Third Quarter Update

Travel began on the first day of the quarter, out the door in mid-afternoon and onto the Silver Bird for Boston, then backtracked southwest to Islip, in the middle of Long Island. I was seriously tired when I picked up the Hertz car, and I got a little lost on my way to John and Janet Robinson's house on Pine Lane in Quogue. Cousin Jim (one of the Robinson's six sons-in-law) was waiting up, and we yakked and had a cold beer to kick off the July 4 weekend. Head hit pillow late, and, wound up, it took awhile to fall asleep.

We were up about seven, out of the basement "dorm" and into the kitchen, where managed disorder reigned. Young children everywhere. One or two grown-ups apologized, but I waved them off, replying that our empty nest has required some mental adjustment, and this noise was really, really welcome. I hugged John and Janet and visited only briefly, then Cuz and I were off on bikes, out for 26 miles through Quogue, nearby Westhampton, and along the beach. A good ride and a nice yak. As I've written before, Cuz is more like a brother, and we're well familiar with each other's inner workings. We had a quick lunch, then into the Robinson's huge and woodsy backyard for a game of freeze tag with Michaela's and Jim's sons, Jack and Charlie. A big time.

Back in Quogue, I had a nice backyard chat with John Robinson. The key matter to cover was whether I had permission to call him "Pop", as Jim does. I was delighted that he said yes, and I told him how very blessed and happy all four Brittons were that the Robinsons have opened their arms and home to yet more people. They are family.

Michaela, Jim, and I headed out to dinner, claiming a table right on the water, on Shinnecock Bay. We had a great meal, high point of which were steamers, clams cooked in broth. They were really tasty. After dinner we stopped at the Quogue Inn for a couple of beers with Michaela's sister Megan and her husband Ben. Then off to sleep.

On Saturday, July 3, I pointed the Ford west on I-495 toward the Big Apple. I had figured out the GPS navigation, and plugged in the destination, LaGuardia Airport. There was almost no traffic, and I arrived with an hour to spare. I parked the car on the street, a mile from the terminal, and wandered off in search of a cup of coffee. I found it at a little Dominican-run grocery on 94^th Street. I hung out in front, watching the mid-morning scene unfold. Notable was the Queens native, a limo driver on break, who provided clear and fluent directions to a Jamaican couple looking for 94^th Avenue in Jamaica (the Queens neighborhood, not their island!). That guy had GPS in his head!

At 11:40, I picked up the other three Brittons, Robin arrived from D.C., Linda and Jack from Dallas. All were in high spirits. Jack worked the CD, introducing us to his latest music finds, as I navigated a small bit of congestion. In no time we were up to 70 mph, and out to Quogue. We unpacked and headed immediately to the Surf Club, a friendly, modest club with a pool and access to a surprisingly clean, wonderful beach. We read horror stories of garbage and syringes on Northeastern beaches, but we saw nothing but miles of pristine, litter-free beaches. It was a lovely afternoon, clear, unpolluted skies, temperature at 75, wow.

With bathrooms in high demand on Pine Lane, we did our daily ablutions at the Surf Club's outdoor showers, headed home for a brief spell, then back to the Surf Club for their annual summer party. Met lots of friendly people. By ten we were noshing on pizza and poring over Michaela's and Jim's plans for their new house in Arlington Heights, the Chicago suburb where Jim grew up.

We were up about seven on the 229^th anniversary of the founding of the republic, and into the car with Cuz, headed east to breakfast at Babette's in East Hampton. The other Brittons wanted to see this seat of affluence. I was along as driver. We had a nice, if pricey, meal, wandered the shopping street, and motored back to Quogue without having seen any Famous People. Fine by me.

Back to the Surf Club and that great beach. The lot was full, so I dropped the family and rode a bike back over, stopping to admire the drawbridge across Quogue Canal, built by the WPA in 1940. A long walk along the beach was swell. Showered again, back to Pine Lane, then to the Fourth of July Barbecue at the Westhampton Country Club, where Pop has been a member for over four decades. Fun times, great food, a coupla beers, then sensational fireworks. Happy birthday, America.

Monday dawned with a bit of rain. Cuz and I dodged the weather for a short bike ride, returning just before the skies opened. Spent most of the morning in an extended chat with Pop, largely focused on Long Island geography – about Quogue, but mostly about Douglaston, Queens, where he raised his family. Fascinating stuff. With an hour to spare before leaving for Islip airport, Pop agreed to a guided tour of Quogue, which was really good. He knows the place.

Hugs and goodbyes, and pedal to the metal to the airport. Alas, unsettled weather around Boston complicated the return voyage. Suffice it to say that next time we'll deal with traffic and fly out of LaGuardia or JFK! Head hit pillow at 1:30, which was a little worrisome, given my appearance the next day before American's executive committee. Happily, all went well, securing, I suppose, my employ for a few more months!

The next weekend was at home, Saturday for ramp-building (finishing repairs on an existing ramp, Don the client told me that he reckoned God was smiling on me; it was one of those moments of truth), Sunday for installing Windows XP on my home desktop – all the electrons are again marching in the same direction on my PC, a great breakthrough.

The following Friday, July 16, I flew to Washington to visit Robin. The original jet had broken flaps, causing what was to me a minor delay. Folks, including the guy next to me, were grumpy. Without revealing my employer, I asked my seatmate, philosophically, whether he thought it was better to discover the mechanical problem when we were seven miles above the earth. We were only 80 minutes late when we docked at National Airport.

I hopped on the Metro blue line, riding to Farragut West, and met Robin a little after 7:30 in front of the Renwick Gallery, across Pennsylvania Avenue from her office in the Eisenhower Executive Offfice Building. I really wanted to take her picture with her office in the background, and I got it! Then we jumped in a taxi and headed to dinner at Addis Ababa, one of the several Ethiopian restaurants in the Adams-Morgan neighborhood due north of downtown. Robin shares my flexibility and sense of adventure, and I thought she'd appreciate a new cuisine. It had been many years since I visited one of these Ethiopian places, and we had a good meal of spicy lamb and chicken served with injera, the spongy bread that doubles as eating utensil. Lots of fun. Taxi back to her pad, which is my friend Carl Nelson's former house on Capitol Hill, now a B&B run by his wife Mary Donovan (they were in Colombia visiting Mary's son). Off to sleep.

I was up a little after six, and on my feet southeast to Carl's and Mary's house, to retrieve one of Carl's bikes for a traditional "dawn patrol" bike ride. There was a slight mix-up with keys and door locks, and I did not get in to pick up the bike. Walked back to Robin's, where she explained the locks. I decided to skip the morning ride. We had breakfast, showered, and set off on foot. First stop was the National Japanese American Memorial for Patriotism; the pink-granite site and fountains that commemorated the 120,000 Japanese-American men, women, and children unjustly incarcerated from 1942 to 1946 provided a good frame for the rest of the day – all that lofty rhetoric carved in stone and written on buildings is mainly, but not completely, true. We are an imperfect union, though we are way better than good.

Next stop was the original memorial to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, a modest marble slab adjacent to the National Archives on Constitution. This was his requested site and design, which was finished in 1965, two decades after his death. Then we ambled to the new World War II memorial, just west of the Washington Monument. It was a moving moment, thinking of my Dad and his struggles. We headed first to the Pacific side of the monument, noting Captain Britton's battles in the words carved in gray granite: Kwajalein, Saipan, Tinian, Philippines, and Okinawa. The memorial was packed.

Across on the Atlantic side, I offered to take a picture of father and son in front of Eisenhower's famous D-Day exhortation. After I snapped the scene, I asked the dad if he was there. "Yes, I was." I shook his hand and thanked him for his service, and he began to cry. I apologized, and explained that I couldn't thank my Dad, because he was gone. Then I was crying. It was a moment I will long remember.

We ambled on, south along the Tidal Basin, to the new FDR memorial, pink granite, extensive, and well done. But it was not what he wanted. We sat for 20 minutes on a bench overlooking the Tidal Basin, then headed north for a sandwich. With a little time before our special tour of the White House, we ambled into the Corcoran Gallery of Art, where they were exhibiting Norman Rockwell's famous four-freedoms paintings, themed after FDR's celebrated 1941 speech – freedom of worship, of speech, from want, and from fear. Moving.

At 1:35 we secured our credentials, met Robin's colleague, fellow Texan Jesse Villarreal, and headed off on a visit to the West Wing. Wow! The real deal! We visited the Rose Garden, the Oval Office, the Press Room, and other places. As a bonus, we trotted into the marvelous Eisenhower building, that Second Empire masterpiece just west of the White House, to see Robin's office. That was really cool. After the tour, Robin peeled off for home, I returned to the Corcoran, then back home, stopping briefly to visit with and thank another WWII vet, another D-Day survivor, from Colorado. Engaging with those two brave men was a special part of that day.

Back on Capitol Hill, I changed into bike shorts, picked up the bicycle at Carl's and headed off for 15 miles, down the mall, across into Arlington, then Georgetown, and the high point, four miles on the C&O Canal Towpath, along the Potomac. A very cool ride.

At 6:45 it was time to leave for dinner, and the skies opened. But the deluge did not last. We grabbed umbrellas, walked to Union Station, and grabbed the Metro, arriving at our dinner venue only three minutes late. And what a venue: my favorite Washington restaurant, Georgia Brown's, with cooking from the Low Country of Carolina. I hadn't been there in six or seven years. We had a splendid meal, fried chicken for Robin and a vegetarian sampler for me, topped off with peach cobbler. Sweet. As good as the dinner was, the conversation was even better – across a range of topics, but mainly about all her bright prospects. I am so proud of her.

The next morning, Sunday, was rainy, but I was determined to return to the World War II memorial to take some pictures without all the tourists. It was raining steadily, but I got my snaps; only five other visitors were there. I rode back up the hill, pausing again at the Japanese Internment Memorial. Dropped the bike at Carl's, walked home. Robin arrived from her morning exercise with the Sunday New York Times. We read for awhile, then ambled over to Pennsylvania Avenue, where I stayed on my first visit to D.C. in 1976. Breakfast was at the Tune Inn, oldest bar on the Hill. It was a regular dive, the kind of a place with a sign that read "Men: No Shirt, No Service. Women: No Shirt, Free Drinks." The walls sagged with taxidermy, including male and female deer derrieres above the washroom doors. Breakfast was swell. Robin loved the joint. We ambled back across a cool old neighborhood. Showered, and walked back to Eastern Market, Robin for shopping, me for the Metro to National Airport. Said goodbye to a bright young woman, and flew home.

Unpacked, rode my bike, helped Linda finish her excellent job of waterproofing our back deck, repacked, and departed the next day for Frankfurt. My seatmate in 4H was a Army F-16 aircraft mechanic who had been in Iraq and was returning from visiting his father, ill in Houston. As we have been doing recently, we upgraded Rocky to first class. He was pretty jazzed about the ride. Looking at the menu, he asked, "Is all this stuff free?" I worked a bit and slept a lot, remembering, as I always do in my daily prayers, the soldiers in harm's way. Like Rocky.

We landed Frankfurt early, took a quick shower, and hopped on the S8 suburban train, through the forest that adjoins the airport, past urban gardens that abut the shiny office park in Niederrad, and into the big downtown train station. Walked over and hopped on the regional train bound for Giessen, 40 miles north, my destination that day.

At 9:38, I met Tobias Langner, a marketing professor at Justus Liebig University. I met Tobias at St. Gallen, Switzerland, in February, and he asked if I'd like to visit a smaller German university. And why not, especially one founded as a Lutheran university in 1607, and later named for the 19^th-Century inventor of synthetic fertilizer (the Economics and Business faculty, where I lectured, was founded 1777, one of the first such departments in Germany).

It was a rainy day. Dodging drops, we ambled into the Hemingway Café and grabbed a cup of coffee, then drove a few kilometers to Tobias' office. He had a meeting, so I worked my e-mail down to near zero (always a good thing on the road). At 1:30 we headed off to lunch at the Alte Klostermühle, the old mill at the Arnsburg monastery, just outside the nearby town of Lich. The cloisters were a series of lovely, half-timbered buildings (oops, camera was in briefcase in Tobias' office). The lunch was seriously good. Really savory potato soup, followed by a main course of wild (not farmed) venison.

And Tobias was a great conversationalist – no awkward, empty moments. He told me many interesting things, but this was the most: Hitler's Wehrmacht drafted his father in fall 1944, at age 16. Within six months, he was in a Russian, then, luckily, a U.S. POW camp. Our Army recognized that he was just a kid, and wanted to give him a chance. So some soldier from Topeka or Toledo asked him what he wanted to do. He said "be a businessman." First, the army arranged for him to work for a local farmer, to prove his ethic, requiring him to check in once a week. After demonstrating his discipline, he was hired by a company selling fertilizer, and Herr Langner rode his bicycle from farm to farm. He told his children "my life would have been very different, if not for the U.S. Army." At a time when our military and our foreign policy are under question, that story made me feel proud. It was a very personal version of the Marshall Plan.

At 4:15, my lecture began, in front of 250. It was the last day of the semester (a late end at that school). It went very well, with lots of good questions. Tobias drove me to the railway station, and I hopped on the train back to Frankfurt. It was a long day, but a good one. Another school added to the teaching network, a chance to see the pleasant landscape of Hesse, the golden fields of ripening barley and wheat, the thick forests surrounding the little villages, all good.

Flew to London, hopped the Heathrow Express to town, then a very pricey cab (equivalent of $21 for a 2.5-mile drive) to the Griffy's house in St. John's Wood. Jenny the dog was the only one home, and she was pretty sad, because all her family were away. Brushed teeth and clocked out. Slept hard. Up at seven, out the door, to our London ad agency by eight, in time to work my e-mail in-box down to single digits, then into a meeting – a really productive one – until noon. Worked my e-mail again, met briefly with the agency's new creative director, and headed to Paddington Station.

As I often do when traveling in the U.K., I turned on some British pop music while updating this journal on the 14:18 First Great Western service to Oxford; in that instance, it was Eric Clapton's classic "Layla", followed by my new favorite, number 13 from Elgar's "Enigma Variations." The best of English music!

I got off at Oxford; like Jack's and my visit to Cambridge 14 weeks ago, felt immediately smarter. (An aside: the very first tourist sign I saw, interpreting the 1790 Oxford Canal, spelled the possessive "its" as the contraction of "it is." Aieeeeeeeeeee!) It had been 27 years since my last visit to this university town. I had an hour to use before the connecting train to Worcester, and managed a good walk around, rolling my suitcase and briefcase behind me. Saw the Saïd Business School (and went in, on the spur of the moment, to attempt to hawk my lecturing skills, but could not get past the reception desk, "for security reasons").

Continued on to Nuffield College, like most of the old buildings here, it was constructed of honey-colored Cotswold stone. The courtyard was open to view, and it was lovely, summer flowers in bloom, water lilies in a pool. Wandered past and photographed a couple of other old houses, then headed back to the station. It was a nice break – make the most of time, I say. Ate a couple of tangerines, climbed on the 16:24, and celebrated my newfound Oxford intelligence with a tepid Wadworth beer from the "drinks trolley."

At Worcester Shrub Hill, I hopped into a taxi for a short ride to the village of Crowle, where friends Diana and John Crabtree and their two sons live, in a dwelling that for centuries has been The White House. Two such places in four days! The Pakistani taxi driver was as chatty as me, and we had a nice yak, moving from weather to jobs (he was interested in mine) to trips back to a small town 100 miles from Islamabad, and finally to race relations in Worcester. He told me he was born there, had been bullied a bit in primary school, but did not feel much racism as an adult. A good thing. And a nice bit of engagement. I gave him a good tip, shook his hand, ambled down School Lane, and passed through the gates of this other White House.

The young Crabtrees, James and Robbie, were playing outdoors with a neighbor girl. I greeted them, hugged Diana, and we went inside. James, quite a skillful young artist, gave me one of his afternoon's works, several remarkably realistic frogs (the oeuvre now hangs on my office wall). It was fun to be around small children for the second time in three weeks. James was interested in aeroplanes, so I showed pictures of AA jets on my laptop. Big fun. Diana and I got back up to speed with our respective lives (I last visited Crowle in April 2002, a day we rode a steam train nearby).

John arrived about seven; he retired from law last year, in theory, but still seems really busy, especially helping various charities. We had a glass of sparkling wine in the kitchen. I volunteered to read chapter five of a "Brave Bill" pirate story to the boys; it had been awhile since I experienced the joy of reading, with some feeling, to youngsters. "You're a good reader," said James. The three adults had dinner and dessert, and I was snoring by ten.

I was up at six for a run in rural Worcestershire. England's rural landscape is arrested time. On the horizon was a Norman church tower. At eye level were hedged fields, three large grazing ewes, brick barns, and fireweed. It was a sensational bit of exercise. I showered, gobbled down a bowl of bran flakes, and met Steve and Derek, mates of John's from his former law firm, Wragge & Co. This was the start of a big day, an outing to London and the hallowed pitch of Lord's, the home of cricket. And John was sure that despite the sellout, as a member of the Marylebone Cricket Club, keepers of Lord's, he could secure a ticket for this novice fan.

We jumped into one of Wragge's BMW 7s, and headed up the motorway, picked up another mate, Phil, and were soon zooming southeast. I was mainly yakking with seatmate Steve, who heads up Wragge's substantial pro bono practice. It was a good ride, and in no time we were in St. John's Wood; "my" London neighborhood is coincidentally the location of Lord's. Dropped my suitcase, parked the car, and met up with John, who indeed had found me a ticket not far from their four seats.

This was sacred ground. Many of the older fans wore the MCC necktie, paprika and brass stripes (the truly hard core sported khaki sun hats with hatbands of these same colours). Brits were filing in, hefting substantial backpacks or cooler bags, nearly all toting the limit of a bottle of wine or two bottles of beer. At 10:35, the match began. It was day one of a five-day test between England and the West Indies, and the crowd settled down for a full day. No 150-minute U.S. ballgame this. I forgot my ballcap, so asked a fan for some sunscreen, which protected all but my thinning scalp!

Any recollection from my only previous experience with the game, in Sydney in January 1981, was long gone. And I was sitting my myself – no mates to ask – so I really focused, and started to pick up at least the basics. Clapped politely when the batsman whacked a hit. This was fun, but way slower than American baseball (my countryman who likened it to watching paint dry was uncharitable but perhaps not too far off!). At 12:30, players and fans paused for the lunch break, which struck me as quite civilized, and I trotted off to find John and his pals. John said there was one vacant seat in front of them, and that I should be a squatter after lunch. The repast appeared from a series of bags, completed with a nice Pilsner Urquell beer.

Play resumed. I plopped down on the empty chair, and got back into the slow rhythm of the game. There were now resources to ask about rules and nuance, and I acquired more of basics. But at 3:10 the rightful placeholder arrived, I said goodbye to John, Derek, Steve, and Phil, and returned to my spot. Soon we paused for afternoon tea (or beer, in most cases), whence the teams left the pitch, donned blazers and ties, and lined up to meet the Queen. Yep, Elizabeth II, looking queenly in a mint-green coat and matching hat, shook every player's hand and chatted briefly. The crowd mostly stood – I suppose those seated were firm republicans – and watched the scene on the field and enlarged on a jumbo TV just behind me.

I stayed for six hours Day one was far from over, but England scored 320 runs and only two of their ten were out. Andrew Strauss, quite a batsman, was routinely whacking four-run hits. I left the stands, and walked the half-mile back to the Griffys. It was hot by U.K. standards, and I changed into shorts and a T-shirt. Jenny, bummed out on Tuesday, seemed willing to go out. So I fastened her leash, and off we went. A fast dash, full speed. We slowed after about a quarter mile. We walked for another 20 minutes, stopping to let two small children pet her. She still wasn't completely sure of me, but she knew she enjoyed the exercise. I felt like St. Francis. We ended the walk with another run, pell-mell down Abbey Road. It was way fun.

Took a short nap. Tim arrived about seven. We yakked a bit, Tim identified me to Jenny, we changed clothes, and walked across the street to the Clifton pub. Had a pint, ambled north to the by-now-familiar Bhan Thai restaurant, and enjoyed a green curry. Walked home, worked my e-mail, and said goodnight. Having friends in London is such a great thing.

We were up early on Friday the 23^rd, excited about the day's prospect: a visit to the Farnborough Air Show. Held alternating years with the big Paris show (which I visited in 1993, '95, and '97), we were headed to the last day that was only open to "the trade" – not the public. It was a brilliantly clear day, so rare in that kingdom. We were soon in Tim's Honda CRV and headed west on the A40 and the M4 motorway. It was an easy drive 40 miles southwest to this former air base. We parked, hopped a shuttle, and were soon under the wing of Airbuses and Boeings. Tim loves airplanes nearly as much as me, and we were pretty close to being with the angels.

We wandered the static displays for a couple of hours, then repaired to the Boeing "chalet", to which I had secured an invitation. We had some lunch and drinks. The flying demonstrations began promptly at 12:30, with an eye-popping 25-minute tour de force from Britain's Red Arrows, the U.K. equivalent of our Blue Angels. Except they have nine jets. Nine. Way cool. Unlike Paris, this was a four-hour display, plane after plane. B1B, Apache helicopters, a B-52, Airbus A340, historic Spitfires and Mustangs. Not to be biased by our hosts, but apart from the Red Arrows, the best flying was a South African Airways 747-400, which did some remarkable low-altitude maneuvers. Tim got some stunning snaps of these feats. It was all about defying gravity. And to me there was another subtext: we've figured out how to zap the enemy from the air, but that assumes that we can truly identify the enemy – that it flies a flag and has identifiable sovereign territory that we can vaporize. I'm quite sure our scariest enemy no longer fits that description.

We left the show at about 5:00 and were home by 6:45. Walked Jenny and headed to the Clifton for a pint then a pub dinner (sausages and mashed potatoes, very British) and another pint. Worked my e-mail, admired Tim's digital snaps from the afternoon, and slept hard.

Up at six, and out the door at seven. Tim drove me three minutes north to the West Hampstead rail station of Thameslink, which runs a direct service to Gatwick Airport. I had never taken this route. Unhappily, weekend "engineering works" made for a slower journey via train, Tube, and train, but I was still at LGW by 8:40, and in the air at 11:07, nonstop to Dallas/Fort Worth. Another swell trip, my 96^th Atlantic crossing.

I was home almost a week. Linda was already sitting in seat 6F when I ambled aboard the 4 p.m. Silver Bird to Chicago on Friday, July 30. Robin was waiting for us at our gate at O'Hare. We hopped on the CTA train into town, then a quick taxi over to friend Gary Doernhoefer's apartment in a high-rise complex on the west side of the Loop (this was the third summer Gary had loaned us his flat, while he spent the weekend with family in Ohio). In no time we were out the door and tucking into dinner at the Berghoff on Adams Street, one of Chicago's oldest restaurants (1896). Walked back to the apartment and went to sleep.

I rose before seven, grabbed my bike shorts and helmet and stuff, walked east, and jumped on the CTA north to the Fullerton stop, then walked north three blocks to Cousin Jim's house. Their kids, Jack, Charlie, and Katie, who we had seen a few weeks earlier in New York, were up and running around. Michaela returned from the gym, and Cuz and I headed out for a bike ride. We rode along Lake Michigan, north several miles, then weaved through neighborhoods; as I think I've written before, Jim's interest in residential real estate meshes nicely with my long fascination with the urban landscape. We saw neighborhoods in flux, districts with seemingly little change, and places in between.

About eleven, folks started showing up, and by 11:25 we were on foot, north on Sheffield Avenue, headed for Wrigley Field and our 13^th consecutive summer outing to see the Cubs. By 12:10 we were in a fancy suite, guests of the Tribune. Linda and Robin, who had been shopping, were already there, as were old pals and my Uncle Alan and Aunt Dorothy. It was a great time, but the game – and the fellowship – ended far too quickly.

We walked back to Jim's place, visited a bit, and headed west to another serial event, dinner at a local Italian restaurant, Rose Angelis. Then it was a taxi back to the Loop. Toward the end of the ride, I engaged the taxi driver, a black man from Sudan. I asked about Darfur – where the Sudanese government and its stooges are systematically killing black people – and he told me his father had taught school in that region for 40 years. I told him I was glad that he was in the U.S.

We got a lot of sleep. Up early, laced up, trotting toward the big lake. But I never made it that far. I made it to the new Millennium Park, filled with cool stuff to see. Eye-popping. Vowed to return later. Bought two large coffees at the White Hen store across from the apartment, and headed up to the 30^th floor. Read, showered, and zipped out the door, walking back to Millennium Park. I stopped to snap a few pictures along the way, capturing the new Boeing building, the ornate ironwork on Louis Sullivan's 1899 Carson Pirie Scott department store, and more.

But that park! Just awesome. Dedicated 13 days earlier, it was vivid proof that Chicago continues to be on the cutting edge of architecture and urban design. It is a place that exudes energy and all that is positive about our country. Noteworthy were Frank Gehry's concert stage, the Jay Pritzker Pavilion, Anish Kapoor's "Cloud Gate", a highly polished sculpture that many have begun to refer to as "the shiny bean", and a garden with Midwestern wildflowers. It was all so cool. I spent a lot of time there, then wandered north, toward a noon rendezvous with Linda and Robin on Michigan Avenue.

On the way, I spotted something I had never seen before. The lower walls of the Tribune Building at 435 N. Michigan Avenue were studded with rocks and building chunks from famous places in the world – the House of Parliament in London, the Great Wall of China, and lots of sites from World War II. On the north wall, I found rocks from Kwajalein and Saipan, where my Dad, Chicago's son, fought for us. It was a great discovery – Chicago never ceases to amaze.

The ladies helped me pick out a fancy red tie. I stayed with them for a couple more stores, but as you know, I don't do much shopping. We gathered again for the ride to O'Hare, said goodbye to Robin, and flew home.

On August 4, I flew south to Santiago de Chile. Eye contact with Alejandra, a beyond-adorable six-month-old in the row in front of me, helped offset the adjacent gruff creep. Time passed quickly, and I awoke to see the high Andes in dawn silhouette. Waiting for a colectivo, the shared-ride van to the hotel, I spotted Alejandra's parents. Where, I asked, was cutie-pie? Mom pointed to a car in front of us, where Abuela (grandmother) was hugging grandchild for the first time. That's the business that I'm in – that's what we do – we make hugs possible.

The colectivo filled up, and it took a long time to get to the Hotel Plaza el Bosque (note to self: next time, a taxi to the Metro station closest to the airport). I checked in. I remembered Eduardo, the bellman from my November visit. As we entered my room, I spotted a power outlet and instantly recognized that I brought the wrong power adapter. Not to worry, Eduardo had a Chilean unit I could borrow for my stay. I showered and wandered around the block to the Unimarc supermarket for a some yogurt for a late breakfast. To me, a fan of ordinary experiences in foreign lands, there are few things more fun than poking around a grocery store overseas. Simple tastes!

A colleague from AA Chile met me in front of the hotel at 12:45; in the time we waited for a taxi, we could have easily walked to the Ritz-Carlton, but we got there, greeted the rest of American's Santiago sales team (it was Chile, so one peck on the right cheek for women). Pamela Camus, our country director, knew I was headed to her country to lecture in early August, and had asked me a few weeks earlier if I could give a talk on advertising and branding to her top corporate and travel-agency accounts. Por qué no? We had a fancy lunch and it was my turn. We had simultaneous translation, so guests donned headsets. It all went well, lots of compliments.

I walked back to the hotel, worked my e-mail, and jumped on the Metro to the Catholic University. I had a nice visit with the MBA program coordinator, Ana-María Bravo, then met my host, Andrés Ibañez. The airline-advertising lecture to MBAs went really well, partly because I had plenty of time, and partly because the students were engaged and asked questions throughout the talk. The high point may have been showing them the great work that our U.S.Hispanic agency, Zubi, produces – not just because it's great stuff, but because I didn't have to translate. And as always happens when I speak at Catholic universities, there's something comforting about having Jesus' cross in the classroom, as a reminder of His example: serving others is important.

I said goodbye to Andrés (they had canceled my lecture for the next day, so that time it as only a two-gig visit), rode the Metro east to Las Condes, my neighborhood, changed clothes, and headed back into the city. Alas, the seafood restaurant I wanted to visit was closed, so headed back again to Las Condes and stumbled quite by chance on Aqualuna, a seafood restaurant. The menu on the outside signboard looked good, but the place was empty at 9:00 on a Thursday night. No matter. Dinner was sensational, little shrimps in a garlicky sauce and a grilled seabass served on creamed spinach, with a side dish of stir-fried vegetables seasoned with thyme. And a couple of bottles of Kunstmann bock, brewed by the Germans down in Valdivia (500 miles south of Santiago); it was a great beer, more a Porter than a bock.

When I got back to my room, the message-waiting light blinked. Pamela called. Instead of heading by myself far into the Andes to Portillo (where I skied in 1970 on my first visit to Chile), she invited me to join her friend Hernan and his family at their apartment at La Parva, a ski area only 35 kilometers above the city. Wow! Cool! Christmas in August, I said.

I slept hard that night, woke at seven, worked 86 e-mails down to 10, hopped the Metro back to la Universidad Catolica, bought Jack a T-shirt (I was wearing mine a few days earlier, and he admired the "really cool logo", the traditional seal of the school).

At 11:00, Maria-Inez Carrera, our Chilean sales manager, picked me up, then Pamela, and in about 90 minutes we were up at La Parva, 8700 feet above sea level. We put on our ski clothes. Hernan had set out equipment that fit me, and in no time three AA folks were playing hooky big time, riding a chairlift.

I had a permanent smile on my face. Another "and we're getting paid for this?" moment. What was different on the slopes? Lots. For starters, the whole area was above treeline. The lifts were open 'til five; on one slope there was a shrine to Jesus and Mary; the Chilean flag, huge, waved proudly on another piste; and there were lots of intersections – where trails cross surface ski lifts, and where trails cross trails (plenty of collisions at those places, no doubt!).

We hooked up with Hernan and skied hard. It had snowed for three straight days earlier in the week, and the hill was in top condition. Hernan was about five years older than me, and was, like me, a fast skier. Faster, actually: he had raced in his youth, was on the Chilean ski team, and skied for his country at the 1968 Olympics in Grenoble.

He was interesting in lots of other ways, too. His family owned a lot of stuff. He was a pilot with his own jet, and a big ranch on Rio Grande, the Chilean-Argentine island at the tip of the continent, and lots of stories. A really good guy, a clear window on enterprise in this most entrepreneurial of South American countries.

At about six, we took a sauna, then it was social hour. The door of their apartment was, it seemed, permanently open, and there was a steady parade of friends and family, including lots of friends of Hernan's three daughters. I nicknamed the place el centro del universo, and they all laughed. Hernan poured me a glass of red wine from the Misiones de Rengo vineyard. More people coming and going, a LAN Airbus captain, a real-estate developer, a retail guy. A kiss on the right cheek for each woman. It was big fun.

Their cook, Juan, prepared sushi, followed by an array of sweets, some of which Hernan had carried back from a visit to Buenos Aires the day before. As I have written many times, the Latins know their sweets. We yakked a bit after dinner, more people came and went, and I was the first one to clock out.

I was up before sunrise. Reading, writing a bit, considering my great good fortune to have people like this to take me under their wing. Just awesome good luck. Thanks, Hernan! Gracias, Pamela! By nine there were signs of life, and fresh bread from Juan. We skied hard from ten until two, when it was time for a Chilean barbecue. High point was pastelera, vaguely like creamed corn, but much tastier than the stuff that came from Green Giant cans.

The driver hired to get me back to the airport was there early, but I didn't want to leave. This family had become fast friends, and their kindness was truly stunning. It was fun skiing, and more fun to have a good glimpse on talent and success in another part of the New World. Hugs for all, down the steep hills, swooping around 40 hairpin curves, and back into the city. Traffic was light, and I was at the airport at 5:15. Checked in, bought four bottles of wine at the duty free shop, worked my e-mail at the Admirals Club, and flew home. A sensational trip.

Was home for eight days. At 11 a.m. on Monday the 16^th, I hopped in Robin's red Honda to reverse the journey from last December: my job was to drive to El Paso, give her the keys, and fly home. Pedal to the metal, through Fort Worth in a flash, heading west. There's something swell about motoring that direction, even if I knew I would reverse course the next morning. For an afternoon, it was all about the freedom of the open road, listening to seven CDs as I crossed our big state, past Abilene and Sweetwater, Big Spring, and across the Pecos River (beyond the Pecos, the speed limit rises to 75, and the music came from Texans Tish Hinojosa and Buddy Holly). The drive was easy, and I got into the routine of the road. Traffic was surprising light. It was a nice ride. Summer weather has been odd and West Texas was no exception; it was raining, and the Davis Mountains and rest of the desert were green. I stopped at a rest area, and it was cool. Not even a need for air conditioning.

As I exited Interstate 10 at the El Paso airport, 660 miles from home, the clouds opened. Deluge. I got soaked dashing into the hotel office. Happy hour, with free drinks, was just winding down in the lobby of the Woodfin Suites, so I waited out the cloudburst with a glass of beer. Sitting there, I thought about several déja vu moments that day – it felt like summer travel with my Dad, the afternoon freeway traffic, stopping for gas, small towns (those close enough to I-10), checking into the motel, the prospect of dinner with a child. It was a nice memory, so nice that I would have been happy to help Robin with the second half of the drive, on to Los Angeles.

I got to our room, and tuned in the Olympics. Picked up Robin at 8:30, and we headed to dinner at the nearby Los Bandidos de Carlos y Mickeys (since 1944). Like all border cities – well, the whole state – El Paso has great Mexican food. We had guacamole, tacos al pastor (barbecued pork, a recipe from Guadalajara), Tecate beer. Filled the gas tank, watched the Olympics, and turned out the lights at 10:30.

We were up at 5:30, showered, a quick free breakfast, and were at the airport at 6:10. I kissed Robin goodbye, and, like I have done in each of the three previous years, cried as the red Honda pulled away, getting smaller as it headed west toward USC. Inside the terminal, people stared: why was that man in a suit weeping? I flew back at seven. Spotted the Interstate a couple of times. Smiled. A nice waltz across Texas, in both directions. I called Robin twice that day to check on her progress. She was doing well, she said, and thanked me for introducing her to the joys of cruise control.

Eleven days later, each filled with tons and tons of work (we were readying a big ad campaign), I clocked out after just four hours of work, and for the 17^th consecutive year flew north to Minnesota for the state fair. Landed at 1:30, hopped in a Hertz car ten minutes later, and twenty minutes after that I was zipping north on the new light-rail Hiawatha Line. This transport geek felt some joy in climbing aboard. More than 25 years ago, while serving on the Transportation Advisory Board of the Twin Cities' Metropolitan Council (a regional planning authority), I joined chair David Graven and others in urging the construction of the line. But it took so long! These cities are sensibly developed, but the tradeoff is planning gridlock and lots of delay.

But the line is finally done, and it's fast and in no time I was on the West Bank of the University of Minnesota, my old academic stomping ground, wandering around the new Carlson business school. Worked e-mail for ten minutes (until I said to myself, "hey, this is a vacation day"). Wandered over to the Geography Department, and found an old colleague, Rod Squires, deep in some testimony he was preparing for a lawsuit aimed at securing fishing and hunting rights for Indians in northern Michigan. We had a nice yak about that, and commiserated about the rotten state of the airline business – he's married to a 747 first officer for United. Stopped in to say hello, after more than two decades, to John Easton, who runs I.T. stuff for the College of Liberal Arts. Ended the visit to "the U" with a stop at the Borchert Map Library, named for my old friend, the late geographical genius John. At the entrance, I saw a framed picture of him and smiled broadly, for in front of me, captured in black and white, was that twinkle in his eye – the twinkle that bespoke the joy of discovery. Wandered to the back of the library, where I wrote my dissertation 1977-78.

Hopped back on the train, jumped in the car, and headed west-northwest to a trendy bar in the Uptown neighborhood of Minneapolis where at 4:30 I met another friend I had not seen in 20-plus years, Jim Grandbois. Jimmy was one of those guys who used to ride with me to watch the planes at the airport; but he headed off to 20 years making custom furniture, then into residential real estate. We had a beer, a swell visit, and I peeled off for Chuck Wiser's house, my weekend digs (Chuck was out of town). The drive there was splendid, around two of the city's famous urban lakes, Harriet and Calhoun. In good weather, there is no place more pleasant than this.

I washed my face, worked more e-mail, donned sneakers, and headed back into town, to the Black Forest Inn, site of lots of times with friends, site of engagement with Linda, and more. Met another friend since junior high, Tim McGlynn, and had a coupla beers and a nice meal. Drove home, clocked out.

I was up at six on fair day, excited as always, out the door, into St. Paul, to our old neighborhood, Crocus Hill. Bought a big cup of coffee and a raspberry cream cheese Danish at our old neighborhood bakery, Wuollet. Those folks know their bread. Savored the food and drink motoring north on Lexington Parkway, parked close to the fair, and was on the fairgrounds by 7:15. For the third or fourth consecutive year, I met my friend Bob Woehrle at the tall pines at the Department of Natural Resources pavilion, and we headed off to catch up.

Bob is a delight; despite a rough go as a single parent, he has maintained his humor, and his skillful turn of phrase kept me laughing the whole time. We ate some breakfast, wandered to the animal barns briefly, then back across the grounds to the art show, greeting my old friends (I've admired works at that juried show for nearly two decades) Jean Ales and Bob Crump. It was an especially good show this year, and I submitted "interest cards" for a couple of works (after the fair, the artist contacts me, though there is no obligation to sell nor buy). We left the show, and wandered along the time-honored route, pausing for an early beer. Bob peeled off about noon, and I continued the wander, back toward the animal barns.

I stopped at the All the Milk You Can Drink booth. The charge has risen to a dollar (from a dime in my childhood), but they've added chocolate skim, a favorite. I guzzled four or five glasses, pausing to allow Melissa Euerle, 18, of Meeker County, a runner-up to the 51^st annual Princess Kay of the Milky Way competition, to apply a "got milk" temporary tattoo to my bicep. I engaged her a bit: her family had a dairy farm near Litchfield, 50 miles west; she was headed to college the following week, to study dairy production at South Dakota State University. I bought a 4-H T-shirt for Jack, ambled through the barns, and headed back to the Horticulture building, to make sure 95-year-old Lillian Colton was still producing "crop art" from seeds. Yep, she was there, steady-handed as ever. Finished up with a visit with travel agent and fair publican Hank Hanten, a friend of Chuck Wiser. Hank gave me a Summit Brewery T-shirt and free beer, and we yakked about the state of the travel business.

Why do I like the fair so much? Apart from the comfort of recurrence, maybe it's because it offers a view on culture in the broadest sense: agriculture, popular culture, a touch of high culture, craftsmanship and consummate skill.

My last fair conversation was with Sue, who parked her two slices of pizza and beer at the other corner of my stand-up table in Hank's beer garden. Sue was chatty, and she told me she was looking for a man. "I'm really quite passionate", she said, but quickly made it clear that she had spotted my wedding ring!

"Check and done" as Robin would say; I left the fair, drove back to Chuck's house, took a short nap (the fair is a lot of sensory input and a lot of walking, so a 45-minute snooze was great tonic). Donned a suit and tie, and drove into downtown Minneapolis to a wedding reception for Spencer and Stephanie Moersfelder. Spencer is the older son of longtime friends Edward and Karel Moersfelder. It was big fun – good conversation with some new friends, wonderful food, Summit Pale Ale. Said goodbye after nine, and walked around downtown for 40 minutes, then headed home. Caught the last ten minutes of USC's first football win of the season, worked e-mail, and dozed off.

Was up early, out the door, driving around old neighborhoods in suburban Edina and south Minneapolis, past South View Junior High, childhood houses, the Lake Harriet bandshell, into downtown, to the U of M East Bank, and onto the wonderful, tree-lined mall. Then back out to friends Mike Davis' and Sara Wahl's house. Yakked briefly with Sara, then Mike and I headed out to a caloric breakfast and good visit. Mike is a wonderful guy. Zipped back to their house, said hello to sons Mike II and Alex, then said goodbye. My Dad's grave marker is five minutes from the airport, so I stopped to say thank you, then dropped the car and flew home, through perfectly clear skies all the way to the Lone Star State.

The following Friday, I flew out to San Angelo, Texas, rented a car, and headed down U.S. Highway 87 to Brady, for my 14^th session as a judge in the World Championship Barbeque Goat Cook-off. It was in the 80s, brilliantly clear, and the 81 miles went quickly. Fellow judge Milton Schulz Jr., a pharmacist from Glen Rose, was studying for an exam by the Best Western pool; I worked my e-mail for a bit, then joined him for a swim and yak, then out for a late dinner. This was the first year since 1996 that I had stayed overnight, and it was good to be able to stick around.

Was up at 6:45 the next morning, laced up running shoes, ready for my first 5K race in many years, the traditional Great Goat Gallop. Drove to the high school, traditional start of the sprint, but no one was there. Drove out to Richards Park, site of the cook-off, and the ladies at the gate told me the Gallop was canceled this year for lack of a sponsor. So I went back to the motel and took off on my own gallop. Showered, had a quick nibble, and headed into town to wander around the McCulloch County Court House, the castle-like old jailhouse, and nearby streets. At 9:50 the other judges were already gathering at the Hard Eight Barbeque on Bridge Street. It was great to see old friends again – Mark Pollack from Alpine, Jim Stewart from Lubbock, and many more. The judges' brunch was the customary affair. Past eleven I decided to fill some time with a side trip.

The day before, ten miles west of Brady on U.S. 87, I noticed a sign for the West Sweden Cemetery. I retraced the route, turned north at the sign, zigzagged a bit, was redirected by a helpful fellow hunting dove, and found the cemetery. There were about a dozen family plots belonging to Anderson, Sunvison, Broman, and others. The earliest was born 1854. Most of the lives were short, a reminder of the high mortality of pioneer life 120 years ago. I took a few photos, and headed back into town, hoping to learn more at the public library. Alas, it was closed for the weekend and the cook-off. But I later learned in the Handbook of Texas Online that a Methodist minister settled the place in 1905, adding "West" because other Swedes had created East Sweden, Texas, two decades earlier and 15 miles east.

Drove out to Richards Park, where festivities were in full swing. Wandered around a bit, checking out the cooking rigs and visiting with old friends Kim King, a local banker, as well as Stephen Coder, his dad Dee, and their friend Daniel Ramon, drinking Tecate beneath the purple flag of their alma mater, TCU. Such fun to see old pals. At 3:15 the judges assembled, and the judging began a bit later. Exhausting work, sampling 60 pieces of goat. Some really good, some truly awful, some in between. But all of it fun. At six I headed back to the motel, worked my e-mail, took a swim, read, relaxed, and clocked out early.

Was up at 4:30, pedal to the medal back to San Angelo, routine except for a wrong turn in town that got me a little stressed. Through the TSA security, always serious business in small airports (I counted five gummint employees screening a 50-seat airplane), onto an American Eagle jet, and back to Dallas. A swell trip.

Robin was home for the Labor Day weekend, and that afternoon we had a "cultural outing", the first in many years, down to the Nasher Sculpture Center in downtown Dallas. Mr. Ray Nasher, a local real-estate developer, amassed one of the foremost collections of notable sculpture from the late 19^th and 20^th centuries, and it is now housed in a stunning building and garden. The museum, designed by Renzo Piano was awesome, the garden, by landscape architect Peter Walker, yet more so. We decided that the several works by Catalan artist Joao Miro were the best of show, but there was so much more, including pieces by Henry Moore, Picasso, Maillol, Giacometti, and others. Wow. And as a bonus, Mr. Nasher was standing by the exit; Linda and I shook his hand and thanked him for his remarkable generosity.

The day after Labor Day, Linda came along with me, northeast to Frankfurt. It had been too long, almost a decade, since she accompanied me on a European biz trip, and it was nice to have her. We landed in Frankfurt a little after seven, had a cup of coffee in the Admirals Club, and flew on to Stockholm, arriving about noon. Hopped on the fast Arlanda Express train, then a quick, pricey taxi, and were at the hotel by 1:10. Linda wanted a quick nap, I wanted a shower. We were out the door after three, on a crisp, mostly clear fall day, walking south on Sveavägan, down to the water. It was Linda's first and my third visit to Stockholm (her mother was born in Värmland, in central Sweden, and came to Minnesota at age five; with that background, she blended in quite well on the streets of the capital).

We were neither trudging nor walking briskly, but it was soon time for a short break, so we headed into the historic Grand Hotel for some refreshment at the lobby bar, coffee for Linda and a low-booze (2.2%) beer for me. The hotel faced a small bay, and across was the royal palace, home of King Carl, and old town (Gamla Stan). Renewed, we resumed the trek, past the palace and into the old town, over cobbles and down narrow lanes. Hopped the Tunnelbana (subway) back to the hotel, and in the lobby at seven we met Anders Liljenberg, a marketing professor at the Stockholm School of Economics, where I lectured the following day. We took an immediate liking to Anders, a lively and interesting fellow. We walked a few blocks to an agreeable neighborhood bistro. A few minutes later another prof arrived, Per Andersson, who I met the previous year. We had a great dinner – nice starters, an entrée of Arctic Char, a great chocolate dessert, and good conversation across a bunch of topics. Then a nice, long sleep.

I met Dan Lundvall the next morning at eight. Dan is a senior guy at Luftfartsverket, the Swedish civil aviation authority; I had met him a couple of times before, and he knows a lot about our business. We had a good breakfast. Linda headed off for sightseeing, I worked my e-mail, then headed out the door on another pleasant day, across the street and into St. John's Church, a marvelous red-brick Gothic building I had seen the year before. Said my daily prayers, walked outside to read the paper, then headed a few blocks to meet Anders and his colleagues for a sandwich before the lectures.

The first talk was an informal seminar for about thirty students, questions and answers, followed by a two-hour general lecture to about sixty kids. It all went well. This is the premier B-school in the country, and the students were very bright. Said goodbye to Anders, walked back to the hotel, met Linda, and headed back out to Arlanda. At 7:45, after a rather awful small meal at McDonald's (what was I thinking?), I had a telephone interview about our new ad campaign with a reporter from Dow Jones. An hour later, we flew 300 miles north, and an hour after that we were in Umeå. It was my eighth visit to an orderly and clean university town nearly to the Arctic Circle, a place with a broad, swift river, pine and birch trees, clean air – a place that compensates in a small way for the loss of our log house in a similar environment in northern Minnesota. The two locales are remarkably similar, even in the blonde-haired people you meet along the road. I've been visiting since 1994, so it has become a comfortable and familiar place.

I did another phone interview with a U.S. reporter, mercifully short, at 11:30. Linda was working her e-mail on a PC in the lobby, and came back to the room with a half-bottle of Spanish white wine, proudly announcing that it was "only two dollars." "How many kronor?", I asked. She replied "145." Yep, she was still having some trouble calculating the exchange rate, but the wine was good. And it provided an opportunity, at midnight, to raise our glasses and salute my 20 years in the airline industry; on September 10, 1984, I reported for work as manager of sales support at Republic Airlines.

I got up Friday morning at 7:30, showered, ate a quick breakfast, and hopped on the #5 bus up to the university. It was good to be back. I ambled over to the business school, and quickly found old friends – Dan Frost, Lars Lindbergh, Johan Jansson, and my original host, Kerstin Nilsson. We had a cup of coffee, and at 9:55 walked into a large lecture hall for a presentation on airline advertising. Again, we had enough time, and the talk went very well. Loud applause always makes one feel good. At noon, Johan gave Kerstin and me a ride to Sävargården, my favorite restaurant in town. Housed in a 19^th century garrison once used to push back Russian invaders, the ochre board-and-batten structure is now known across the north of the kingdom for its kitchen. Håkan Lundgren is to the region what the great Berkeley chef Alice Waters is to California – an innovator respected for using fresh ingredients from local producers. It is always a pleasure to dine there.

At 1:30 we walked back to campus, and convened the fifth meeting of the business school's International Advisory Board. The turnout was a little smaller than usual, with only four incumbents – Marian Geldner from Warsaw, Paolo Cecchini from Italy and the EU in Brussels, Carl Fredriksson from Stockholm, and me – and a newcomer, Göran Nilsson, retired CEO of the huge Swedish-Swiss firm ABB, who grew up here. It was a good meeting, click-clack, done at five, back to the hotel, worked my e-mail. Linda had spent most of the afternoon at the university's law school, yakking with faculty about juvenile law, a good way for her to fill the day. We enjoyed a good dinner at Greta's, a fashionable local place, with good conversation with Rickard Edström, a B-school student and leader of HHUS, the school's student association. He was an interesting kid, an accounting major with a mother from Hong Kong and a Swedish father. We also spoke with the new dean of the school, Agneta Marrell, a very capable young woman.

I rose at seven on Saturday, eagerly awaiting a run along the Umeå River, on a path trod many times before: across the main road bridge, then west, upriver, onto Grytan, an island of birch and pine, and back. High point of the trot was admiring the condos that had been built in the old brewery. When I first visited Umeå in 1994, they were still making beer there. A few years later it closed, and was vacant. After that, two nicely-designed highrises were built on brewery land just downriver. Last year, the work to remake the old building had begun. And now the place was preserved, in a series of really nice-looking apartments. Very cool. Walked back to the hotel, showered, ate a quick breakfast, hopped into Göran's rented Volvo, and drove a few miles north to a building with conference rooms, where we resumed our meetings. Göran will be a good addition to the board; his long experience and instincts were already apparent.

We finished the meeting at 12:30 (Linda stayed in town to get to know the place), ate lunch, and drove across the road to The Green Zone, an innovative retail development consisting of a Ford dealer, a Statoil gas station, and a McDonald's. The brainchild of auto retailer Per Carstedt, the place was a showcase for innovative practices in recycling, energy conservation, and more. We had a short lecture from a consultant, then walked around the place for about an hour, marveling at many sensible things. Three examples. First, rooftop/ceiling "lighting" that captures daylight, concentrates it with mirrors, and directs it below; remarkably, the amount of light on a cloudy day is only seven percent less than when sunny. Second, capturing "waste heat" from the McDonald's, and using it to warm the building. Third, selling windshield-washer fluid from a pump adjacent to the gasoline, with a small nozzle right into the car tank, eliminating both the plastic bottle and the inevitable spills when filling. This conservation-minded guy was mightily impressed. Was it salvation? No, but it was a very cool start at fixing some problems that we will all face, sooner or later.

At 3:30, we said goodbye, drove back to the hotel, picked up Linda, motored out to the airport, and flew to Stockholm. In previous years, I had flown the whole way in one day, but schedules changed and this was the best, though we missed the final Saturday dinner. Göran headed into the city, and we took a bus over to an airport hotel, grabbed an early dinner, and headed to bed early. We were up at 4:45, to the airport, to Frankfurt, and then DFW, and were home by 3:30 on Sunday. A good trip, and fun to have a companion.

Like most Saturdays in mid-month, on the 19th we set off to build ramps. Our first project was a 20-footer for Wilson Chalmers, an affable black man who sat on the front porch while we built, perhaps in anticipation of his imminent liberation. The building team was just John Laine and me, so it took until about noon.

One of the interesting and satisfying things about the ramp project is the reversal of historic racial roles, of who serves whom. Most ramp builders are white, and most clients are not. I think about this from time to time when building. It makes me smile. I was reminded of this reversal about 11:30 that morning, when a 16-year-old black man walked past us on the sidewalk. You could tell by the look on his face that he had spotted the reversal. And Mr. and Mrs. Chalmers had spotted the kid who spotted the reversal. They were whispering, and I could not hear, but they were lighthearted about it. At the end, John and I engaged with Mr. Chalmers' son, Vernon. He was so appreciative of our service. We told him that this was a small way that we could reach out to build bridges to other kinds of people. He smiled. To encourage the amity and reconciliation that we so urgently need is another reason we build.

John had called a nearby ramp-building site, and Larry needed help, so we headed a couple of miles north, to finish a ramp for Ms. Gates. It was full sun and above 90 degrees, and we were moving slowly. When we were done, Ms. Gates came out to have a look. John told me she was cheerful and sweet, and she was. She said to us "I can give y'all some sugar, if you don't have wives." We laughed at that. Then she brought tears to our eyes, telling us she had not been on her front porch, or out of the house for a year. Suddenly, the fact that we had been working a couple of hours longer than usual didn't matter any more. Ms. Gates told us "now I can go to church tonight." That's also why we build -- so dear Ms. Gates can get to church. Amen.

It had been months since a ramp team had lunch after building, and someone suggested Calle Doce, a Mexican restaurant on, where else, 12th Street. Ahhhh, that Tecate with lime tasted so good. And that's another reason why we build – for the fellowship and the good company.

Three days later, on September 21, I caught the first flight to Philadelphia. It was clear the whole way, and good morning for looking at the earth from above. Notable were the water levels and color of the Susquehanna and Delaware rivers in Pennsylvania – muddy brown, the result of heavy hurricane rains carrying the land into the water. We landed before eleven, and I walked quickly to the airport train, past a couple of young Mennonite women waiting outside security (Southeastern Pennsylvania is still home to many Mennonite and Amish communities) – their plain 19^th-century clothing and distinctive white caps contrasted with the rest of the women moving through the terminal.

Hopped on the train and was in "Center City" (what locals call downtown) in less than 20 minutes. My hotel was right above the Market East station. Checked in, worked my e-mail, and walked over to the Westin, where the Association of Travel Marketing Executives (ATME) was holding their annual conference. I joined four other airline people on a panel on airline branding. Heading back to my digs, I walked through Philadelphia's enormous, Second-Empire style City Hall, a very cool building. I then ambled through the Reading Terminal Market, established 1893, and still going strong as the place to buy seafood, meat, produce, and more. It was good to be back in Penn's city, a place where I lived in the summer of 1983 while attending a postdoctoral program at Wharton, the B-school of the University of Pennsylvania. So I knew the place.

Headed back to the Westin at 6:30, to a reception and dinner. After the meal, ATME honored Barry Sternlicht, CEO of the Starwood hotel chain. It was the second time I've heard him speak; he's a very interesting and practical fellow, an informal and entertaining speaker with almost no pretense. Walked back to my room, worked my e-mail, and clocked out.

Was up at 6:45, out the door soon after, back to the Westin. (Why all the to and fro? We stay where our flight crews stay, at hotels with contracted low rates; these places are sometimes marginal but this one was new and quite nice.) Had coffee, listened to a presentation, and headed by subway to the Penn campus. I got off at 40^th Street, walked south to Locust, then east, past the dorm where I lived for three months, past the Wharton School, over to the bookstore to buy a T-shirt, then popped in to see my friend Pat Rose, who runs the career-services office for the university. No appointment. Happily, on an otherwise busy day she had a small window of free time, and we had a good visit. Pat was one of the people on the admissions committee for the '83 Wharton program, and each time I see her I remember to thank her for opening that door. Walking through that leafy, historic school – Benjamin Franklin founded it in 1740 – I was focused on how it had changed my work life in ways I could not have imagined 21 years ago. Education is a good thing, and I am thankful for mine.

Ambled east and south to the University City station, hopped the R1 train to the airport, and flew to Miami. Landed about two, picked up a Hertz car, and drove a few miles to the offices of our Miami, Caribbean, and Latin America division (MCLA). Worked my e-mails, held a couple of meetings, and about six drove south, across the Rickenbacker Causeway to Key Biscayne, and checked in at the Sonesta resort. Ate dinner, worked e-mail, called my brother to get the lowdown on he and his wife Pam's annual bicycling trip in Italy, and clocked out. The next morning I gave a presentation on our new ad campaign to sales reps from across the MCLA division, headed back to the airport, and flew home.

It was the last trip of the quarter.

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