as the previous month in Hartford, answered some questions, and we headed to dinner. Dinner was at Nicholson's, a Scottish-themed eatery just across from the new Aronoff Center, a! performing-arts venue. I had bangers and mash, an English workingman's dish, sausages, mashed potatoes, canned peas and carrots. The sausages were locally made and really good. Talk about filling. Checked in at the hotel, worked my e-mails, called Linda, and dozed off.

Was up the next morning for breakfast with David Wiser, Chuck's son. Time for more feel-good food, a Greek omelette at First Watch, the downtown breakfast place, and a nice chat with a bright young man. David dropped me back at the CRO, and I did three back-to-back shows at 9:00, 10:15, and 11:30. I love teaching. Having still not gotten my fill of spice and fat, we headed to Skyline Chili's new flagship location. A Greek immigrant, Nicholas Lambrinides, started Skyline in 1949, and it is a signal Cincinnati experience. The basic dish (called 3-way) is thin spaghetti topped with chili and cheese. I went for the 5-way, adding beans and onions. Whew! Better bike some more miles and eat some more broccoli!

Cincinnati is a great town. Last visited in spring 1999, the place has everything you need and nothing you don't need – it's just the right size. The few large corporations headquartered there – like Procter & Gamble and Kroger – must have something to do with it. The setting is great, the mighty Ohio flowing in the front yard, and hills and trees, especially green because of a wet summer. Downtown was looking good; clearly, the city's leadership was intent on keeping downtown vibrant – street sculpture, flower pots, and other amenities. Nice.

After lunch, we went back to the CRO, I worked my e-mail, and flew home, landing about an hour before Linda, who was returning from dropping Robin at USC, where she is starting her third year.

Two days later, I left work at noon. It was time for "Letting Go", as in the popular tune by Suzy Bogguss – the time when we say goodbye to our college-bound children. That afternoon, Linda and I moved Jack into Snider Hall at SMU. It was a warm and humid day, and I was soon as wet as when I was in Hong Kong. But the damp did not matter. It was fun moving the kid into his new digs – a very large room in the basement, bath en suite, freshly painted and carpeted. I thought it would be nice to be going to college; not only to learn a lot of new stuff, but to enjoy dorm life. This was an experience I largely missed when I was college age, because I could not afford to live away from home. It all seems like a great deal of fun. At 5:30 Linda had finished bringing order to the bed, closet, and desk, the printer was linked to the PC, and it was time to give Jack a hug, say some encouraging words and walk down the hall. It's hard for parents to be brave at times l! ike that, and I've never been good at being stoic at such moments (sure enough, I'm tearing up as I typed this, a week later!).

Two days after that, on Saturday morning, Linda and I flew north to Chicago. When we landed, we hooked up with Robin, just in from L.A., and hopped on the CTA Blue Line for downtown Chicago. It was time for the annual visit to Wrigley Field and the Cubs, preceded, as it was last year, with a ladies' sortie on Michigan Avenue. Once again, my friend Gary Doernhoefer, who works weekdays in the Loop and joins his family in rural Ohio on weekends, loaned his splendid 30^th-floor apartment on Madison Street to us. We changed clothes, Robin and Linda headed to shop, and I jumped on the Red Line for the Fullerton stop and Cousin Jim's house (Jack rarely misses these Cubs weekends, but he was at SMU orientation).

Cousin Jim had some real-estate business in far northwest Chicago, so we hopped in his Explorer and motored up to Norwood Park. On Normandy Avenue, we met Jerry, who was eager to sell his late parents' house. Jerry seemed a little slow, and he later told us that in 1992 a bus hit his Yugo, and he was badly injured. Yow. When we went inside, we entered a war zone, really just like those TV-news reports when some social-service agency raids a slum apartment. It was just shocking, and thanks to a large dog, it smelled bad. Whew. Sad. Cuz might have some trouble selling that one.

When we got back to his house, Linda and Robin were there, as were my sort-of-cousin Tom Buns, and his new wife Paula. Sort of? Yep. My grandmother's sister married her husband's (my Nonno's) brother, and their oldest child, my "Aunt" Teri, was Tom's mother. Got it? (I wrote about Teri in the Third Quarter 2001 update.) Teri had linked Tom and I earlier this year by e-mail, and we had been exchanging messages, because Tom has done an enormous amount of work on Frediani and Palluck (the same families of both of our maternal grandparents) ancestry. I had not seen him since, I think, 1962 or '63.

The Buns, Cousin Jim and his wife Michaela, and we walked a mile west to a swell Italian restaurant, Rose Angelis, where we had a terrific dinner and a great yak. I especially liked visiting with Paula, who had lived in a town in Labrador nearly all her life – she was still adjusting to life in suburban America. We walked back, and the Brittons jumped in a cab back to the apartment.

Nine hours of sleep was welcome, but at seven I laced up and headed east on Madison, to Lake Michigan, then south along the shore to the Field Museum. A good run, and my knees held up pretty well. It was already hot. At eleven we went back north to Cousin Jim's, and folks began arriving. Like last year, the Chicago Tribune was hosting us in their suite, and I was lucky enough to be able to invite friends and kin to share in the fun. As always, we walked up to Wrigley. Cousin Bob was back in the lineup (we've been doing this every year since 1992), and we had Cousin Mike and wife Gail for the first time. Another newcomer was Rick Dow, my ex-Northwest Airlines pal who I last saw in Miami in January, when he was still working for Burger King; he's now with Midas in suburban Chicago.

It was great to be back in "The Friendly Confines". Whew, what a swell life, and what joy to be back in the late-summer cycle: this was the start of the three annual rituals of Cubs ballgame, Minnesota State Fair, and barbecued-goat judging. As I've written many times before, these cyclical events bring comfort and order. Ahhhhhhhhhh. Like previous years, the playing of the National Anthem caused me to gaze heavenward, and to wonder again if my dad, a Cubs fan in the 1930s and 1940s, could see the game about to begin.

Tom and Paula Buns were there, and Cousin Justin and his daughter, and Chuck Wiser, and Carl Nelson, too. We were complete. It was just a blast. The Cubbies lost, we walked home, Mike and Gail drove us to O'Hare, and we flew home. Nice!

The next Friday, August 22, I flew back to Chicago to do something I had not done for nearly 12 years: watch a TV commercial being made. We landed before 11, and in no time I was sitting behind the director, watching him film actual American Airlines customers – we've been using a testimonial approach this year, for its credibility, and this director, James Gartner is a true master of the form. We watched until a lunch break. The curious and the star-struck shuffled past, hoping for a moment of glory.

At four, I flew north to Minneapolis/St. Paul, picked up a rental car, and drove to Fort Snelling National Cemetery to have a few words, long distance, with my dad. The place is filling up, and I could gaze in any direction and say thanks to several hundred World War II veterans. Then over to Mike Davis' and Sara Wahl's house, friends for thirty years (Linda worked with Mike at a poverty law office for several years back then; the continuity of long friendships is a good thing). We had a short visit at home, yakked briefly with their son, Alex (a formidable soccer player), then walked a few blocks to dinner at a great Thai place, Chiang Mai. Dinner lasted a long time – we ate a lot, but slowly, and visited across a range of topics. Mike is now a U.S. District Court judge, and also sits on some other panels, including a top-secret intelligence court that authorizes wiretaps and such in pursuit of scary people who are not in this land to pursue the American ! Dream.

I stayed overnight with them, rose at 5:45, showered, said goodbye, and drove to the Minnesota State Fair. Haven't missed a year since the early 1980s. In the June issue of The Atlantic, Garrison Keillor wrote:

So there I was at 6:45 on Saturday morning, walking toward a pine tree in front of the Department of Natural Resources building to meet my high-school friend Bob Woehrle. We had a couple of cups of coffee and headed to the animal barns. In 90 minutes we saw them all: Percheron draft horses, lop-eared rabbits, poultry, black-faced and Columbia sheep, Saanen goats, Hampshire hogs, Jersey cows. Moo, cluck, baa, cock-a-doodle-doo!

At nine we crossed the fairgrounds to the juried fine-arts show, one of the best in years. Some really nice stuff. Then into the Education Building, and on to the spectacular Creative Activities building, brimming with all manner of arts and crafts. Where do the exhibitors find all the time to produce, for example, a fourteen-foot rowboat made from several kinds of wood? In any case, it was far too lovely to ever put in the water. And there were blue-ribbon pickles and quilts and mittens and more. We were thirsty and our senses were overloaded, so it was time to have a beer. Well, okay, it was 10:40, but Bob had to leave at noon. We had a good chat, hugged, and he disappeared into the crowd.

I headed back across to the barns, stopped at the All the Milk You Can Drink for 50 Cents booth, wound around a bit more, and sat down to listen to a fabulous Ecuadoran band. Then over to the Deep-Fried Cheese Curds booth. I could not eat a whole $4 tray, so I politely asked a hefty and amply-tattooed young woman customer if I could buy one from her for a dollar. Happily, she said yes, and I savored the greasy marvel. Yum. Then to a hard seat on Cosgrove Street curb for the 2 p.m. parade. I knew from the fair website that the band of my alma mater, Edina High School, was marching that day, and as luck would have it, they played the fight song when they marched past. My curb neighbors were startled when I shouted "H-O-R-N-E-T-S, Edina Hornets fight, fight, fight! Then back to the art show, to the car, through our old St. Paul neighborhood, and east on I-94.

I crossed the broad St. Croix River into Wisconsin, exited on U.S. 12, then north on Wisconsin Hwy. 65, through Star Prairie and Wanderoos to my friend Ed Moersfelder's new yellow "farmhouse" on Windy Hill. Ed and wife Karel were out, but Ed's spry older sister, Doreen Walker, visiting from Oklahoma City, was home. We had a good visit (she talks a lot, more than me!), and the Moersfelders returned home. Out onto the deck, nice southeasterly breeze, beer, life was good. Ed made a swell roast lamb (from nearby) and mashed potatoes and snap beans from his garden. And cantaloupe from the garden for dessert. Yum! It was quite a day for eating (note to self: ride bike hard this week). We were plumb wore out by nine. In the country, you can head to bed at that hour, and it felt good. Nice breeze through open windows, a hard sleep until six.

Sunday morning, Ed and I went for a walk, admiring the cool, noting the deer tracks in his driveway. It's a lovely part of the world. At nine we were in the Deronda Lutheran Church. We've all seen pictures of white clapboard churches in rural America, and I have now worshipped in one. It was great, not least the ringing of the bell at the start and end of service. I have often written that church bells are "the sound of Europe", and it was nice to experience them as the sound of that little part of northwestern Wisconsin.

We met some parishoners at coffee, then I jumped in the car for a fast drive to Hudson, Wisconsin, seat of St. Croix County, and lunch with two other three-decade friends, David and Katherine Kelly. As I wrote last year, they've moved off the farm on the Hudson Prairie that had been in the family since the 1880s, and into an assisted-living place in town. It was great to see them. When I left, with tears of joy in my eyes, my thought was focused: I am so lucky to have friends like that, who knew life from a long time ago. Back to the airport, on a plane home, a wonderful weekend of friendship and ritual and fun.

Six days later, on Saturday, August 30, by 6:10 a.m. Roddy Peeples and I were driving west in his big silver Buick, headed toward the 30^th annual World Championship Barbeque Goat Cook-off in Brady. It was Roddy's 30^th consecutive year, and my 13^th. The drive down, across the gentle landscape of the Cross Timbers region and into the verges of the Hill Country, was pleasant outside the car and in. Roddy is about 70, and he told me, for the first time, something about his growing up on a cotton farm outside of Mexia, Texas. Life was changing in rural Texas in the years just after World War II. Old ways of life – like tenant farming – were disappearing. Roddy had clear memories of the change. It was an interesting ride.

We were at the old Union Depot, now the Iron Horse Restaurant, before ten, slapping backs of the good old boys I've come to know since 1991 – like Jim Stewart of Lubbock and Mark Pollock of Alpine. Gary Six explained the rules to the rookies, we had a nice brunch, and set off for Richards Park, site of the fun. Passed the afternoon reading the paper, visiting with competitors I've gotten to know from years past, and in no time we were up on the judging stand, two flatbed trailers. It was just an adequate year for good goat, maybe below average, but still a lot of fun. We were home by ten.

I was a little cranky about having to rise at six the next day, zoom out to the airport, and fly to Los Angeles. Too much activity! Linda picked me up at LAX at 9:45 (she had already been there for two days, helping out during Robin's sorority rush week), we drove downtown to the hotel, then back south to USC. It was a beautiful day in Southern California, but I was still cranky. The orneriness diminished a bit when we past St. Vincent's Church just before eleven; the faithful leaving mass was uplifting. At Kappa Kappa Gamma, I volunteered for litter patrol in the front yard and street, dropped a quite-full bag in the dumpster, and headed south to LAX, intent on photographing an old terminal building on the north side of the field. With some nice snaps in the Nikon, the crankiness declined a bit more.

I motored west on Imperial Blvd., turned left at the ocean, and continued south (past the massive sewage-treatment plant that I always see after takeoff from the airport) to the Highland neighborhood of Manhattan Beach. I parked the car and wandered down the hill to the beach and back up, mindful of the 24-minute maximum on the parking meter. I was snapping a lot of pictures of this again-hip town. On a side street, I politely asked if I could snap a guy on a ladder and his colleague on the roof; they were replacing a window. The guy on the roof said "Sure"; we yakked a bit, and he asked if I wanted to see the view from the living room. It turned out he was the owner of the 11-year-old house now worth $1.4 million, and yes, the Pacific view was sensational. I only regret that I didn't get a close-up of him, for he was the quintessential Californian: lean and handsome and very tan. Once again, I was reminded of the benefits of talking to strangers! After th! at interlude, the crankiness not only had evaporated fully, but I was wondering what I could possibly have been thinking a few hours earlier, when a cloud hung above my head! Why not jump at the chance to see new places? Indeed.

I hopped back into Robin's red Honda and drove a mile south to "downtown" Manhattan Beach. Parking was tight, so I drove a half-mile east and found plenty of spaces on the street. I walked down the hill on Manhattan Beach Blvd. to the beach, and into a classic Southern California scene of activity everywhere: beach volleyball competition, with courts stretching south; cyclists on a path, sharing it with in-line and traditional roller skaters; skateboarders zigged in and out; in the ocean, surfers were south of the pier and boogyboard riders north. Perhaps all this self-propulsion was why I saw no one with girth like the folks at the Minnesota State Fair, or Brady, Texas, the day before.

I walked out onto the pier, which was the province of immigrant fishers, Mexican, Chinese, Filipino, and others. I am not making this up: back on the beach, the Beach Boys classic "Surfin' USA" was blaring over the volleyball courts. It was past lunchtime, and I found Wahoo's Fish Tacos, recognizable from the Visa bill (Robin is fond of Manhattan Beach, and she reimburses us for charges on our account). There were surfboards in front and lots of tan young people inside. The place struck me as exactly analogous to the Coyote Café in Beaver Creek, Colorado, another affluent place. I had a filling lunch, jotted some notes, and wandered out to look at some neighborhoods. There was a huge mix in residential architecture styles: transplanted New England designs, Spanish Colonial, Craftsman Bungalow, and California-contemporary styles popular from the sixties to eighties. I got back in the car and drove south to the second of three beach towns, Hermosa Bea! ch, where the twice-annual street fair (''Fiesta'') was in full swing. Parking was even tighter here, so I put the car a mile or so east on the Pacific Coast Highway and hiked back to the beach. A decent band, Pretzel Logic, began at 3:10; I listened to a couple of tunes, took in the scene, then walked out on the pier. Dolphins were jumping 100 feet beyond the pier's end, to the delight of all.

I walked back to the car, and continued south to Redondo the third and last of the South Bay beach towns. The triangular pier, which had been redeveloped with lots of stores, was dense with fishermen (and -women). Motored east across Torrance, resolutely middle class, north on I-110, and east into the heart of Watts, infamous from the 1965 riots. My destination was Simon Rodia's Watts Towers, a place I've wanted to see for more than 25 years. Rodia (1875-1965) was an Italian immigrant who moved to this site in 1924 and began building three metal, glass, and stone towers (two are 100' high and one is 50'), which today are heralded as one of the most ambitious folk-art projects ever. Rodia worked alone on the towers until 1954 (age 79). After a brief illness, he deeded the site to a neighbor, moved away, and never saw it again! Simon said: "I had in mind to do something big, and I did.''

I drove back to USC, picked up Linda, and drove downtown. My Geography doctorate comes in handy every day, but especially when it comes to finding free overnight parking on the edge of American downtowns! I dropped the car less than two blocks from the hotel that had been charging Linda $18 per night for parking. I showered and we walked to dinner (walked! In L.A.!) A nice meal at Ciudad, refined but slightly quirky cooking from Latin America.

Leaving the United States on September 10, I looked down on the looping Red River in east Texas, on Cumberland Lake in Tennessee, on the folded mountains of Appalachia, on Chesapeake Bay. Nice glimpses of our homeland, nearly two years after those bastards attacked us, with our Silver Birds as weapons. I waved good-bye to our good place, and headed east to the Old World, thinking about the big experiment called America. My 90^th trip to Europe would be a good opportunity not only to see again how the EU is shaping and reorganizing the continent, but also to think about how we run our part of the earth.

We landed in Frankfurt, I took quick shower, changed into a suit, and flew north on SAS to Stockholm. At Arlanda Airport, I jumped on their speedy new yellow-and-gray express train to the central city, arriving in less than 18 minutes. I walked a kilometer north to the Stockholm School of Economics for my first lecture there – it's Sweden's premier business school. Along the way, I noticed flags at half-staff. On the flight, I read that their Foreign Minister, Anna Lindh, had been stabbed the day before, but until then did not know that she had died. My host, Per Andersson, was waiting outside his building. We walked upstairs and spent about an hour discussing the airline industry with three graduate researchers. At 3:15 it was time for my first lecture to an undergraduate Marketing class. I acknowledged the murder, and linked the senselessness to the events of two years earlier – to the minute, in fact. Then proceeded, saying that to stop would give the d! ark forces precisely what they want.

After a short break, I gave a second lecture, then answered questions. These kids, who looked like Minnesotans, were bright. The applause was loud; I bowed and smiled – as always, it was good to be back in the classroom. I love it. Walking back to Per's office, I mentioned that I could tell it was a quality place by the quality of the questions, and he told me that there were 3800 applications for 300 first-year places. Then I said good-bye, and walked south on Holländergatan, past the Adolf-Frederick Church, where signs announced a memorial service for Mrs. Lindh at seven.

I dumped my bags in a locker a hundred meters from the airport train platform, and set out on foot for a couple of hours' look at central Stockholm. I had only been there once before, for two days in the cold and dark of November 1990. Despite the brevity of that visit I remembered the basic geometry of downtown. I walked east to the edge of the old town (Gamla Stan), and past the Riksdag (Parliament), where a memorial to Ms. Lindh had been set up. Flowers, especially the red roses that are the symbol of her Social Democratic Party, were piled high. The Swedes looked shaken; this bad stuff happens elsewhere, not in their calm land.

I turned west, back to the Adolf-Frederick Church. I would not have time to attend the memorial service, but I went inside and prayed. The organist began, and I departed a few minutes before seven. The setting sun lit the buildings, turning the red brick of another nearby church, St. John's, nearly scarlet. It was a stunning sight. I ambled south, back to the station, hopped the train to Arlanda, and flew 300 miles north to Umeå, landing at ten. I worked my e-mails, called home, and clocked out. Deep Zzzzzzzzs, no interruption.

When I checked in the night before, the front desk clerk told me that my friend Lars Lindbergh would meet me for our traditional run at 7:45 a.m. And there he was. Off we went, across the Umeå River, west to Grytan, an island of birch and pine, yakking about family and the business school, and Lars' imminent doctorate. We were back at the hotel in half an hour, time for a quick shower and breakfast, then up to the university. It was good to be back. This was my seventh visit since 1994; the place has become familiar. Waiting for my 10 o'clock lecture, I met lots of old friends in the B-school office – Dan Frost and Jan Bodin and the dean, Anders Söderholm, and others.

I gave a lecture, then listened to one. It was nice to be "on the other side" – sitting in a classroom and learning new stuff is as delightful now as it was when it first started, 46 years ago this month. We gathered for lunch, but I left early to give another lecture, at one, to a standing-room-only audience.

At two thirty, the school's International Advisory Board convened, and I was with more old friends – Paolo Cecchini and Vera Zamagni from Italy, Lois Stevenson from Industry Canada in Ottawa, Marian Gelder from the Warsaw School of Economics, Thomas Anderson from Malmö, and Carl Fredriksson from Stockholm. A nice bunch of people. The board met until five. The group headed to the hotel, but I did something really cool – I inserted my until-then-never-used wireless LAN card, walked outside, and connected to the Internet while sitting on a bench overlooking a pond. Wow! Yes, lots of people are doing it, but for me it was a first, and it was very exciting.

So novel that I asked a passer-by to take my picture. Talking to strangers, again. The fellow snapped a couple of pictures, and I marveled at all of the digital technology. "Yes", he said, "and most of it comes from your country." He was obviously not Swedish, so I asked him where he came from. "Iran", he replied. "Can you go back?" I asked. "No. I am a refugee." Sweden has opened her arms to lots of political refugees since 1980 (I met the daughter of another Iranian a day earlier, in class in Stockholm), but right there I was face to face with that hard reality. "I'm sorry", I said, "I will pray that someday you can go back."

I finished working my e-mail, hopped on the city bus back downtown, took a short nap, and we headed to dinner on the Sjöbris (Seabreeze), a former tugboat and icebreaker from the Gulf of Bothnia, 20 kilometers east, now a riverine bar and restaurant. A nice dinner, with Rödning (Arctic Char) as the main course. Yum! Worked my e-mail a bit more, and conked out.

The advisory board met Saturday morning and early afternoon, focusing our attention on the school's effort to gain accreditation from the European B-school group EQUIS. At 2:30 we said good-bye to Carl and a couple of others, climbed on a bus, and headed northwest, through the clean, mostly empty, comforting, Minnesota-like countryside of lakes and forest to the village of Burträsk, home of the dairy that produces Västerbottenost, the cheese of this province, West Bothnia.

We learned more about the cheese than we perhaps wanted to, but it was all good. After the tour and a lovely gift of cheese in a wooden box, I wandered east to the town's lovely white church, then back to the inn where we had dinner. No visit to the north of Sweden is complete without a taste of reindeer, so we enjoyed an appetizer of smoked Rudolph (Comet? Donder?), followed by some excellent salmon, and a pie dessert of another local treat, the tart yellow-orange cloudberries. Yum. We had a nice chat at table; it was especially interesting to hear Vera tell us about her University of Bologna, established 1088; a couple of tidbits: they had women professors as early as the 13^th century, and it was there that the term Alma Mater came into currency. We drove back, said some more good-byes, and I headed to bed. Another hard sleep.

Up at 6:30 Sunday, out for another trot, past the city church, bells pealing, across the river to the neighborhood called Teg, past the red traditional board-and-batten house I have admired so much that I some day want to replicate (in East Texas? Minnesota?), back across the bridge, and back to the hotel. Then home, via Stockholm and Paris. A really nice journey, that 90^th visit to Europe.

I did not travel the rest of September.