Third Quarter Update

Dear Friends,

Dear Friends:

On July 3, Jack picked me up at the office and we winged east to Birmingham. It was good to be back in Alabama. We picked up a made-in-Alabama Hyundai, and in no time were whizzing east to visit Jim, Ann, and Ben Grotting at their place on Lake Martin. Soon the whiz slowed to a crawl, and faced with the prospect of bumper-to-bumper holiday traffic, we re-routed ourselves south on I-59, then east on Alabama 22, a route Jack and I traversed by mistake some years earlier. We were at the lake before dark. Jim and Ben arrived 30 minutes later, by Jim’s cool Cirrus airplane. We had burgers and a good visit – Jim, a plastic surgeon, and I have been friends for more than 40 years, and Ben and Jack have been pals since Ben lived briefly with us in 2004.

We were up early on Independence Day, hooray for America, Jim and I down on the dock drinking coffee and visiting. We left in late morning to try to find a ground-fault electrical outlet, which turned into a bit of a wild goose chase, but a nice ride through the piney woods. Jim’s surgical assistant and her family arrived, and we had fun in the lake all afternoon. Even went for a ride on a tube behind Jim’s boat. Watched fireworks that night, and clocked out, anticipating excitement the next day.

Jim and I were up before five and in the air in his Cirrus by 5:30, for a 20-minute flight back to Birmingham, a fast ride north to a UAB hospital, and into surgical scrubs. Under a program that invites business and civic leaders to better understand the job of today’s physicians and the challenges of modern medicine, Dr. G. invited me to observe two procedures in the O.R., and I was really pumped. It was something I had wanted to do for a long time. First procedure was a breast augmentation, 3 cm. incisions, saline implants, Jim had done this many times before. Given how easily skin cuts bleed, I expected more blood, and its lack was the biggest surprise. The cauterizing knife was a very interesting tool (the smell was not so nice, though I’m sure surgeons get used to it). Jim’s suturing was truly remarkable. The whole thing was fascinating. I’ll spare you details, but it was a big wow. And there was a “moment of truth”: during the procedure, the patient’s head was covered, but afterward nurses removed the dressing and there on the table was not just a body, but a whole, sentient human being. I use the word “awesome” a lot, but at that moment I was truly filled with awe.

We drove across town to another hospital for the second procedure, the start of post-cancer breast reconstruction. Jim went to work after the surgical oncologist performed a "preventive" mastectomy. Into two pretty large (6 or 7 cm) holes, in the skin and tissue, Jim inserted expanders, to create, in time, a stable pocket into which he would subsequently insert an implant, create a nipple from adjacent tissue, and restore for this woman what the evil cancer had ravaged. Here my vantage was much closer, 18" from the breast. The surprise in this procedure was that the skin and adjacent tissue remained – I somehow expected enormous voids. The whole morning was fascinating, and I’d really like to see more.

After lunch, we headed to Jim’s office. Jack and Ann arrived; we drove her home, and then motored to the airport and home to Texas. Just a very cool set of experiences. On the flight from Birmingham, from the vantage of seat 20F, I saw lots of people getting on the plane who clearly could not have afforded to fly a few decades ago. The smiles of the boy and girl who appeared to have been aloft for the first time made me smile, proud of my small role in democratizing something that once was the preserve of the elite.

The following Thursday evening I flew west to Midland-Odessa in West Texas, out in the “oil patch.” I was headed to a speech the next day to the local ad club, and arrived early to visit longtime Richardson neighbors Jeff and Patty Sage, who moved out there the previous winter. Picked up another ‘Bama Hyundai and was at their house in 15 minutes. After a quick tour of their new house, we jumped in Jeff’s truck and headed to Gerardo’s, a local Mexican eatery. A good meal and a nice visit.

Next morning, I rolled out of the house about eight, toward downtown Midland. Enroute, I saw signs for George W. Bush’s Childhood Home, followed them, and walked around the modest house on W. Ohio St., pausing to photograph the sandbox (readers who know my political views will understand the significance of that image). Then into the center, admiring the 1929 Petroleum Building and adjacent Yucca Theater, early signs of boom times in the “awl bidnis.” Then west to the Permian Basin (the name of the geological region) Petroleum Museum on I-20. It did not open until ten, but I photographed Santa Rita #2, the region’s second oil rig, erected 1923 and recently rebuilt at the museum. Behind the building were some other rigs, and one could get a good sense of technological change, but also the hard work and danger of drilling and pulling that gooey stuff that underpins so much of our lives. It is not to be taken for granted.

Headed west to the edge of the airport at the Commemorative (formerly Confederate) Air Force facility, a hangar and the excellent American Airpower Heritage Museum, a truly impressive set of exhibits mainly focused on World War II. Between the exhibits and the hangar was a building full of “nose art,” the decorative and often sexually explicit paintings on the fronts of World War II bombers (no photographs were allowed, but I did buy a deck of cards with four samples). In the hangar was a B-29 undergoing restoration, and what appeared to be several airworthy old birds, including a B-24 Liberator (built 1941). Very cool.

Headed north to the a UT building and gave a talk to the Permian Basin Advertising Federation. The group was small but friendly, lunch was good, the speech went well. One of the club officials then did something that made me happy: she asked for volunteers to help bag up the considerable amount of leftover food. She would then deliver it to the Door of Hope Mission in Odessa, following Jesus’ directive “Gather up the fragments, lest they be wasted.” I flew home at the end of the afternoon, understanding more about our big state.

Four days later, Jack and Linda picked me up at work and he dropped us at DFW. It was Vacation Time! Whoopee! We flew to JFK, and stayed overnight. Thunderstorms rattled me awake the next morning, and I was happy to be within ten miles of our destination, Cunard’s Queen Mary 2, docked in Brooklyn. The original plan was to fly up that morning; I checked AA flight information on my PC, and the storm caused cancellation of what would have been our flight. Whoa! Good idea to head up early.

At noon, Linda and I took the hotel shuttle back to our terminal and met Matteo Pericoli, the artist who created “Skyline of the World,” the 400-foot-long mural in our new JFK facility (described in the last update). Pat Goley, owner of the Illinois-based company that photoenlarged and installed Matteo’s work, and a colleague of his also joined us. We took some snaps of the mural, then repaired to a food court in the next terminal for lunch. We said goodbye and hopped in cab, bound for the Brooklyn Cruise Terminal. It was one of those rides that reminds me of why I could never live in New York. The last four miles took 45 minutes. Seventy-five bucks later, we jumped out in the shadow of the huge liner, with time to explore this new Queen. It’s a vast ship, nicely appointed. We departed a bit late, on a hazy summer afternoon, down the East River, past Governor’s Island, the Statue of Liberty in the distance, the orange Staten Island Ferry passing us. Then under the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and out to sea. As Lady Liberty grew smaller on the horizon, I thought about Cesira and Enrico Frediani, and Josef and Ottilie Palluch, my four maternal great-grandparents, who likely passed this way, in the other direction, heading to the promise of the New World.

For this airline guy, it was a bit strange to be traveling across the Atlantic at 30 mph. Cleaned up, had a drink in the Chart Room bar, and headed to dinner. Seatmates were David and Lewis, two guys from Austin and Miami, and Pam, a woman from Yorkshire who came west on the ship and immediately turned around. An agreeable meal. Then to sleep.

Up at 7:45 for the first of many days at sea. Rode an exercise bike, ate breakfast, and listened to two lectures, one by a knowledgeable but slightly blustery maritime historian, and the other by Sir Harold Evans, the English journalist who has written extensively on American innovation. Interesting stuff. Both of them were a bit full of themselves. The rest of Thursday chugged along. We had a sixth table guest for dinner, Irving Chase, 88, a former Navy Rear Admiral (he was off Utah Beach on 6 June 1944), businessman, and volunteer. Really interesting.

Friday morning dawned and I was antsy, ready to get off. Linda looked at me sternly. By the end of the day I had settled down, and was into relaxation. We continued like that until Tuesday morning, the time compressing. Five and a half days across, six nights. We set our watches ahead an hour on each of the first five nights, and when we disembarked at Southampton on Tuesday morning we were on European time. Flying across time zones doesn’t bother me, but this was still fairly cool.

The ship was huge and nice. Service was adequate, largely because it was inconsistent. Cunard is no longer a U.K. concern, but is owned by the Carnival ship people, just another in their series of ship “brands.” The folks on board played up the British tradition that dates back to Samuel Cunard and his first hybrid sail-and-steam ship, the Brittania, which commenced transatlantic service in 1840. All over the Queen Mary 2 were museum-like interpretive panels that told the Cunard story – about the evolution of the fleet, the famous earlier Queens, marine technology, catering, the line’s role in emigration to the New World, famous passengers, and more. Interesting stuff. There was Internet access (40 cents a minute) for folks who wanted to stay connected. All in all it was quite an experience.

After a long wait for a taxi at the pier, we rode a short way to Southampton Central Station, and hopped (well, lurched with heavy suitcases) on the 11:00 train for London, disembarking at Clapham Junction, and catching the train south to Gatwick Airport. The lines to check in were enormous (Americans have nothing to complain about this summer!). We finally got through, got some lunch (after the ship ride, it was odd to have to pay for a meal), a cup of Starbucks, and worked my e-mail to zero. Our flight to Pisa was delayed for more than an hour, and we wondered whether we should have just stayed on the ship and sailed to Hamburg.

At that point, it became a race to see if we could get to the Avis counter at Pisa Airport before it closed. We called them from London, and a nice young woman told us they closed at 11:30. By the time we got through customs and out of the terminal it was 11:45, but we called again and she said “still open.” The Fiat Punto chugged to life about 12:10, we loaded bags, and we set off, bound for my friend Lorenzo Fasola’s castle near Perugia, in Umbria, about 150 miles away. I had printed driving directions from an Italian map website called Tutto CittḠand they worked well. Traffic was light, and it was easier than I thought it would be. We were tired, yes, but a bit wired.

We did not see the Leaning Tower on way north on the A12. Up the hill to Florence, then south on the A1, Italy’s main north-south autostrada, calling Lorenzo periodically on my mobile phone to report progress. There was a lot of truck traffic on that road, and some construction, which kept me on my toes (in fact, I had to remind myself to relax my clenched toes from time to time). We were at the San Faustino exit in Perugia by 2:30. Lorenzo met us there, and we rolled south through villages called Pila, Spina, and Mercatello, then up, up, and up to Castello Monte Vibiano Vecchio, delighted to arrive at 2:55. It was a clear, cool night, and even in the dark we could see that this place was way cool. Lorenzo showed us to our room on the third floor, and we clocked out, but not before agreeing that we would have made a big mistake by staying on the boat!

Who’s Lorenzo? I met him when I led American’s food and beverage team, 1998-2000. His family company had an interest in a firm that manufactures the carts we use on board to store and serve food and drink; he was in the process of reviving the family’s winery and olive-oil presses (we now serve their oil and balsamic salad dressings on our flights, in First and Business Class). We took an immediate liking to each other. The Oscar-winning Italian film Life Is Beautiful had just come out, and Lorenzo said I reminded him of the lead actor, Roberto Benigni, an enthusiastic guy. I think he invited us to his castle the first time we met – that’s the kind of guy he is. I told him we would visit. He asked many times in the subsequent near-decade. We finally kept the promise.

I woke at nine the next morning, Wednesday, and headed downstairs. Wow. Parts of the castle went back to before Christ, but most of what I saw that morning was from the 17^th Century. Lorenzo’s family, the Serenis, have been there since 1892. It literally sits on the top of the mountain. I entered the kitchen, startling Saranella the cook. Giuseppe, a butler, brought café latte to a table outside, under arches. I soon met Andrea, Lorenzo’s father. Another cook told me that “Dottore Lorenzo” would be there in 15 minutes. Linda joined me. Tina, a Swedish woman who had worked for Lorenzo for many years (but no longer does) arrived, and we began to make lots of friends.

An hour later, Roberto, Irene and their sons Derek and Adrian joined us. Another Roberto recently retired from the airline business, in this case after 40 years with Air Canada; Irene is still a flight attendant, and flies from Montreal to DFW regularly. We invited her home on the next trip. We all sat down to lunch, with most of the food from their land (a big spread, more than 1200 acres, mostly in olive trees and vineyards) – ripe tomatoes, fresh cucumbers, cantaloupes, prosciutto (from their pigs, of course), and hard pecorino cheese from nearby. Yum!

The afternoon passed nicely, with lots of visiting. At five, Tina drove her seven-year-old daughter Alia to tennis lessons in the nearby town of Marsciano (population 16,000), and I came along. Often the most fun times traveling come from following hosts who are just living their life, and the outing was a great success – we dropped Alia at the tennis club, then went to a bookstore to pick up her school lessons (classes would begin in six weeks), and walked around a bit. I got cash at an ATM outside a supermarket, we picked up Alia, and headed back to the top of the mountain, Tina stopping along the way so I could snap pictures of sunflower fields, and the castle perched high. The Umbrian summer colors of sky blue, green growing field, and golden harvested field were just lovely, and the famed Mediterranean light was truly something.

Back at the castle, we donned swim trunks and jumped into the pool, cooling off (it was probably 90, but very dry). Then it was time for champagne, and on to a lovely dinner outdoors, again with a lot of food from the land – a wonderful pasta with simple tomato sauce, then pork cutlets fried in extra-virgin olive oil and grilled vegetables. All with one of Lorenzo’s new wines, a mixed varietal red called Rosso di Colli Perugia that was wonderful. We sat at table a long time. Lorenzo’s girlfriend Leonor, a Dutch student, had joined us. We were up late two nights in a row, but it was such a nice time.

Next morning we set off for Assisi, stopping in Spina for a coffee with Tina. Spina is the nearest town with a bank and other services, though it only has about 500 people. We parked in Assisi about 11 and soon were in the 13^th century, in a remarkable town (and another UNESCO World Heritage Site) made famous by St. Francis, friend of animals and people. You had to applaud his motto for the town, Pax et bonum, peace and all good. We ambled from church to church, from Santa Chiara to San Ruffino to the enormous basilica on the west end of town. There were other tourists, but fewer than expected, and lots of Franciscans in their trademark brown cassock and sandals. The sight of them chattering on mobile phones was splendid!

It was a hot day, and the town is on the side of the mountain, so we ambled slowly. Ate pizza for lunch in a sidewalk café on the Piazza del Comune, bought some nice stuff at a local stationer, and drove back toward Monte Vibiano Vecchio. The outside world was great, but in 40 hours we had come to relish the castle and its grounds – so it was nice to “get home.” We agreed that we’d be happy if the Fasolas invited us to move in!

We had a short nap, a swim, and about seven we hopped in Lorenzo’s car and drove to the top of the next mountain west, to a little village called Miglione, where the annual wild boar festival, the Sagra del Cinghiale, was in full swing. It reminded Linda and I of dinner at a U.S. county fair. There was great food, most of which included boar meat in some way – sausage, ham, stewed, as sauce for pasta or gnocchi. And Marco Cimarelli played the accordion for dancing. Tables of Italian families, across three and four generations, enjoying themselves, talking with their hands, laughing. I took Alia to a small amusement ride, a rotating chair swing; she rode five times. We were home a little after ten, and into a deep food coma soon after.

The next morning was a repeat of the previous two, coffee and bread outside, life moving slowly. Tina took Linda to a yarn store on the outskirts of Perugia, and I rode along. Back to the castle for lunch. As I walked dishes into the kitchen after the meal, I noticed that the clay floor tiles were dimpled in places, from centuries of footsteps.

Lorenzo had just enough time between appointments (he was working, after all; we were the ones on vacation) to show me the new winery, opened 2003, and olive-oil press and packaging plant (2006). He’s a very enterprising guy, and has lots of ideas for building the brand, which is also that very special place atop the mountain. We said goodbye with many hugs and promises to return, and drove down the hill, onto the autostrada, south to Rome. There was only one brief traffic jam, and we were at an airport hotel by 6:30.

Tina recommended a fish restaurant in nearby Fiumicino, historically the town that supplied Rome with fresh seafood. We motored a few miles west for dinner, watching the sun plop into the Mediterranean, and toasting a wonderful vacation, especially the last days, in Italy – a land of such grace, with a marvelous and exemplary approach to life. The warm glow faded briefly after dropping Linda back at the hotel. Fueling the car turned out to be quite an effort (why did I pass all those gas stations on the way?), but I returned the Fiat Punto with nary a scratch, and I was back at the hotel by 10:30, in time to work my e-mail and reluctantly plug back into a faster world. Flew back the next day, via Chicago, and was dashing down the street with MacKenzie by 9:30. Woof!

I was in my own bed for three nights. On Tuesday, July 31, I flew to Santiago, Chile, landing the next morning. Some of my teaching trips are formulaic, at least the “moving” portions. It was my fifth lecturing trip to Chile, specifically to the Universidad Católica. Walked through customs, turned left to the ATM machine for Chilean pesos, turned left again for the Bus Azul, the Blue Bus.

You could see even more growth and development on the way into town. But just when you thought Chile had it all figured out, you passed a shanty town with cardboard and wooden lean-tos. Huge progress, for sure, and work to do. The bus takes you to the end of Metro line 1. The Transport Geek pulled out his Santiago Metro stored-value card (wisely purchased in 2003), and hopped a rubber-tired train across the city to the fancy Las Condes district, walked a few blocks to my hotel, showered, and unpacked. Welcome to Chile!

By noon I was ambling around the center. Not a lot I haven’t already seen, but it was still fun to be there, to appreciate the huge economic progress that country has achieved, certainly since my first visit almost four decades earlier. The copper-miners union was protesting in front of the Chilean National Copper Company, orderly. Ate lunch, walked around a bit more, and took the subway back to my hotel. The message light on my telephone was blinking; it was my host, Andrés Ibañez, asking for a change – could I instead deliver a lecture in the new dean’s MBA strategy class? Of course, por cierto. I made some changes to an existing presentation, and was ready. Caught a short nap, put on a coat and tie, and headed to the wonderful old building on the Alameda, the main drag of the city. Met the new dean, Jorge Tarziján, a nice fellow, delivered a talk, and headed back to the hotel.

At nine, I met Cota Briones, a young Chilean friend, and her boyfriend Felipe Recart. We had a fun dinner at a nearby pizza restaurant. This was Cota’s neighborhood, and she knew a lot of people. There was lots to talk about – her new job in the family business (her dad, Hernán, was in Argentina), her sisters (who I had met on a previous trip), travels. The meal ended with Felipe’s riveting description of a 23-day, 60-kilometer hike he and two friends did in November 2008, in the southern Andes on the Chile-Argentina border. It was a trek. A really fun dinner. Was back in the hotel at 11 and instantly asleep.

Up the next morning, worked my e-mail, headed south to the San Joaquin campus of the university. On the way, a nice Talking-to-Strangers moment. The Metro was crowded, and a lady very close to me noticed my American Airlines service pin and began speaking to me in Spanish. My lessons came back, and I was able to tell her a little about myself, in her language. Thanks to Don Miguel and my other Spanish teachers in the ‘60s! When I got off the train ten minutes later, another T-t-S moment, when a young management student asked me (in English this time) if I was giving a lecture in her class. It turned out that I was not, but we had a nice chat as we walked from the train to the business-administration building. I ambled around campus a bit, read the local business daily (back to Spanish), and at 12:30 met Andrés for lunch. We had a good yak over salad. He’s a great window on Chilean business and the local economy. Gave my pricing lecture to engaged undergraduates, hopped in a taxi to the airport, and flew to Buenos Aires, landing about 7:30.

I was there to present, for the second time, to the South American Business Forum, a student-run conference modeled on Princeton’s Business Today session that I visit each November. One of the forum organizers, Pablo Diaz Rozic, picked me up. We had a nice drive into down, no traffic on the freeway. Pablo’s English was great – he had been an exchange student at Georgia Tech last year. He dropped me at the Inter-Continental; this year, I decided on comfort over solidarity; the student hotel last time was pretty austere. I changed clothes and ambled south a mile or so to the San Telmo neighborhood, for a beer at the Bar Dorrego, very old fashioned, and a late dinner at Casa Esteban de Luca, named for an Argentine patriot (1786-1824) who was both a poet and the director of the first arms foundry; Argentines have always liked those sorts of combinations. I had a plate of pasta and a glass of red wine, and was back at the hotel by 11 and fast asleep.

Up the next morning to a cold rain, out the door, riding the subway like a local. On my car were a series of above-the-window ads for a long-time bicycle shop. As a cyclist, they caught my eye, and I enjoyed every one, none more than the one showing a child riding a two-wheeler with training wheels. The placard headline read “Es sólo comienza una historia linda,” roughly “this solo starts a beautiful story.” Exactly what I think every time I see a kid learning to ride a bike.

Ambled over to the office building near the port, site of the first day of the forum. Stopped for a coffee and yogurt breakfast, briefly in an Internet kiosk to work my e-mail (33 cents for a half hour), then into the fray of 90 students. I apparently built some sort of reputation the previous year, and lots of people were greeting me, including friends from the year before, who all offered hugs and kisses (you have to like a culture where men kiss each other). The morning sessions were interesting. Lunch was stand-up and chaotic and noisy. By late afternoon, ugh, I was feeling sick. Walked back to the hotel after the second-to-last session, where flu symptoms were in full force (I shall spare you, dear readers, the clinical detail).

I felt somewhat better the next morning, and I was to deliver a workshop that afternoon, so I really had to “stand and deliver.” Lunch went down fine, the workshop was a huge success. I relapsed Saturday night, but not before managing to hang around with students at a stand-up pizza meal. Got a lot of sleep that night.

Up early on Sunday morning, still sick, but lots to do the last day. Always one for milestones, I noted that it was the 40^th anniversary of my first trip out of the U.S., to Montreal. It was thus fitting that I was again overseas. First destination was la Rural, the 121^st annual national farm and ranch show, akin to a state fair. Took the subway out to the Palermo neighborhood. Despite feeling sub-par, it was awesome. I yakked with a few people, saw a lot of swell animals, first rate fruits and vegetables, handcrafts, and a ton of farm implements and machinery (Argentina, as you know, has long been an agricultural power, and with commodity prices high, the sector is helping drive strong national growth). The Argentine Rural Society organized their show; their wonderful motto translated as “to cultivate the soil is to serve the nation.” Awesome. There was buzz about President Kirchner not attending the inauguration of the show; a big insult to country people.

I noticed a couple of things straightaway: people drinking mate, the local herb tea (I am not a fan), and people wearing a floppy beret, to which I took an immediate liking. I asked a fellow, in Spanish, and he told me the cap was a boino, and he directed me to the back of a hall, to a little store. Again in Spanish, I spoke to a kindly clerk, and in no time was the proud owner of a navy boino. Some time in the middle of the transaction, we switched to English, and the saleslady told me her daughter lives in Madison, Wisconsin. At the end, she told me that I looked como un gaucho – like a cowboy. Sick or not, I was grinning ear to ear (the boino resting just above each). I took the train back to the hotel, checked out at noon, stored my suitcase, and headed out for a walk and a try at lunch.

Took a few snaps of some wonderful early-20^th century architecture, and had a plate of pasta at a café on Avenida de Mayo, followed by a coffee at the Café Tortoni, in business since 1858. The place was full of tourists, and lots of Americans, but it was still fun, and way cool to order in Spanish. Thanks Don Miguel!

At three I met Pablo’s father and brother, José and Maxi, and we drove south a few miles to La Bombonera, (literally the bon-bon box) home of the famed Boca Juniors soccer team. Finally, my first Latin American soccer match. Still sick, but also pumped. Traffic was surprisingly light, and we parked just a few blocks from the stadium, which is located in a poor neighborhood, but not a menacing place. On the way to the match, Maxi, who works in marketing for Kraft Foods Argentina, told me that there’s a sort of underworld tied to the team that operates a variety of shakedowns. “Stay clear of them,” he advised, and I promised I would. Entry security consisted of a quick frisking, and in we went. It’s not a large place, maybe 40,000 seats, steeply pitched so everyone is close to the action. The verges are small – when there’s a corner kick, the player is only a few feet from fans. The place was a sea of blue and gold, the team colors. In a sop to U.S. fashion, there were a bevy of skimpily-clad cheerleaders to welcome the boys to the field. Tumult. Cheering. But not whistling. That was what you did when the opponents, Rosario Central, entered. Hooting, insulting gestures, cries of “comedores de gatos,” (cat eaters), the latter a reference to the diet of some of Rosario’ s poorest in the depth of the 2002 economic crisis. Whew. Tough crowd.

No national anthem, but a brief moment of silence for some dead former player, then the whistle blew. Everyone standing, singing, drums beating, and an enormous (150 feet? More?) blue-and-gold banner unfurled in the east stand. The four-year-old behind us knew the words to every song. Passion. The first half ended 0-0. I was frozen, and I needed to get my stuff and get to the airport. I hugged the boys and headed out. Was at the airport before seven, checked in. Worked my e-mail at the Admirals Club, where I also checked the Boca result – both teams scoreless at the end of the match. Flew home without food, but a good sleep. I was happy to pull in the driveway at eight the next morning, to rub MacKenzie’s belly, and to kiss Linda.

Sidebars: To the New World

As I’ve written before, one of the interesting things about South America is that, like in the U.S., most people – or their ancestors – came from somewhere else. I met two folks like that on this trip. Pablo’s father José (who hosted me at the Boca Juniors match) arrived in Argentina as a young boy from Spain. His family had gotten sideways with Franco during the Spanish Civil War, and even into the 1960s – three decades after he squashed the Republicans – the Generalissimo was still tracking down his enemies, which included Pablo’s gramps. Time to split from Asturias to the New World. And at la Rural, the agricultural show, I met Antoinette Huffman, who arrived in Argentina in 1946, at age 3, emigrating from the wreckage of postwar Flanders. They worked hard and prospered, and now raise cattle and grain on a nearly 5000-acre spread 180 miles from Buenos Aires. She was enormously friendly, even offering to give me a jacket to ward off winter cold. Rural people are generous. (a few days later, I sent a photo I took of her, and received a nice reply and an invitation to visit their land next time I would be in Argentina.)

Rinse, repeat. The morning I got home, I doubted I would mend in time for the next trip, but 60 hours later, on Wednesday night – thanks in part to my friend Dr. Tom in AA’s Medical Department – I was airworthy. Whoosh, over to London. I ate the whole Business Class meal, including ice cream, proof that I was mended. It tasted great. We landed 30 minutes late, causing some need to hurry for the 9:17 train to Reading. Made it with time to spare. Through the lovely Surrey countryside, skirting the Surrey Hills, and rolling somewhere near an outbreak of hoof and mouth. I sat on a bench on platform four at Reading for about an hour, the Transport Geek admiring the dense use of this main line (trains every four or five minutes) to places in the West Country and South Wales. This was the Great Western Railway central artery that the great engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel built; he was a major figure in British transport history; the Geek thought you might like to know!

At Reading, there was a nice Talking-to-Strangers moment. I remarked to the women next to me that a scene on the opposite platform was “better than watching the telly.” She agreed, and asked about my accent. In no time we were in the thick of it. She worked at the University of Lampeter in Wales; I told her I recognized it because I was a geographer and I recalled their department. Her eyes brightened, asking what sort of geographer I was. A rare moment. Then we both realized that her train was standing on the platform, so a quick goodbye, and she was away. The affable Yank almost caused her to miss her ride.

Hopped on the 11:22 to Worcester Shrub Hill, passing through Oxford, then a bunch of small towns. At Moreton-in-Marsh, I had my fifth M place Thursday. Say what? I had been out of town every Thursday for the last five, and Moreton finished the list – Midland, mid-ocean, Miglione, Moreno (the street of my Buenos Aires hotel). Arrived Worcester a bit late, speed restrictions on the tracks after the massive flooding of just two weeks earlier; there was not much evidence of the deluge, at least visible from the railway.

Hopped in a taxi at the station and motored east six or seven miles to Crowle, yakking with the Pakistani cab driver, talking real estate prices, fuel economy, and America – I succeeded in resetting some of his perceptions of the U.S. It’s getting harder and harder these days. No one was home at the Crabtrees, but I found a way in. Diana arrived ten minutes later, and John a half hour after that. To refresh, this was the mate I first met 26 years ago when we were visiting lecturers in Armidale, New South Wales, Australia. We remain great friends, and it’s swell that we now see each other every 18-24 months. He’s a great lad. I went out for a run, ending at the 15^th-century parish church in the village; it was a good place for daily prayers. Ambled home (the first run in weeks and weeks, and my knees hurt), showered, and around six we set off for the supermarket in Droitwich, ten miles north. Then home for supper and a nice chat, catching up since our last visit in December 2005. Early Zzzzzzzzzz.

The Crabtrees’ house was nearly my destination, but not quite. At five the next morning, we were back in John’s BMW, whizzing south on the M5 motorway, and soon at the marina in Tewkesbury, unpacking and loading a 55-foot barge, a “narrowboat” called Dame Daphne. She was a beauty, navy blue and well-fitted inside, with berths, a galley, even a shower. Soon came boat co-owner Andrew Manning Cox, an affable former law partner of John at Wragge & Co., thence Natalie Mudd and Harjinder Kaur, young women who are still at John’s former firm. We said hello, loaded up, and set off at 6:30 for the Barge-a-Thon, John’s invention, a fundraiser for the charity Sense, which serves people who are both deaf and blind. We were to go as far as we could in 48 hours, with folks buying chances to guess the distance we covered. So we were to have fun and do good – what could be better?

Better would have been no failure of the throttle cable less than a half-mile from our mooring. With help from Bob the Lock-keeper, we got through the first lock, from the River Avon onto the River Severn, then kaput. But John is a resourceful fellow, and he quickly tracked down a mechanic. We were back under power by ten, north on the Severn. After the euphoria of quick recovery passed, we reassessed time and prospect, and reversed course, heading west on the River Avon, toward Will Shakespeare’s home town. After a couple of hours, I took the helm, and quickly found that tillerman was a good role for the Transport Geek. Not much danger of wreck at 4 mph, and I learned to anticipate the Avon’s bends, a very few other craft, and a few bridges. It was a gloriously sunny day, perfect temperature. The Avon flooded badly three weeks earlier (you may have seen Tewkesbury on TV, for it was the center of the mess), and there was evidence everywhere – sunken boats, barges entirely flipped over, interior pieces from caravans (trailers), gas cylinders randomly strewn.

The locks were fun. Every one to five miles we had to go uphill. A week earlier, I had downloaded the Boaters Handbook from British Waterways, the river and canal authority, and carefully studied lock operation, and do’s and don’ts It ain’t rocket science, but a 24,000 pound vessel and tons of fast-flowing water do require some care. Upstream, it’s essentially this: 1) check water level in lock; 2) if at lower level, head into the lock, close gates, fill, and continue upriver; 3) if lock is full, drain it, then proceed. You open the gates by pushing hard, with your whole body (or better yet two), on two massive levers. You empty and fill the lock by cranking geared “paddles,” or little doors on the bottom of the gates; these move up and down via a geared windlass, and you supply your own handle, or lock key. Simple, and fun. It brings out the kid in you!

Beyond the first big town, Pershore, we picked up the sixth team member, Oliver Bertram, late 20s, a property developer and great bloke. It was time for a beer, so we moored at The Anchor in Wyre Piddle, and I enjoyed a local pint called Piddle In the Hole (yes, “piddle” is slang for the same thing in the UK as in the States). We set off again, west, through locks and past the gentle landscape of sheep grazing, trees, low hills, old houses. Lots of fishers, or anglers as they’re called here, relaxing on the bank. We continued past Evesham. The sun set, and we pressed on for another hour, mooring at ten, eating a late supper of cottage pie, and collapsing. We covered 34.9 miles that first day, not bad considering the repair delay.

John and I slept on the dining-room benches, the table folding down. It worked. It was the first time in my orange 1974 Sierra Designs goose-down sleeping bag in many, many years. Still way warm, and still a bit fragrant.

Saturday morning we were motoring upstream before seven, another perfectly clear day; we hoped to make Stratford-upon-Avon, but decided to turn ‘round. We passed Bidford and a couple of other lovely villages. At three, we said goodbye to John, Natalie, Harj, and Oliver, and Andrew and I motored back to Wyre Piddle. They were headed to help set up the Barge-a-Thon dinner event, 25 miles north in a village called Preston Bagot. Andrew wanted to get the barge closer to its home, so we’d have a shorter cruise the next day. About 90 minutes later we moored at The Anchor.

Bounding up the bank toward the pub’s loo, I remembered a similar experience: almost exactly 35 years earlier, at about the same time on another sunny Saturday afternoon, two Brits and I pulled into a camp in Masai Mara National Park in Tanzania, and after two dusty days without seeing a sink, I admired the luxury of a thin stream flowing from a cold-water tap. That memory has stayed with me, as another reminder of never take basics for granted. The barge loo was not working, and a flush toilet had become a similar luxury. Take nothing for granted, I reminded myself. Nothing.

Feeling much lighter, down at the barge I immediately saw a T-t-S opportunity, striking up conversation with Matt, a friendly young lad with a lot of tattoos. We talked about travels, the floods, and more, covering a lot of ground in 10 or 15 minutes. Andrew and I changed clothes, had a pint, and got picked up for the dinner celebration. Day two saw us cover 22.3 miles, for a total of 57.9.

At six, we helped serve canapés and champagne along a canal opposite Crabmill, a former apple-cider mill now a country gastro-pub. The six team members wore very smart dark-green polo shirts with an embroidered Barge-a-Thon logo, and charmed the largely affluent supporters of Sense. Being Texan, I tucked a red cowboy bandanna into my shirt, jaunty, and cranked on my best Texas accent. Great fun. Before eight, we headed inside for dinner. John and Diana arranged for me to sit at the table hosted by Sir Digby Jones, a new lord, a swell guy, a long friend of theirs, and one of new Prime Minister Gordon Brown’s four cabinet ministers who are not MPs (by coincidence, I actually know one of the other two, Mark Malloch Brown in the foreign office, from years back).

It was swell. I sat right next to him. He was one of the minority Brits who by hard work and smarts was able to transcend the social-class constraints that still seem to grip the kingdom. He is intensely proud of his hometown of Birmingham (in fact, he had to get the PM to go to bat to allow him to be called Lord Jones of Birmingham. That pride in place, long one of my strongest beliefs, was the first topic of conversation, and at our lively table we ranged across a bunch of others. He told us about his first “question time” in the House of Lords, about personal security, about meeting the Queen. He is the former executive of the Confederation of British Industry, the nation’s largest business lobby. At 11:30 we headed back to the narrowboat.

Woke up around two when Oliver tumped into the river; he had gotten up to take a piddle (in Wyre Piddle) and stepped the wrong way! Back up at six, to the tiller, through several locks, and we were back to Tewkesbury by 10:30. We set a Barge-a-Thon record, besting the 2004 total – in 48 hours we cruised 75.5 miles. High fives! We cleaned up the boot, said good-byes, and we were back at John’s place, The White House, before noon. Diana made a nice roast lunch, typical Sunday British fare.

After lunch, John loaned me his swell Specialized mountain bike, and I set off for Hanbury Hall, the country home that London lawyer Thomas Vernon built in 1701 in restrained Georgian style (the Brits call it William and Mary). Cycling the countryside, going four times faster than the barge, was truly splendid. It was a sunny, cool afternoon, traffic on the backroads was light, all well in the green and pleasant kingdom. The National Trust, that great keeper of British history, owned and maintained the place. It was very cool. Not huge, but comfy. The artist James Thornhill, who became famous for his work on the cupola of St. Paul’s in London, did several enormous murals in the great hall. They were stunning. The surrounding parkland was equally impressive. The National Trust strives for authenticity, right down to the blackfaced sheep grazing in the front yard.

I asked the docents loads of questions (I must have needed some intellectual speeding-up after the relaxing barge pace!). A docent in the guest room told us a lot, without prompting; I complimented her, for there is nothing that brings the past to life like an enthusiastic and knowledgeable volunteer. Sadly, no photos were allowed inside, but I could take a picture of the parterre, a formal garden, from the guest-room window. Very cool. After nearly an hour in the house, I wandered the parterre, into the dairy, then out to the working Orangery, a long building with huge, south-facing windows. The building allowed the Vernon family to enjoy citrus fruits year-round, and in front, in the summer sun, were lemon, lime, and orange trees – an interesting sight north of 50 degrees latitude!

I continued on, up a hill to a nearby church, then south and west, past a wonderful Tudor-style mansion, then up a hill, across two fords (before proceeding, I checked to make sure that neither was more than 6” deep), and into Himbleton, for a pint of Hereford Pale Ale at the Galton Arms pub. Thirst quenched, I cycled the last few miles back to Crowle. Diana was packing up backyard stuff in preparation for two weeks at their beach place in North Wales, and I helped out. Worked my e-mail a bit, and ate a nice dinner with John and Diana. It was a nice meal – we get on so well, and he is such a great window on UK life and culture. I was especially interested in his description of nearby Birmingham as an “open city,” meaning that they tolerated diverse religious beliefs in the 18^th and 19^th centuries. That led to an account of his Quaker and Catholic boarding school experiences, and a nice detour about a friend of theirs, Sir Adrian Cadbury, of the chocolate family. The family was Quaker. Short on sleep, I was out before dark, just after nine.

Nine hours later, I felt great. John and I had a last yak as he drove me to the train. We said goodbye, and offered my profuse thanks. It was just a great time. Hopped on the 8:30 train to Reading. East of Pershore, we crossed the Avon, and I got my river bearings, spotting Wyre Piddle from a distance. What took an hour by barge was covered in a few minutes on the tracks, which is, of course, why the railway replaced canals and river 160 years ago! At Reading, I changed trains, and was back at Gatwick at noon, and in North Texas before six. I was delighted to be home, because I had never been away as much as the previous nearly four weeks – in the last 27 days, I was home only 5. I love to travel, but that really was my limit!

Eight days later, on Wednesday the 22^nd, the Silver Bird dropped me in San Antonio. Hopped a cab and by 9:30 I was in a big Marriott convention hotel. I had not been to “Santonio” (Texans often clip a syllable or two in place names) since 1999, but had my bearings, and in no time was ambling along the Riverwalk, the landscaped paths on both banks of the San Antonio river. As I wrote in this update eight years ago, the locals have made much from little, in the process growing into one of the largest convention cities in the nation. A few blocks amble brought me close to the Alamo (“Victory or death,” said General Travis; it was the latter) for an obligatory couple of pictures. I am a true Texan.

Snaps in the camera, I paused, and a young Hispanic man, seeing my yellow cravat, asked me if I could teach him how to tie a necktie. Were I a New Yorker, I probably would have growled at him, sure of a scam, but I am a Texan, with a duty of service, and I patiently showed him how. Three times. He got it, thanked me, and said goodbye. No, he did not hit me up – I think he really wanted to learn how to tie a tie.

Ambled west, admiring the early 20^th century commercial architecture. Unlike Dallas and Houston, San Antonio did not pull down their old buildings, and I’m sure they’re now glad they did, because all the nice old stuff delights visitors. By 10:15, I was dripping wet, and headed to the 21^st floor of the Frost Bank Tower, to the Plaza Club, venue for my lunchtime talk to the local chapter of the American Marketing Association. I switched on my PC and found another thing to like about the place: the city provides free WiFi for everyone. Awesome. Worked my e-mail to zero, and at eleven met my hosts. A nice welcome.

About 80 people showed up to hear me speak. A nice talk, a warm reception. I love doing these gigs. A nice woman dropped me at the airport, and I flew home. A swell day.

Rinse, repeat. The next afternoon I climbed on the 2:15 rocket for Minneapolis/St. Paul. Yep, State Fair time, once again. Keeping the consecutive string going, now 23 or 24 years (I think I’ve been every year but one since I was 25).

Northward, I had a nice conversation with a father delivering his 11^th-grade daughter to Shattuck St. Mary’s, the private school in southern Minnesota that has become a huge training ground for hockey players (our friends the Grottings’ son Ben went there). He was a petroleum engineer in Lafayette, Louisiana. We yakked about a lot of topics: dependence on foreign oil, the impact of Hurricane Betsy on his hometown of Houma, Louisiana, in 1965; and the value of dogs – he said they were among God’s greatest gifts, and I nodded in vigorous agreement. We landed at 4:30, I picked up a car, and motored into Minneapolis. I had a few minutes to spare, so drove around the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, a big facility. By 5:30, I was sitting at the bar of my favorite Black Forest Inn, 26^th and Nicollet, with a mug of Summit beer in my hand. The good life!

Friends Edward and Karel Moersfelder arrived. We sat in the beer garden on a lovely evening and caught up on stuff, devouring some wonderful German food. Enroute to their in-town dwelling (they also have a house in Wisconsin, 75 minutes northeast, visited in April), we stopped for groceries at a huge food coop, a good sign of Minnesota’s countercultural tilt. Before dark, we ambled across the Stone Arch Bridge, which railway pioneer James J. Hill built sturdily in 1883. We could see the less-sturdy, collapsed freeway bridge a few blocks downriver. The twisted metal was a grim site.

Back to the condo, and a chat with Buster Carey, 84, from North Dakota, the lobby security guy. Chunks of his life story, a hard life. Firm handshake, like a young man. Up to the condo, off to bed.

Up at 6:30, out the door, crossing the Mississippi upstream of the collapsed bridge, then east through the University of Minnesota campus and across town to the neighborhood west of the fairgrounds, where I park every year, on the street, for free. Was inside the fair gates by 7:45. Shortly after, I heard a classic quote, the quote of the day at the fair: “Did you remember to turn the fryer on?” A key query, given that virtually every foodstuff sold is fried, comes on a stick, or both. I stopped for a cup of coffee and some people watching: white people mostly, and almost all with blonde or light-brown hair. It was the exact opposite of rides on the Santiago Metro a few weeks earlier, where every single person had black or dark-brown hair!

Met the Moersfelders at the fine arts show at nine. Some good stuff this year, and I filled in several “interest cards” that might allow us to buy one of the pieces, after the fair closes on Labor Day (you may recall that we’ve had good luck getting stuff in previous years). We then ambled down the street to the wonderful Creative Activities building, home of a remarkable array of arts and crafts. Every year you spot something new: this year it was carved wooden birds, life size, and beautifully painted. From there we grabbed food and a beer, then into the animal barns. In the horse barn, we parted, and I bounded through a couple more barns (them pigs sure are hard to herd!), then headed to the All the Milk You Can Drink booth for four glasses of chocolate, a true tonic. I finished this year’s visit with a swing through the food and horticulture building, marveling at blue-ribbon tomatoes, apples, and flowers. Out the gate at about three, toward a Caribou Coffee, where I woke up and worked my e-mail to zero. Ambled across Lexington for a chocolate malt at Dairy Queen.

At five I met my since-1964-friend Bob Woehrle and his fiancée Paula Kelty. We sat on their patio, drank beer, grilled some ribs, and had a swell time. Bob is an interesting and insightful observer of people, and I always intend to jot down some of his utterances! Into bed before ten.

Up early, cup of coffee, bowl of muesli with Bob, and out the door, rolling by 6:11, north on I-35 toward Duluth. I was headed to the North Shore of Lake Superior for the first time since 2002, the last time we used our log house before we sold it. You know, dear readers, that I am big on milestones, and I really wanted to get up there in August, for it was the 50^th anniversary of my first visit, with dad, mom, and brother in our ’56 Oldsmobile. Stopped at Tobie’s, a famous restaurant and bakery in Hinckley, 75 miles north, and bought an enormous pecan-caramel roll and a coffee. Back north, sipping coffee but saving the roll until I reached the top of the hill going down into Duluth. From the rest area at Thompson Hill, I could see the biggest of the Great Lakes, an awesome sight that made me so happy.

Rolled down the hill to downtown Duluth. Enroute, I noticed that the old paper mill was looking spiffed up, and on an outside wall the reason: a logo showed that Stora Enso, the giant and global Finnish papermaker, had taken over. A good thing, no doubt. Down at the water, I paused to snap pictures of an old iron-ore carrier, the William F. Irvin, and the wonderful old lift bridge on the entrance to the harbor. Signal sights. Headed northeast to Two Harbors on the old highway that hugs the shore rather than a four-lane expressway inland. It was a gorgeous day, a few cumulus clouds punctuating the blue, and as I often say, the air-conditioning was on outside!

At Two Harbors, I stopped at the office and store of the Superior Hiking Trail Association, introduced myself as a lapsed member from Dallas, and asked the friendly young woman about day hikes closer to Grand Marais. She recommended an eight-mile loop up the Cascade River. Although we’ve passed that stream many times, I had never done that walk. Bought a trail map for that part of the trail (it runs more than 150 miles, from Duluth to the Canadian border), and headed north. I was in bliss – weather great, traffic light, and the splendid Superior in full view. Stopped at Gooseberry Falls, the first park we visited 50 years earlier. It had been dry in the north, and stream flow was light, but as I scampered below the lower falls I remembered my brother Jim and I in awe of the place.

Back in the car, up Highway 61. At Lutsen, a ski resort we used to visit to see fall foliage with the kids in the mid-1990s, I rode the alpine slide, a total blast (chairlift hauls you to the top of the hill, you get in a sled on wheels, and down you go in a fiberglass trough). At the bottom, I tried to call Robin, who was a real fan of the slide, but there was no wireless service, probably a good thing – a sign that we were away from urban life.

I started up the west bank of the Cascade valley at 12:15, a good workout, thanks to the ups and downs as we went over small ridges of brooks that emptied into the larger river. Four miles up, crossed a really elaborate new bridge on a county road (it struck me as the local version of those “bridge to nowhere” boondoggles), then headed down the east bank, a smoother descent, with only one long climb. At 2:30, I stopped for a break, and heard a wonderful sound, the wind in the pines – it was the lullaby I remember from the years (1999-2003) when we owned a place up here. Close to the end, I headed to the edge of the stream, took off my shoes, and cooled my feet. Ahhhhhhh.

Back in the car, rolling a few miles to the lookout at Good Harbor Bay. This was it: the view that was cemented in my head a half-century ago as the view of all that is good on the North Shore. The light was about the same as it was 50 years earlier. I parked, and it just seemed fitting to cue up Joni Mitchell’s “Circle Game”; the chorus “we can’t return, we can only look behind from where we came, and go ‘round and ‘round in the circle game” really hit it. I smiled, cued mandolinist Peter Ostroushko’s “Heart of the Heartland,” and looked heavenward, thanking my dad for introducing me to this sure piece of God’s Country. Wow.

At Grand Marais, I turned onto a side street and found my overnight digs, MacArthur House, a B&B on W. 2^nd Street. Met host Max Bichel, a St. Paul native, dropped my stuff, and drove ten miles up the Gunflint Trail. If it were decades ago, dad’s Olds would have found its way to a log cabin on Greenwood Lake Lodge. I went as far as The Pines, a set of stately evergreens, snapped a picture and headed back to town. Bought a chocolate malt at the Dairy Queen and walked down to the stony beach, then out to Artists’ Point and the Coast Guard station. It was so good to be back.

At the big yellow MacArthur House, I was delighted to find that the City of Grand Marais, pop. 1200, also provided its citizens and visitors with free WiFi. It has always been a progressive and innovative little burg. While working my e-mail, I listened to Garrison Keillor’s show. It was a total Minnesota experience. At seven, I walked into town, and serendip pointed my to Chez Jude, a new restaurant in a yellow bungalow on the main drag. Menu looked great. I reserved a solo table for eight, and ambled to the Raven’s Nest, also new, a rooftop bar with a splendid view of the harbor. It was a good place to watch the sun fall behind the pines and enjoy a Summit ale. Well, two.

Chez Jude was awesome. The town needed some new cooking, and this was it. It was the first place I had ever seen that listed all of its suppliers on the menu, with emphasis on the local, organic, and sustainable. Harley Toftey was the local fisher who ensured that I had a nice piece of pan-fried lake trout. The gatherer of my wild rice was also listed, and so forth, even to the artists whose works decorated the dining room. Very, very cool. The meal was superb. By that point, there was simply no room for any more experiences, save for a full moon and its reflection dancing on Kitchi-Gumee, the big lake.

Was up at first light for a walk around town, then back to the B&B for a nice visit with guests Donna and Wayne from St. Paul, Karalee and Bill from New Jersey, and Ann and Dwight from a farm west of Minneapolis. Great breakfast food and fellowship. Then in the car, southwest 15 miles to Forest Service Road 336 and a 40-