Fourth Quarter Update

On Friday, October 8, we needed to be in L.A. for some personal business. Robin stayed with us Friday and Saturday nights at the airport Radisson, because plumbing woes at her sorority meant no water all weekend.

On Saturday morning I took off for a fast trot around the parking lots and hotels east of LAX – not the most scenic venue, but I have never believed in wasting energy driving to exercise. We headed out to a late breakfast at Uncle Bill's Pancake House in Manhattan Beach, five miles south of the airport. It's one of Robin's favorites, and now ours, too. Filled the tanks (Greek omelette, two pancakes, the works), then set off to find a bar where we could watch the sold-out USC football game; Robin had a ticket, but came with us to provided color commentary.

We spent the first half in the Manhattan Beach Brewing Company, where a large mug of Hefeweizen (wheat beer) brewed on premises added to the fun. Having never watched an entire football game in a saloon (remarkable, perhaps, but as you know I am not much of a TV spectator), we decided we needed a new venue for the second half, so we ambled 100 feet toward the beach, to the Shellback Tavern, a livelier venue, with a small but critical mass of SC fans. Had a couple glasses of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, from Northern California. It was a close game, but USC beat Cal-Berkeley 23-17.

After the game, Linda and Robin went shopping, and I walked the Manhattan Beach pier, which has become one of my favorite places in that vast metropolis. I could spend an afternoon there, a place filled with sights and sounds so unfamiliar to heartland people like me. Surfers, for example, provide great entertainment. Watching them catch a wave is fascinating. The mind heads back to the early 1960s, when the Beach Boys led a swell of California culture eastward, even to suburban Minneapolis. Then further along, to the fishers, mainly immigrants, reeling in bream, perch, bonito, and mackerel. I learned those species by asking a fellow: "I'm from Texas, away from the ocean, and was wondering . . ." Looking north, two pelicans caught my eye. They cruise at 25-35 feet above the water, spot a fish, and dive straight down. As aeronautical and evolutionary achievements, that flying skill is stunning. The other cool thing about the pier is the mix of people; tourists and locals, new Americans and not, rich folks and poor, all in search of amenity. We met up at Starbucks on the corner of Highland and Manhattan Beach Ave. at 4:30, and just sat on a brick ledge for 30 minutes, watching the to and fro, commenting on the passers-bye, the cars, whatnot. Relaxing.

Drove back to the hotel, sat for a bit, then headed south to dinner in El Segundo, to a P.F. Chang's. Back home and into bed for a long sleep. Up at seven, drove Robin back to Kappa Kappa Gamma, then back to the airport and flew home, landing in mid-afternoon, with time to unpack and repack, ride the bike, and do a couple of errands.

Took off the following afternoon for London. Arrived Gatwick Airport late, ran across the terminal, and caught the 8:35 train into central London. I was eager to get to the 2005 planning meeting at our U.K. ad agency, so I did not stop for a shower. Changed shirts in the toilet on the train, knotted a fresh necktie (and discreetly applied some deodorant) in the coach vestibule, brushed my hair, and, hey, I was ready. Zipped through Victoria station, down the stairs, and onto the Underground. It was 9:26, four minutes before my off-peak day ticket was valid, and I spent the time yakking with a cheerful woman from Norfolk (England, not Virginia). Talking to strangers is such fun.

Was in my seat at the meeting by 9:50. We had a good session, finished at five, and took the tube to my London digs – my fifth visit of 2004 to Tim and Missy Griffy's home. Yakked with Tim, greeted Jenny the border collie, and headed back out, aiming for a 7:30 arrival at dinner in Notting Hill. Walked back to the St. John's Wood Tube station, onto a couple of trains, off at Ladbroke Grove, and on foot south to Clarendon Road, to the Notting Grill. An ordinary pub was now a trendy place, owned by Antony Worrall Thompson, one of Britain's celeb chefs. The group, now 20 strong, had a private room upstairs. Dinner was really good, and conversation better still. Yakked with John Atmore, a planner at McCann Erickson, who grew up in South Africa. We talked across a range of topics, but by 11 I was worn out. Head hit pillow at midnight, a hard sleep with open windows and the patter of rain.

Was up at 6:30 and out the door at seven, back over to McCann Erickson, to work my e-mail before the meeting began at nine. A good session, with lots of progress on 2005 U.K. advertising, not to mention the treat of bacon sandwiches. Worked more e-mail from noon to one, then headed out. I was badly in need of a haircut, and the night before asked Richard Hedges, our European P.R. manager, about regular barbers. No fancy salon, a place with a striped pole out front. Luckily, he knew of one on Caledonian Road, just a short Tube ride from McCann. Richard said he had visited there just before Christmas 2003, and that they were Cypriots.

In no time I was in a barber chair, in the capable hands of Peter Litras, a Greek Cypriot, and very friendly. We covered a bunch of ground in 20 minutes – his life in the U.K., his car, his last trip home to Cyprus, even a little about the U.S. His partner Tony Charalambous weighed in, too. Nice guys. I snapped their picture for the website. More fun talking to strangers. And a great haircut; at the equivalent of $12, it was one of the only things cheaper in England than at home. I wandered west on Euston Road, past the ornate, Gothic revival St. Pancras station, and into the adjacent British Library, described in the Third Quarter 2002 update. No special reason for the library stop, except to admire the nicely designed interior, high point of which is a six-story, glass-enclosed stack containing the 65,000 volume collection of King George III. Very cool. Also noteworthy were a number of colorful and eccentric-looking library patrons.

I then headed south by Tube to meet Sir Geoffrey Owen, my host at the London School of Economics, to discuss a lecture early in 2005. Check and done, and back out the door. Did a bit of shopping on Regent Street, then caught the #189 bus back to the Griffys. I did not get the message that they were at their daughter Claire's volleyball game. When they returned after seven, Missy was worn out (she had returned from the U.S. that morning), so Tim and I headed across the street for a pint at the Clifton pub, then around the corner to Bhan Thai for a very spicy green curry and a good chat. Home, worked my e-mail, clocked out for another hard sleep. Rose at 6:30, said goodbye, and was out the door at 7:06, in pelting rain (my New York Times portable umbrella has gotten a lot of use this year). Tube to Victoria, Gatwick Express to the airport, Silver Bird to DFW.

I was home for one night, unpacked and repacked (again), and on Friday the 15^th headed back to Los Angeles, this time for the last Parents' Weekend at USC. Robin and Linda picked me up and we drove to a very fancy hotel, the Park Hyatt in Century City. At a charity event earlier in the year, we were high bidders for a weekend suite, and it was time to redeem. Unpacked, washed face, and headed east to downtown L.A., into a huge traffic jam on "the Ten"(I-10). We were late for dinner at an agreeable trattoria on Sixth Street. Several of Robin's sorority sisters and their parents were there, and we had a fun dinner. Afterward, we tried to go to a very trendy nightclub, The Standard, but balked at the $20 cover. It was time for bed.

Robin stayed with us, taking advantage of the suite, and we ran the next morning. Then it was off to USC, first to a brunch on campus, then briefly into the ladies' favorite bar, "Tradi's" (short for Traditions), in the basement of the student union. Then the walk south to the Coliseum, excitement building. As I have written before, USC is school spirit raised exponentially. The Trojans thrashed Arizona State, 45-7. We had great seats, and the game was big fun.

One of my former bosses, the great Arnold Grossman, was by coincidence at the hotel, and we spent 90 minutes talking in the lobby before Robin, Linda, and I walked down the hill to dinner. A nice long sleep – we rose at eight, way late for me, and headed back down to another caloric breakfast at Uncle Bill's in Manhattan Beach. Robin dropped us at LAX and we flew home, landing in time for a good bike ride before it got dark.

Four days later, it was back to L.A. for the third time in two weeks, to give a presentation at a sales meeting of American's Western Division. There was snow on the upper reaches of the San Bernardino Mountains, and even a dusting on the peaks of the San Gabriels. It had rained much of the week, but the morning was clear, and the air was washed clean. A stunning sight. We landed at eight, and were back in Century City, just down the street from where we stayed the previous weekend, by nine. Gave my talk, answered questions, headed to lunch, then upstairs to work e-mail.

Randy Essell, who is responsible for scheduling our airline, also gave a presentation; he was flying east on a "redeye" that night, so we used my room as office. At five I went out for a quick trot on a crisp fall afternoon. The residential part of Century City is upmarket: on Empyrean Drive, two guys were detailing a Bentley; around the corner, a woman was walking a perfectly groomed poodle. Down the street, a chauffeur paused as a woman fixed her make-up in the back of a Rolls, and further along, two domestics chattered in Spanish as they walked toward the bus stop on Pico Blvd.

At six we headed to a reception and dinner. After getting our fill, Randy and I headed back to the room to catch the last three innings of the Astros-Cardinals pennant battle. Randy left at nine, I worked a bit more e-mail, and clocked out a few minutes later. Slept hard, up at 5:15, into a car and out to LAX, chattering with the driver, a Japanese immigrant who arrived 32 years ago. It's unusual to meet a Japanese person in a job like that, and it sounded like he had a fairly rough go in his three decades in the new land – a drafting job ended when his structural-engineer friend died suddenly, a failed liquor store, two adult children still living at home. It was a fast drive, and we were there by 6:15. Because we launch a bunch of eastbound flights between seven and eight, the lines are pretty long. Got through, worked e-mail for 45 minutes in the Admirals Club, and took a bumpy ride east to Chicago.

Made a fast connection and was soon zipping northwest to Minneapolis-St. Paul. The destination was an unofficial 35^th reunion of the Edina High School class of 1969, starting at six. The ride to MSP is a short one, and on my dime, so thrift sent me out of First Class to seat 20A, a comfy exit-row chair. It was a pleasant ride, with the Allman Brothers "Ramblin' Man" (nearly 35 years old) in my ears, and a very funny read: an obituary, in The Atlantic, of General Foods chemist William Mitchell, who gave the world Tang, Cool-Whip, Pop Rocks, and other wonders. Prepping for the reunion, I gave thanks for one of my many great fortunes, this mobile life – and for the interesting winding road that led from June 5, 1969, to today. I looked forward to learning about classmates' roads in a few hours.

Landed at four, party started at six. Made fast for an early dinner at the White Castle at 96^th and Lyndale. This Midwestern fast-food institution, invented in the 1930s, has something of a cult following in addition to a loyal and markedly less affluent customer base. It was raining and in the 50s, grim but typical, so I scampered in. Not a lot of diners arrive in necktie. A good meal, cheeseburger, fish sandwich, onion chips (like rings, but not round), chocolate shake. Over to Chuck Wiser's house (he was in Bermuda), drop bags, change clothes, work my e-mail, and into the car, north and east to Dixie's bar across from Lake Calhoun.

I arrived at 6:04 and did not recognize a soul. Asked for a glass of Summit Pale Ale, and sat on a bench by the front door to watch for familiar faces. A few minutes later, a fellow I would not have recognized approached and said my name. It was Patrick Callinan, graying. He led me over to Tom Keegan and Dave Stockdale, and the party was on. What a blast. Over the next 200 minutes, I met and yakked with almost everyone who was there: those first three, plus Barb Loper, Bob Woehrle, Steve Richardson, Ray Book, Julie Park, Judy Carter, Carol Christensen, Steve Broback, Nancy Larsen, Kevin Cashman, John Roselle, Bill Thompson, Scott Thompson, Tim McGlynn, Doug Hastings, Herb Haire, Pete Carroll, Barry Bremer, Mark Hokanson, and Nancy Wayne. A small percentage of the 806 in our class, but as Bill Thompson said, "really quality people."

There were some wonderful recollections, more than a few around the fact that I was one of the shortest boys in the class. Doug Hastings, who was a superb hockey player back then, was much taken by the fact that I was an adult. Herb Haire recalled playing football together; he remembered it as high school, but I knew it was sixth grade, 1962. Barb Loper and I yakked for quite a while. Steve Richardson told us about his daughter Kaylin; now on the World Cup ski circuit, Kaylin has the distinction of hailing from the smallest ski hill of any ski team member, the 170-foot Hyland Hills. There were lots of other stories. But my voice gave out (I was getting a cold) and I was plumb wore out, so waved goodbye at 9:30 and drove back to Bloomington.

Was up at 6:45, out the door, north on Highway 100 to Crystal. Grabbed breakfast at the Super Valu on 42^nd Avenue N., yogurt and a heavy apple fritter, then a cup of coffee at a Caribou Coffee a mile west. I told the counter guys I was from Texas, and they asked what I was doing "up here." I told them I was on my way to pick up "Long Shadows," a painting from the State Fair Art Show. The younger fellow, a high school student, was curious. "I like art," he said. I told him about the show, and what little I knew about how to submit an entry.

At 8:20 I met artist Randall Bennett and his wife, really interesting people. I wished I had more time to talk with them, but in 20 minutes I learned quite a bit about Randall. He grew up in East Africa and India, son of an agricultural engineer with the U.S. Agency for International Development. He works as an artist and sculptor for company that installs murals, dioramas, and exhibits at museums and the like all over the U.S., and paints in his spare time. We went to his basement studio to admire some works in progress. Just very cool. I was sorry to leave, but it was pedal to the metal, back south on 100 to another Caribou Coffee.

Arrived a minute late to meet my 12^th-grade English teacher, Bud Jensen, one of my favorites. I've kept in contact for three dozen years, and am glad I have. We had a good talk, got fully caught up on each other's lives. I showed him the painting, shook his hand, and drove back to the airport. Found a safe place for the artwork in the back of the jet's front closet, and flew home. What a fun two days.

Six days later, I flew north to Chicago for quick meeting. As we descended for landing at Chicago Midway, we got a good view of foundries and other heavy industry that no longer works; one mill was being dismantled. I hopped on the CTA Orange Line, and in a few minutes saw a connection. Adjacent to the orange Line was a Burlington Northern Santa Fe freight line, and a train comprised solely of containers from China, the new mill.

At five, I walked east on Adams Street, past the red Calder sculpture in front of the Dirksen Federal Building, and onto the Blue Line for O'Hare. At the Jefferson Park station (in the shadow of a lovely Polish catholic Church that I have long admired from the train), a Turkish-looking young man caught my attention and asked if I were going to the airport. I replied yes, and he suggested I help the smiling, older Japanese woman sitting next to him. "Of course." So at O'Hare I took my new charge up the stairs and pointed her in the right direction. Good duty for the day. Flew home.

Three nights later, I flew west to L.A., again, but did not stop there. Just before midnight, I climbed onto a Qantas 747-400. Happily, Qantas moved me from seat 54H to a very big chair, 4A, in First Class (there were Famous People in the cabin, but I did not recognize any of them, and forgot to ask the flight attendants). Qantas First Class was an early Christmas, a "fat ride" as Jack would say. I took full advantage of some very nice service, and stayed up late so I could adjust my head clock. After being up for 24 hours, I put the seat back and snoozed for seven hours. It's a long ride, and after waking up I finished Mr. China, a very insightful account of investment in Chinese business during the 1990. The closing lines mirrored my thinking after my first visit earlier this year: "If . . . I can make the Chinese people seem more human, less mysterious or threatening, just flawed and beautiful like us, then the troubles of the past ten years will all have been worthwhile."

Ate a nice breakfast, including the classic Aussie bread spread Vegemite (hard to describe, it's assuredly an acquired, quintessentially Australian taste. A couple hours before landing, I mused about my five previous visits Down Under. Because I did not keep this journal back then, we can't look back to read about various adventures. But it's still firmly in my head, and I retrieved at least one vignette from each trip, like this one from my first visit:

So many memories. I was really excited to be almost there. But we weren't there yet, so I read some more, finishing the previous Sunday's New York Times Magazine. When I turned the last page, for the second time in four days I thought about the gift of press freedom, and how 60 years ago – in various parts of the vast Pacific seven miles below me – people like my Dad ensured that gift would be available for us. Amen.

It was a perfectly clear day, and the approach was smack over the city, just an awesome sight, easily the coolest view from the air in 2004. Took a bunch of pictures. I walked quickly through the airport, through Immigration control – pausing to compliment inspector Rhonda for her smiles and warmth that are elsewhere rare in that occupation – and out to meet my good mate Rob Freestone. I've known Rob since he arrived in the Geography Department at the University of Minnesota in 1975.

We piled into his blue Holden Commodore and set off, north into the city, across the famous 1932 Harbour Bridge, and on a tollway northwest to Castle Hill, where his mum, Jess, lives in a "retirement village." When I lived in Armidale, 450 kilometers north of Sydney in 1981, teaching at the University of New England, Mr. and Mrs. Freestone were sort of surrogate kin, hosting me on several weekends. It was grand to see her after 13 years; at 85 she was still in pretty good form. We had a nice visit, then retraced our route (along the tollway, I caught my first whiff of a signal Australian smell, faintly, of eucalyptus trees), back to the University of New South Wales. In the first few hours, I immediately felt at home, and the landscape looked familiar. I could recall the names of flowering trees, the brushlike red blooms of the banksia, the light purple jacaranda, the fuschia bougainvillea. It was all coming back!

At the uni, I met my third old friend in as many hours, fellow geographer Bruno Parolin. He turned up at the U of M a couple months after Rob Freestone left in '77, just passing through. He was studying at Ohio State. We've not been close, but it was still great to see him after 25 years. We had lunch, and Rob drove me to my temporary home, an agreeable small hotel, the McLaren, in North Sydney. More a B&B than a hotel, the McLaren was the right place to stay, very homey, on a leafy residential street just north of Sydney's "second downtown" at the north end of the Harbour Bridge.

Took a much-needed shower, changed clothes, and headed down the hill and onto the train across the Harbour Bridge (third time that day). At four, I met Hedda Grae, manager of alumni relations at the Macquarie Graduate School of Management. At 5:30 it was show time, my "stump speech" on the travails of the airline business. It went well. At 6:45 some 40 of us adjourned and headed into the next room for some beer and conversation. It was a great time, but by 8:00 I was pretty worn out. The taxi driver, a Lebanese immigrant, delivered the (to me) bad news that Bush had been re-elected. Sigh. I awoke the next morning and tuned the TV to see Senators Kerry and Edwards conceding. Four more years.

I headed out about 7:30, down the hill, grabbing a quick supermarket breakfast, enjoying it in a small "pocket park" in North Sydney, then into the city, changing trains at Central Station, south to the suburb of Mascot, by the airport. I walked a half-mile south to the offices of Qantas subsidiary Australian Airlines, where I delivered a presentation to a dozen Qantas and Australian advertising counterparts. Peeled off about 11:30, back into town. I had received a "homework assignment" the day I left, and I needed to complete it. But rather than head back to my room, I ambled down Macquarie Street and headed to the historic (1910) Mitchell Reading Room of the State Library of New South Wales. A truly good place to work. Unpacked my laptop, plugged in, and worked the afternoon away. I was sort of crabby about the assignment, but felt much better working it in such agreeable space – it reminded me a bit of the James J. Hill Reference Library in downtown St. Paul, where I did research in the late 1970s.

With the work done, I ambled back up Macquarie Street, reconnecting with some historic buildings familiar to me from previous Sydney visits – especially the splendid St. James Church and Hyde Park Barracks designed in the 1820s by convict architect Francis Greenway.

I headed back north. I needed some exercise, so I laced up and headed a couple of blocks north to St. Leonard's Park, a large green swath. At five on a Thursday morning in springtime the place was buzzing: with runners, with young women from a nearby private school learning rugby fundamentals, with seniors in whites on the bowling lawn. It was a perfect reminder that Aussies are an active, outdoor tribe (indeed, one saw far, far less obesity than in the U.S.). The eucalyptus trees in the park were fully fragrant. It was an agreeable trot. I took a short nap and a shower, and set out on foot for a beer and dinner.

On my run, I spotted an nice-looking local pub, the 1920s-era North Sydney Hotel. So I walked back, entered, and asked for a "middy" of beer. What cost 60 Australian cents when I lived here 23 years ago was now $4.60 (US$3.60), thank you very much. The young barman only shrugged when I observed that fact aloud, but a bearded fellow a few feet away connected, and we had a nice chat across a range of topics – cost of living, tax rates, children, his upbringing, and more. It was another reminder of Aussie friendliness. What a great country, I thought. Australia was playing India in a cricket test, and the tipplers were into the match.

I headed down the hill, directions in my head to an Indian restaurant. Enjoyed a spicy (but very salty) meal with a great view of the bridge and the harbor (Port Jackson), then back up the hill to work my e-mail for a couple of hours before clocking out.

Much-needed rain fell all night, but luckily it stopped by the time I headed down the hill again, on the train across the bridge to Central, and a bus to the University of New South Wales. At the bus stop, a gaggle of "New 'Strines", recent immigrants, were jabbering in Italian, a reminder that this place also welcomes people from other shores. The rain held off until I was where I needed to be, at their B-school. At noon I met Gary Gregory, an American and marketing lecturer, who handed me off for lunch with a newly minted Ph.D., Jennifer Harris. We had a nice meal and visit in the dining room of the adjacent Australian Graduate School of Management (U.S. B-schools, even the fancy ones, don’t have their own dining rooms). I spent an hour with another faculty member, Roger March, and it was then time for my seminar, a lively presentation with lots of give and take.

After the talk, the head of the School of Marketing, Mark Uncles (another geographer!), a colleague, Graeme Dowling, and I had a yak in Mark's office for an hour. At about 4:30, Dr. Gregory and the incoming marketing head, Paul Patterson, joined us for a couple of Tasmanian beers, end-of-week joshing, and a lot of fun. It seemed like an only-in-Australia thing, drinking beer in a faculty office!

At 6:30 we said goodbye and I jumped in a taxi for 126 Banksia Street in the nearby suburb of Botany. That was the home address of another long friend, Andrea Staines, who had worked at American in the mid-1990s. She had a rough go in the late '90s, divorced with two small children, but back in Australia she signed on with Qantas and her career rocketed upward. She's now the chief executive of the Qantas subsidiary Australian Airlines, which flies Asian tourists to Cairns in north Queensland, and Aussie holidaymakers to Bali and other places in southeast Asia.

I met her kids Alistair, 8, and Lauren, 6. Andrea had just bought a new house on Long Bay, just 200 feet to the sea, and she suggested we have a look before it got dark. Off we went for a quick house tour and a walk 'round the neighborhood. The kids were excited about being close to the water, and to a well-equipped playground. Back at her old house, she ordered Thai food, and we caught up on a range of topics. Her new beau, Hal, arrived from Brisbane about 9:30. The kids went to sleep, and we three had a glass of wine and chatted some more. I then hopped in a taxi back to North Sydney, worked my e-mail a bit, and clocked out. A long day.

Rose at seven on Saturday morning, laced up, and trotted back to St. Leonard's Park, showered, and at nine Rob Freestone picked me up for a good tour of inner suburbs. It was a treat to have Rob explain and interpret trends in residential and commercial redevelopment as we zipped through an increasingly affluent inner core. Two geographers having a big time. We bought sandwiches and ate them on a park in The Rocks, the city's oldest district, then headed west to the Sydney Olympic Park at Homebush Bay. We were back at the hotel a little after three. I washed my face and headed out for a walk around North Sydney, then up to St. Leonard's Park to watch a bit of cricket before meeting yet another friend, Guy Farrow, at the pub across from the park.

Guy also worked at American in the mid-1990s, and I had lost track of him. Luckily, he kept his home telephone number through a couple of moves, and I was able to find him in an Internet directory. We had a couple of beers and caught up well. We parted at 6:30, and at 7 Rob picked me up for a quick visit to his house – in Naremburn, only a few miles from the hotel – followed by dinner. Wife Jill and son Peter were both home. We yakked a bit, then headed down the hill to Sails, a lovely restaurant right on Lavender Bay. I was sorry I did not bring my camera, because the view from our table was simply stunning – the famous bridge, two skylines on either side of the span, and the colored lights of Luna Park, a 1930s-era amusement park. Very cool. We had an enjoyable dinner, some great Aussie wine, and a short drive round before they dropped me at the hotel at about ten. On the way to the car I asked if we could find the Southern Cross constellation, and despite a lot of urban light we found it readily, straight overhead, and pointing toward the South Pole.

Was up at six on Sunday for a quick walk down to Lavender Bay, back up the hill, breakfast, pack my bag, and across the street for eight o'clock service at St. Thomas. It did not matter that this was an Anglican church. It was, simply, the universal church. I found the St. Thomas information a week earlier on the Internet, but had forgotten until the night before that this was where Jill and Rob were married in 1987 (I flew down for that). The congregation was friendly and welcoming; indeed, one of the lay leaders mentioned me in prayer, asking that God grant a safe journey home. We took Communion, and afterward I had a yak with a few parishoners. High point was 20 minutes with Reg Medway, born 1912, who had lived in the same house in nearby Willoughby for nearly 70 years. He was quite a fellow, always smiling: "Me mum told me, 'Reg, giggles will keep you going'. And they have.''

Rob picked me up at ten, and dropped me at the airport twenty minutes later. His many kindnesses were really terrific, and it was great to see him again. I checked in early, hoping to get an upgrade, but flight 107 was "chockers," and it was 13 hours in economy class. I was not close to the windows in the big 747, but I could see the coastline pass, the same scene that I remember so clearly from 1981, when I reluctantly waved goodbye to that wonderful place. Another really great visit.

Sailing northeast, I watched "The Bourne Supremacy", listened to The Eagles retrospective on "Radio Q", drank a bit of red wine. Happily, the seat next to me was vacant, and I was still able to sleep for about six hours – not the deep slumber of First Class, but deep enough to dream that we landed in Honolulu. Snaked through LAX Terminal 4, jumped on the 8:30 Silver Bird to DFW, and was home by 2:30 and out on my bike for a much-needed ride.

Eight days later, on the 16^th, it was back to L.A., fifth trip there this quarter, for a couple of lectures at USC's Marshall School of Business. I landed about 1:30. A day earlier, I remembered that I forgot to rent a car, and Hertz was sold out, but no problem: I could ride public transit to USC. Checked the L.A. MTA website the night before, and got travel times – an opportunity for some adventure! Hopped on the "G Shuttle" from LAX to the Green Line Metro station at Aviation Blvd. and the 110 Freeway. Not many travelers, but lots of airport employees, including a large, friendly lady next to me who was one of those solicitors for charities that are at best little known and at worst a sham. She hit me up, politely; and I politely replied. We arrived at the Metro stop right on time, I bought a ticket and jumped on the escalator to the platform above. An African-American fellow in front of me commented on the bright-orange shoes of the woman riding in front of me. She turned around and acknowledged him, faintly.

It was time for a little engagement. I began speaking to the fellow, about the problematic nature of compliments to women in the modern era. Kevin had specific, enlightened views on that topic, and for the next 15 minutes we yakked while standing on the Green Line train, covering a couple of additional subjects: priorities among families, and, more interesting, the fact that people today have a narrower range of skills and abilities than folks had in the past (cooking, mechanical ability, facility with several sports and games, etc.). Our views were almost perfectly aligned. I was sorry when we rolled to a stop at the Harbor Freeway station and said goodbye. I could have listened to Kevin for hours.

I walked down a couple of flights of stairs and found the express-bus station for the line that runs on the HOV lanes of Interstate 105. A bus rolled to a stop, some rowdy youths got off, and I climbed aboard, apparently surprising the bus driver (I could almost see the caption bubble above her head: "what is this suit doing on public transit?"). She was a fast driver, and in no time I was at USC, the bus stop conveniently a few hundred yards from the Radisson Hotel on Figueroa. I checked in, crossed "Fig", and headed into the USC campus, past the white clapboard house that is the oldest at the school, and into the heart of the campus, past the bronze Tommy Trojan, gurgling fountains, architecture students drawing with pencil, and tall eucalyptus trees. Their clean, pleasant fragrance reminded me of Sydney, and to add a reference to them above.

At 3:15, I met my host, Marketing professor Joe Nunes, and the afternoon MBA class began at 3:30. Topic was airline frequent flyer programs, a lecture I had not delivered since visiting INSEAD in France in March. Time flew past, and the students were well engaged. We ate a quick dinner in the University Club, and I repeated the lecture to an evening MBA program; we had more time, which was good. Said goodbye to Joe, walked back across Fig, worked my e-mail, and clocked out.

Up at 5:15, out the door, into a cab driven by an Ethiopian immigrant, with whom I quickly engaged on the topic of the Presidential elections. We were largely aligned; he confessed bewilderment on Americans' unwillingness to "vote their pocketbook", as people do in most other industrial democracies. A routine journey home, save for a happy meeting: while waiting in the long security line in Terminal 4, I spotted Amanda Searight, a former neighbor (and the kids' babysitter for years) who has been an AA flight attendant for six years. We had a few weeks earlier arranged for lunch the following week, so confirming in person and with a hug was great fun.

On Saturday, November 20, I rose at 5:50, pounded out 18 miles on the bike, showered, and drove to DFW for the 9:00 Silver Bird to Chicago O'Hare. Landed and hopped on the CTA Blue Line train, in the front so I could look out the front window. It was a gloomy day, and I needed some music to energize, so on went the Holmes Brothers, outstanding bluesmen. I was tapping my feet. Got off at Logan Square, and onto the #76 bus east on Diversey to Ashland, to my Mom's old neighborhood. I walked past St. Bonaventure, their church, and south on Marshfield Avenue, past their house at 2662 to the site of my grandfather's store at 2507. Retraced my steps turned west on Diversey, and into the Starbucks at the corner of Paulina Ave. I chuckled as I ordered a coffee, for I was standing within 150 feet of where my great-grandfather Enrico Frediani worked at a plaster architectural moldings factory and my great-grandfather Josef Palluck worked at a foundry.

At 1:00 I met Mike Sands, the new president of the online travel agency Orbitz.com. We yakked for an hour, and I set off east on Diversey and south on Lincoln, a mile or so to Cousin Jim's house. I was early and they were still gone, so I wandered around the corner, onto Halsted St., to the Taco and Burrito Express, one of Jack's favorite places. Had a yummy burrito and a Coke, then walked back to meet the Jim, Michaela, their Jack ("Little Jack"), Charlie, and Katie.

At 4:10 the adults piled into Jim's car and headed toward Hinsdale in the western suburbs, for the happy occasion of the 50^th wedding anniversary celebration of my Uncle Alan and Aunt Dorothy. It was a blast. Goose Island beer, a huge dinner, some toasts and praise, and lots of hugs. Here are the closing words of my toast:

We were home in no time, and into bed. Up with the birds and the kids at 6:30, out to a quick, chaotic, and very noisy breakfast at the Salt and Pepper Diner on Lincoln, then Cuz drove me to Midway Airport. It was Sunday morning, and I sought out the Chapel for some prayers. Turned out I was right on time for 9 a.m. Catholic mass. I asked the padre if Protestants were welcome, he nodded, and in I went. A quick service, 24 minutes, including Communion (brevity has always been a strong suit of the Church of Rome!), down to my flight, zip, zip, home and onto the bike by two o'clock.

We spent more and better worship time a few days later, at the Thanksgiving Eve interfaith (six local congregations) service, held this year at Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church. The last time the interfaith worship was there, the interior was plain (the building opened about eight years ago). Now the place was richly decorated, with carved marble and vibrant frescoes on the walls and ceiling. It was a stunning sight. Thanksgiving was a fun day, the house filled with friends – the Grottings in from Birmingham, Alabama, and former neighbors, the Wylies (including grandmother, Sue Robbins, up from Houston).

We landed at Gillespie County Airport and took a taxi into town, which was buzzing with visitors. It had been 22 years since my last visit, and Fredericksburg has remade itself for tourism. We had a filling German lunch at the Auslander (literally, "foreigner"), briefly walked Main Street – the entire town core is on the National Register of Historic Places. Nice stone buildings. The former White Elephant Saloon was still there.

The tailwind got us home very quickly. Approach and landing was interesting, with gusts to 40 mph. But Captain Jim is a skilled airman, and he got us down smoothly. Dropped them at son Ben's hockey game, headed home, picked up the family, and drove into Dallas to see the eye-popping Cirque du Soleil. It was a busy day.

And we were in motion the next morning, winging with Linda and Robin west to L.A. for my birthday present, a trip to see USC play Notre Dame. We landed about one, got Robin's car, and soon headed to campus, arriving in time to hear the superb Trojan marching band head toward the Coliseum. It was cloudy when we landed, and a few drops fell during the afternoon, but by 5:30 kickoff it was a steady rain. Happily, it stopped by the middle of the second quarter, and did not resume until the fourth, by which time 'SC had the game well in hand. We were soaked, and cold. Picked up dinner at a Corner Bakery, and headed back to the Radisson at the airport (we get the AA crew rate of $49, which is pretty hard to beat, and you can literally walk to American's gates).

The rain had cleared, and Sunday dawned brilliant, cold, and windy. Linda and Robin were slow to get moving, so I took Robin's Honda and headed 10 minutes north to Loyola Marymount University, a really pleasant campus (Jack's friend Walker Griffy, son of our London hosts Tim and Missy, goes there). I had a good look around, yakked briefly with a faculty member flying a radio-controlled glider in a stiff wind, and headed back. Picked up the ladies and headed to the third breakfast in seven weeks at Uncle Bill's Pancake House in Manhattan Beach. Flew home.

Four days later, on December 2, I climbed on AA flight 50 for London, my 99^th trip to Europe. A half-hour after takeoff, I pulled out my laptop as I usually do, but it would not boot up. A bit scary, given that I had not e-mailed my two presentations as I often do, nor copied them onto my Jump Drive (a portable mass storage device, smaller than my little finger; if you're a PC person, you need one). I was developing contingency plans and attempting to "boot up", when some combination of button pushing unlocked the machine and it started up. Hooray! Worked a bit, then clocked out.

We arrived Gatwick Airport in fog and the dim light of December. Breezed through, onto the train, then the Tube, then foot to the Griffys. When I turned onto their street, it felt like home – in fact, 1 out of every 30 nights in 2004 was at their house! Missy and Tim were both home (Tim had arrived from New York that morning). We visited briefly, I showered, ate a bowl of cereal, and set off.

Because I had been in meetings all of the previous day, I knew my e-mailbox would be full, so first stop was the Easy Internet Café on Oxford Street, where £2 ($3.80) buys you an hour's access. Worked my e-mail to zero in 50 minutes. While typing, the police arrived, because a woman's purse was stolen less than 20 feet from me – a reminder of London's enormous property-crime problem (rates are much higher than in any U.S. city). The young woman was bereft, and a wave of sadness flowed over all of us. Just awful.

Jumped back on the Jubilee Line and headed south and east to Canary Wharf, the high-rise office development east of central London. I tuned my MP3 player to the Allman Brothers, and their high-energy Southern rock and roll was something of a lullaby, producing a nice 10-minute mini-nap. The Canary Wharf skyline is U.S.-like, but at ground level the urban planning, with walkways and parks and such are pleasantly European. Walked around, snapped some pictures, had a quick stand-up lunch of spicy lentil soup, paused for a large Starbucks (they are everywhere in London), and wandered some more, then hopped on to the driverless Docklands Light Railway west to Bank Station.

Walked past the massive Bank of England, through the historical Leadenhall Market, and around the City, London's financial district; a magnetism drew me back to Sir Norman Foster's new, pickle-shaped SwissRe skyscraper, visited in April with Robin and Jack. I paused in the nearby courtyard of St. Helen's Church, Bishopsgate, from the 12^th century. This sanctuary stood unmolested for 700 years, but was heavily damaged during terrorist bombings in 1992 and '93, and nicely rebuilt three years later. At that moment it seemed sensible to pause on a bench and pray for peace and civil order. Hopped a train back to Baker Street, walked north to the London Business School, and brought this journal up to date while waiting for my host.

At 5:15 I met Sigal Duvshani, an interesting young Israeli woman working on her MBA, and a colleague, Patty, from the USA. Gustav from Brazil joined us shortly – those three are good proof that LBS is one of the most cosmopolitan of my teaching venues. Soon Paddy Barwise, a marketing professor, arrived and introduced me. This gig was not an actual class, but a function of the LBS Marketing Club. To my amazement, more than 20 students showed up on a Friday night late in the term. The show went well, and I was out the door at 7:30, on foot around Regent's Park to meet Missy and Tim at La Casalinga, a neighborhood Italian restaurant on St. John's Wood High Street. We enjoyed a sensational bottle of Barolo and a filling meal. I was glad Tim drove the mile or so, because I was plumb wore out. We got home, I worked my e-mail, and was clocked out by 10:45.

I woke about six, read for awhile, and at seven, with some daylight and mostly clear skies, I laced up and headed out for a trot, east then south to Regent's Canal, which rims the north side of the park of the same name. I headed as far as Camden Locks, then back. Stopped to buy a large wake-up Starbucks and ambled west on Circus Road, then north on Abbey Road. At the recording studios that the Beatles made famous there was already a lot of activity, trucks and buses blocking the street, people milling. I didn't find out what was happening, but it was fun to watch. Walked home, had a bowl of Cheerios, read the International Herald Tribune, yakked with Tim, played a bit with Jenny, their Smarter-than-Lots-of-People Border Collie, and cleaned up. Tim drove me to the Maida Vale Tube station, hopped two stops to Paddington, and got the Heathrow Express to the big airport.

When traveling on British Airways, they allow airline freeloaders like me into their airport clubs, so I headed in for a coffee and, after noon, a Newcastle Brown Ale, then hopped onto a 757 for the short flight across to Düsseldorf. The flight was a bit late. I checked my bag, which is sometimes a good thing to do in Europe, but it took a long time for it to arrive on the bag belt. I was looking at my watch, and thinking that the connection to the train was gonna be close. Zipped upstairs to a monorail that runs around the airport, and hopped on. It was pokey. We arrived at the airport train station at 4:12 for a 4:16 train. There was a line at the ticket counter, so I tried a self-service ticket machine, which rejected my card. Back to the counter, no line, buy a ticket. The clerk looked out the window and saw my train on track 1, and printed an itinerary for a later train. But he underestimated my speed, and I hopped aboard Intercity 2337 just before the doors closed!

Arrived Münster on time at 5:29, and on the platform were two of my host Manfred's graduate assistants, Tim Tecklenburg and Simone Schmidt. We drove to the hotel, the Überwasserhof, checked in, changed into khakis, and opened the window to hear church bells pealing all over the city. As I've written before, to me it is the sound of Europe. At six Tim, Simone, and I headed to the Kiepenkerl Weihnachtsmarket (Christmas market), where we joined six other assistants for a couple of glasses of glühwein, the warm spiced wine traditional in December. Sufficiently braced, we headed to dinner at a very cozy bistro called the Köpi-Stuben, for beer and a big plate of Bugs Bunny. Yep, hare, and like Bugs it was wild; I knew that because I bit into a couple of pieces of steel shot, but without tooth damage. Dessert was a shot of a local schnapps, Weisskorn. To be young!

We headed back toward the hotel, weaving through the crowds in town for the Christmas markets. People were having a good time. We stopped once, for good reason: my hotel was less than 100 meters from the Pinkus Müller Brewery. Time for a really fresh beer. Then bed, snoring loudly.

I slept in on Sunday, until eight, had some breakfast and set out to find church services. The night before, the hotel clerk gave me the times for the cathedral, but it occurred to me that in a state (North Rhine-Westphalia) that it 85% Catholic, services there would be Catholic. As noted above, I'm not fussy, but I found the only Lutheran church, the Evangelische Apostelkirche, and sat down for the ten o'clock service. The Advent hymns we sang were unfamiliar, but the organist soloed a couple of recognizable melodies, and I was able to read the Apostles' Creed and Lord's Prayer auf Deutsch. Communion was novel, to me at least: we all assembled in a semi-circle in the apse. On the way out, I introduced myself to the pastor, an earnest young man with a big smile. He apologized for no words in English, and I replied that a universal church requires no translation. It was a great experience.

At noon, Manfred picked me up for lunch, and we drove north to Tophoff, a family-owned (since 1831) restaurant outside his town of Greven. Soon his wife Christine joined us, with Lisa (14), Ole-Michel (13), and Anna (9). The older kids practiced their English with the American, as he enthusiastically tucked into a big pan of Grunkohl, German soul food made from kale, with a smoked pork chop and two pieces of sausage. Whew! We headed back to their house for coffee and some Christmas cookies and cake. At four, we walked into Greven, a town of 35,000, and saw a short performance of the Christmas story, complete with live animals in the manger, and a real baby playing Jesus. At five, we headed to an Advent organ concert at St. Martinus Church.

As we walked up a cobbled street, and the church bells pealed loudly right above us, it was clear that I was as far as I could get in Europe from the homogenized mass tourism of, say, the Hard Rock Cafes. The concert was wonderful, ending with J. S. Bach's Prelude and Fugue in C-flat. We walked home in a light rain, then headed back to Münster, Manfred again zipping his Audi TT up to 180 km/hr (110 mph) on the autobahn.

At seven we were in the Ratskeller, the basement of the historic town hall, where the peace treaty ending the Thirty Years War was signed, for a "fireplace chat" with eleven promising Marketing undergraduates. Manfred presented his idea for identifying and lifting up these top-ranked students, then asked me to give an informal seminar on the rise of low-cost carriers in Europe. At nine we had a light dinner and chatted with two of the young students who sat with Manfred and me. It was a nice evening.

Monday was the day of the big lecture, but not until the end of the afternoon, so Manfred, a truly great host, had arranged for Tim and another graduate student, A-Ram Jo, to drive to Nordkirch Castle, described as "the Versailles of Westphalia." Though it was not as thoroughly restored as the French chateau, it was spectacular, and it was still in service, housing a school for public finance for the state of North Rhine-Westphalia. Tim and A-Ram arranged for a guide, a local woman, to take us around the place. Remarkably, there were no other tourists around – if you don't mind cold, damp, short days, winter is a great time to visit Europe. At noon, we headed back to Münster, joined the other assistants for lunch at an Italian place, and I peeled off to do a bit of shopping.

At 3:30, after a conference call with folks back at American, I walked over to the Marketing Institute, then we headed to the lecture hall, a big building a mile or so from the main campus, right on Aa Lake (a nice name, though better if both As were upper-case!). It was another big lecture, 300 students, and it went well – loud applause at the end. I felt great. We headed back to the Marketing Institute, worked my e-mail a bit, then walked across town to another caloric meal, at the Gasthaus Altes Leve, established 1607. A big glass of wheat beer, followed by Gänsebraten, roast goose, with a snowball-size potato dumpling, roasted chestnuts, and red cabbage. Whew! Another huge, heavy meal. I normally don't eat poultry skin, but the crispy brown goose was seriously yummy, and I was reminded of my friend Ed Moersfelder's assertion that eating fatty foods shortens life span, but that those latter years are often not all that swell! We walked back across town, I said goodbye to Manfred and Tim, and headed to the hotel to work my e-mail.

Was up at 4:55 on Tuesday the 7^th, rolled my bag across the cobbled streets to the train station, and at six climbed on Deutsche Bahn's fast ICE train. These sleek new trains, which run at 180 mph on some stretches of track, are very comfy. I was in a 2^nd-class compartment, with a firm seat, a table, and even a powerport – a perfect place to bring this journal up to date. Three customers joined me at Düsseldorf. We arrived Frankfurt airport on time at 9:08. This transport geek stood on the platform, close to the tracks, as the train glided east toward Nuremberg. The Silver Bird departed at 10:30, and landed in brilliant blue Texas skies and 60º at 3.

I had hoped to be home longer, but about 40 hours later, on December 9, I flew northeast to New York, landing before 11 a.m. Worked my e-mail briefly in the Admirals Club, then jumped on the Q33 bus to Jackson Heights. Once there, I looked up from my book to see the names on the businesses on the main street: the acupuncturist Dr. Hong had signs in both English and Spanish. Further along was a neon sign that said "Comida Tipica Ecuatoriana", then Los Paisanos meat market, and Abunee Thai Cuisine, and the Nara Bank. I climbed onto the F Train for Manhattan. Apart from the fellow next to me, I was the only person not of color. Across from my perch was a black man with impressive dreadlocks and a nice suit; next to him, a Chinese woman with a Godiva Chocolates shopping bag, then an Indonesian man listening to tunes (Gamelan? Jazz? Rock 'n' Roll?) on an MP3 player. In no time we were in Manhattan, and ten minutes later I got off at 34^th Street and 6^th Avenue. When I surfaced on the northeast corner a block north, I could see my lunch spot, Han Bat, a Korean place I had not visited since April or May of '99, when I introduced my young Romanian friend Flavius Stan to Korean cooking. It was nice to be back.

As on the F Train, almost no one looked like me at Han Bat. No matter. I ordered #34, the Jap Chae, a big plate with cellophane noodles, pork, mushrooms, broccoli, and carrots. First, though, came six dishes of various pickles, all hotted up with red pepper flakes, then a big bowl of noodle soup. Whew, a big feed. I ate half the main course, and as I have often done in New York, asked for the remains to go.

I paid the bill and headed east on 35^th Street, thinking it would not take long to find a homeless or hungry soul eager for sustenance. But for some reason it did. I zigged and zagged, looking for someone clearly in need. And, finally, there he was, lying in a dirty sleeping bag in a small alcove on 47^th Street. His bike was above him. I softly told him I had lunch for him, and he thanked me. As they always do, my eyes then filled with tears, at our collective failure to meet a basic need in this land of plenty.

Ten minutes later, I was at my intended destination, the American Management Association at 48^th and Broadway, where I spent some time helping a search committee find a new dean for the Cornell Hotel School. Ninety minutes later, in a soft rain, I retraced my steps, train and bus ride, then flew home, landing after nine.

Because this journal is a lot about mobility, it makes sense to report on a meeting in my office a week later. On December 16, Dr. Abu Yilla, a professor of kinesiology at the University of Texas at Arlington came to see me. Dr. Yilla is president of the Wheelchair Mavericks, a basketball team. We met to talk about ways the Wheelchair Mavs and the Dallas Ramp Project could work together (as an aside, American has been a longtime sponsor of the team, which has won a number of national championships). He was a fascinating fellow with a long story. Polio put him in a wheelchair, but that did not appear to be any limitation. When he wheeled out of the lobby, I turned and walked up two flights of stairs, reminded again of the gift of mobility.

Some much-needed time off began a day later, at six p.m. on Friday the 17^th. We started the holidays with a celebratory Mexican dinner at Dos Rios, a neighborhood place. I was at the college-student end of the table, and enjoyed yakking with Jack's longtime friends Walker Griffy, Keith Hickey, and Ben Greer. The next day, we built a small wheelchair ramp for Ms. Butler on 11^th Street, then came home and sat down to finalize and dispatch the annual Christmas letter.

On Wednesday the 22^nd, a rare snowy day in Dallas, I took my car in for a recall fix; I was close to the office, and drove west, "clocking in" on a vacation day. I was glad I did. I talked business with a couple of colleagues, and enjoyed seeing a few folks – Alexandra Arpey, our Chairman's seven-year-old; Jonathan Peters, a long pal; and dear Carmela Competiello, who I hugged on her last day in a 44-year career at American. Working through my e-mail, I came across a copy of a speech by former boss Bob Crandall, delivered on December 17, as he received the Wright Brothers Memorial Trophy in Washington. I seldom excerpt speeches in these pages, but here's a sample chunk of a very interesting talk:

The next day we were in Los Angeles for the day. After four years of Robin at USC, it has become a familiar place, but I always enjoy visiting, even for the day – especially December 23, when it was 16º in Dallas and 70º in Los Angeles! We were back by midnight.

Christmas was a good time. I was the lesson reader at the 9 o'clock Christmas Eve service, then off to a party, then into bed. Lots of cool stuff under the tree on Christmas morning, a bike ride, a movie, and a good dinner.

On Tuesday the 28^th I headed up to Minneapolis/St. Paul to see a few friends. Friend 1 was Lee Brechtel, American's airport general manager; we commiserated about the rotten state of the business; Lee, who has been with American for 40 years, was pretty cranky about it all, and worried about his pension. The Hiawatha light-rail line, which I rode in August, was finally completed to the airport, and this transport geek was delighted to hop aboard and head into town. The sun was low on the horizon – not as low as in London or Münster a few weeks ago, but low.

Downtown, I found Friend 2, John Massopust, a pal since junior high school (and a law-school classmate of Linda's). John does serious lawyering for a big firm, and is pretty bad about replying to e-mails, so I decided an "ambush visit" was in order. We had a nice chat, yakking a lot about the trial that he recently lost – he was one of the chief lawyers representing the insurance companies who argued that the September attack on the World Trade Center was one event, not two. He mostly lived in New York for the last 39 months, and he described the experience as "the most fun you could have at work."

I left John's office unsure of who Friend 3 would be (some spontaneity is important when traveling!). Mike Davis was not in his office downtown, so I headed over to see Pat Maloney, another of Linda's law-school chums. We had lunch at Peter's Grill, a longtime downtown favorite. At 1:45 I took the train back to the airport, picked up a rental car, and drove west to see friends 4 and 5. At three Nancy Moline and I headed out to see her dad, Del, at a nursing home on Lake Minnetonka.

During our college years, Del and Ann Moline's house on Arden Avenue was the site of a lot of fun, some of which focused on Del's superb piano-playing. Nearly 35 years later, although he's slowed down quite a bit, he still has the touch, and high point of the visit was hearing Del at the piano, filling our requests and those of other second-floor residents – for Christmas songs, favorites from five or six decades ago, the U of M fight song, and more. There was still a twinkle in his eye, especially when he ended several tunes by singing "without his pants on"! That was Del, always a spicy guy. I'm glad we went.

Friends 6 and 7, Jane and Mike Swenson, greeted me at 5:45 at their farmhouse on the bluff above the Minnesota River in Eagan. Now surrounded by suburban houses and apartments, the farm is a very cool place. Back in spring 1973, I went out with Jane a few times, until other friends at St. Olaf College told me that I'd like Linda better. And, of course, I did! Jane, Mike, and I had a good visit, then zipped off to grab a quick sandwich before they headed to a basketball game at their sons' high school. I then drove to my mother-in-law Karen Matthews' condo. We had a good chat, but by 9:45 I was worn out from all the yakking.

The next morning, I visited with Karen, and was out the door by seven, over to St. Paul. I had a few minutes before meeting Friend 8, so I parked right in front of our old house on Goodrich (1979-87), and walked the neighborhood, south and east toward the park where Robin and Jack loved to play. The old 'hood was much the same: quiet, stable, a mix of big Victorians, modest bungalows, and walk-up apartments. At 7:45 at the Day By Day Café on W. 7^th Street, I met Ann Hathaway, a colleague from Republic Airlines now working for the Mayo Clinic. We had a really good visit. Friend 9 was Chuck Wiser, who I see pretty often. Friend 10 was Gail Shore, another Republic Airlines alum, who I had not seen for five years or more; we had lunch in Edina, where I grew up. Ten friends in a little over a day. A good trip, but not the last one of 2004.

On New Year's Eve – which is also Linda's birthday – she, Robin, and I drove 50 miles west to Fort Worth. First stop was The Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth, which opened two years ago across the street from the Kimbell Art Museum (interestingly, Fort Worth has, between its four mid-size art museums, a bigger and more varied collection than the Dallas Museum of Art, which is in a city twice as large). The Modern is in a very cool concrete and glass building by the Japanese designer Tadao Ando, and the gallery spaces are very interesting. The collection is also pretty swell, with works from all the major artists of the last 70 years (including, frankly, some pretty goofy pieces). A few of the works reminded me of the cool stuff that Del Moline (Friend 5, above) did in his art therapy program at the nursing home!

We had a cup of coffee and walked across to the Kimbell, which has a modest but all-bases-covered collection, housed in another stunning building, by Louis Kahn. At 4:40 we drove into downtown Cowtown, parked the car, visited a couple of shops, and sampled some wine at the Grape Escape wine bar. At six we ambled over to Houston Street, and had a delightful two-hour (120 minutes!) dinner at Randall's, a slightly funky bistro. Walking down Houston Street to get the car, I was again reminded of the coolness of Fort Worth. It is a very special place.

We were home well before any truly crazy drivers were on the road. Thus ended a great quarter and a great year.

Take a look at pictures from these trips – just click month and year on the home page!

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