Third Quarter Update

 

 

Dear Friends,

 

 

I was up before the chickens on the first day of a new quarter, the start of the second half of ’05, out for 11 miles on my bike, then with Linda to DFW airport and northeast to New York.  We landed at LaGuardia about 1:30, picked up a car, and headed east on the Long Island Expressway to exit 70, then south to Quogue, and to the home of John and Janet Robinson, my Cousin Jim’s in-laws, described in several previous updates.  We pulled into the driveway of 5 Pine Lane about 3:45.  It was good to be there.  This is a big family (the Robinsons had seven children, and in turn they’ve produced lots of grandkids; it’s chaos and noise and fun, especially – as I’ve written before – for we empty-nesters and we who have never had much kinship).

 

There was no time to rest.  We headed into the backyard with Jim’s sons Jack and Charlie, for a round of freeze ball.  We then visited briefly with John (as an “adoptee” I am able to call him Pop), and headed out to dinner and a chance to catch up with Jim and his wife Michaela.  After dinner, Jim and I headed around the corner to help Michaela’s brother-in-law Chris move some furniture in their new second home.  Before turning in, Jim and I repaired to the historic Inn at Quogue for a beer and some yammering about current events, our families, and life.

 

Jim and I were up at six on Saturday morning, biking 17 miles before breakfast.  Linda headed out with the rental car to explore the North Fork of Long Island, and I headed to the Surf Club with Cousin Jim, Michaela, and their kids.  It was cool and slightly overcast at the beach, but a lot of fun.  Showered up and headed back to Pine Lane.  Linda had just returned from some adventures at wineries on the North Fork, a couple of short ferry rides, and drives through the affluent Shelter Island and Sag Harbor.  John Robinson had returned from a golf tournament in high spirits, and we sat on the back deck and yakked.  He’s a wonderful fellow, with smiling eyes and lots of stories behind them.

 

Before six, Linda and I headed to dinner in Westhampton.  A year earlier we accompanied most of the Robinsons to a cocktail party at the Surf Club, but the club board had decided that guests were diluting the event, so we went off on our own.  Linda and I ate burgers and fries at Magic’s, a genuinely ordinary bar and grill.  We sat outdoors on a lovely evening, humidity departed, clear and in the 70s.  We phoned Jack and Robin on Linda’s mobile, and toasted our good fortune.  We headed back to Pine Lane to work the Saturday New York Times crossword and yak with the returned Surf Club revelers, then off to sleep.

 

Jim and I repeated the early rise Sunday morning, out onto Dune Road on the barrier island, east this time to past Tiana Beach, cycling and yakking, and back by 7:30.  At nine, Linda and I hopped in the car and headed east on Montauk Highway, bound for the lighthouse of that same name, at the tip of Long Island’s South Fork – “land’s end” on this part of the eastern seaboard.  It was 40 or 50 miles to the end, and at Montauk you’re 120 miles from Manhattan.  The island is aptly named!  The drive was through landscapes of remarkable affluence, the Hamptons, and impressive age.  Southampton, settled 1640, was the first English settlement in New York, and George Washington commissioned the Montauk light in 1796.

 

Linda and I paused for a cup of coffee at a rest area just west of the light, and the view on a crystal-clear morning was spectacular.  You could see Block Island, part of Rhode Island, and the mainland of that state on the horizon.  We then retraced our steps and parked just beyond downtown East Hampton, the fanciest of the Hamptons.  Robin and Jack instructed us to watch for famous people, and Linda spotted a dubious candidate, the rap magnate Russell Simmons, tucking into breakfast at Babette’s, where we also ate.  After an omelette and French toast, Linda wanted to step through some of the big-name shops.  I sat on various benches on Newtown Lane and the main drag.  Had a nice chat with a stranger, a fellow from Jones Beach out for the weekend. 

 

We were back on Pine Lane a bit after four, in time for a beer and a nice chat with Pop, including stories from his 1953-54 trip to Japan, courtesy of Uncle Sam.  Just before six we headed to the Westhampton Country Club for their annual Fourth of July barbecue, followed by fireworks.  This was our second consecutive time, and it was tons of fun, yakking with Michaela’s sisters and brother, with Pop, and with their local friends.  The fireworks at nine were spectacular (and really loud), and the rockets’ red glare prompted the first of many whispered thanks to all those who made our freedom possible.  They were up there, far above the fireworks.  We yakked back at Pine Lane for awhile, then clocked out.

 

I was up at 6:30 and out the door 70 minutes later, Linda driving me to the Westhampton station of the Long Island Rail Road.  Hopped on the 7:57 express to Jamaica, Queens.  The ride offered the classic, messy view of the suburban back yard, plenty of junk piled, but also flags flapping in the breeze (thanks again, y’all), kids riding bikes, an egret taking flight from a salt marsh.  At Jamaica I hopped on the costly-to-build-but-cool-to-ride AirTrain for an eight-minute ride to John F. Kennedy Airport. 

 

At the check-in for AA167 to Tokyo Narita and in the Admirals Club, I saluted my AA colleagues, thanking them for working on a holiday.  I worked my e-mail down to about 20 (I sprang $6 for 60 minutes on a fast wireless connection from T-Mobile), had a cup of coffee, and ambled over to gate 10.  At the gate, the agent was trying to explain to a young Japanese fellow that he had to return to the TSA checkpoint.  The lad did not understand what was happening, so I escorted him back to the screeners – it was a reminder that we are dead if we forget that ours is a business of taking care of people.  When we returned, he boarded, and I was less cranky after I found out that our Japanese-speaking gate agent had the day off. 

 

Once on board, I read the Times, especially a fascinating holiday-timed article about the Iroquois Confederacy, the six nations of Seneca, Oneida, Cayuga, Onondaga, Mohawk, and Tuscarora.  Well, Eurocentrics, it turns out these folks had the concept of individual freedom established in rule of law well before the Declaration of Independence and other documents we celebrated that day.  Here’s the link, strongly recommended:  http://www.nytimes.com/2005/07/04/opinion/04mann.html  It was pure serendip that as I read the article we were six miles above the Iroquois heartland. 

 

I finished my Japanese lunch and Kirin beer, then read the Declaration of Independence, top to bottom, printed on page C8 of the Times.  Almost 54 years a citizen, and I had never read it in total.  Some very cool phrases and ideas there, like lines 11-12: “To prove this [our assertions], let the facts be submitted to a candid world."

 

We cruised north-northwest over northern Ontario, then Manitoba, crossing the wide Churchill River just south of Churchill.  Very cool stuff for this geographer.  We flew northwest, across northern Saskatchewan, Alberta, and the Yukon, across the middle of Alaska, covered in cloud.  I watched the grim “Hotel Rwanda,” then took my allotted 75-minute nap.  It cleared over the Bering Strait, briefly, then clouded again.  We arrived at two, and taxied past one of the holdout rice farmers, whose small plot and farmstead is completely surrounded by the airport.  I had seen the property before, but never noticed the handmade “DOWN WITH NARITA AIRPORT!” sign in large red letters.

 

We waited in a serpentine line to clear immigration.  I just missed the 3:13 train to Tokyo.  Climbed onto the 3:43 Narita Express, in a new and spotless car, and enjoyed the landscape into town: kudzu vines, so disliked in the U.S. South, covered many things; rice paddies; the American-style mall at Narita City; a pagoda on the horizon, sun glinting off the golden spire; golf driving ranges with high nets; laundry drying on lines.  Mr. B. B. King provided a nice background, “We’re on a TWA to the promised land, everybody clap your hands . . .”  As we headed into the metropolis at Chiba, I switched to Jack’s old band Jhombhi.  Way cool!

 

At Tokyo (main) Station, I made a smooth connection to the Tokyo Metro.  At the “Pass Office” I bought a ¥1000 ($9.00) prepaid-ride card and hopped on the Marounuchi Line, riding four stops to Akasaka-Mitsuke.  It’s a short walk from there to The New Otani, a huge, fancy hotel that offers a bargain – by Tokyo standards – airline-employee rate, about $125 a night, including a huge, wonderful breakfast buffet.  I checked in, got to my room, and spent 20 minutes or more trying to get a dial-up connection.  I finally made it, worked my e-mail a bit, then took a 20-minute “power nap” that felt like hours.  Took a welcome shower, dressed, and had a nice stroll about a mile south to Basara, a Japanese restaurant where I met my McCann-Erickson colleagues Jeff Plowman and Yukiko Nishi for a splendid dinner of many small courses.  It was raining when we finished, so I took a taxi back, brushed my teeth, and collapsed in bed.  Slept hard, through the night.

 

Wednesday morning I rose at 6:30, worked my e-mail, ate breakfast, and walked in light rain to McCann’s Tokyo office.  We had a good meeting.  Before lunch, I was able to connect my PC with broadband and cleaned out my e-mails.  Yukiko, another McCann colleague named Mioko Shinoda, and I walked to an Italian restaurant (a bit jarring, but a tasty plate of pasta).  At 2:30 we took a taxi to Cathay Pacific’s offices for another meeting, focused on oneworld marketing in Japan.  Two colleagues from AA’s Tokyo office were there, and after the meeting we hopped a cab for a short ride to our new offices.  They were proud of the new digs, which were in a much newer building – larger, nicer, and cheaper than the place we had leased for more than 20 years.  After a quick office tour I took the subway back to the hotel, had another power nap, and rode the Metro out to Waseda University, where I met Ken Goldberg, a marketing prof I had met briefly when lecturing there in December 2003.  We headed to dinner at the faculty club, a surprisingly simple place, but the food was good.

 

Ken was an interesting fellow.  We yakked for quite a while about our families and career paths.  His story was sort of like mine – he started teaching, then attended a postdoc business program at Harvard, got into investment banking, moved to Japan, and returned to teaching.  We walked to the subway, he headed west and I east.  Back at the hotel, I collapsed at 9:45.

 

That was good, because I awoke at five, the intended hour, and took a couple of subways to the Tsukiji Fish Market just southeast of central Tokyo, the largest fish market in the world.  On the way from the train, a group of American and British tourists told be about the tuna auction, which began at 5:30.  I sort of stumbled upon it as I wandered the huge place.  Fascinating.  A young guy who spoke some English pointed to a mid-sized tuna near my feet and told me it sold for ¥55,000, or about $4900.  Tails littered the floor; the cross section at the tail is a faithful indicator of freshness and composition.  The market gave new meaning to the word “busy”!  You had to pay attention to the hand carts, the motorized carts, the trucks, the bikes, the workers splish-splashing through water.  Like me, some of the fish flew here, and there were airline cargo stickers on boxes.  A really cool place.  From previous visits to Japan, I’ve written about the less-than-idiomatic phrases one sees on T-shirts, and coming back from the market I saw a fellow with a shirt that read "Fat Tokyo Crew”; he was, in fact, a bit heavy!

 

Worked my voicemail and e-mail, ate a big buffet breakfast (rice porridge, grilled vegetables, salmon, raw egg, very Japanese), and headed out to Roppongi Hills, a new mixed-use development a few subway stops from my hotel.  The place was remarkable.  Anchored by an enormous high-rise and a bunch of apartment blocks, with restaurants, entertainment, and luxury stores wound around the first levels.  In the TV Asahi building, I spotted a cartoon cat (the Japanese love comics and cartoon characters) I had seen on the subway earlier.  It turned out to be Doraemon, a robotic cat of the future.  Bought Robin a small stuffed Doraemon, and moved on.  Came across the Roppongi Lutheran Church in a small, well-designed structure.  Ambled inside for a brief prayer of thanks.  Above the front door were Luther’s famous words: sola fide, sola gratia, sola verbum (faith alone, grace alone, word alone – counterpoint to, among other things, the willingness of the 16th century Church to accept purchased holiness, called indulgences).  Headed back toward the center, into the precinct of the national government, past the parliament, or Diet, cabinet offices, and the prime minister’s residence.

 

A noisy protest was in full swing across from the Diet.  I did not ask about its purpose, but inferred from the crowd that it was to advance the rights of the handicapped.  My Dad and other members of the 1941-45 Allied forces in the Pacific could take credit for the commotion, for it was their victory that enabled General MacArthur’s occupation government to push for liberal institutions, rights, and freedoms in what previously had been a hierarchical and authoritarian society.

 

Back at the hotel I showered, changed clothes, and caught the subway back to Tokyo station and the Narita Express to the airport.  At the American check-in counter I met the AA country director, Theo Panagiatoulos, for a short meeting on advertising plans, then hopped on the 4:05 nonstop to Los Angeles.  We landed early enough to take a quick shower in the Admirals Club, put on a clean shirt and tie, pick up a Hertz car, and motor north on La Cienega to give a presentation at Rogers & Cowan, an agency we just hired to help get American some presence in movies and TV.  Their offices are in the Pacific Design Center in West Hollywood, and in the same building is one Robin Britton.  It was great to see her, and give her Doraemon, the Japanese future-cat. 

 

The presentation last two-and-a-half hours, a long one.  Robin popped back in afterwards, I ate a sandwich and we visited a bit.  She asked about the terrorism in London that morning, but I was oblivious – I listened to the classical-music station KUSC on the drive from the airport.  She filled in the detail as I grimaced.  Gave her a kiss and hug, and was back in the car at 2:30, to the airport.  Worked my e-mail in the Admirals Club, and flew home.  Whew!  A lot of places in a week.

 

Head hit pillow past midnight, up at 6:30, out to work, dig out on a Friday.  Was asleep before nine that night, and up at 5:30 on Saturday the 9th, off to South Dallas, to build a ramp for Mr. Cooper.  It was a big one, 36 feet, in full sun, and only three of us.  We were happy to be done.  Home in mid-afternoon, sandwich, out on the bike, more full sun.  The ale at 5:30 was welcome indeed.

 

A week after visiting Kennedy Airport, I was back for a meeting with Matteo Pericoli, an Italian architect turned illustrator, who is producing a huge (300’) mural above the check-in area at our new terminal.  The building opened in August, but the mural will not be ready until 2006.  I claim part ownership in the project, because I was able to convince our skeptical chairman that Matteo’s idea of a semi-realistic blend of iconic New York buildings and those from American’s destinations elsewhere in the Americas, Europe, and the Pacific would be far cooler than anything else.  They were leaning toward clouds, which struck me as visual Muzak.  We need something bold, conveying sense of place.

 

We drove from construction trailers to the new building, which is large, well designed, and much needed – our current setup at JFK is a total dump.  Construction costs are enormous in New York, but I was still astonished to learn that a typical project worker pulled down a brisk $50 an hour!  And a lot of them did not look like they were toiling all that hard for those lively wages.  It’s a different place.  We visited most parts of the building, a good tour, had a short meeting, then flew home. 

 

Five days later, on Saturday the 16th, I was up and out the door before six, and on the porch of Joan B’s mobile home in far south Dallas at about eight.  We yakked a little.  She had a nice smile and a bright face, and was so happy we were there to build her a ramp.  I met her pets, a mini-Doberman named Li’l Bit, and a perfectly charcoal cat named Smoky.  We visited for a few minutes, and the rest of the work team arrived, David Mandala, a new and energetic chief, and newcomers John, Mark, and Mike.  I needed to work extra hard, because I had to leave by ten.

 

John Laine, the ramp project founder, asked me in December to start collecting client stories.  I’ve been sporadic.  Here’s something about Joan (had I more time, I would have rounded out the story):  Born in Council Bluffs, Iowa, to Norwegian parents in the late 1930s, she moved to Dallas in 1970.  Joan said “I’ve been a bookkeeper all my life.  I know where every nickel goes.  Checked my bank balance this morning!"  Unhappily, the orderly world of debits and credits did not extend to her personal life.  "All are gone," she said.  Second husband, parents, three children.  She hasn’t seen the two kids in Oregon in 36 years.  Her youngest, Rob ("like your name"), died a few years ago of drug-induced heart failure.  "I tried as hard as I could.  Maybe I tried too hard.  At the treatment centers they told me I was his biggest enabler."

 

Joan told me she ended her working life at the Dallas Water Utilities, seven years, 1994 to 2001, long enough to vest in their pension plan.  Factoring in Social Security, she calculated that another 17 years of work would only yield $117 a month more.  “It's amazing how few people stop to figure out this stuff,” she said.  As I fastened the wooden frames together, it became clear to me that Joan gave up all her money to try to get her son clean, and to stay clean, that she was living in a mobile home because she did what most of us would have done.  Back on the porch, she smiled her sunny smile.  "I have to look after myself.  I'm all I have."  And that's why we built Joan a ramp that day.

 

The ramp was going well and I was sorry to leave Joan and the boys in mid-morning.  But it was almost time to begin the annual pilgrimage to Wrigley Field to see the Chicago Cubs.  I zoomed home, picked up Jack (Linda had left earlier), and we flew north.  Landed at 3:15 and were on the CTA Blue Line fifteen minutes later.  It was not a good day for the Blue Line, and the ride to the loop took 75 minutes.  But when we met Linda and Robin and walked into a big room in the Hilton and looked east to a blue Lake Michigan, all was well.  Better than well, in fact.

 

We didn’t have time to soak up the hospitality, or relax.  Jumped into the Hertz Taurus and motored north on Lake Shore Drive.  The view, the lake, the city – it was stupendous.  We parked right in front of Cousin Jim’s house, visited briefly, then walked with Jim and Michaela west to Rose Angelis, our regular dining spot on the Cubs weekend, a cozy Italian place with great pasta.  This was our last walk from Jim’s house to both the restaurant and Wrigley, because in August his family moved into a new house out in Arlington Heights, where he grew up. 

 

Walked back, drove to the Hilton, clocked out.  Was up at six and out the door with all my stuff, west to State Street, past the sad clumps of homeless people.  I thought of John Laine’s words from eight days earlier, “wasting our social capital.”  Indeed.  Caught the Red Line train north, and by seven Cuz and I were on our traditional dawn-patrol bike ride, this year a return to the Bucktown, Wicker Park, and Ukrainian Village neighborhoods visited in 2001, then northeast, past the A. Finkl and Sons steel plant (an unlikely place, on the edge of an affluent neighborhood; if you’re interested in learning about a continuing industrial success and an extraordinarily good corporate citizen, visit their website and watch their movie, at http://www.finkl.com/main.htm?location=204 ).

 

We then headed south to see the last bits of the Cabrini Green housing project, one of the nation’s great failures in public housing.  New houses and apartments are replacing the tattered high-rises, with developers required to integrate subsidized rental and affordable purchased housing into the mix.  Then it was to the great lake, north to Montrose, and back by nine, plenty of time for “Uncle Rob” to play with Jim’s and Michaela’s three kids. 

 

At noon, we began the procession to Wrigley in high spirits.  Once again the Chicago Tribune welcomed us to a suite, and we had a big time, with a mix of friends and cousins:  Chuck Wiser from Minneapolis, Cuz and Michaela, Cousin Justin and his son Alan, all four Brittons, and more.  I stood, hand on heart, for the National Anthem, and just as on previous visits to Wrigley, I cast my eyes heavenward and thought of my Dad, who lived in Chicago for years and always enjoyed a Cubs outing.  He was not far above us at Wrigley, but what I saw in my mind’s eye were the Howitzers blasting away on Tinian and other specks of Pacific coral, on Okinawa, and other islands; I saw him riding in a flimsy Piper Cub, doing recon work on the Japanese positions, field glasses in hand; I saw him eating on a metal plate, waving away the bugs; “the land of the free” bounced around the stands, and I said thank you, thank you, all of you, for securing our freedom back then.

 

The Cubs thrashed the Pirates 8-2, a slugfest, homers, beer, hot dogs, another big time.  We walked back, drove to O’Hare, and flew home.  A really fun couple of days.

 

Three days later, I flew to Miami in mid-afternoon, landed about 7:30, and met Marisa Mertens, an ad sales manager for The Miami Herald, outside the terminal.  When the traffic is light, Miami still feels like a town, and in no time we were at a trendy restaurant in South Beach, one of those expense-account steakhouses where everything is a la carte.  Sides here were $11; I was immediately suspicious.  I had requested Latin cooking, but I guess my hosts, all three Latinas, found that a bit too downmarket, so here we were.  They had steak and I had a huge piece of blackened swordfish.  Four of us split a dessert, a warm chocolate pudding with seven or eight sweet marinated cherries on the side, which truly was delicious.  The senior person, Alexandra Villoch, was an interesting woman, having lived all over Latin America as a child, and spent two decades with Eastern and United Airlines.  A traveler like me.

 

Was in my room at the downtown Marriott working my e-mail by ten.  Got almost eight hours of sleep, up at seven, across the parking lot and into the offices of the Herald, to give a presentation to the local chapter of the International Advertising Association.  Some nice people, interesting, and afterward a lot of folks lined up to sell me stuff.  The earnest older woman who made her living impersonating Queen Elizabeth took the prize; in her view, we needed to feature her in a commercial telling folks that “American treats you like royalty.”  At ten, Eliane Nobile, who sells advertising for our inflight magazines, gave me a ride to Coral Gables for a quick meeting with Joe Zubi, who runs the Hispanic ad agency that has done such splendid work for us, and our account exec, Annie Kiperman.  I had expected to also see Joe’s mother, my dear friend Teresita Zubi, but her cancer has recurred and she’s working hard to fight it.  May God bless her.

 

Annie drove me up LeJeune Road to the airport and I lined up for lunch at La Carreta, a Cuban cafeteria in the terminal that actually serves real food, not airport food.  By chance, I ran into Mark Rubin, Brian Fields, and a couple of other American pilots who run our flight ops in Miami.  We had a good visit.  Always good to talk with the people who make it happen.  Flew home.  Did a lot of work on the ride back.  The cabin shades were down, because a movie was playing.  Twenty minutes before landing, I raised my window shade, and looked down on home, the abiding North Texas landscape, a small river, woodland patches, a dirt road, pasture.  Familiar, comforting, home.

 

As you know, once in awhile I write about scenes at home.  A good episode of my “Talking to Strangers” serial unfolded on Saturday, July 30.  I was up early to pound out miles on the bike, on a relatively cool (low 70s) morning.  Came home, had a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal and went back out, over to pick up a pair of re-soled loafers at The Shoemaker.  The Bartons, an English couple, have owned it for years, but when I dropped the shoes a week earlier I noticed the husband was not there, and a younger fellow was working the shop.  I picked up the shoes and began yakking with this man, who was taking a break in front of the counter.  Clay was a third-generation German cobbler who has replaced Mr. B.  His grandfather emigrated to Tullahoma, Tennesee, during the 1920s.  He was a cyclist, so we exchanged notes on good places to ride, and talked a little about quality.  He was passionate about it.  Interesting fellow.

 

Three days later, on August 2, I hopped on flight 997 and flew south-southeast to Buenos Aires, my first visit there since 1970.  The Lithuanian national basketball team was aboard; several players were scraping the ceiling as they found their seats.  Slept hard, woke before dawn, arrived at 8:15 a.m.  A private taxi, called a remise, had been arranged, and I found the driver, a friendly guy who does a lot of driving for American.  In no time we were chatting in a mixture of Spanish and English.  The proof of his work for AA became clear as we approached the center, and he pulled out paperwork – all I had to do was sign it, enter my employee number and our departmental account number.  Pretty cool! 

 

As we drove into the city, my first impression was “frayed.”  The last century has not been kind to Argentina.  A hundred years ago the place was as affluent as the U.S. and Western Europe. 

 

Checked into the fancy Inter Continental Hotel, grabbed a quick shower, and hoofed north on a narrow Esmeralda Street, buses spewing diesel fumes that instantly conjured one of my strongest memories from 35 years ago.  I arrived at McCann Erickson Argentina right on time, and had a good meeting hosted by our account director, Gonzalo Martinez, who I had met a couple of years ago in Dallas.  He’s a really good guy.  We had a nice lunch with Gonzalo, the agency media director Valeria Beola, and the agency general manager, Margaret Grigsby (who I also had met before).  We ate at a place called Bengal, which had Indian décor and some Indian dishes, but a huge array of other choices.  I had a piece of grilled Corvina, and (this being customary) a glass of the fine local red wine called Malbec.  Nice!  The meal took a long time, and we had to call the American offices to beg for a late arrival.  My agency friends taught me a useful idiom, ya estoy llegando, literally “I am already arriving,” useful in Argentina for these sorts of situations.

 

I arrived red-faced at American’s offices, which fortunately were only a block away, and gave an advertising update to about a dozen people from the AA Argentina team.  Great people.  Like the visit to Mexico City in May, it was a good reminder of what it means to work for a global company.  After the update, an older guy who introduced himself as “Hector, but call me ‘Junior,’” asked me what I was going to do.  I told him I was on a mission to buy a leather briefcase, and he volunteered to come along.  That was my good fortune.  Hector Pericoli, 68, had spent 47 years with American and the three predecessor companies who flew to Argentina: Panagra, Braniff, and Eastern.  He’s been a consultant to AA for a couple of years, with a huge number of key relationships and connections with government officials.  He was an enormously funny and kind man, and we laughed and laughed about a range of things, including ideas on how to gracefully exit tourist shops, which we had to do.  Yes, we found a briefcase, but mostly I appreciated spending time with a man of such experience and warmth.

 

We returned to the office, and I headed out to take a few pictures in the last winter light, past some wonderful Beaux-Arts buildings, back through Plaza San Martin, with a statue of the famous general, to a wonderful 1891 building recycled as a shopping mall, Galería Pacífico.  Came back, worked my e-mail down to zero, and said goodbye to Sergio Hurtado, our new country director in Argentina.  I’ve known Sergio for a decade; he’s a gem.  He thanked me for coming, but I demurred; the reciprocal was what mattered.  We agreed that more people from our corporate headquarters need to get out more, to see this network in real life, not as some row of data in a spreadsheet.

 

I walked back to the hotel, called home, changed clothes, and headed out for dinner, chasing a recommendation from retired AA friend Joel Chusid, who owns an apartment in the city.  Hopped on the Subte (subway) coasting on lines C and D, out to Palermo, a comfortable neighborhood.  It was dark, and lots of people were sifting through the trash, looking for food and anything that could be sold or used.  "La crisis" of 2001-02 was enormously serious, and though the economy rebounded quickly, there is still a lot of poverty readily visible on the streets.

 

I found Canal, the steak place Joel recommended.  Red meat?  Yep, in Argentina, and anyplace where cattle grow by eating grass rather than force-fed in a feedlot.  Had a tomato salad, and soon the waiter brought a huge ojo de bife (ribeye) and an enormous platter of fries.  The steak was wonderful.  I ate half, and could not bear thinking of the remainder (and the potatoes) going in the trash.  I apologized to the waiter for my poor Spanish, but managed to work out that I wanted to take the remains with me.  “A doggy bag,” said the waiter.  I replied, in Spanish, yes, but not for dogs, but for one of the many people here who are hungry.  He understood perfectly, and tossed some extra bread into the bag.  I thanked him profusely.  I walked back to Avenida Santa Fe, and found a man in his 20s putting his arm into a couple of trash bins.  Vaya con Dios were my last words to him.

 

That was more than enough for one day.  I flossed, brushed, and clocked out.

 

Was up at six and out the door, in a taxi with a friendly driver, yakking mostly in Spanish.  He had played on the national baseball team many years earlier, and had lots of memories.  His experience seemed to follow his nation’s.  Traffic was light, and we were at Ezeiza Airport by seven.  Jumped through some hoops and climbed aboard a LAN flight to Santiago, landing about 9:30.  As usually happens, an AA escort, a friendly woman named Riquelme, met my flight and walked me through the airport.  We stopped for Chilean cash.  She stayed back, and neither she nor I noticed the deft pickpocket who slipped my ATM card from me as I bent over to put the receipt in my suitcase.  When I noticed my card missing a few hours later, I had to deal with the minor bump.  You just can’t let stuff like that put you off track.

 

Rode the public Bus Azul into town, hopped on the Metro (I tucked my Santiago Metro prepaid card in my travel wallet), and got to my hotel, the Plaza el Bosque, by 10:45.  Eduardo the bellman was there, and I remembered his name.  He escorted me to a large one-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor that made me feel like a local.  Worked my e-mail on a fast broadband connection.  At 11:45, I met my friend and Chilean country director Pamela Camus in her office, and at noon we met with a fellow who organizes the Marketing Hall of Fame in Chile.  He was seeking additional sponsors.

 

At one, it was time for lunch.  Pamela was on a diet, so I went out to forage.  The best idea seemed to be the salad bar at a Unimarc supermarket downtown.  I grabbed the food and walked over to the large park that faces the presidential palace, La Moneda.  I joined an older gent on a bench, and tucked in.  Toward the end of my meal, we had a good “Talking to Strangers” conversation.  It was becoming easier to make myself understood!  So as I said goodbye to my new friend, I also said, “Gracias, Don Miguel.” 

 

Who’s Don Miguel?  I checked previous updates, and I simply cannot believe I haven't saluted him in these pages.  Don Miguel may well have been the reason I was sitting on that park bench, that I was in Latin America meeting with AA people and teaching.  He is certainly the reason I have no trouble speaking Spanish.  You see, 45 years ago, a St. Paul teacher named Howard Hathaway began to teach Español on what was then called “educational television,” what has become PBS.  While my friends hooted at the prospect, and some parents even suspected that the Communists were somehow involved, I relished the opportunity.  Don Miguel was part of life for the last three years of grade school.  When I had to take a language in high school, Spanish was the clear choice.  And after a year of training at the U of M, in 1970 I sat on another park bench, in Buenos Aires, and spoke comfortably about a range of topics with my Argentine counterparts.  I give Mr. Hathaway all the credit, then and now.  Coincidentally, when I entered the airline business in 1984, his daughter Ann became a good friend at Republic Airlines; now I periodically e-mail Ann from various Spanish-speaking places and credit her dear father.

 

After lunch, I needed a jolt, so walked into the Café Caribe across from AA offices for a cortada grande.  Here cute young baristas in short tight knit dresses serve you.  It’s a throwback, but to this old guy it is marvelous!  Fortified, I gave an ad update to Pamela’s team, did a headstand, and headed back to my apartment.  I needed some air, so I took a quick jog along the Mapocho River.  Worked more e-mail, and took the Metro to the Universidad Católica, my third visit to one of the best B-schools in Latin America.  My host, Andrés Ibañez, had opened an MBA class to a wide audience, and 80 folks showed up.  Every seat was taken.  After the talk, I headed for a beer with Alfredo Gonzalez, Andrés' business partner, and his wife, but we never got the beer.  The pouring rain dammed the traffic.

 

At 9:45, Pamela picked me up, and we drove less than a mile to the Los Leones Golf Club, for dinner with her beau Hernan and his youngest daughter Constanza, with whom I skied last year.  The club was comfy, very affluent.  It was great to see Hernan and Constanza.  Plenty of laughs.  A great meal, starting with fresh abalone (called loca), then a simple grilled Corvina (two days in a row), and we shared a truly outstanding apple crepe.  We also talked a little about business and politics (Chile will hold presidential elections in a few months).  Hernan grumbled about taxes in Argentina, where he also has businesses; “These guys are smart,” he said, “they no longer expropriate the businesses, they only expropriate the cash flow."

 

Constanza asked if she could attend my lecture the next morning, and I replied that I would be honored.  We left the club and it was still raining hard.  I was plumb wore out, but had enough energy to open the bedroom window, to enjoy a night of cold air.  Woke at 7:30, and the weather had cleared.  Ate a good breakfast. 

 

I set out for a brisk walk, walking north with camera to take a picture of the U.S. Embassy, a truly awful building.  When I jogged past it the day before, I said to myself, “this is truly an embarrassment to the American people.”  Why?  Thick granite walls ring the grounds.  Behind the wall is a block with very few windows.  The place exudes not confidence and freedom, but fear and arrogance.  Click here to see for yourself:

http://robbritton.net/RecentPhotos-T&L/RecentP-Aug05/pages/Santiago%20-%20U.S.%20Embassy.html  In order to show you, dear reader, I needed to take pictures.  After snapping a pair from across the street, I could see a Chilean policeman coming toward me.  I introduced myself, explained what I was doing, and, lacking my passport, I showed him my driver’s license.  He recorded the pertinent information, and we parted.  I crossed the street and snapped a pic of the unwelcoming and essentially unmarked (save for hard-to-read words carved in the granite) entry.  Another Chilean officer approached me, and I repeated the story.  In a moment, an American with a Spanish accent approached me and introduced his role but did not give his name.

 

This is when it got interesting.  And when I got cranky.  Polite but firm, and cranky.  I told the man that I had already told his two Chilean colleagues what I was doing and why, and that they were satisfied.  He then said “the embassy does not like people taking pictures.”  I then asked if I was violating Chilean law.  He said no.  He then repeated the remark that the embassy does not like photography.  I told him that I understood him the first time.  I then asked him if we were standing on Chilean or on U.S. soil.  He said Chilean.  I then told him that I was exercising my right under Chilean law, and that we were done.  He then brought up September 11, to which I quickly replied that I worked for American Airlines, and understood all about that day and what it changed.

 

He suggested that indeed we were done.  But I needed to say something more, and I expressed the above view of the building.  I added that my father spent some years in the Pacific in World War II so that we might not be afraid – or make buildings that exuded fear.  He replied that he had been a Marine for 24 years.  I thanked him for his service.  “Have a nice day” were my parting words.

 

Of course, my crankiness drained quickly as I walked away, even faster as I cast my eyes east toward the awesome Andes on the horizon, just behind the glass and steel skyscrapers of the Las Condes district.  I took a few more snaps, walked back to my apartment, and worked my e-mail.  At eleven, Constanza picked me up.  We made our way through multiple traffic jams, reminders of why I so like the Metro.  But we arrived on the San Joaquin campus of the university.  Andrés warned that final exams might shrink the audience, but we had 20 undergraduates, including a few who had just written their critical, end-of-five-years-of-study test.  I delivered my “Why Is It So Hard for Established Airlines to Make Money?” lecture.  I’ve done it perhaps 30 times, but never tire of it.  It went well.  I kissed Constanza goodbye (she was heading up to ski at La Parva).  And I answered a couple more questions; when I’m overseas, I know there are always some students, self-conscious of their English skills, who wait to ask me one on one.

 

Andrés and I jumped into his Toyota 4X4 pickup (here, as in the U.S., typically the mark of a person who likes the outdoors) and headed back into the city.  We had a late lunch and much good chatter at a wonderful Italian restaurant in Santa Lucia, a very old neighborhood across from UC.  A hundred meters on, we said goodbye, because the mid-afternoon winter light was perfect for a few photos of building detail.

 

Back at the hotel, I exercised on a recumbent fitness bike (a first), changed into khakis and sneakers, and headed back into the center, to Mercado Central, the old food market now mainly for tourists.  After a large pasta lunch, I was not hungry, but I wanted to see Donde Augusto, one of the fresh seafood restaurants people had endorsed.  Mauricio the waiter addressed me in English, but I replied in Spanish “tengo que practicar su idioma.” I asked if they had Kunstmann Bock, from Valdivia, in the German south of Chile.  Yes, indeed, and I enjoyed the beer, and brought this journal up to date.  Musicians and a puppeteer with a white cat came past, but I waved them away with a smile.  The market was unheated, and drinking cold beer was a chilly experience, but I would be soon enough be back in Texas summer.

 

On the Metro back to the hotel, I was reminded that Latin people have a different conception of personal space.  A young couple boarded the crowded train and stood very close to me.  The train emptied in a few stops, but they did not move away.  I liked that, just as I liked it when Hector gently took my arm in Buenos Aires, guiding me across a busy street. 

 

Back at my apartment, the Friday night task was to work my e-mail for a couple of hours (I figure that staying current with the office allows me to travel more, and with fewer worries).  The phone rang.  Andrés was calling, and needed help; his teenage son was returning from summer camp in North Carolina, and missed his American flights because Continental was late.  So I did a bit of customer-service work for one of our best customers in Chile.

 

I slept hard, rose at 6:30, ate a huge breakfast, and was out the door, bound for the Alameda bus station.  Tur-Bus, a Chilean enterprise, bears no resemblance to its U.S. counterparts.  At 8:40 I climbed onto a spotless, nearly new coach, provisioned with video, large headphones, and pillows and blankets.  The bedding was not just available – the conductor offered me one, then tucked a blanket around the woman across the aisle.  Remarkable!  We motored west.  When we emerged from the first tunnel, a long one called Lo Prado, the scene was stunning, a valley in fog.  We continued, across the Casablanca Valley, past wineries and apple trees, through a couple more valleys, past small lake, and down the hill into Valparaíso, founded 1541.

 

I picked up a map and got my bearings from a nice young woman at the simple tourist office in the bus station.  On Avenida Pedro Montt and Avenida Uruguay it was clear that this was not Santiago.  It was much less affluent, grittier, definitely a port.  Within ten minutes if arriving, I smelled two groups of men smoking marijuana.  Indeed, my first impression of this city that translates as “Paradise Valley” was Duluth with palm trees.  Then, walking west on Avenida Brasil, I spotted the first nice old building, belonging to the national police, the Carabineros.  Walking further west, I passed old banks, solid buildings with copper hardware on the front doors (Chile has long been a major producer of the metal).  This Transport Geek was on a heading for the first of a series of funiculars that climb the hills facing the Pacific.  The first one, Espiritu Santo, was broken.  I continued on, and found the next one west, Concepcion, working perfectly.  Rode it to the top of the hill of the same name, and ambled around.  Up on the hills are the 19th-century buildings that remind people of San Francisco, another Pacific port.  I rode down and continued west, then up the El Peral funicular to Cerro Alegre, “Happy Hill.”

 

The buildings up there were truly eye popping.  Topping the chart was the Palacio Barburiza, a house in the Art Nouveau style currently being restored by the Chilean Ministry of Public Works.  Absolutely stunning.  I walked the streets of Cerro Alegre and Cerro Concepcion, and noticed another reason why the place is likened to San Francisco: a clear Bohemian sense, evident in the ponytailed men, the colorful murals on the walls, the funky little shops and cafes.  I hopped in a taxi, rode to the top of the Cordillera funicular (by that point the Transport Geek was truly in heaven, riding these rickety rails that seem to point straight up!).  I rode down, then up, and down, then ambled across a particularly rough patch of city, a zone the taxi driver described as very dangerous, “con drogas, prostitutas, criminales.”  “Don’t go there,” he advised in Spanish.  But he didn’t know that the same year I first visited his country (1970) I had also hitchhiked through the worst ghetto in Detroit, walked rough streets in countless ports elsewhere, and lived without fear.  I simply growled at a few people, and walked on, to the fourth and last funicular, the longer and gentler Artilleria. 

 

At the top were great views of the container port.  An Evergreen ship from Taiwan was docking.  I snapped some pictures, then spotted to the east a little restaurant that seemed to teeter on the cliff.  On its small terrace were two people.  “I’m going there,” I said to myself, and in no time I had a glass of beer and was chatting with the waiter at the Restaurante de Brujas (the “Witches’ Restaurant”).  And more Talking to Strangers, this time with Tina from Edmonton, who was about to marry Jaime from Santiago.  They had met in Cancun in February, and fell in love.  Jaime was nervous.  I pointed to my ring, told him about 27 years, and advised him to relax.  They set off, I had another beer, and admired the stunning views.

 

Rode down the hill and hopped on one of the trolleybuses I had admired earlier that day.  The driver told me the bus was 50 years old.  It was a beauty.  We rattled along at a respectful pace, and soon I was back at the bus station.  I bought some fixings for a light lunch from the supermarket.  While in line to check out, I noticed a sign above cashier #2, which declared that line offered “Preference for Future Mamas”.  It was another reminder of the essential civility in Chile.  I spotted another example the day before, on the Metro, where a sign counseled riders “Look around you.  Someone else may need this seat."  Nice.

 

I hopped the 4 p.m. Tur-Bus express back to Santiago, and the 6 p.m. shuttle to the airport.  In the Admirals Club, I worked my e-mail, and remembered to look up Valparaíso on the UNESCO website, because it was a World Heritage Site.  There was a nice summary of the cool place I had just visited:

 

(T)he city is characterized by a vernacular urban fabric adapted to the hillsides that are dotted with a great variety of church spires.  It contrasts with the geometrical layout utilized in the plain. The city has well preserved its interesting early industrial infrastructures, such as the numerous “elevators” on the steep hillsides. . . Valparaíso is an exceptional testimony to the early phase of globalization in the late 19th century, when it became the leading merchant port on the sea routes of the Pacific coast of South America.

 

I flew home, and was in our driveway by 9:40 Sunday morning. 

 

The next afternoon, after one night in our bed, I flew again to Tokyo, arriving on Tuesday afternoon.  Hopped on the Narita Express train into the city, marking the passing of Cuban musician Ibrahim Ferrer, age 77, by listening to his Buena Vista Social Club.  I was the gai-jin (foreigner, outsider) bouncing in my seat!  At Tokyo station, I bought another prepaid Metro farecard, rode the subway four stops, and walked a few hundred yards to the New Otani Hotel.  Worked my e-mail for an hour, then jumped back on the Metro, riding three stops to Nogazaki.  I walked out of the north exit and looked for a landmark Yumi Katsura bridal shop, where I was to meet John Vandenbrink, a B-school classmate of mine who I had not seen since we left Wharton in August 1983.  The bridal shop was actually an six-story building that looked a bit like a wedding cake – the Japanese love Western-style weddings; while I waited for John to arrive I admired the gowns in the windows and read the directory, which listed an array of departments.

 

John arrived on time at seven, looking, as I do, like a slightly older version of the 1983 student.  He’s been in Japan for 18 years, and raised two kids there.  He’s an officer with Morgan Stanley, and has worked finance jobs the whole time.  We had a good yak across a range of topics, and a really authentic summer Japanese dinner, with lots of courses, at Shimon, one of his favorite neighborhood restaurants (not cheap: the dinner with two small beers ran $74 apiece!).  John had to call his boss in New York at nine, so I hopped back on the subway and glided back to the hotel.  I slept through the night, seven hours, waking early but rested.  Had a nice Japanese breakfast, worked my e-mail, and plunged out into the stifling heat and humidity, walking a mile south to the McCann Erickson offices.

 

On the way, I passed the Canadian Embassy, a building that was very different from our fortress in Santiago – no walls, lots of windows, clear signs (including some that were promotional), and a welcoming sense.  Sigh.

 

We had a good meeting at McCann, done by one, out the door, back to Roppongi Hills, the innovative complex described earlier in this update.  The wet heat was truly stifling, and I was dripping by the time I walked into the TV Asahi building to buy Robin a present.  Walked back to McCann, picked up my suitcase, headed out to the airport, and flew home, arriving 51 hours after I left.  That meant I averaged 250 mph since noon two days earlier.  Whew.  Time to settle down.

 

Well, settled for a week.  At noon on August 17, I flew to New York Kennedy, arriving mid-afternoon, in time to meet Bernie Willett, a member of our promotions team who, for a variety of reasons, works in American’s Boston office.  It was time for Bernie’s annual review, which we did in the Admirals Club.  At 5:30 we flew southeast to Bermuda, my first trip to this small island in the Atlantic.  Once through rather rigorous immigration and customs (the island is stable and prosperous, and they have strict controls – across a range of policy areas – to keep it that way), we piled into a taxi and headed for the Fairmont Southampton Hotel and the annual AAdvantage (American’s frequent-flyer program) Partner Meeting.  I was invited to provide an advertising update, and jumped at the opportunity.  The island was hillier than I expected.  The amiable taxi driver provided a good introduction to the island on the 35-minute ride.  It was hard to see in the dark, except the narrow road and the 35 km./hr. (20 mph) speed-limit signs.  The best thing to hear were the thousands of small tree frogs, with their distinctive high-pitched chirp.

 

We missed the welcoming cocktail party, but revelers were in high spirits, and it was good to see old friends.  Checked in, tried to check e-mail from my room, but failed.  The front desk helpfully advised that there was wireless access in the lobby, so I headed down, found a comfy chair, and connected (for free, which given the prices at the place was quite remarkable!).  Worked my e-mails to zero and clocked out.

 

The next morning was given over to various talks and updates, including a very informative session from a Coca-Cola ad exec (as you know, their product ingredients are water, sugar, coloring and flavoring, and a lot of promotion).  I gave my update, we ate lunch, and the “recess bell” rang at 1:15.

 

I quickly changed clothes and set out to rent a scooter, a favored way for tourists to get around the island (there are no car rentals, which makes a lot of sense in a place with narrow roads, few sidewalks, and traffic that moves on the left).  The scooter lady told me 4 hours would cost the same $70 as 24 hours, so I said thanks, walked back to the hotel, got a bus schedule, bought a day pass, and set off on the #8 bus to the capital, Hamilton, six miles away.  The bus was pink, a favored color here, well air-conditioned, and spotless.  At Hamilton, we rolled down Front Street, on the water.  I hopped off, took a few snaps, then jumped on the #11 bus to St. George, the oldest town on the island.  The rides were pleasant, on curvy, hilly roads past stone and stucco houses and cottages in a range of bright colors.  A 360-degree glimpse at any vantage might include dwellings of brick red, lemon yellow, sea green, turquoise, and lavender.  My kind of place!

 

Like Valparaíso, St. George was also a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  I only had 75 minutes, but I moved fast.  Stopped at the tourist office for a helpful pamphlet that included a walking tour, and zipped along.  High points were the State House, built 1620, one of the oldest standing structures in our hemisphere, and St. Peter’s, the oldest Anglican church in the hemisphere, with parts dating to 1612.  Along the way, I engaged briefly with a number of strangers, all locals, and all of whom were friendly and helpful.  Bermuda is a unique place in several respects, not least its society.  About 60 percent of the island’s 65,000 residents are of African descent – so, like much of the Caribbean, black people control government.  But unlike most of the West Indies, here there is 100% literacy and full employment, which gives everyone a different, and better, outlook.

 

I was dripping wet from the heat and humidity, so at the end of my walking tour I nipped into the St. George Liquor Store, bought a Bermudian ginger beer (no alcohol), and guzzled it.  Hopped on the bus back to Hamilton, connected to the #8 toward the hotel.  The driver was exceedingly friendly, greeting everyone coming aboard and saying goodbye to everyone who got off.  Close to my stop, I headed to the front of the bus.  “I didn’t forget about you, you’re heading to the Fairmont,” he said, and we bantered for a couple of minutes. A special place, I thought to myself.

 

I took a quick shower and at six joined my fellow meeting-goers in the lobby for a bus down the hill and a two-hour “booze cruise.”  Lots of fun, great views of homes and cottages, past Hamilton harbor, and back.  Dinner was to be on the beach, but a thunderstorm was possible, so we ate indoors.  I was not unhappy, trading humidity for air-conditioning.  Worked my e-mail in the lobby again, called home (Linda was still cross about not getting to go, so I dampened my enthusiasm!), and clocked out. 

 

Rose at 5:30, rode back to the airport at dawn, and flew back to New York.  Worked my e-mail at JFK, then to DFW.  Arrived and immediately zoomed over to DFW for a meeting with the airport’s marketing group.  I was asleep early that night.

 

The following Friday, August 26, I worked an official half-day (four hours!), and at 11:15 flew north to Minnesota, only the second visit to my native land in 2005.  It was State Fair time, again.  In my pocket was a small tuft of fleece gathered in the Fair’s sheep barn; by tradition I keep the wool all year, and collect a new supply in the barn. 

 

Landed, picked up a Hertz car, and aimed it toward the White Castle burger joint on Lake Street.  A couple of little cheeseburgers and a big chocolate shake, and I was ready to start meeting old friends.  Motored west and found Mike Davis at home on Holmes Avenue.  We walked to a nearby restaurant and had a few glasses of iced tea, some calamari, and a good yak.  Linda and I have known Mike since 1973.

 

A bit after four I drove around Lake Calhoun and headed south.  The weather was picture-perfect, blue skies, low humidity, 75º.  Minnesota looks really good then, and I stopped to take a picture of the lake and the downtown Minneapolis skyline behind it.  Then headed out to see my friend and co-worker Steve Schlachter’s mom, Marlis, who I had not seen since Steve’s first wedding in 1973.  We had a nice visit.  I headed on, stopping briefly to see Blair McNamara, a friend since 1996.  Blair was not home, but had a nice quick chat with wife Michelle.  Just before six I was at Chuck Wiser’s house.  Friend since 1969, and my first real boss, at Vanguard Travel, those many years ago.  Chuck’s a good friend – I have a key to his house.  We walked over to Kincaid’s restaurant, sat down in the bar, and had a sandwich and a glass of Summit, truly a wonderful ale.  I expected to have a few more during the next two days!  We had a good visit.

 

At about nine I headed back into town and met Tim McGlynn, friend since 1963, at Dixie’s Restaurant in the Calhoun Beach Club.  Tim now lives eleven floors above, which strikes me as fairly handy.  A chance to catch up on news of high-school pals and life in Minnesota.  I would have been happy to have a third Summit, but my watch said head to the pillow, for the Fair fun began early the next morning.

 

Was up before my alarm, the excitement of the Fair stronger at age 53-plus than it was when I was a kid.  Yakked briefly with Chuck, and drove east to St. Paul, windows open, gulping in the 55-degree air (yes, the heat was on, too; I am no longer a real Minnesotan!).  Stopped at a Caribou Coffee for a large cup, parked the car, and was on the fairgrounds at 6:59.  Hooray!

 

Wandered the mostly empty streets, savoring the cool and the absence of people jostling.