Fourth Quarter Update

On the second day of the quarter, I had lunch with Al Ferrari, who joined American Airlines in 1948. I met Al, now 83 and still very sharp, a few months ago at a retirement party for a colleague, and took an immediate liking to him and and his wife (who was an AA flight attendant). Back then, I told Al to call for lunch, and to my surprise, he did. We had a nice meal. Just as when I met him, he had lots of stories from the old days, providing a continuity that brings comfort. I think all of us need that: some connection to previous times. Al gave me copies of some things from his career, including a list of jobs and salaries, from $270 per month as Junior Auditor in 1948 to president of Sky Chefs in the 1970s.

The following weekend saw us at SMU Parents' Weekend. We had expected to have to travel to both kids' colleges, so a short drive was convenient. We met the parents of Chris, Jack's roommate, at lunch on Friday. After the meal, I headed to Jack's English class (I could not resist asking the young prof. a question), then to an open house at the business school, then a Jack-led campus tour, then dinner at P.F. Chang's, then a talent show, then over to the fraternity that interests him the most (pledging begins in January). By eleven we were worn out.

The next day we had lunch with some of his friends (lots of Grahams and Newtons, almost no Bills and Janes), then visited the Meadows Museum on campus. Algur Meadows, a Dallas oilman and SMU grad, amassed what is said to be the largest collection of Spanish art outside Spain, a truly remarkable set of paintings, drawings, and sculpture – from sacred art of the Renaissance to a sculpture by the contemporary architect Santiago Calatrava. After that it was barbecue, then another grim SMU football defeat – a few moments of greatness and a lot of weakness.

On October 8, I took the DART light-rail line downtown to day two of American's annual (well, almost: we didn't hold one last year, to save money) Fall Management Conference. After the meeting ended at noon, I got a ride out to work. At six p.m., I walked over to the train station and hopped on the train back downtown and DART north to Richardson. I had stuff to read, but best of all I had tunes on a new handheld (PDA) that included a built-in MP3 player. Very cool! Listened to the Allman Brothers, Ottorino Respighi, Peter Ostroushko, Eric Clapton. Wow. Technology is so cool.

I start getting what my mom called "itchy feet" – the urge to travel – after a few weeks, so on October 9 it felt good to jump on AA2881 for Orange County, California. Linda was along, too, which was swell. It was cloudy for much of the ride, but it cleared just east of the Colorado River, the southern gate to California. Irrigated fields on both banks made the point: without water, this place just would not work.

We headed to the annual Celebrity Golf event in Newport Beach, one of two big charity events American sponsors (and described in this update last year). There were some familiar faces and some new ones. I have never been in awe of the famous, but caddying for a group that included legendary Chicago Bears running back Gale Sayers, now 60, was pretty swell.

After nine holes, I said goodbye, headed back to the hotel, and we had a quick lunch. We then zipped back to the airport, picked up a car, and motored north to the USC campus, where Parents' Weekend was in full swing. We headed first to Robin's sorority, where we yakked for a bit, I worked my e-mail, and then headed downtown to the grand, 80-year-old Biltmore Hotel. Checked in, and wheeled the Ford Focus into rush-hour traffic, aiming for a free parking place (the hotel wanted $22 a night; see last quarter's update for my view of that!). Most downtown parking meters switched off at six, which gave me 30 minutes to motor around. Time for some exploration. I headed through the sad eastern fringe of the center city, past SRO hotels, the mentally-ill homeless wandering (one veered into the street just in front of me), the immigrants down and out. There was nothing to do but pray for them. Beyond that zone were miles of warehouses, originally aside the big rail corridor into town. I turned around and promptly got stuck in a huge traffic jam, but was back in the hotel by 6:20.

At seven we met Robin, five of her friends, and four sets of parents at Nick and Stef's, a restaurant in the bottom of the Wells Fargo skyscraper. We had our own room, which made for a nice, if pricey, dinner. Expense-account steakhouses are not among my favorites, but this place served a nice piece of halibut and swell lemon-meringue pie.

Back in the car, north a mile or so to the cradle of the American bungalow house style. Greene and Greene, two brothers from Ohio, brought this form into being in this place, at first in large homes, like the Gamble House, built for second part of the Cincinnati soap family as a winter home in 1908. They advanced the movement called Arts and Crafts, with its emphasis on wood, influences from Asia, and opposition to industrial production. Some pretty cool stuff on Westmoreland Terrace and nearby on Arroyo Terrace and Grand Avenue. Gamble House, now owned by USC, was open to view, and I took a one-hour tour. The place had been returned to nearly original condition, and it was just way cool. Lorna, our English tour guide, brought the place to life.

Back in the car, north a mile or so to the cradle of the American bungalow house style. Greene and Greene, two brothers from Ohio, brought this form into being in this place, at first in large homes, like the Gamble House, built for second part of the Cincinnati soap family as a winter home in 1908. They advanced the movement called Arts and Crafts, with its emphasis on wood, influences from Asia, and opposition to industrial production. Some pretty cool stuff on Westmoreland Terrace and nearby on Arroyo Terrace and Grand Avenue. Gamble House, now owned by USC, was open to view, and I took a one-hour tour. The place had been returned to nearly original condition, and it was just way cool. Lorna, our English tour guide, brought the place to life.

Los Angeles never ceases to delight. Reyner Banham, an English design critic whose Los Angeles: The Architecture of Four Ecologies (1971, recently republished and available at Amazon.com) is the work that best celebrates the genius of this place. Banham wrote:

After the tour, I walked the neighborhood with a helpful map and guide, then drove back to USC, hooked up with Linda and Robin for a pre-game dinner in the front yard of the sorority, then walked to campus for the pre-game hoopla, including music from the awesome Spirit of Troy Marching Band. As I have written before, Southern Cal carries school spirit to a large exponent. We followed the band to the Coliseum, where we saw the Trojans thump Stanford. Home by eleven, a long day.

Took a trot before seven on Sunday morning, then we drove past the airport to Manhattan Beach, where we had a huge breakfast with Robin at Uncle Bill's Pancake House. Walked the pier on a lovely warm morning, drove back to LAX, and flew home. A nice trip.

Four days later, at 6:30 a.m., I climbed onto a 757 and flew to Orlando. The last half hour of flight was down the spine of north Florida in clear skies, and the view was superb: Jacksonville and the Atlantic coast in the far distance; in middle view the St. John's River flowing slowly north; my friend Herb Hiller's Drayton Island visible where the river widens to Lake George; lots of forest and empty country (in strong contrast to the urban image of the state); the almost perfectly round lakes that are a function of the limestone undergirding; orange groves yielding to subdivisions (just as they have in the eastern fringe of Los Angeles County); and more. A great sight.

We landed, I worked the telephone, then picked up a car and drove ten miles west to a Marriott timeshare resort for a meeting of the Hospitality Industry Council of the Cornell Hotel School. We decided at the spring meeting that we needed to gather twice a year, and this was our first autumn gathering. Steve Weisz, a graduate of the school and president of Marriott's timeshare division, hosted us. A one-week share of the two-bedroom villas here costs $20K. During the course of the meetings, I learned a bit about the fractional-ownership business, enough to be glad that we've never been tempted. (Did you know, for example, that the sales and marketing expense of a timeshare is typically over 50%? Steve was happy because Marriott's number is in the low 40s, but that fact alone has a huge impact on resale!)

I've been on the council for several years now, and have gotten to know the other members, as well as Leo Renaghan, the Associate Dean for Academic Affairs. It's an outspoken group, and I enjoy their comments. Almost all are graduates of the school, so they have a large emotional connection, too. The meetings are lively and thus a lot of fun. We finished by five, and started an outdoor reception and dinner at six. After dark, every mosquito in central Florida headed toward our picnic table, so I took leave to work my e-mail and watch the Yankees take the AL championship.

The meeting resumed the next morning, and ended by 11:30. Drove back to the airport and flew home.

We built ramps on the following two Saturdays. On October 25, we were at the Silva household, building a ramp for 24-year-old Juanita. Her stepfather, Herminio, a small man from the Mexican state of Guerrero, watched us for the first hour or so. He spoke almost no English, but my Spanish returns haltingly when it must, and we soon invited him to help us build. We had some digging to do, and he proved to be surprisingly strong. The banter in Spanish and English was fun. His wife, Doris, joined us from time to time. It is rare but welcome when we can engage the client's family this way. It made light work of the project.

We built ramps on the following two Saturdays. On October 25, we were at the Silva household, building a ramp for 24-year-old Juanita. Her stepfather, Herminio, a small man from the Mexican state of Guerrero, watched us for the first hour or so. He spoke almost no English, but my Spanish returns haltingly when it must, and we soon invited him to help us build. We had some digging to do, and he proved to be surprisingly strong. The banter in Spanish and English was fun. His wife, Doris, joined us from time to time. It is rare but welcome when we can engage the client's family this way. It made light work of the project.

A few days later, in mid-morning, I flew to Tucson, and gave my advertising update to our Western Reservations Office, last visited in July 2002. Four hours later, I flew home. Nice views of the Southwest. The only other item to note was the customer sitting in front of me. He had Tourette's Syndrome. Though we've all read about this mysterious disease, I had never actually been close to someone afflicted. It was quite remarkable. Here was a 30-year-old businessman, clearly successful, yakking with colleagues on his mobile telephone, when suddenly, his voice becomes agitated and disconnected words flowed. In a second, he's back doing a deal. It was like someone was changing his channels with a remote. I'm sure few people with the disease cope as well as he does, and I remembered them all in evening prayers. I am so grateful for good health.

Got home at 8:15, visited with Linda, called my brother to wish him happy birthday (he was 56), worked my e-mail, and climbed into bed about ten, only to rise again at 4:45 and head back to the airport for another day trip, this time to Miami. Landed at 9:30 and took a cab downtown to a meeting of AA's Latin American and Caribbean sales reps. The presentation went well; this was a more junior group and most had not seen this kind of "show and tell" presentation (it was an ad update similar to what I had done the day before in Tucson). Loud applause for the TV commercials I showed. Well, okay, I’m biased, but the spots are very cool. Got a ride back to the airport, worked my voicemail, and flew home, plumb wore out.

I passed up a trip back to Minnesota with Linda; on Halloween, she headed to her law-school reunion. Normally, I'd have attended – she went to school with some nice people, who have remained good friends – but I simply was traveling too much in November. The high point of that weekend was watching Nowhere in Africa, a German film that won the 2003 Academy Award for best foreign-language film. If you've not seen it, go rent this truly touching movie about a Jewish family that escaped the Reich in 1937 and lived in Kenya until 1946. Some marvelous vignettes about refugees, Jewish German identity, and the relationship between whites and blacks in the colonial era.

The next week, on the 5^th, I headed up to Vancouver for a meeting with my friend John McCulloch, who heads the oneworld (airline) alliance. They're recruiting a VP-Commercial, and I had some interest in the post. The ride up was enjoyable, both for the great Western scenery and for a companionable seatmate, a Scottish engineer and Vancouver resident returning from southern Chile, where he is helping build pulp and paper mills. We had a good yak across a number of topics, including fitness, ham-handed U.S. foreign policy, silviculture, and more.

Landed at one, took a bus downtown on a clear and (for Vancouver) very cold day, and headed into meetings. At 6:30, John and I drove to Sandbar, a very agreeable fish restaurant on Granville Island, just south of the city center. His wife, Yuko, joined us for a swell meal from the sea (I had oysters, halibut, and chocolate pudding). Back at the hotel I worked my e-mail for 90 minutes, and clocked out.

Woke at 6:30, laced up, and headed in dim dawn light along the waterfront to Stanley Park. What had once been Coal Harbour was now increasingly given over to high-rise apartments. I was happy to have brought tights and a turtleneck, because it was just below freezing, rare in V-City, even in winter. Bought a muffin and milk at a take-out place and headed back to the hotel to eat and read The Globe and Mail. At 10:15 we took off on Alaska Airlines for Los Angeles, passing over the top of the Three Sisters peaks in the Oregon Cascades, when it clouded over. The clouds parted just before we came over the top of the San Gabriel Mountains, straight over USC, and into LAX. Happily, the fires were all extinguished, and the smoke had cleared.

I motored northeast to the USC campus, checked into the hotel, and walked across Figueroa to the business school, where I delivered a talk on airline pricing to a class of MBA students. A bright group, lots of good questions and comments. At 5:15, with the last of the questions answered, I walked across campus and north on Hoover to Robin's sorority. Dinner there was long anticipated, and it was a lot of fun. It's a comfortable house, and it occurred to me that it might be swell to live there! After dinner, Robin had arranged for me to give a very informal talk about airline advertising. About twelve women showed up, a nice group. Robin drove me back to the hotel.

I was up at 6:20 the next morning, a vacation day. First joy was a good run through campus (as I've written before, it's a lovely and exceedingly well-maintained place. Showered and set out for downtown on foot, for breakfast two miles north at the famous Pantry Restaurant at 9^th and Figueroa. My hosts for a highly caloric eggs and potatoes repast were Jeff Young and Denice Zavat of The Los Angeles Times. We had a good visit, and at 9:20 they drove me back to campus, where I met Robin for her 10:00 international-relations class. I introduced myself to Prof. Lamy, and asked permission to attend. We visited briefly, and he told me that Robin was a total star in the class. I beamed! It was an interesting lecture on I.R. stuff in the first part of the century, mainly focused on the failed Versailles treaty. Wouldn't it be swell to be able to go back to school? I'm ready!

At 11:10 I jumped in the Ford Focus and zipped north on the 110 Freeway, back to Pasadena, to finish the sightseeing I began during Parents' Weekend in October. First stop was the revived shopping district along Colorado Boulevard, all very cool stuff from the first decades of last century. A store that looked like it might have been a Woolworths had become a Victoria's Secret! The only remnant from "ago" was a pawn shop on one corner, with a window full of Fender and Gibson electric guitars.

Then I headed south to a high-end neighborhood with more examples of the Greene Brothers' architecture (see above). There were some very cool houses on Hillcrest and Wentworth avenues. At the south end of the district was the Huntington Hotel, now a Ritz Carlton. In I went, wandering the first-floor corridors, and heading outside to get pictures of this very imposing and deluxe place. A successful couple of hours of touring done, I headed back to LAX, worked my e-mail in the brand-new and sunny Admirals Club, and flew home. It was another delightful visit to Los Angeles – such a very cool place.

Got home at ten, into bed, up and out at 5:50 Saturday morning, back to the airport, whoosh, off to Orlando. No trip to see the Mouse this. Betty Mayer, a friend of my 94-year-old Aunt Mildred in Daytona Beach, called me five days earlier to tell me Aunt Mil was not doing well, and that I needed to come see, and fairly soon. Aunt Mil had no children, and her siblings are all dead, so nieces and nephews are the closest kin she has. My brother Jim actually has been the most faithful visitor, flying in annually, but Betty told me the last visit was not a good one. So off I went, armed with a bit of helpful information from the Volusia County Council on Aging.

Landed, and in no time was on the #417 toll road headed north, then I-4, and soon was in front of the same house on 15^th Street in Holly Hill that I first visited in 1964. Back then we had motored down to see Aunt Mil, Uncle Walter, and my paternal grandmother, Florence, all of whom had moved to sunshine after Walt retired from the Zenith Radio Co. in Chicago in '62. The house looked a little worn, but the yard was clean. I rang the doorbell, Betty let me in, and I surprised my dear old aunt. A big surprise.

Aunt Mil looked exactly like a female version of my Dad in his last years. Exactly. We had a good visit, yakking about Jack and Robin and Linda, remembering years past in Chicago, and other stuff. But over the next four hours I could see that Betty was right: Aunt Mil was not taking her medicines regularly, had not been to her docs for a year or two, was biting her nails, and was paranoid about friends stealing from her. That said, she tracked the conversations, appeared to hear clearly, and still had a good sense of humor. Aunt Mil knew from Jim's visits that I was hugely interested in family history, and she suggested I scoop up piles and piles of papers, old Bibles stuffed with clippings, and old pictures. "Bobby," she declared, "if you don't take it, it'll all end up in a garbage can." I managed to stuff it all into my small day pack and a plastic grocery bag.

Betty suggested a beer in mid-afternoon, and we enjoyed it. A neighbor, Bonnie Justus, stopped in, and we visited with her. At 4:45, I gave Aunt Mil a hug, told her I prayed for her every day, jumped in the Mercury, and sped back to Orlando airport. On the flight home I began to sift through the papers. Aunt Mil suggested checking the middle of one of the tattered Bibles, and right there was the first gold mine: birth dates for her three siblings and all their children; the wedding invitation and marriage certificate of Florence and Albert Britton, November 16, 1899 (Albert left the family in 1918, when Mildred was eight and my dad Clifford was four; the two older kids, Constance and Harold, were teenagers); a letter from the Land Office of the Interior Department identifying the quarter section Albert homesteaded in Oklahoma in 1903; and more. Just way cool. I set up a cute 1917 picture of Mildred and Cliff on the arm rest, bragging to the flight attendant about the century of information under the seat in front of me. Wow.

Unlike the previous four days, I didn't fly anywhere on Sunday. Linda and I went to church and out to brunch, I rode my bike for 25 miles, we picked out a new sink and faucets for the downstairs half-bath at Home Depot, and watched some football. High point of the day was a visit from Jack Britton, fresh from winning $126.30 on a $2 bet at a horse track in Bossier City, Louisiana. He came out to show me his Philosophy paper, and get my edits and suggestions. We had a good visit. Linda misses him a lot. And I do, too.

On Monday, it was back in the air, a long ride to London for the 2004 planning meetings with our U.K. and Europe team. An annual fall event. But before we left, I phoned the Council on Aging in Daytona Beach and asked for a case manager to visit Aunt Mil. I'll be back down there, for sure.

My two ad colleagues, Steve and Janette, and I zipped through Gatwick Airport and onto the train into the city. Passing the suburban stations that I practically knew by heart (Horley, Purley, Earlswood), I was reminded that it had been nearly a year since my last visit – perhaps the longest interval in a decade. It was good to be back. We got a cab to the hotel, and unlike the other two, I was able to get a room at mid-morning. While Steve worked a crossword puzzle in my tiny room, I showered, worked my e-mail, and polished a presentation I would give later that day.

At 11:45 we took the Tube to Russell Square and walked into the London offices of McCann Erickson, our international ad agency. Some new people to meet, lunch, and an afternoon of meetings. Left the building at six, back on the Tube to the hotel, then by taxi to dinner nearby, at an upmarket Indian restaurant, Zaika, on Kensington High Street. The two Bills from the Dallas ad agency, Miller and Oakley, joined; the latter, a swell guy but unadventurous eater, was unsure of my choice. By the end of the meal, he was converted. It was really delicious. But, truth is, most of the neighborhood curry houses that dot London are just as good. Called home, and fell into deep sleep.

Up at 6:30 for a trot into Hyde Park, destined as always for the statue of Peter Pan on the north end. It was misting, not enough to get wet, but unpleasant. Greeted Pan, headed back, showered, and zipped back to McCann early, to work e-mail on a fast connection. In the middle of scores of messages was sad news of the death of Mary Heiberger, associate director of career services at the University of Pennsylvania. I've never mentioned her in these updates, but as one of the three Penn people who admitted me to a 1983 Wharton School program, she changed my life. That summer "crash course" in management fundamentals for Ph.Ds like me was a prerequisite for my departure from academia and into the world of business. May she rest in peace.

The meetings were thorough, and ended just before dark, which in London in November is about 4:30. I worked my e-mail from my hotel room, met colleagues at a nearby bar, and headed to dinner with a big group from the ad agency at Boxwood Café, a new and very fancy place in Knightsbridge, a couple of Tube stops from the hotel. The meal was superb, especially the entrée of slow-roasted lamb neck, dumplings, and carrots. It was clear that folks were gonna stay late, so I said goodbye to Terry McGrath, Mark James, and my other London ad friends and headed back. Worked e-mails – including some late suggestions for Jack's Philosophy paper – and cratered at 12:30.

Thursday morning I slept until 7:45, then headed over to another ad agency, M&C Saatchi, which handles British Airways' business, and works in tandem with our agency on oneworld alliance stuff. We were there for a meeting with people from Swiss International Air Lines, which joins our alliance in mid-2004. Just before noon, I excused myself, rode two Tube stops north to Baker Street, and walked to the London Business School for my third presentation there. A good turnout for my alliances talk, lots of interested questions. Got back to the meeting at two, finished up, and headed back to the hotel. Went for another run to see Peter Pan before it got dark (lots of kids and lots of dogs in the park at that hour), worked e-mail, and left for dinner at 6:30 with a handful of Dallas ad folks. We enjoyed another fine, but slightly less fancy, meal at Cross Keys, a pub in a posh part of Chelsea, close to the River Thames.

Got up the next morning and flew home, a routine if bumpy ride. Arrived at my office at 3:20, in time to sweep out some work, then drove home for Friday-night dinner with Linda. It was great to see her.

The next day, a couple of ramp-building friends and I gathered to prepare for a special event that night, a dinner to celebrate completion, two months ago, of our 1000^th ramp. It seemed right to pause and clap for that milestone. We built a couple of small ramps, one in the sanctuary at our church, for the 5 p.m. service, and one in the church basement, which would be the dais for your correspondent, who was emcee for the festivities. The worship and the celebration were wonderful. We all feel lucky and happy to be able to be of service to people in need, and it was good to pause, to give thanks to donors and volunteers and supportive spouses and friends.

My lecture on Monday was at 11:40, so had time to walk the Cornell campus in the mist, and spend a couple of hours yakking in Mac's office. Ate lunch with him, visited briefly with the Hotel School dean, flew back to Philly, and was home by 10:30, looking forward to a whole week at home. A whole week!

On Saturday, November 22nd, we built a 48-foot ramp for Mr. Johnson on Overhill Lane. Driving home on Stemmons Freeway at 12:30, I saw a crowd gathered on that grassy knoll along Elm Street. John F. Kennedy had been assassinated there 40 years ago, almost to the minute. I had thought about that tragedy several times that morning, and on the preceding days. I wonder now if some of our sense of volunteerism doesn't come from the famous phrase in his inaugural speech: "And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country."

Later that afternoon, Garrison Keillor observed the anniversary with some heartfelt and touching words; JFK, he said, was:

On Monday evening, I called my friend John McCulloch at oneworld in Vancouver and declined the job mentioned above. It was the right move. This is a pivotal time at American – risky, sure, but pivotal, and much of my decision was based on a desire to be part of what will either be successful change or financial collapse. Ninety minutes later, after a more-than-full day at the office, I flew south on a 767, nonstop from DFW to Santiago, Chile, my first visit there since 1970, just three weeks before Salvador Allende was elected.

American's network in the Americas is huge, and I have explored very little of it – the regular trips to nearby Monterrey and Mexico City, for sure, and a few short visits in 1999 to Santo Domingo, Sao Paulo, Rio de Janeiro, Caracas, and Managua, when I ran our Food & Beverage department and worked these trips as a flight attendant. So it was way past time, especially given that Latin America held great fascination in my teens – 1970 visit was my first overseas trip. I was fluent in Spanish back then.

Flying south, I listened to as much musica Latina as I had on my laptop: the sweet melodies of fellow Texan Tish Hinojosa, Cuba's Buena Vista Social Club, Santana, and, for some civility, Joaquin Rodrigo's "Concierto for Aranjuez". And I read the current issue of Minnesota, the magazine of the University of Minnesota Alumni Association. Some nice memories in that journal, as well as a reminder that this good life that we Brittons now enjoy is thanks in large measure to the education I received at "the U". Strong institutions like that are one of the many things I include in daily prayers of thanksgiving.

I slept five hours, and opened the window shade to see the Andes, enormous. In the distance was Aconcagua, tallest mountain in the Americas. We descended over taupe and brown hills, green valleys with rivers full of snowmelt, vineyards, and exurban "ranchitas" with swimming pools. We landed a bit early, and American had a "Special Services" person meet me (normally reserved for bigshots, so this kind of fuss makes me nervous). First step was to pay the "reciprocity tax", $100, so named because it is tit-for-tat for the visa charges the U.S. and other countries levy on Chileans. Then came our Santiago airport manager, Gabriela Peralta, and we zipped through immigration and customs nonstop. In this case, having people make a fuss saved a lot of time, because the lines were longer than long. Out into the arrivals hall, ATM machine for Chilean Pesos, and a ticket on a colectivo (shared ride) into town. These little buses are far more interesting than taxis.

And this ride was no exception. Before we left the terminal, the driver was studying the map closely, calling his dispatcher, looking at an e-mail one of the passengers had. First stop was for her, in a poor neighborhood called Lo Prado. I was in the front seat, and, less than an hour in a foreign country, I was the navigator, giving the driver instructions. I found Caleta de Iquique 108; people in the back seats clapped. Bravo!

We zipped into downtown, and I jumped out near the AA offices, walked a block, and soon was greeting Ana Ines Carrera, our sales manager, and about ten of her team. I washed my face, put on a necktie, and delivered a tailored Advertising Update. It went very well. In an hour I was out the door, walking south toward Plaza de Constitucion. Literally the first "sight" I noticed was a statue of Salvador Allende. Behind him was Moneda Palace, bombed during the coup on Chile's September 11, in 1973.

Took a couple more photos, bought a Multivia stored-value card for the Metro, and rode east ten stops to Tobalaba in the Las Condes neighborhood. Walked to the hotel, checked in, showered, changed clothes, and set off for the Catholic University. Enjoyed a late lunch at the Restaurante Valle de Oro on Alameda: a huge slab of congrio (a large ocean fish), salad, and Coca-Cola. The salsa on the table was very tasty, powerful with onion, parsley, and garlic, perfect on the plain grilled fish. Walked around the university a bit, had a coffee, and found the office of my host, Andrés Ibañez. With ninety minutes before class, I checked my voicemail, looked at my presentation, and brought this journal up to date.

To almost every person I met, I began with "perdóneme, mi español es muy malo", but everyone understood me, and I mostly understood them – after more than three decades of disuse, my Spanish skills did not fail me!

The lecture took place in the most elegant "classroom" I've ever used; actually, it was a function room for one of the rectors of the university. It was the first time the speaker's water came in a crystal decanter. The students were all MBA candidates. We got a late start, so I had to hurry the presentation, but we got through it. Finished after seven, took the Metro back to my hotel, called home, and at eight the head of McCann Erickson Chile, Pablo Walker, picked me up in his enormous Tahoe.

Dinner was nearby, at a restaurant called Aquí esta Coco. To describe it as a seafood place would be a huge understatement. The place was completely given over, in cuisine and décor, to things that swim. For appetizers, we had an eye-popping combination of clams, abalone, smoked salmon, ceviche and some very odd vittles the waiter described, in English, as "sea snakes". They were not my favorite, but the rest was outstanding. Second course was sole, and we enjoyed a nice glass of Chilean chardonnay. Conversation was interesting and varied. Pablo's family arrived from Scotland in the 1850s (over the last century and a half, Chile has attracted immigrants from all over Europe).

Was up at seven the next morning for a run, east to the U.S. Embassy, then along the fast-flowing Mapocho River, which courses east-west through the city. Ate breakfast, hopped on the Metro, dropped my suitcase at the central railway station, and took the Metro south to the suburban San Joaquin campus of the Catholic University, a nice collection of modern buildings with plenty of green space, and great views of the Andes. Met Andrés at eleven, and spoke to an undergraduate pricing class from 11:30 to 12:50 – 80 minutes was much better than 40 the night before. He invited me to lunch, and we repaired to the economics and management faculty dining room, something just unheard of in the U.S. Three of his colleagues joined us, and we had a nice conversation. I mentioned to Andrés that Robin had asked me to buy a T-shirt, so he walked me over to a store in the equivalent of the student union. "Collegiate merchandise" is not the growth industry in Chile that it is in the U.S., but we managed to find a nice shirt in the right color and the right size. Said goodbye, and promised to be back – Andrés suggested an August visit, to combine skiing and lecturing. Now that makes a lot of sense!

Took the Metro back into the city, and spent about three hours just walking around central Santiago. Perhaps the high point was a stop in the Café Caribe, a huge, stand-up (no seats, no tables) coffee shop way different from your neighborhood Starbucks. You buy a ticket in advance, then walk over to one of the bars, deposit your ticket (and perhaps a tip), and the barista, one of a dozen nice-looking young women in very short knit dresses brings you a liquid jolt. It was mid-afternoon, and the mainly male crowd was enjoying a break. The non-smoking section does not exist. What a scene!

Some of the most attractive buildings in the center were Beaux-Arts designs from the turn of the last century, like the stock exchange (Bolsa) and the main post office. An interesting townscape. I also loped around an older neighborhood close to the center, focused on a church built in 1855. I reclaimed my suitcase at the station, walked across the street, and caught a bus to the airport. At 5:45, I put my necktie back on, and found Gabriela, our airport manager. She had arranged to have me give the Advertising Update to her airport team. A fourth opportunity to speak. It was a nice group.

I then signed into my e-mail, where 362 messages were waiting for me. Happily, most were spam (why our firm can't figure out spam blockers is beyond me). I spent the next 90 minutes working them down to just nine. Good.

Between the AA offices and the Admirals Club I heard Chilean folk music, and one floor below, in the arrivals area, were a group of Mormon musicians in traditional attire. The LDS Church was holding some kind of multinational meeting in Santiago (I kept running into people wearing the same "Give God Glory" badges). They are a strong, and somewhat resented, force in Chile.

Mormons are only the latest Europeans to arrive in Chile. The country has a fascinating immigration history – English in and around the port of Valparaiso, Croatians in the north and south, Germans in the south (they were given free land after World War I, provided that they were Catholic, married, and met some other conditions), Italians sprinkled around, and many more. Chile is also the New World, and Americans fond of recalling the tribulations of a 3,000 mile ocean crossing need to think about folk who headed all the way down here – diagonally across the Atlantic, then around Cape Horn (or through the Panama Canal after 1911). It seems to me that Chile is the New World Plus.

I spent a couple of hours in the Admirals Club, then climbed onto the Silver Bird and flew home, landing on Thanksgiving morning, and on my birthday. Zipped over to the office for an hour to mop up some mess, then home, where all were still fast asleep. Unpacked, pulled on my bike shorts, and headed into a windy morning. After 23 miles, I pulled in the driveway, and everyone was awake, with birthday greetings. It was a nice day, with a movie (Master and Commander, very cool adventure), a Scrabble game, a great dinner, and, best of all, time with our kids. The weekend zipped by, and in the space of twenty minutes on Sunday the 30^th, we went from noise and life to a silence that was not to my liking.

Two days after that, I headed northwestward to Tokyo, up over the emptying Great Plains, the red-cliff Badlands southeast of Billings, Montana; the Little Belt Mountains, where my Dad spent his first ten years; the Canadian Rockies; Alaska; and out over the North Pacific. No doubt we passed above a sea lane my father traversed on a troop ship when he was in this part of the world in the early 1940s. Now that he is in a peaceful and comfortable place, I wonder if he still clings to his dislike for the land and people I will soon visit.

It's a long ride to Tokyo, 6500 miles, 13 hours. I was determined to sleep through the first night, so I limited my nap to two hours, which left a lot of time to write (some real work, plus a re-do of an essay on what's wrong with youth sports, and a draft of the family holiday letter). And to read, cover-to-cover, today's New York Times, the current issue of The New Yorker (with a fascinating, but sad, account of a family that has two autistic children), and last Sunday's Times magazine. "Are we there yet?" did cross my lips once or twice.

Bill Oakley, the creative director at our ad agency, was along on this trip, and we hooked up on the jetbridge, just after landing at 4:30. We then landed in a serpentine line to clear immigration, then a few traffic jams , and finally reached the hotel at eight. Took a quick shower, and by 8:40 Bill and I were on the Maronouchi (subway) Line, riding three stops to Ginza. Bill had never been to Tokyo, and was taking it all in, especially the near-daylight conditions on the main Ginza thoroughfares, the result of all that neon and other illumination. Just very cool. We found our way to the Lion Beer Hall, built in 1934 in a very cool moderne style, walls covered with geometric tiles and mosaics (I had been there a couple of times before). A large glass on Yebisu Black beer was in order, followed by some dinner. We were back at the hotel by 10:30, and I was fast asleep by eleven.

My new strategy of a short (two hour) nap westbound paid off – I slept through the night. Rose at 6:30, laced up, and took off on a clear, crisp morning, heading west, past the Akasaka royal guest house. A good run. Bill and I had breakfast on the 40^th floor of our hotel, the New Otani, with just stunning views in all directions, clear to Mount Fuji. We had the morning free, so we set off to explore a couple of neighborhoods, first to Shibuya, a center of youth culture and nightlife that was still interesting in mid-morning. We then headed north to Asakusa, home of the largest temple in Japan and some other cool stuff. We were back at the hotel at noon.

I worked my e-mail, put on a tie, and we headed to Waseda University's business school, where I delivered a couple of lectures to 15 students and about 5 faculty. Yet another school added to the network! Masahiro Izumi, an exec at All Nippon Airways who I met at a conference last year, arranged the lectures, and he attended as well. A swell fellow. We commiserated about the state of the airline business. Nice to find people on another country that can relate to our mess. At five, Bill split off, and I headed downtown to the offices of Nihon Keizai Shimbun, or Nikkei, the world's largest business newspaper, with a daily circulation of more than 3.1 million. My hosts sat me down on a busy ad-sales floor, and the similarity with a U.S. newspaper office was striking: the frenzy, the disorder, even some of the building's architectural details.

I gave a lecture to 20 Nikkei people, and then headed to a genuine Japanese dinner in a side-street Ginza restaurant with Messrs. Umeda, Kikuguchi, and Mitsuoka. Two of them had lived in the U.S., and spoke good English. We had a lot of fun. The universality of middle-aged experience is pretty remarkable!

Was up for a bit in the middle of my second night in Japan. Met Bill for breakfast (he had dinner the night before with people from McCann Erickson Japan). We walked across the street to the Akasaka Prince Hotel and met ad-agency colleagues assembled for the 52^nd annual Nikkei Advertising Awards, the event that brought us across the Pacific. American won not one, but two awards, and your correspondent was there to accept them. The Japanese are big on honor, and hierarchy, and both McCann and our local office urged me to attend. Okay, maybe it was a boondoggle, but once or twice a year is okay. When I walked up onto the stage, bowed to the audience, and to the CEO of Nikkei, I thought of all that has happened in the past sixty years between our two countries. I thought of my Dad, and wondered, as I did on the way over to Japan two days earlier, what he might be thinking at that very moment. It was, for me, a pretty cool experience. Not incidentally, the ads that McCann Erickson Japan created are truly stunning.

After the ceremony, there was a lavish reception. Posh. Caviar, champagne, lobster, the works. And lots of bowing and exchanging of business cards. It was a cool experience, worth the long ride and days away. Afterwards, we headed to McCann for a few hours of planning for next year. At five, I walked back to the hotel (Bill had departed for home), laced up, and repeated my run of the day before, though in the dark and some light rain. At six-thirty, I took the Ginza Line north to Asakusa, to what was billed as the oldest Western-style bar in Tokyo, the Kamiya, established 1889. The place was packed with end-of-week tipplers (the Japanese drink a lot). I found a place in a corner and watched the scenes unfold. I was the only gai-jin (foreigner, literally round eye) in the joint. It was fun. After an hour I headed back to Ginza, strolled a bit, had a quick bite at a little place under the railway lines, and headed back to the hotel.

Rose at six on Saturday, worked my e-mail, ate my last bowl of rice porridge for awhile, and took the subway a few stops southwest to the Shinjuku district, home of the world's busiest railway station, lots of highrise office buildings, and a big shopping district. I was there before the stores opened at ten, but it was still bustling. And very cool. The edges of Shinjuku were very sharp: on one side of the busy Koshu Kaido thoroughfare were skyscrapers, and on the other was a slightly dumpy residential area. Tokyo is a remarkable place, for land use and lots of other things.

Took the subway to Tokyo Station, where, to my great delight, backlit versions of our two award-winning ads were opposite my platform. That was a very cool moment! Walked across the station, hopped on the Narita Express to the airport, and flew home, arriving on Saturday morning. Another Saturday morning, this one in Texas, clear and cold. It's always nice to be home.

The weekend sped by, Monday was given over to meetings, and way before dawn on Tuesday I was winging southeast to Miami to present the last Advertising Updates of the year, this time to a group of pilots from our big base there. The first meeting was not until one o'clock, so I got some work done in the Admirals Club. The show went well. Pilots are a unique group of people, and reaching them takes a lot! Repaired to my hotel room, worked some more, and at 4:30 laced up and ran on a gorgeous, sunny winter afternoon. Took a nap, worked some more, and at 7:30 met Octavio and Teresita Zubizarreta, owners of the ad agency that does our Spanish-language advertising here in the U.S. (I described a long and fascinating conversation with Teresita in this year's first quarter update). We had a delightful dinner at Versailles, my favorite Cuban restaurant in Miami: sopa de platanos, a whole grilled fish, salad, and an amazingly sweet Tres Leches for dessert (I cannot repeat myself too many times: Latinos know their sweets!). Yum. Conversation was terrific, and was back at the hotel by ten. Presented again in the morning, and flew home at mid-day.

I unpacked that night, Wednesday the tenth. Linda made a nice dinner, and after cleaning up the kitchen and carrying in yet another Christmas tree (three this year!), I repacked for the last long trip of the year, to Frankfurt. The shuttle bus from the off-airport parking lot to the terminal, a frequent ride, is almost always routine. That's because I had never met Joseph, black Pentecostal preacher and part-time driver. I was the sole passenger, and we had a ride, praise the Lord, we had a ride. We were loud! Simply put, we connected on those levels that remind us that we are all children of God. I wished Joseph a Merry Christmas, and made my way into the terminal.

Oklahoma's Ouachita Mountains were miles below us when I finished reading The New York Times, ending with an op-ed piece by Andrew Goodpaster, a former NATO chief who had written much of George C. Marshall's acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize, exactly 50 years ago that day. It was Marshall's brilliant plan for the reconstruction of postwar Europe that has enabled all that is good and prosperous and free on that continent. Indeed, it's not a stretch to assert that his plan allowed me to make the trip, to teach at the University of Münster (you may recall a similar observation 11 months ago on my first visit to that school, when I noted that it was the United States that was guarantor of an anti-Bush demonstration on that chilly January day). A half-century ago in Oslo, Marshall said:

Whew. Where are the George Marshalls of today? High point of the flight were some nice chats with Purser Anne Cushman, who recognized me from my column in the AA flight-attendant magazine, back when I ran Food & Beverage. Her service and attitude are the very best that American offers.

We arrived right on time, at 7:10, which gave me time for a quick shave, shower, and clothes-change in the Admirals Club, and climb on the ICE fast train at 8:09 for Dortmund, where I changed trains for the 30-minute glide to Münster. I had a free ticket on Deutsche Bahn (German Railway), and had the rare experience of riding in first class. It's common on airplanes, but when I buy tickets myself, ever since I was a ponytailed backpacker I've ridden second class. This was a fancy ride, grey leather chairs, in-seat entertainment, and a nice window on the country. We were on a new high-speed line that runs directly from Frankfurt to Cologne, replacing the older, though more scenic, route that follows the Rhine through Mainz, Koblenz, and Bonn. The roadbed was very smooth, the train sehr schnell – the first 166 km. took just 37 minutes = 160 mph. Whoa! As I was updating this journal, German composers fit, and it was swell to listen to Bach, Beethoven, and Handel.

Reading the piece about the Marshall Plan the night before set a good theme for the visit. I looked out at the modern station in suburban Bonn, the new buildings, the preserved (perhaps re-built) old ones, the prosperous-looking travelers, and I thought of what the place might have looked like in 1945. The city in ruins, people hungry, cold, dissolute. I thought about a fellow I met a decade ago in Sweden, Wolfgang Bay, who was a little boy in Hamburg at that time. He told me he scavenged for coal alongside the railway line near his apartment, and was almost always cold for a few winters. I thought about Rolf-Dietrich Wohlfeil, an executive with the caterer LSG, who told Jack and me in Berlin in December 1999 about his childhood there at that time, about learning his first English words: "please, mister, may I have some chewing gum?"

At Cologne, I found the electrical outlet in my chair, and I turned my laptop back on for more music and work (it's a great PC, but with a weak battery). More Handel, the Hallelujah chorus from "Messiah". Nice! Once again, with feeling: "And I get paid for this!" We zipped north, though no longer on the separate high-speed line, passing Solingen, where the great cutlery originates, and Wuppertal, best known (at least among transport geeks like me) for its pioneering monorail system completed in 1901, which could be seen from the train. Note to self: stop some time and go for a ride.

I arrived Münster at 10:54. Two Ph.D. students, Anke and A-Ram (a young Korean, whose parents emigrated to Germany in the 1960s), met me at the train. In no time we were in the Marketing Department. My host, Manfred Krafft, was away on business that day, and in his office was Wayne Horer, chairman of the Marketing Department at the B-school at UT-Austin. We had a good talk, and he invited me to visit – an easy way to expand my network. Some other grad students joined us, and we had some tasty open-faced sandwiches, then headed to the large lecture hall. Anke told me to expect several hundred, and that's how many were there. Just a huge crowd – good thing I don't get stage fright! The lecture went very well.

By 2:45 I was wandering through the Christmas Market behind the town hall. I bought a cup of glühwein (hot red wine, spiced with citrus and cinnamon), good for warming on what had become a damp day. Rather than managing a mass of plastic cups, the green-minded Germans sold the wine in ceramic cups (with a two Euro deposit). Sensible, because they were selling a lot.

On my list of stuff to see was the Clemenskirche, a small church built in 1753-54 and described on a plaque as the best example of baroque architecture in northwestern Germany. The sign on the door said Bitte Nicht Storen ("do not disturb"). A wedding was to begin in 30 minutes, but I was allowed in to snap a couple of pictures of the ornate – that word cannot do justice – interior. I am a sucker for the rococo, and this was a truly stunning example. I wandered the main shopping street, the Prinzipalmarkt, then into St. Lambert's Church for daily prayers. The light was fading, so I headed back to Manfred's office to work my e-mail.

Herrdoktor Professor Krafft arrived about six. He had been in Stuttgart for the day, doing some consulting with Bosch, the auto-parts maker. We yakked a bit, he did a bit of work, and at about seven we set off for dinner in a little village, Gimbte. Manfred has just relocated, so he did not know which of the three restaurants was best, so we chose the first one we saw, the Altdeutsche Schänke (literally, the Old German Bar). It was cozy inside. We had a nice meal, potato soup to start, then a huge plate of roast goose, with red cabbage, spiced apples, and two enormous dumplings. Enormous! Local beer, too, Pinkus Alt. Nice!

Because the Münster Christmas Market attracts lots of tourists, hotels were full, so I stayed in Greven, a town of 30,000 about ten miles north, and a few miles from Gimbte. My digs were the Eicherhof, a lovely small hotel on the edge of town, and only a few hundred meters from Manfred's house. The hotel was originally a large barn, in the half-timber design the Germans call fachwerkhof. The rooms were contemporary. I said goodnight to Manfred. It was just past nine, and I was not yet fully tired, so despite my full stomach I laced up and hit the streets for 20 minutes. The just-above-freezing air felt really good. Was fast asleep by 10:30.

Rose at seven, ate breakfast, and, concerned about worsening weather later in the day, repeated the post-meal trot of the night before, this time into town, past old churches and schools. It had warmed up and was foggy and rainy – what Manfred taught me was called Schmudelvetter. I walked over to the Krafft house at 9:30, greeted his wife Christine (who I have known for a couple of years), and met his children, Lisa (14), Ole-Michel (13), and Anna (7). The older children could speak some English. We had a cup of coffee, visited a bit, and Manfred and I headed out for some local touring.

First stop was a "water castle" called Burg Hülshoff, the birthplace of Anna Droste (1797-1848), Germany's most famous woman poet. The water castles are a notable feature of the Westphalian landscape, basically buildings surrounded by water – not a moat, more like a building on an island. The ground floor of the castle was open, with some interesting furniture. We walked the grounds in a steady rain, then headed northeast to Tecklenburg, a very interesting town built on the top of a steep hill. Lots of half-timber houses, a large Lutheran church, and fortifications at the very top of the hill. "Vertical towns" are always very interesting. We walked the town, then stopped for lunch. Manfred introduced me to grunkohl, green cabbage, but more like collard greens with bacon. The plate came with a mountain of grunkohl, a pile of potatoes, a sausage, and a slice of ham. This was German soul food! We were really full.

We headed back down the hill, and back to Münster, stopping briefly at to see the local airport, then Manfred's and Christine's church, where the kids were rehearsing a Christmas poem. We kept moving, this time to another nearby town, Reckenfeld, site of another Christmas Market. It was pouring rain. Inside St. Francis Catholic Church was free music, first a women's choir, then a ten-piece brass ensemble, both from the town's Lutheran church. The brass group was especially good, playing many familiar tunes ("Hark the Herald Angels Sing", "O Tannenbaum" and others). Manfred and I agreed, the experience was terrific – and warm and dry.

Manfred had invited me to dinner at their home. It is always a treat to spend time in homes overseas, not just for the fellowship, but to see how people live – what their kitchen appliances look like, what's in their larder and on their bookshelf. Shortly after arriving, Christine handed me a guestbook and asked me to make an entry, which I did with pleasure.

Earlier in the day, Manfred and I were discussing films. He had not heard of "Nowhere in Africa", described earlier in this update, nor did I know "Goodbye Lenin", winner of the top prize this year in the German film awards. He proposed that we watch it before dinner. It was just a wonderful movie, though hard to describe: a fantasy about an East Berlin family in 1989-90, when the wall falls and reunification follows. Poignant, clever, and funny. The Kraffts had seen it before, but enjoyed it again. I had to work a little, because the subtitles were also in German; Manfred translated at key points, and I understood nearly all of it. We had a glass of champagne during the film. Afterward, a hearty soup of beans and lamb, and, fittingly, special dark beer from the former East Germany. Great dinner conversation, followed by apple cake with vanilla sauce. Yum.

After that, a walk in the rain, a circuitous route back to the hotel, hugs and goodbyes. It was a nice day with a nice family.

I called home, worked my e-mail, and clocked out at ten. Woke in the middle of the night to clattering windows and a huge wind. Back to sleep, but fitfully – I needed to get up at five. I was in a taxi at 5:25, and at the Münster train station by 5:45. The train was 25 minutes late, causing some stress because I only had about 75 minutes at the airport, and the AA people get edgy when you show up late. We made up time, though, and arrived Frankfurt Airport only four minutes late – the last 150 km. were on the zippy tracks. Through the airport, onto the 777, and home. High point of the ride was a clear view of landfall over northern Labrador, a dramatic landscape of steep mountains, ice, and snow – but no sign of people for hundreds of miles.

It was another great trip. And it was interesting to spend time, in two successive weeks, in the lands of our two big enemies from World War II. How different, and better, the world has become compared to those grim days.

The penultimate trip of the quarter took place on December 17, the centenary of powered flight. I celebrated Orville and Wilbur's achievement with a couple of cups of black coffee in seat 21F en route to El Paso, Texas. Texas crooner Tish Hinojosa's "Voice of the Big Guitar" was in my headphones as we zipped over the taupe, rounded Davis Mountains and down into El Paso. I walked out of the airport, and there was Robin Britton and her red Honda. Gave her a hug, took the keys, jumped in, waved bye, and headed east on I-10. Time: 4:45 PM MST. The original plan was a father-daughter road trip from L.A. My schedule did not permit that, but I wanted to keep my promise to do half of the driving (am I a good dad?). I waved to Robin's MD80 as it twinkled past. My chivalry seemed like a goofy idea as the light faded behind the mountains across the Rio Grande, but that was only because 1) the coffee had not yet taken hold, and 2) the first of the many CDs in my briefcase was not in the player. In 50 miles, I was rolling!

Stopped for a Border Patrol check, swerved to miss the coyote headed toward the median (the only critter I saw that night), then gas and a BK fish sandwich in Midland. Pressed on, alternating rock and roll with Christmas and classical tunes. Past Big Spring, past Sweetwater, past Abilene. Was flagging at about two, but the signs that read "Tarrant County" and "Fort Worth" energized me. Nine hours into the cruise, I had covered exactly 630 miles, for a 70 mph average, and was in front of the house at 3:20. Asleep by 3:30, up at 8:30, out to work. It was boring, but not particularly difficult. The Wright Brothers had the better idea!

On Tuesday the 23^rd, we built a 48-foot ramp for Carol Moody, a sweet, smiling woman in a rumpled mobile home in far south Dallas. And to my great delight, Jack Britton joined the work team. He picked up some basics pretty fast, and by the end of the job declared that he really liked the work. We'll see him again! At noon, we headed to Gloria's, a Salvadoran restaurant that has for several years been the venue for the ramp builders holiday lunch. We toasted our work, Christmas, and Hanukkah, and headed home.

The next day, on Christmas Eve, I headed with Linda to the Collin County Juvenile Detention Center. This was a visit I wanted to do for a long time. My interest in the rule of law is only partly related to marriage! A couple of decades ago, I saw her as an assistant D.A. in court in Hennepin County, Minnesota, but I had never seen her in her black judge's robe. The docket that day was four detention hearings. Three of four got to go home for the holiday. The mother of the fourth was unwavering; her son stayed in jail. It was an interesting couple of hours, not just because I was so proud to see Linda up on the bench, but because, like the day before, it was an opportunity to see a part of America that most Americans never see – and likely do not want to see. That dusty and decrepit trailer park, and the juvenile court are, nevertheless, part of our republic.

We had a great Christmas. At noon that day, out on my bike for 15 miles, I stopped and offered to take a photograph of father and son in front of the large sign marking the entrance to the University of Texas at Dallas, less than two miles from home. I snapped a couple of pictures and visited briefly. Dad was visiting from Bangladesh. Son had graduated earlier in 2003. I wished the father welcome to our country and the son much success in America. As I pedaled away, it occurred to me that it took my family about 80 years in the U.S. to figure out that higher education was the way forward, but this young Bangladeshi got it right much more quickly, perhaps even before he left for the New World.

Much of the eleven days off was spent on household chores and catching up on stuff that had been left untended during all the travel of the previous two months. It was good to be home, getting reacquainted with a paintbrush and other tools, and going for a bike ride nearly every day.

On the morning of New Year's Eve, Linda and I flew west to Los Angeles (Jack was in London for the new year), and Robin flew to friends in Orange County. At LAX, we picked up a rental car, checked in at the airport Sheraton, and drove north to Marina del Rey, Santa Monica, and Malibu. It was a gorgeous, clear day, and we enjoyed it hugely, ending up at the almost-too-nice-to-be-real campus of Pepperdine University, on slopes above Malibu. December 31 is Linda's birthday, and we arranged for a nice dinner at a French restaurant in Manhattan Beach, but we were so tired (it's tough to get old!) that we opted for the hotel dining room instead, and were asleep 2.5 hours before the new year. No, we're not that old, but on the first morning of 2004 the alarm rang at 4:00. I'll tell you all about that big day in Pasadena in the next update!

That's more than enough!

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