Fourth Quarter Update

Dear Friends,

I came across a nice quotation in the October issue of Minnesota, my university’s alumni magazine. Dominic Argento, a Minnesota composer, said, "I don't write to change anyone's life . . . but I'd like to enhance it. I write because it's a way of leaving calling cards here on Earth. When you're not here, at least it's a little signpost that says you were here." I am not a famous writer of music, but Maestro Argento’s reason is the same as mine when I type these updates. This is a little signpost.

October 3 marked 22 days without flying. More than three weeks. Something seemed amiss. So in mid-afternoon I pulled out of the building. When I notice a person with a suitcase waiting at the bus stop across the street, I almost always pull over and offer a ride – a “talking to strangers” opportunity. Here was Louis Hernandez, who that very afternoon signed his papers and retired as an AA flight attendant after 40 years. We had a nice chat, about longevity, about the business, about his retirement venue, a house in the woods in northeastern Pennsylvania. “I grew up in New York, and the only wildlife I knew were rats in the subways,” said Louis, “but now I have bear and deer and raccoons.” I saluted him and thanked him for his four decades of service. My parting words were about my need to balance the scales for all the people who gave me rides during my hitchhiking years. “Giving you a ride helped in a small way, Louis,” I said. I climbed on a 737 and flew to Miami.

I talked at length with two more strangers that day. After landing, Don the driver and I had a nice chat between the airport and Loew’s Hotel on South Beach. I worked my e-mail and headed out to dinner about nine, stumbling into Bella Cuba, a little restaurant on Washington Street. I was the only one in the place, so Paula, the waitress from Uruguay, and I yakked for quite awhile. She’s here for the adventure, but doesn’t like Miami Beach – “too plastic,” she said. Her mother, a lawyer, is also here, earning more money as a waitress than she could make as an attorney back home. Paula brought me a light dinner, a delicious bowl of black bean soup and a Cuban tamale, as well as a couple of Presidente beers from the Dominican Republic.

The next morning I gave an advertising update to some AA sales reps and managers from our Central Division, listened to a couple of other presentations, and rode back to the airport with Scott, an amiable Canadian driver. Ate lunch at my favorite La Carreta cafeteria; as noted in the last update, it’s a shining exception to the oxymoronic “airport food.” A simple repast: Caldo Gallego (white bean soup from the Spanish region of Galicia), a piece of Tres Leches, a favorite sweet cake, and a Diet Coke. Yum! Worked a bit of e-mail and flew home.

On Saturday the 8^th Linda and I saddled up and flew west to L.A., picked up a rental car, and motored on local routes to the Coliseum to see USC play Arizona. The ride from LAX to the Coliseum took us through the heart of South Central, and the accompanying mayhem seemed scripted for stereotype; when I’ve driven the route it’s been calm, but with Linda along we saw police cars squealing past, a car ablaze, guys hustling $50 parking spots. Happily, we found a $20 spot just a few hundred yards from the vast stadium and took our seats on the “press box patio” for a fifth season of SC football. What a blast! School spirit raised exponentially. Robin was sitting nearby, and she, her roommate Katherine, and friend Alissa talked their way to our perch.

SC won 42-21, and we headed back out to LAX for our cheapie room at the airport Radisson. Showered, caught a quick nap, and motored up the 405 to Robin’s pad. We admired the IKEA furniture we assembled four months earlier, then Katherine, Robin, Linda and I ambled up Barrington Street for a tasty dinner at the Tongdang Thai Kitchen. We laughed quite a bit that night, especially listening to the girls tell stories from their primary-school days. Dropped Linda at the hotel, parked the car nearby (continuing my streak of not paying for overnight hotel parking), and clocked out.

Was up before seven and out on the street in brand-new ASICS running shoes, pounding out three miles and enjoying the bounce of new sneakers. And no trip to L.A. would be complete without breakfast at Uncle Bill’s in Manhattan Beach. As noted in these pages, M.B. is just a very cool place. That Sunday there seemed to be more than the usual number of surfboards on cars, and a glimpse down the hill explained it – even this Minnesota knows good surf at a glance, and the breakers looked way cool. Robin swooped down in her new white BMW (still trying to figure out how she pays for it, but that’s just thrifty Rob), which I got to drive after breakfast, whizzing down Highland Avenue, sunroof open. Pretty cool, very L.A. We gave Robin hugs and flew home. High point of the journey east was March of the Penguins on the overhead screens.

Unpacked a small bag, repacked a larger bag, and at noon the next day I flew north to Montreal, landing on Canadian Thanksgiving. The Montreal airport, now called Pierre Elliott Trudeau in honor of their popular former prime minister, is increasingly spiffy – Canadians continue to spend on infrastructure, and the contrast with things south of the border is noteworthy. Hopped on the bus to downtown, just as it was getting dark. The steeples and distinctive walkup apartments west of the center were welcoming – I was looking forward to having a bit more time to poke around this city first visited in 1967, at age 15. Was at my hotel on Avenue du Parc by 7, and out the door, walking south toward Old Montreal, by 7:30.

I had reserved a table at Les Remparts, a restaurant I found on the Frommer’s website (very handy resource, and free). It was misting lightly. I ambled past the headquarters of the Bank of Montreal, one of the buildings dating to 1847. Nice. Then along the cobbled streets of Vieux-Montréal, and to the wonderful and ornate old town hall. Snapped a couple of pictures and headed into dinner. Enjoyed a couple of Quebec microbrews (a brown and a blonde), and a wonderful entrée, guinea hen. For the second consecutive Monday night, I engaged my waitress, this time quizzing her on Quebec history (I was trying to remember the year the British General Wolf and his troops defeated the Frenchman Montcalm, what is locally known as “the Conquest”; it was 1759). Walked back to the hotel via the Place des Arts, where a concert was just ending. Clocked out.

Rose at seven, grabbed breakfast fixings at a supermarket across the street, ate in my room, and headed out the door. I hopped on the Metro, and rode west to the neighborhood called Westmount, where an old friend, Kenny Saxe, grew up. I wondered if I could find his house, last visited in 1977. Yes, I could, at 3435 Grey, a brick duplex with two masonry beavers (Canada’s symbolic rodent) just below the roofline on each side. Popped into a Starbucks on Sherbrooke, bought a large coffee, and worked my e-mail wirelessly. It is so cool to have wireless! An hour later I headed east, walking a few miles back to downtown, and to the campus of McGill University, a very good school.

Met my host, Demetrios Vakratsas, visited briefly in his office, and taught an undergrad advertising class. Bright students, interactive. At one, we took a cab up to Schwartz’s, a deli on Blvd. St. Laurent, in what was once the heart of Montreal’s sizable Jewish community. Smoked-meat (like corned beef) sandwich, fries, cole slaw, a Coke. Life was good! Had a good visit with Demetrios, an affable Greek who taught briefly at UT-Dallas, a mile from our house. We walked back to McGill, got a coffee, and I worked my e-mail in the library.

Just before four, I met Ashley Anderson, an interesting Albertan, who, when not studying for his MBA and judging rodeo all over western Canada and the U.S., was head of the student chapter of the American Marketing Association. He had organized an informal seminar for MBA students, which went well. At five I headed to my last gig that day, a two-hour presentation to MBA students at Concordia University, also downtown. This group was studying in a specialized “Aviation MBA” program, and they came from all over the world – pilots from Canada, Switzerland, and Germany, airport people, a fellow only known as “the Estonian,” and more. My host was Isabelle Dostaler, a friendly Montrealer.

This was the John Molson Business School, named for the brewing family, so it fit when the Dean, Jerry Tomberlin, suggested that we get “a beer” after the lecture. Ten students, Isabel, Jerry, and I headed to McKibben’s, an Irish pub around the corner from campus. Into the basement, a Molson Export in hand, life was good. Then it got challenging: shots of Sambuca appeared, more beer, more shots, whew. At 9:30, I knew I had to find an escape route. Bob, who worked for the Canadian equivalent of the TSA, hurled good-natured insults – “weak Americans,” “you caved, man,” and more. On the way out, friendly banter with the bartender, who declared that I was in “the best country on earth.” Even without beer goggles, I knew he had a point. Took a taxi back to the hotel, worked my e-mail, collapsed.

Was up at six on Columbus Day, out the door, out to the airport, and onto a small jet to Moncton, New Brunswick. It had been a number of years since I took a couple of vacation days in the fall to explore a new place, and I was delighted. The weather was perfectly clear and I enjoyed the ride above Quebec’s Eastern Townships and northern Maine, over the northern limit of the Appalachians. Fall was in full swing, and the colors were lovely. Landed at Moncton and rode into a city of 120,000 with taximan James Robichaud, a special kind of French Canadian, an Acadian. He dropped me at the Delta Beausejour Hotel; just inside was a Hertz office, where another Acadian, Nicole, let me stow my gear for a few hours.

In no time I was ambling west on Rue Main Street (what it said on the bilingual street signs), then north to the University of Moncton, headed toward the Acadian Museum on campus. When I reached the school, I asked a student two questions: where was the museum and what was the flag identical to the French tricouleur but with a yellow star in the corner? He replied “right there, and it is the Acadian flag.” The museum opened in an hour, so I wandered the campus. Headed into the Faculté de Droit, the law school. I asked a student a few questions about New Brunswick law. I continued on, into the chapel for daily prayers, then to lunch. The museum opened a bit early, and I met Francis Theriault, an education major who offered to show me around. “It’s my first tour ever in English,” he said, “so I might use the word ‘stuff’ a lot.” I smiled and told him he’d do just fine, and that my son, about his age, also used “stuff” a lot.

The museum was very well done, telling the sad story of the Acadian people, French settlers deported from Atlantic Canada beginning in 1755. They dispersed in the New World, many to Louisiana, where they became Cajuns. The British practiced scorched earth, burning villages, seizing property. It took more than a century to recover, and the Acadian Renaissance really got traction after World War II. Francis was proud. I said Au revoir at 1:45 and walked back to Hertz, picked up a red Chevy Cobalt, and headed northeast. First stop Shediac, “Lobster Capital of the World,” a pleasant burg. Here the Acadian flags were everywhere. I continued on to Cap Pelé, where every utility pole was painted with the tricolor. These were proud people.

Drove back roads to Cape Tormentine, at the west end of the Confederation Bridge, an eight-mile span of the Northumberland Strait. Completed in 1997, the bridge replaced ferries to Prince Edward Island, PEI. On the east end, I exited, parked, and put my feet onto PEI. I grinned and exclaimed “Wow,” for I had now visited all ten Canadian provinces. Celebrated with a strawberry ice-cream cone and began driving toward the capital, Charlottetown.

Images of PEI usually focus on the beaches, but what delighted me was the gently rolling mix of forest and farmland, and villages every few miles, each with a small church. The landscape reminded me a bit of the North Island of New Zealand. Very agreeable. By five I was in the capital, a small place on a small island (2,200 square miles, and 135,000 people, by far Canada’s smallest province; Ontario has 100 times more souls!). University Avenue, the route into town, ended at Province House, a lovely neoclassical building finished in 1847. Since 1873 it has been the provincial legislature; before that, in 1864, it was the birthplace of the Canadian nation. I parked the car. The late-afternoon light was golden, superb, and I snapped a few pictures. Seeking cheap digs, I headed toward the airport, hoping to find a place that gave airline-employee discounts. Indeed, the simple Sherwood Inn offered a room for thirty-five bucks Canadian. Perfect. I found room 12, laced up, and took off for a much-needed trot on my new Asics. Sweet! Headed to the little airport terminal, then back past the motel to Sherwood Road, and a small, wooded cemetery. Treading softly, the cemetery was softly lit, really pretty. At the end of 20 minutes, I doubled back to the row of identical gravestones and an obsidian marker that told of 20 RAF cadets who died learning to fly at this airfield 1942-45.

Took a quick nap, then dressed and headed back into town. I parked just around the corner from the College of Piping, for the music, not the plumbing. Through an open window I heard Celtic fiddling but no bagpipes. Two hours earlier, I had spotted The Gahan House, brewers on Sydney Street. I headed in. First a glass of Ironhorse Brown Ale, jotting some notes in my PDA, then an hourlong conversation with Gary Ellis, a friendly insurance adjuster, exactly my age. Among the topics covered: George Bush (brief, with concurrence); his trip through the American West in 1977 in a Datsun 510; the discipline of geography; electricity prices in PEI and Texas; Lufthansa; pension plans in Canada and the U.S.; and more than a little about the island, which Gary described as “the best place on earth.” Pride in place, two nights in a row. Gary was active in the Liberal Party, and he knew a lot about politics, too. Maybe part of his conviction about PEI stemmed from the island’s democracy, a marvel – here was a place with substantial autonomy, where 27 legislators each represented fewer than 5,000 people. Way cool.

After a second glass, a seasonal ale flavored with apricot, at 8:30 I said goodbye to my new friend and headed across the street to the Claddagh Room, where chef-owner Liam Doyle fixed up a plate of local seafood – PEI mussels, scallops, haddock, and salmon – plus a stuffed PEI potato and some crisp vegetables. I headed out, south to the water. It was a cold night, and I walked briskly. Back to the car, back home.

I slept hard, and rose at seven to a cloudy day. Switched on the TV to get the CBC news, but instead, almost stereotypically, watched bits of a wonderful documentary on Wayne Gretzky, a true Canadian icon. Headed into Charlottetown, and ambled around the docks and the compact downtown, then into Cora’s which Gary recommended the night before. Tucked into an enormous breakfast, then crossed the street to Province House. Watched an excellent film on those events, ambled upstairs to look at both the compact legislative chamber and the actual room where the national-union discussions took place. Walked back to the car and headed west on Highway 2 to Summerside, a resort town on the south coast. The weather had cleared up, and it was another nice day. Wandered the town a bit, then headed back toward the bridge. Just before crossing I finally spotted some potato harvesting close to the road, so I pulled over, yakked briefly with Wayne, a grower (he was happy that prices were way up this year, to 12 cents a pound, compared to under 2 cents last year, “when we just fed ‘em to the animals”), and took some pictures.

Paid US$32 in tolls to cross back to New Brunswick, then continued west to Sackville, a pleasant small town with the very small Mount Allison University. I walked around the center and strolled the campus, stopping to photograph “Athletes,” a triptych mural in the gym painted 1960-61 by Alex Colville, a well-known Canadian artist who once taught at the college (I first came across his distinctive work by chance, at an exhibit at the Canadian Embassy in Washington in 1995). Grabbed a cup of coffee and a donut at Tim Horton’s, then drove back to Moncton Airport, worked my e-mail on a free wireless connection, and flew to Montreal, then home. A really great trip.

On Saturday, October 15, Larry Rollow, six volunteers from the Corporate Real Estate Department at American Airlines, and I built a 24-foot ramp for Oscar Miller. We were barely out of our cars when Oscar stepped onto the porch and declared, "I'm a happy man. I'm 81 years old. I'm alive. I still have my mind." It was clear from his front yard, his living room, and house exterior that Oscar had little material wealth. But that didn't seem to bother Oscar. He sat on the front porch bantering with us as we built the ramp – except for several phone calls and walks to say hello to friends on the street. Oscar had a lot of friends, and it was easy to see why. He waved to his neighbor across the street, and I walked over to visit with Herbert Williams, who said he keeps an eye on Oscar. I told Herbert that Oscar liked to talk, and he shot back "you noticed?", laughing hard.

We learned many interesting things that morning. His family were the first African-Americans to settle in Dallas, in 1846. "They brought us here," Oscar said, "and we've been here the whole time." The clan gathers annually, always on the first Saturday after July 4, and Millers come from afar – from New York, San Antonio, Houston, even Oscar's son in London. Oscar told us something about growing up here, when the neighborhood was still small farms. "We rotated wheat, oats, and Johnson grass. We had animals. We had everything we needed." He pointed to a tree in the front yard. "That's a plum tree," he said. "Now the little plums drop to the ground and rot, but in the day we made some fine plum jelly from those trees."

Oscar said, "I love fishing more than anything," and told us about Five Mile Creek nearby. Oscar told us about his time in the Army, in World War II, in France. About how their commanding officer initially did not let black troops have bullets. "Those rules didn't apply to the Nazis," said Oscar. It took six months before they got their ammo. "Racism is a terrible disease," I said, and Oscar nodded his head. We talked about how decades ago the morning scene would have been impossible: "I just can't imagine white folks coming down here." Oscar lost a leg fifty years ago. He can walk, but the ramp was for his electric scooter. When we finished, it took Oscar about five seconds to get down the ramp. His smile was especially broad then. As we were packing up, Oscar's preacher stopped, and Oscar introduced me. I told the Rev that we learned a lot that morning, and he replied, "Oh yeah, Oscar's motor's running!" With a ramp, we hope his motor will be in overdrive. That's why we build them.

The following Wednesday, the 19^th, I flew out to L.A. for the day, to give an advertising update to a group of folks who manage American’s flight attendants based at LAX and San Francisco. I could have zipped in and zipped out, but hanging around an operational area is something I don’t get to do very often, and I could work my e-mail and phone from anywhere. The office I borrowed had a great view of our terminal and the adjacent Bradley international building. American’s 777 to Tokyo was literally fifty feet outside my window. It was a cool view.

Six days later, after getting inspired at American’s annual fall leaders’ conference, I flew to London. Had a pleasant chat with my seatmate, Charlie Miller, a high-powered Dallas attorney, coach, and father. His father earned a Ph.D. in Chemical Engineering from the University of Minnesota, though he grew up in West Virginia, and attended law school there. Here was proof that first impressions are sometimes wrong; he seemed gruff and aloof. When I returned from the restroom, he commented on my Ferragamo tie, which launched an hour of chatter about kids, youth coaching, juvenile justice, inattentive parents.

We landed at Gatwick, and when I was standing on Platform 4 of the airport railway station, it didn't seem foreign. It was great to be here, as always, but not foreign. After 60-plus trips to this country, is that a good thing or bad? I hopped on a packed Thameslink train, rode into London and through to Kings’ Cross station, then onto the 10:15 train for Cambridge. I worked on some lectures on the way up. Arrived just after eleven, ambled into town, up Regent Street and Sidney Street, and into Sidney Sussex College, where I was to be billeted in the Master’s Lodge, as guest of the Master, Professor Dame Sandra Dawson, who is also head of the university’s Judge Business School, where I was to lecture the next day. Was this cool or what? When I was setting up the visit several weeks earlier, I asked my Marketing contact, Simon Bell, if there would be any way I could stay in a residential college rather than a hotel. And here I was. The porter gave me a key to the Sequoia Suite, I walked across one of the quadrangles and into the Master’s Lodge, where Helen showed me to my room. Wow.

Showered, changed, and headed out. Grabbed a sandwich and ate it on a bench in the lee of St. Botolph's Church (completed 1320) at the corner of Silver Street and Trumpington Street, opposite Ede and Ravenscroft, the door of which said "high class tailors and hosiers, est'd 1689.” The people-watching was splendid: especially the bright-looking people, a few of whom looked splendidly eccentric. The fellow on the bench was reading what appeared to be philosophy and – I am not making this up – stroking his goatee.

Continued on to the Judge Business School, housed in a former hospital that was completely gutted and made new inside. The interior had fascinating texture – old polychrome brick, wooden floors, painted stripes, glass. Met my host, Simon Bell, a senior lecturer in marketing, visited briefly, worked my e-mail to zero, and left mid-afternoon. Wandered over to the Geography Department on Downing Place, and met Mia Gray, an economic geographer, who was referred by a fellow at Sidney Sussex (I seldom revisit my academic roots, but Cambridge is a large department). It was pure serendip – I did not have an appointment, and she was just leaving her office, so we chatted as we walked north on Downing Place and down Pembroke Street. I headed back to “my” college, changed into running shorts, and took off for a trot, east through an old commons, then along the River Cam. It was therapeutic, though, as always, hard on the knees.

Worked a bit more, and at seven joined Professor Dame Dawson (“Dame” refers to her as a Commander of the British Empire, the second rank in the order of chivalry) and her husband Henry, Simon Bell, and others in her drawing room for a drink (Sandra and Simon were both wearing black gowns), then headed down to a magnificent dining hall, as old as the college – 1596. We were at the head table. Many others wore gowns. It was very cool. Had a wonderful dinner, chatting with (to my right) Sandra and Professor Anju Seth, a guest lecturer from the B-school at the University of Illinois, and (to my left) Christopher, a scholar in the Classics.

After dinner we repaired to the Shaw-Knox Room for claret, port, and cheese. There, my seatmates were Ricardo, a very knowledgeable political economist originally from Portugal, and Maria, a theoretical physicist from Bilbao, Spain, in Cambridge on a two-year postdoctoral. Whoa! Theoretical physics! Ricardo and I yakked about a number of policy matters in the EU and my country (including a spirited discussion of perverse U.S. auto fuel-economy standards); he left after about 45 minutes, so it was time to visit with Maria. The theoretical-physics part was tough, so I asked her to tell me how it was that she became a physicist. That launched us into terrain that was smoother, about her parents and siblings, all of whom are scientists or engineers. By 10:45 I was fading, and Sandra rescued me.

Was up at seven on Thursday, and at morning prayer in the college chapel at 8:15, with chaplain Peter Waddell and Heather, a third-year theology student. Three of us, all participating. Peter and I then headed into breakfast in the dining hall, meeting the previous college master, Sir Gabriel Horn, an amiable neuroscientist, an expert on brain and memory. Such great variety – what a university is all about. At 9:30, I walked out of the college, through a sort of invisible wall, and onto Sidney Street – the contrast between the quiet and order of the college grounds and the hustle of commerce was remarkable, and I smiled at my good fortune to be able to “feel like a local.” I hooked a wireless connection at the Starbucks on Market Street, and worked my e-mail to zero in an hour.

I headed over to the B-school and met a few people, then went to lunch next door at Brown’s, a Cambridge institution, with Simon. We had a good yak. Attended a seminar presented by a visitor from the U of I professor I met the night before. She spoke about acquisition strategy, and I was happy that despite her formulae with Greek letters, I could keep up, and was even able to ask a couple of decent questions. Went back to work, driving the e-mail inbox again to zero, then out to buy a university T-shirt.

Walking back, I was thinking about ways to begin my talk. I hit on the idea of mentioning the British inventor of the jet engine, Sir Frank Whittle – his device was literally why I was there (flew over two days earlier on a 777 with two Rolls Royce Trent engines), and, without stretching too far, how I could make a career in the airline business. I made a mental note to check if Sir Frank was a Cambridge man. Not a minute later, I passed the Department of Engineering, and on the entry column was a plaque honoring his study here, and his achievements. Coincidence to some exponential level!

The lecture to about 50 MBAs started at 6:15, and went really well. I celebrated the stunning achievement of Sir Frank and another Cambridge lad, A. A. Milne. Piglet and powerful thrust, both good things. Like the INSEAD B-school in France, this is a one-year program, and it had been a long day for students, but they were engaged. At eight, we – three students, and three faculty – headed north on Trumpington Street to dinner at Loch Fyne, a Scottish seafood restaurant, where I tucked into three kinds of smoked salmon as a starter, then a main course of poached smoked haddock. Yum! The group was interesting. The students were from Russia, Bangladesh, and Martinique, the faculty from China, Switzerland, and Australia. In short, global. For good measure, Christos, a ship owner from Salonika, Greece, joined us. Clocked out at 11:30, up at 6:15, walking through light rain to the station, and south to London. I was so happy about my first visit to this great seat of learning, honored that I was made so welcomed, and look forward to many returns. Perhaps I might some day even wear a gown!

Arrived in the big city an hour later in steady rain, so I hopped the Tube to Russell Square, a few hundred feet from our ad agency. Had a bit of breakfast, worked my e-mail, and presented part two of airline-advertising basics to a group of mainly young employees. Worked my e-mail a bit more and with my friend and account director Chris Macdonald hopped in a car headed for a lunch I had anticipated for several weeks. In early September, The New Yorker had an issue entirely devoted to food, and therein was a description of St. John, a restaurant opened by Fergus Henderson, a former architect who developed a passion for fresh English foods – and for using, well, the whole hog (the logo of the restaurant is that animal, in its entirety). Chris had smoked mackerel followed by a venison chop, and I had three Colchester oysters and braised rabbit. Dessert was a wonderful canary pudding, lemon curd atop a sponge cake, with classic runny custard. The meal was great, the conversation even better. Chris is a really swell guy, positive, funny.

At 2:40 I hopped on the Tube and the Heathrow Express, then onto American for a flight to Chicago. Landed before seven, rented a car, and was at Cousin Jim’s swell new house in suburban Arlington Heights by 7:30. I was early, and the family was not home. Standing a few blocks from where Jim grew up, I mused at his full circle through almost three decades – to Notre Dame; VISTA (the domestic Peace Corps) in Alabama; Chicago; Yellowstone Park; more than fifteen years in Lincoln Park, back in the Windy City; and now back in this leafy, pleasant place. I could hear in the distance the announcer at the Mt. Prospect High School football game; Friday night in America. Nice.

Jim, Michaela, and kids Jack, Charlie, and Katie pulled up 20 minutes later, full of energy and Halloween excitement. Jim showed me the new house, wonderfully designed and equipped. His sister, Cousin Lisa, and her husband Jack stopped by, and we yakked a bit, then Jim and I headed to a bar for two Old Style beers, then a hard sleep.

Up at 6:45, coffee and a bowl of Cap’n Crunch, then off to Jack’s soccer game at nine. By noon I was on a Silver Bird headed northwest to Minneapolis/St. Paul. Linda picked me up at the airport (she arrived the day before, to visit her mom and siblings) and we drove to Pat Maloney’s house in Edina, the town where I grew up. A law-school classmate, Pat has remained a good friend, and we were attending her annual Halloween party, then staying overnight. We visited a bit, and I headed out on one of her several bicycles, into a lovely, unseasonably warm fall afternoon. Rode through my old neighborhood, to the nearby Dairy Queen for a chocolate malt, then over to John Temple’s house on Casco Avenue. For the first time in about a decade, he was home, and we had a good visit. We trace back to Republic Airlines in 1984, and share an interest in airline marketing. At 4:30, I rode the bike to the former Edina High School and met my 12^th-grade English teacher, Mr. Jensen (described in an update a year ago), for a good yak on a picnic bench not far from our old classroom. Continuity is a good thing.

When it was close to dark, I rode back to Pat’s house, pausing to admire a couple of old buildings, the one-room Cahill School (1884), oldest building in Edina, and the former Grange Hall. I had passed them many times in the car, and it was nice to read the interpretive plaques in front of each. A few hours of revelry followed (some really clever costumes), then a good sleep.

Enjoyed the additional hour of rest at the end of daylight-savings time, but was up about seven on Sunday, back out on Pat’s bike, into light rain. I made it around Lake Harriett, but headed back as the rain became heavier. At 10:30 I met Karen Bell and her daughter Kristin at Caribou Coffee. Karen is an artist in Willmar, 100 miles west, and her daughter teaches kindergarten. She entered the store with her winning “Prelude to Rain,” which I admired at the State Fair Art Show eight weeks earlier, and agreed to buy. It is a magnificent work. We had a nice chat – getting to know a little about the artists is wonderful. We yakked about a whole lot of stuff in an hour.

At about noon I surprised another old friend, Jim Arnold, who I had not seen in at least 25 years. His was another front door where I would periodically knock, to no avail. So imagine my delight when I could hug a fellow who was a good pal from four decades ago. Jim, Chris MacPhail, and I were the core of a group of kids who bought ten-speed bikes in 1964, a purchase that was pivotal in broadening our horizons. It was such fun to see him again, and to visit briefly with his daughter Jamie. After that, I drove around town a bit, ambled briefly around the West Bank campus of the University of Minnesota, returned the car, met Linda, and flew home.

Two nights later, two German friends, Michael Beckmann and Susan Kissler, knocked on our front door; unlike my two visits above, this was not spontaneous, but it was wonderful to see them. Jack came out from SMU to meet them and practice a little German. Michael worked for American for three years, and is a graduate of WHU, the German B-school where I teach, so there were some good small-world connections. We had a beer, then headed to Dos Rios for Tex-Mex, and some conversation.

The next morning, I rousted the roosters and flew to Washington, DC, first visit there in awhile. Landed just past 9:30, and at 10:15 delivered an ad update to a group of flight attendants and supervisors. Being close to the frontlines is always great fun, and it was especially nice to reconnect with a flight attendant who recovered the PDA I left on a flight back in 1997 (“you brought me flowers,” she recalled with a smile). Ate some lunch, jumped on the Metro and rode into D.C. Repeated the ad update for our Government Affairs group, which nowadays is almost exclusively consultants, and expensive at that – which made me want to rush through the show, knowing that the hourly meter was spinning wildly! Took the Metro back to National Airport and flew home.

A week later, I flew to Los Angeles at the end of the day. Landed a bit late, and repeated last year’s public-transit joyride: free shuttle to the Green Line train, ride a few stops to the 110 freeway, an express bus up to the USC campus, and a short walk to the Radisson on Figueroa. Just over 30 minutes and $1.75. What was I trying to prove? Maybe again to show that in this most auto-dependent of cities there are still choices, and effective ones – the ride took way less time than a taxi stuck in traffic. And there’s something more, which came to me as I was getting off the bus at the 37^th Street stop: I like public transit because I like to be close to people different from me. Way different: the African-American fellow wheeling his bicycle onto the Green Line; the Pakistani-looking woman schlepping her belongings aboard at the Hawthorne Blvd. station; the Mexican-American chatting in Spanish on her cellphone. We don’t get many opportunities to do that, do we? I seek them out. Looking back, the memory of the ride makes me smile. E pluribus unum.

Robin picked me up before seven, and we drove the short distance into downtown in her cool BMW, yakking on a bunch of topics. It was good to see her, not because it had been that long (only a month), but because her apartment had been broken into eight days earlier, and she lost a lot of stuff, including a sense of security. The night it happened, I so wanted to be with her, with my “little girl,” because she was so upset, and I was 1250 miles from her. So it was sweet to give her a big hug. We had a nice dinner at Ciao, an Italian trattoria in a lovely, ornate old building. We talked a lot about her job, and it is so cool to see her career begin to develop. She makes me proud.

Got back to the hotel, worked my e-mail, slept 8.5 hours. Rose at six, made a cup of coffee, worked a bit more e-mail, and at 6:45 walked across Figueroa and onto the SC campus. It was good to be back. Got a skim milk, a lemon-poppyseed muffin, and a large Starbucks, at sat down to watch the early-morning campus scene. Then wandered a bit on campus, past Tommy Trojan, and into Popovich Hall to set up the first of three lectures to MBA students. The talks went well. There were actually hoots and “woos” after the first section, a very warm reception. After the second lecture, we headed to the university club and ate lunch with eight of the students. It was fun to hear about their backgrounds. USC is a very diverse place, which is one of the things that attracted Robin five years ago.

After the third lecture, I said goodbye to my host, Joe Nunes, walked back to the bus stop, and reversed the prior evening’s course, arriving at LAX again in just over 30 minutes. Worked my e-mail nearly to zero and flew home. Unpacked and repacked.

Linda picked me up after work on Friday the 11^th, and we flew to Little Rock, landing about eight. We found friend and neighbor Brad Greer in an airport bar. He bought me a Diamond Bear Pale Ale from Little Rock’s brewery. In ten minutes or so, his wife Jane joined us, we climbed into a rental car and headed southwest on I-30. The Greers have been friends for as long as we’ve lived in Dallas; their son Ben and Jack have likewise been pals for 18 years. We had an animated yak on the hour drive to Hot Springs and the home of Tim and Missy Griffy on Lake Hamilton. The Griffys were our London hosts for a couple of years, and Tim has come back to work for Ernst & Young in the U.S. Arkansas natives, they built a wonderful big house, and we were here for a weekend of fun. Former neighbors Phil and Susie Conway, now living in Houston, were there, too. Missy had chili and apple pie for us, a splendid late supper. We visited for awhile, Tim arrived from New York, and we clocked out.

On Saturday morning I joined the other three guys on the Majestic course of the Hot Springs Country Club. It was my third time on a golf course in 39 years, and my role was cart driver and caddy, hearkening back to my summer as a caddy at the Edina C.C. At one point, Brad asked me if I were totally bored, but it was just the opposite – I was having a really fun time, watching the game, raking the sand traps, tending the “pin” that is the hole-marking flagpole. My “yes sir, big hit, sir” demeanor, so essential for that nice tip, returned quickly! After 18 holes we repaired to the men’s grill for a sandwich and a couple of beers.

Back at the lake it was time for a little exercise. I had packed bike shorts and a helmet. I pumped up the tires of Tim’s Trek hybrid bike, and set off for a ride in the “neighborhood.” Like the much of the rest of the state, this was hilly country, and an hour on the bike was a good workout. This was second home and retirement home country, with a mix of houses, but all of them were way bigger and way fancier than a lake cabin in “Up North” Minnesota. The land was wooded, a mix of Southern pines and hardwoods, a week or two past prime color, yet still lovely.

Back at the house, the boys were watching the LSU-Alabama football game, and I started tracking the USC-Cal game on the Internet’s handy Gametracker site. At 7:30, we headed into downtown Hot Springs for a tasty Italian dinner, and lots of laughs. It was a stormy night, and continued rain Sunday morning washed out golf, but we had fun indoors. After lunch we drove back to Little Rock and flew home. Really fun, a weekend with friends. Got home at seven and headed out for 11 miles on the Trek, mind-cleansing.

Next morning I worked for a couple of hours, then flew back to L.A., a day trip to present the ad update to our Western Division sales team. A long trip for 45 minutes of live time. Only thing of note was another “talking to strangers” experience in the taxi from the hotel in Santa Monica to LAX. When I got in the cab, the driver, Stephene Kabogoza, a small black man, was listening to the classical-music station, KUSC. I remarked positively about his choice. “Music is my life,” he replied, with vigor and a smile, launching a nice dialogue for the next 30 minutes, lurching in mid-afternoon traffic on I-10 and the 405. Mr. Kabogoza was one of those testimonies to never prejudging a person. Never “only a taxi driver.” Never.

He was born in Kenya and moved to the U.K. as a teenager. He’s been in the U.S. about ten years. In addition to driving a cab, he teaches music for the (Catholic) Diocese of Los Angeles, and is studying computer science. His wife teaches math. He told me about his teenage son who is already studying at a Cal State campus. “This country is an amazing place, because you can do so much,” he said. The conversation was animated. “Music is about living together in harmony,” said the taxi driver. The ride was all the more energizing because earlier in the day I had read in The Atlantic about some nativist jerk, allegedly an educated person, railing about immigrants. He clearly had never ridden with Mr. Kabogoza.

And isn’t that a lot of it, dear people? If our experience is narrow, we think narrowly. The week before my taxi ride, Texans voted to approve a redundant amendment to the Texas Constitution, stipulating that marriage could only be between a man and a woman. Now my hunch is that almost no one among the 76 percent who voted for the amendment knows a gay person or a lesbian. Because if they did, that majority of voters would likely come to understand that gays and lesbians are people, too.

Flew home, arriving in the driveway after ten. A long day. And up at 5:15 the next morning, back to the airport, flew northeast to Cincinnati. Longtime AA friend Judy Rhoads picked me up at the airport and we motored downtown, where I presented three ad updates to colleagues who work in our call center. Highlight of the day was a plate of 5-Way at Skyline Chili, a Cincinnati institution. Five-way (usually spelled with a digit, but that’s not a proper way to begin a sentence!) consists of chili, cheese, beans, spaghetti, and onions. Awesome stuff! I hadn’t been in downtown for a couple of years, and the place looked good – new stadiums for the Bengals and Reds down by the Ohio River, new museums, conversion of early-20^th-century office buildings to condos. Flew home bumpety-bump, as the first wave of winter weather moved into the heartland. On airplanes six of the last seven days. Four flights on small jets in our American Eagle flight, something closer to a real flying experience, rocking and rolling.

I was not on an airplane Wednesday, but on Thursday the 17^th I flew to Austin in late afternoon, a quick ride. Landed about five, and jumped on Capital Metro’s 50-cent express bus into town. The other riders looked like earnest graduate students; we shared a common commitment to thrift. I hopped off just north of our state’s stunning pink-granite capitol. My MP3 was playing Texas music. I returned to a thought that has been bouncing in my head with increased frequency in the past few months: what a very smart and wonderful idea it was to move to Texas 18 years ago.

I walked several blocks northwest a small hotel, the Mansion at Judges’ Hill, 1900 Rio Grande. The old part of the hotel was originally the home of a local physician, Dr. Goodall Wooten; I stayed in a new building, but furnished to look a century old. Very cool.

At 6:20, I set off diagonally across downtown, southeast, past the Texas State History Museum, where a giant banner caught my eye; it simply read “Opportunity. Identity. Land.” A nice summary of the promise of this big state. By then it was dark, and the capitol was splendidly illuminated. I paused to admire the building, then continued down the south lawn and down Congress Street, an eclectic mix (a theme for the whole of this city) of shiny high-rises and three- and four-story commercial buildings from the late 1800s and early 1900s.

Just before seven I ambled into the Moonshine restaurant and into a private room, where my host, marketing prof. Wayne Hoyer had assembled three dozen second-year MBA students. Before dinner, I mostly yakked with Rodrigo Portales, a bright fellow from Monterrey, Mexico. A common theme emerged from a lot of our conversation: the border is becoming smaller and smaller. Rodrigo told me that for his wife and him, and other Mexican grad students at UT, MBA also meant “making babies in America”!

We sat down to dinner. At our end of a long table were Wayne and his wife Shirley, and grad students Emily, Shannon, and Usha. Conversation was lively, the meal superb. Just before ten, I walked back to the hotel (note from left-foot blister to brain: time for new travel oxfords), again around the capitol. I paused on the north side to look at the Ten Commandments plaque, subject of a recent U.S. Supreme Court ruling, and to smell a pink Tyler rose, still fragrant in mid-November (a historical commission plaque noted that Cherokees planted these roses to mark trails and paths). Worked my e-mails and clocked out.

Rose at seven the next morning, Friday, worked a bit more e-mail, and walked east and onto the UT campus, snapping a few photos, to the McCombs School of Business. The students from the night before were assembling for a different kind of class – rather than a lecture, a fellow from Frito-Lay, from Dell, and I presented case studies on change. The assignment was to set up an issue in 15 minutes, and turn it over to the class. My topic was improving inflight service quality. It was a great deal of fun. At 12:30 one of the students drove me to the airport, and I flew back.

Saturday was a no-travel day, but Sunday morning I was up at 4:50 and at New York LaGuardia by 10:40. I hopped in Ahmed Anwar’s taxi, and, because I was headed just a few miles to the subway, rather than Manhattan, I immediately apologized for the short ride. His reply startled me, and made me smile; Ahmed said, “every customer is valued.” After that, the Bangladeshi and I had a long talk in a short while, about family, faith, house prices, and more. He arrived in New York in 1983, and now owns six cabs. At Jackson Heights I caught the E train, and in 15 minutes was walking down Seventh Avenue toward the Marriott Marquis in Times Square. That was the venue for the Business Today Conference, organized by Princeton students every year since 1968, an opportunity for 200 students from the U.S. and 15 other countries to listen to senior executives from a range of industries, and to at least one guy down the food chain.

I arrived just in time for lunch, and had the good fortune to sit next to Clarence Lee, an electrical engineering major at MIT, son of Taiwanese immigrants. You think, “wow, probably nerdy,” but that wasn’t Clarence. He was cool. He gave me dap, and, fortunately, I knew what that was. Around the table was lots of brightness, and plenty of privilege, too (several graduates of the nation’s elite boarding schools).

From 2:15 to 3:30 I gave a seminar on international aviation, answered questions, had a cup of coffee with a young Minnesotan, and walked up the street to the somewhat-frayed-but-getting-nicer hotel where our crews stay. Washed my face, took an eight-minute nap, and walked back down Seventh to an early dinner at the hotel. My left-hand tablemate was a very affable Princeton history major (Princeton does not have a business school, but Business Today is the largest student-run business organization in the U.S.) from Oregon who is keen to consult in the airline business. He already had offers from Bain and Mercer. To my right was a young Houstonian from UT.

Totally worn out, I skipped the evening reception and turned off the light about 9:15. I rose just after six, waited for some daylight, laced up, and headed three blocks north to Central Park. Above was a soft blue sky above, and below were the last oranges and golds of fall. It was magnificent. Past a pond, and the Wollman ice-skating rink that was already open. Some unleashed dogs trotted past. After 20 minutes I slowed, admiring the statues of Simon Bolivar and José de San Martín at the top of Avenue of the Americas. The pair of liberators on 59^th Street was why LaGuardia renamed Sixth Avenue in 1945. Beneath the statue of San Martín, a slightly disheveled young man asked for the time. I stopped, turned around, approached him, and gave him the time. He seemed surprised by the interaction, politely thanked me, and wished me a good day. “Engage” is my word for November. Maybe forever.

I ambled back to the Marriott for breakfast. The conference organizers asked that we speakers find ways to engage informally with students, so I arrived early, got a cup of coffee, and plunked down at a big table. I was soon surrounded, and we held a sort of informal seminar on the airline business, me drawing graphs on paper napkins. A question about advertising after September 11 prompted me to show-and-tell on the laptop.

The 90 minutes passed quickly, and Mike Eskew, Chairman and CEO of UPS, mounted the dais for a truly wonderful show, more for the questions after the speech. Among other things, I learned that UPS is committed to local management abroad; of UPS’ 56,000 employees outside the U.S., only 40 are Americans. And that they are proud of being “integrators” rather than “extractors” in their overseas operations; I had never heard those terms before, but their meanings were immediately clear. Mr. Askew offered a wonderful small piece of advice: “Being adaptive will help you become invaluable.” He ended with a call for “corporate diplomacy,” which he said would in the global future exceed the need for political diplomacy. After the talk, I walked briskly forward to thank him and to admire their strong branding (they did a wholesale re-branding a few years ago), their commitment to hands-on management, and, as a customer, how Brown keeps me from having to go to the mall!

After the talk, I chatted with a Princeton kid about ideas for securing sponsors for his proposed expedition, then left the conference, ambling to a Starbucks on W. 45^th to work my e-mail. Toward the end of my session, I could hear a man crooning “New York, New York,” but could not see him from the front corner of the store. He sounded pretty good. At 12:30, I was in the Time, Inc. offices, meeting our former DFW sales rep Kelley Gott, Penny Scott from their international sales team, and an assistant managing editor, Lisa Beyer. She was really interesting. For eight years she had been Time’s Jerusalem bureau chief; before that she was with Asiaweek, and told an interesting account of being deported from the Republic of Singapore. Lunch was good, too.

Penny Scott and I walked to the shiny new Time Warner Center on Columbus Circle, where we had a canned tour of CNN studios, complete with a security guy who accompanied the three of us. During the tour, the CNN “breaking story” was about a Nike corporate jet with landing-gear trouble, which neatly encapsulates why even CNN is not, in my view, journalism.

I said goodbye to Penny, and snapped a few pictures of the building. I got cranky zigzagging around cars that had gridlocked the intersection of Broadway and 58^th, and thought, “time to leave New York.” Sometimes, the dirt, crowds, and disorder get to me, and they did that afternoon. I retrieved my suitcase, climbed on the E Train with tired commuters and rode out to Jamaica, then the Airtrain to JFK. Worked my e-mail to zero in the Admirals Club, and flew to Zurich. Slept hard, 5.5 hours.

A long taxi-out at JFK and a holding pattern over Switzerland made us 40 minutes late, and I missed my intended train. Caught another one 30 minutes later, rehearsed my presentation, brought this journal up to date, and admired the Swiss landscape, which was exactly the opposite what I encountered the day before on Broadway: it was clean and orderly. The Swiss Federal Railway tracks were smooth as silk. Winter was coming, and there was a dusting of snow as we moved northeast toward St. Gallen, my destination, and much more on the low hills above us.

The delay appeared to mean that I would not get a shower before my talk, so I refreshed and energized listening to the Robert Randolph Family Band (Awesome! Buy one of his CDs now!) and to some music from the University of Minnesota marching band. I was ready! Arrived St. Gallen only 30 minutes late, and found my hosts, Simone Janz, a German Ph.D. student, and Sven Reinecke, a marketing lecturer, waiting on Platform 1. They had already eaten lunch, but told me the good news that my lecture started at three, so I had time for a shower and lunch at the Hotel Einstein.

Tucked into a large plate of local sausage (St. Galler wurst) and the fabulous Swiss hash browns called rösti, and now I was really ready. Simone picked me up and we drove across town to the small University of St. Gallen, and into the angular concrete lecture hall where I had been three times before. The lecture went well, and afterward we held a sort of informal seminar with snacks and drinks. Simone dropped me back at the hotel at 5:30, done for the day. Worked my e-mail to zero, and at about seven I laced up and set off. It was just below freezing, and though I had brought tights and gloves, I somehow forgot a turtleneck, so I added a layer of my dress shirt from two days earlier. It worked fine. The trot took me around the pedestrian zone in the old city, past the splendid Baroque church (completed 1767) that anchored a large monastery, and a small building designed by the great Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava that houses the canton of St. Gallen’s emergency-services center. It looked a bit like a bilateral seashell, very cool, and nicely illuminated.

I changed into khakis and ambled out in search of a beer. Actually, I had a destination, the Schützengarten brewery, across town (St. Gallen, population 100,000, has a compact center), where I found a large mug of dark beer. They had a restaurant, too, but very pricey, so I finished my beer and headed back toward the old town, where I found a large bowl of leek soup for $7. It’s an expensive country!

I was in the very agreeable Zum Goldenen Leuen (Golden Lions), a half-timbered house from 1604. The patrons stared for quite a long time when I entered, no matter. Ordered in German, and was understood (always a good thing, especially when dealing with the Swiss version of Deutsch). The brewpub was cozy, and had a sort of left-leaning feel to it. Signs and menus said the place was under the direction of Walter Tobler, bierwirt, and it seemed nice to have a name attached to das bier, like an artist who signs his work. I walked back to the hotel, worked my e-mail a bit more, called home, and clocked out. The featherbed was cloudlike, and almost too warm.

Rose at six, worked e-mail a bit more, ate breakfast (agreeable local cheeses were the focus), and set off to catch the 7:48 train. On the way, I detoured into the cathedral (the whole monastery complex is a UNESCO World Heritage Site), for morning prayers beneath the angel I described in these pages in November 2001:

While praying, I noticed on the ceiling far above a wooden sculpture of an angel, her left arm pointing resolutely upward. All of us in the airline business, especially we at American, could use some additional lift from that angel's wings.

One of the things for which I gave thanks was the lift that seemed to be returning under American’s wings, after a way-long patch of bumpy air. Hooray for that. And two hours later, I was on one of our swell Silver Birds, a 767 bound 5200 miles for home. I was excited to be heading there, for I knew that all four Brittons would be under the same roof that Thanksgiving Eve. And I was sorta happy to rest my jets for a bit – in the previous two weeks I had flown on ten days.

Angels were mentioned a few hours later; riding west, I watched the 2000 movie “Pay It Forward,” a film full of angels on earth. If you haven’t seen it, see it. Two hours of inspiration. Took a snooze, then watched “Crash,” another worthwhile movie about race and class in America. Landed at 2:45, and headed to work.

The Thanksgiving weekend was swell. Four Brittons, together. The noise and coming and going was such a joy. Sunday was my 54^th birthday, and we celebrated with morning pancakes; I got a cool new red tie with clouds and airplanes on it, very fitting. A few hours later, in mid-afternoon, Jack headed back to SMU and Robin to L.A., and it was quiet again. Too much so. So I headed out for a bike ride, into a very stiff wind. I only intended to pound out 15 miles, but then I remembered the phrase “we are young” (see sidebar, below) and I kept going for 25 miles. When I returned, and climbed the stairs to shower, I chucked. I may be young, but my knees were not!

We Are Young

In 1967, as I have written in this update, three of us went by ourselves at age 15 to the big world’s fair, Expo67, in Montreal. The expo was memorable on many levels, not least for a plethora of innovative film and audiovisual shows. One of the best was a six-screen show in the Canadian Pacific-Cominco pavilion entitled “We Are Young.” I don’t remember much of the story, but the title has remained with me for 38 years. I think it’s a good mantra, even as we head from maturity to old age. It is all a matter of attitude. As an aside, I occasionally try to track down a copy of the film, and have recently made a few more inquiries. I’d love to see it again.

On the last day of the month, I flew to Paris for a quick lecture at INSEAD, the business school in Fontainebleau that I visited in April. I had a fairly long, but somewhat light sleep. Arrived Paris on a brilliant but cold winter day, and met Mr. Raoult, INSEAD’s contract taxi driver, for the drive south. Monsieur R’s English and my French are approximately equivalent, which makes for long periods of quiet that I sense he finds frustrating.

Was in my “dorm room” an hour later. I worked my e-mail, showered, and walked over to the classroom, wearing my new red tie (made in France). Met my host, California native Erin Anderson, then spent 10 minutes pitching my teaching to Miklos Sarvary, who organizes visiting lecturers in INSEAD’s marketing classes. Had a nice lunch with Erin. She went back to teaching her week-long executive education course on distribution and channels marketing. I headed to her office, where my Kellogg host, Anne Coughlan, was working. It was good to see her again (she brokered the link to INSEAD, and other schools).

From 3:50 to 5:20, I delivered a brisk lecture. Headed back to my room to work e-mails. Put on my coat and walked across campus. Bought a red INSEAD T-shirt (the one I got 18 months earlier had already disappeared), and ambled over to the hotel where the students were staying. We hopped on a really big bus and drove a few miles east to La Tour de Samoiselle, where we enjoyed a delightful, caloric, and prolonged meal in an 18^th century “master’s house.” French cooking, yum!

The exec ed class was a diverse group of 13. Perhaps the most interesting was a young Dutch woman, a manager for Unilever, who was living in Teheran, after a stint in Nigeria. She invited all of us to visit; I gather it can be lonely – not to mention dry – in Iran. Others included a French woman who works for the agricultural-equipment maker CNH (tractors, combines, and such); an entertaining Pole who works for Carlsberg in Poland; and a marketing manager for Coca-Cola in Italy. It’s such fun to spend time with people from all over, and that’s who INSEAD attracts.

Before dinner, we had a brief conversation about the recent French civil unrest with Erin and Stephanie, an American student who has lived in France for 12 years. They basically confirmed my beliefs about the odd mix of intransigence, idealism, and folly that informs France’s attitudes toward immigrant communities. It is a wonderful, civil place, but not without warts. Our United States are far from perfect, but we are not in collective denial about our weaknesses with respect to people of different colors and cultures.

I was back at the dorm at 11, and up at 5:20 – a short night. A quick, rainy drive 90 km. with Mr. R., back to the Paris airport. I was able to catch an earlier flight to London. Arrived Heathrow at 8:15, and quickly onto the Heathrow Express; as I often do, I cued up the Beatles, starting with “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” We are young. Took the Tube east to Moorgate, and walked north to the 23^rd and last business school visi