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October 27, 2007

Seattle

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Mt. Rainier

Seattle is one of the more fascinating cities to approach by air. When flying there or departing, always sit on the left side of the plane to have the best views of Mt. Rainier. I wish I had something better than a cell phone to take the above picture, but I’m too lazy to haul a camera with me on overnight trips.

In addition to the stunning view of Mt. Rainier, my flight home from Seattle was notable for the man sitting in seat 2B. He was large, with a lengthy black beard, thick glasses and he wore a baseball cap. He leaned his head back and was asleep before the plane had pulled away from the jetway. Within minutes, the first class cabin was filled with a raucous snore. I’ve never heard someone snore so loud. My Bose noise canceling headsets and blaring iPod couldn’t block this Rip Van Winkle’s exhalations. The snoring continued incessantly for forty-five minutes, at which point the man awoke, well rested and oblivious. He then proceeded to stand and extract a jacket and belt from the overhead bin. He slipped on the jacket, tied the belt around his waist and retrieved a Torah. He remained standing in the aisle as he began to read prayers with an occasional head bow and bend of the knees. The ritual continued for five minutes, at which point he returned everything to the overhead bin and took his seat.

I admired his self-possession.

In other travel news, I can no longer recommend Samsonite rollerbags. After my first Samsonite handled flawlessly for years, I’ve gone through two in just eighteen months. I put too much faith in products with lifetime warranties. I assume if a company offers a lifetime guarantee that the product is of such high quality it rarely breaks so I don’t need to register the warranty. Which in the case of my last two rollerbags was a mistake. I junked the first one because the handle kept breaking. My current bag works fine except the wheel squeaks. I’ve tolerated the incessant whine for months, but I can no longer stand it. My friend, who meticulously researches everything before buying, recommends Travelpro luggage. Apparently, this is what airline pilots use, and I’ve never seen a pilot pulling a squeaky bag. My new 22 inch rollerbag should arrive this week.

October 18, 2007

Palm Springs

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I flew into Ontario, California yesterday and was amazed at the guck that hangs over Los Angeles County. The cell phone picture doesn't do it justice, but it literally looks like you could suffocate breathing that air.

After our meeting in Claremont, my friend and I took a drive to Palm Springs because we had never been. I was envisioning a sort of Beverly Hills in the Desert - an upscale oasis with enticing restaurants and shops.

What a dissappointment. The town has clearly seen better days. It just look run down. Kind of sad.

October 16, 2007

Helping

Last week I was stopped by a man at the Cincinnati airport.

“Are you an executive?” he asked.

It was an odd question. Before I could answer, he said, “You look like you travel a lot. Can you help me?”

I nodded.

“You look annoyed,” he said.

“I’m trying to catch my flight.” I wasn’t annoyed, just wary.

The man quickly related how he was in town for a job interview, had missed his return flight to Pittsburgh and couldn’t get a flight out until tomorrow. He had no money for a hotel and another executive had offered to loan him $300 but they couldn’t get the ATM to work. At this point, he showed me the executive’s business card. The executive told him to find another executive and he or she would help.

“Why don’t you rent a car and drive?” I said.

“Because I don’t have a credit card.” He went on to plead with me how if I helped out and lent him the money it would restore my faith in Penn State grads, as if I somehow was disenchanted with them. He insisted he was just a Jewish kid who was in a bind and that he had asked eight people already and no one had helped, except for the other executive. He offered me his cell phone, showed me his drivers license and the reservation for the hotel where had stayed the previous night and paid cash.

Peter Drucker once said it is important to know how we learn best, whether orally or verbally, and under what circumstances we thrive. I categorically don’t thrive when approached by strangers in airports who pepper me with details of their travel woes. In fact, I shut down completely and am unable to come up with simple questions to test the veracity of their stories. The more details thrown at me, the more gullible I am. So I gave him the money and my return address. He in turn gave me his name, address and phone number.

I don’t mind helping those in need. I just don’t like being ripped off. I’m not sure if I was in this case. Afterwards, I thought of what I should have asked, and I remembered details that didn’t register in the heat of the moment. The man had a ticket jacket, but I didn’t think to ask to see his boarding pass. I don’t remember seeing his luggage, which is strange because he wasn’t dressed for a job interview.

I have since called the man’s cell phone and it turned out to be his, although the voicemail box was full so I couldn’t leave a message.

As of yet, I’ve seen no money.

October 2, 2007

Manhattan

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We spent a delightful weekend in Manhattan, but I took my favorite photograph just outside Yellowstone Park in Montana. On our way home, weather delays caused us to miss our connection to Idaho so we flew into Bozeman, Montana instead. The drive home on Monday was beautiful.

I believe I now hold the record for spending the most money to see Spamalot on Broadway. I dutifully went to pick up my Will Call tickets on Saturday morning only to find out the tickets had been for the prior evening’s performance. Knowing how disappointed Camden would be, I bit my lip and bought two more tickets for the Saturday evening performance. Of course, I wouldn’t have been at the Will Call window if I hadn’t accidentally thrown the original tickets in the trash after mistaking them for junk mail.

I saw this fascinating Paul Norguet designed chair at MOMA. And to think you can buy one just like it for only $13,000.

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Once again I confirmed one should only fly into Newark if the tickets are free (which they were). Otherwise pay up and fly into LaGuardia. The tram/train/subway trip from Newark to Manhattan just takes too long and the broken escalators mean hauling luggage up numerous flights of stairs.

LaPriel's uncle passed away while Camden and I were gone. LaPriel and I attended the viewing last night. I keep reflecting on something her newly widowed aunt told us as we stood by the casket.

"The loneliness stays with you even when others are around."

I admire people who speak from the heart.


September 7, 2007

NYC

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Mr. Softee

I took a quick trip to New York City earlier this week. My meeting only lasted two hours so I had some time to walk around before my return flight.

The many Mister Softee soft serve ice cream trucks in the city brought back memories. I snapped this photo with my iPhone on the corner of Bleeker and Broadway. Mister Softee was the first ice cream truck I remember as a child growing up in Cincinnati. I loved the simple clang of the bell that heralded its arrival.

I came upon a fascinating line of people gathered along Lafayette Street. I spend a great deal of time people watching when I travel so I’m usually able to figure out the makeup of particular groups. In fact, it makes for an interesting game for those of us who are easily amused; trying to figure out what convention is being held at a hotel just by studying the guests. One of the easiest is when Mary Kay Cosmetics holds their annual convention in Dallas. I’ve flown through that city several times during convention week. Lots of red and pink suits scattered about the airport.

On Lafayette Street the crowd didn’t fit any particular demographic. Old and young, bohemian and preppy. The only thing that stood out was the number of people using laptops. They also appeared more studious than your average crowd. I considered they might be waiting in line to sign up for community college classes, but with the advent of the Internet I’m not sure students have to wait in line anymore. I finally asked a guy what was going on. Turns out the line was for free tickets to that night’s Shakespeare in the Park performance.

The East Village is a great place for cheap food. I ate some Greek pita thingy I can’t pronounce at one of the small eateries. Delicious. There is a restaurant serving Afghanistanian food I’d like to try in the same area when Camden and I return to the city for a long weekend at the end of this month.

One day unlimited ride Metro Cards expire at midnight so don’t buy one at 7 PM like I did.

I don’t know why W Hotels thinks dark hallways and elevators are cool. They’re just dark and depressing. My room itself was brighter. It was a corner room overlooking Times Square.

In all my trips to Midtown, this was the first time I ventured through the Diamond District on 47th Street. I find it fascinating how similar shops cluster in NYC. Here is an interesting article on how that section of the city ties into the global diamond trade.

The impact of the taxi strike was minimal. The only thing I noticed was the driver got to charge a higher flat-rate fare instead of using the meter. I didn't mind because now that the driver didn't make more by getting stuck in traffic, he was highly motivated to get to the airport quickly. He took a shortcut through the sidestreets of Queens. It was the fastest cab ride to LaGuardia during rush hour I've ever taken.

August 25, 2007

Perfect Saturday

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Flyfishing on the Warm River

A perfect Saturday is a morning bike ride, taking pictures in the early afternoon, followed by a long nap.

The Warm River is one of the numerous waterways that flows from the Yellowstone Plateau. I've not fished this river, but I've floated it on an innertube. It is anything but warm.

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Abandoned Cabin on the Warm River

It's harvest time in Idaho for hay and grain. Between the smoke from wildfires and the dust from harvesting, the sky is not as blue as usual nor are the mountains on the horizon as crisp.

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Hay Bale Rustling


August 15, 2007

Something I Have Never Learned

Monday I was eating alone (as I usually do on business trips) at Asia Nora, a wonderful organic restaurant in Washington D.C. My first course was a beet, avocado, grapefruit and arugula salad.

I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve never bothered to learn to eat with chopsticks. I know this is culturally insensitive of me but up until now every Asian restaurant I’ve eaten at has had forks on the table, even the places I ate at in Korea a few years ago. So with a choice between a fork or chopsticks, I’ve always taken the easy way out and chosen a fork.

Except at Asia Nora there was no choice. The table was set with only my delightful salad, a pair of chopsticks and a black stone ⎯which I believe is to rest the chopsticks on when taking a break, but again I’m ignorant on the matter. I slowly picked up the chopsticks and realized I’d never even paid attention to how others eat with them. Fortunately, the first floor of the restaurant was full of diners so I’d been seated alone on the balcony. This allowed me to freely experiment with different chopstick techniques⎯none of which was particularly successful⎯without being embarrassed. I was as graceful as a knitting walrus, but I managed to finish the salad without using my fingers nor gripping each chopstick in a different hand.

When my wild salmon entrée arrived, the waiter was kind enough to ease my misery and offered me some silverware. This weekend I promise I will learn to use chopsticks properly.

August 8, 2007

Sinatra on Tour at the Airport

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I’m sitting in the lobby of the Portland airport and there is a guy dressed in a tuxedo singing Frank Sinatra tunes and other big band favorites to the soundtrack of a full orchestra.

He is talented. In fact, he sounds remarkably like Frank Sinatra. No one applauds. Live music in the airport seems so out of place I suspect travelers think clapping violates some TCA mandate.

June 6, 2007

Breanna at Nine

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by LaPriel

Breanna likes to explore⎯especially hidden rooms and tiny spaces. Locked doors in palaces, cathedrals and museums annoy her. There could be something fascinating on the other side.

Breanna loves art. We have dozens of photos of paintings by Monet, Van Gogh, Da Vinci and others Breanna took at the Paris museums. She hates when museums disallow photographs. I told her it is so they can sell more books. So we bought books of paintings.

Breanna likes animals more than castles. We went to the Loire Valley to visit the castles and instead spent our time at the zoo. We’ll save castles for our next trip.

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Chateau de Chenonceau

Breanna likes to talk and make friends. She chastised me when I cut off her conversation with the motorcyclists from Wales at Mont-St.-Michel because I wanted to go to bed.

Breanna loves the water. She thinks more hotels in France should have swimming pools. She found building sand castles on Normandy’s D-Day beaches more interesting than the rows of white crosses. She was intrigued by the time capsule at the American cemetery and the idea she will be 46 when they open it.

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American Cemetery Normandy

Breanna loves to bike, especially in Amsterdam. It offers more of a challenge than biking on a rural Idaho cul-de-sac. I think it would have been better to practice somewhere in between first.

Breanna needs ten hours of sleep at night. Otherwise she gets grumpy. She prefers sleeping in quaint attic rooms in the French countryside than Paris hotel suites. She doesn’t sleep well on planes.

Breanna likes roller coasters. The faster the better. She dislikes her Dad’s rule that he will only ride Space Mountain once per Disney theme park. Only Space Mountain in Orlando remains to be ridden.

Breanna is very giving. She feels for those that live in tents along the Seine River and donates her change to the musicians and beggars at the Paris Metro stations.

Breanna loves to travel, but she also likes to return home.

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Pigeon at Mont-St.-Michel


May 23, 2007

French Musings

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Roses in Amboise

There are some places where one just feels at home. My overseas travel has not been comprehensive, but of the countries I’ve visited (Australia, Korea, Switzerland, Italy, England, the Netherlands and France), I feel most comfortable in France.

It is difficult to describe, but the French people just feel as if they are at peace with themselves. They seem genuine.

We flew into Amsterdam today and while the city is gorgeous, the shops are inviting and Breanna and I have had a blast riding our rented bikes all over the town, the tension level seems higher. Tempers appear shorter.

I could be totally off base, but it is just my initial impression.

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Tuilerie Gardens Lunchbreak


May 19, 2007

Mont-St.-Michel

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Mont-St.-Michel

Breanna and I left Paris and spent a few days in the Loir Valley to admire the castles, the poppies and a local zoo. We stayed in a quaint B&B in Amboise where there was no Internet service. Hence no posts. Now we are staying on the island of Mont-St.-Michel, founded circa A.D. 500, population 34 and lo and behold they have WIFI.

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The Mud Flats

This is an amazing place. It sits on a mudflat but when the tide moves in, it moves in fast. We walked the mudflats about 7 PM in the evening and the sea was miles away. Two hours later the mud was covered with ocean.

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Breanna watches the tide come in

I've never seen the tide move that quickly. It had an almost tsunami like eeriness to it. Tomorrow we hike to the top of the abbey and then we are off to the D-Day beaches.

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Breanna writing in the mud

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A whirlpool made by the incoming tide

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May 14, 2007

Paris - First Impressions

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Entrance to Jardins de Tuileries

I came to Paris without any expectations. No high hopes or pressing worries⎯other than for my non-existent French. After two days, I can understand why U.S. expatriates might choose to live here. Granted, so far Breanna and I have hunkered near the major tourist sites since our hotel is steps away from Jardin de Tuileries. Hence my data set for drawing conclusions is limited. I recognize there is much (most) of Paris I haven’t seen.

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Fountain on Place de la Concorde

Still, here are the initial impressions of someone who is has traveled a fair amount, but hadn’t really give much thought to Paris.

1. This is a very clean town. So much so that when we visited some of the children’s playground equipment in Tuileries Gardens, Breanna could only use part of it because workers were powerwashing the grounds and polishing (yes hand polishing) the balancing beams. There are downsides to high taxes, but at least the children don’t get germs from the playsets.

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2. Dining out is inexpensive for such a major city. To think that a few steps from the Louve, Breanna and I can have dinner at a café for twenty Euros. This includes the amazing salad I had of lettuce, beets, cooked ham, cucumbers, tomatoes, green beans, and topped with three pieces of toast with Roquefort cheese.

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3. The people are kind. They humor me by continuing to speak in French after my initial Bon jour and only after they see I didn’t respond to their flurry of phrases do they say something in English. I’ve always found it annoying when traveling in foreign countries that locals immediately speak to you in English, even after I’ve spoken to them in their native tongue.

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Avenue des Champs-Elysees

4. They cater to children. Air France still allows families flying with children to get on the plane first. Children get free admission at museums and other tourist sites. In fact, tying in the kindness factor above, a security guard at the Arc de Triomphe actually went over to the ticket booth to get Breanna her free admission ticket to accompany my Museum Pass so I didn’t have to stand in line.

First impressions are just that, but mine to date have been all positive.

May 13, 2007

Breanna in Notre-Dame

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A jet lagged Breanna took the camera and shot several dozen pictures inside Notre-Dame in Paris. Here is what caught the eye of a nine year-old.

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May 2, 2007

A Few Hours in San Francisco

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I like to walk in San Francisco. It is one of the few cities you can get winded while strolling. The hike up Jones Street from Union Square area is one of the steepest grades in town. That is where I snapped the above picture with my cellphone. Only the buildings are straight. Everything else is crooked. Even the trees.

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In one of the galleries I stopped at I was intrigued with the paintings by Rossmary Valverde. Such vibrant colors.

One of my favorite unusual food combinations is blackbeans and sweet potatoes. There aren't many restaurants where you can get both. Asia de Cuba in San Francisco is one of them. Just order a side of Cuban black beans and the lobster sweet potato mash. It's amazing.

April 24, 2007

Starwood Nightmare

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Salt Lake Flowers by Cellphone

I am sitting in a Kinkos in Salt Lake City having just scanned my drivers license and Starwood Preferred Guest Platinum identification card so I can email it to Starwood Hotels and convince them that I am me since they for whatever reason decided to change the name on my account to that of one of my business partners. As one of my other partners mentioned, you can't make this stuff up.

I had booked a couple of rooms for my partner and me for our marketing presentation in San Francisco next week. Everything seemed in order until my partner called Starwood back to book an extra night's room. From that point on, my Starwood account has had his name attached to it, and Starwood has no record of the change so as far as they are concerned I am and have always been my business partner unless I can prove otherwise.

One rep on the phone said to me that while she sympathizes with the situation, I am only a voice on the phone and since the account says the name of my partner as far as she is concerned I am my business partner.


April 21, 2007

Yellowstone - Opening Day

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Old Faithful

My stepdad, brother-in-law and nephew are visiting from Ohio so we drove up to Yellowstone National Park today. It had opened to vehicle traffic just yesterday so the crowds were sparse and wildlife abundant.

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We captured a photo of this grizzly right as she awoke from a nap. She is at the bottom of a hill about twenty five yards away.

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The grizzly finally stood and lumbered off. The best line of the day was from the ranger who was guarding the crowd of onlookers with a can of pepper spray. "Does anyone see the bear? he said when the grizzlie dissappeared from view. At that point we headed to the safety of the car.

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Elk in the Madison River

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Doublet Pool

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March 13, 2007

In Case You Get Bored Mr. President

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Mr. President, I see you are holding two days of talks with Presidente Calderon at Hacienda Temozon, one of the hotels we stayed at on our recent trip to Mexico.

In case you get bored or if you run out of things to talk about, here are a few suggestions for activities.

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We highly recommend the pool. Not too deep so no need to worry about drowning. There are several nice employees who will give you a free foot massage poolside. If you ask in Spanish, one of the masseuses will tell you how her father used to work at this hacienda processing henequen before the industry collapsed and it was turned into a hotel.

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If you're not in the mood to swim, you can take a train car ride pulled by a Democratic donkey past the abandoned henequen fields to visit a distant cenote.

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Just walking the grounds enjoying the fauna can be relaxing and will take your mind off the latest scandal plaguing your Administration.

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A siesta in a hammock is also enjoyable. Or you can play Nintendo DS like Breanna. Unfortunately, they don't have Fox News on the television so you'll have to watch CNN.

For dinner, we recommend los panuchos. Rice pudding for dessert would be a wonderful way to top off the day.

Que tenga un buen viaje.

March 7, 2007

Vegas

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Wynn Hotel Fountain via Cell Phone


I just got back from a few days in Las Vegas. I hadn’t been there in six years. The city is noticeably busier, particularly the taxi lines. I won't be the first to point out Las Vegas is one giant amusement park with scaled replicas of New York, Paris, Venice, etc. While this appeals to many visitors, I prefer the authentic and original. I stayed at the Venetian, a multi-million dollar knockoff of Venice. The room was comfortable, but the hotel seemed to be trying too hard to be luxurious. Imitators rarely succeed.

On the other hand, the Wynn Hotel is incredibly original. The colors were rich and beautiful and the outside fountain and light show spectacular. I find it ironic the tile mosaics on the Wynn’s lobby floor was more creative then the mosaics on the outside of the Venetian, which I believe is suppose to be a replica of the Doge's Palace. Except that the real Doge’s Palace is stunning in its detail, which is evident even in the poor quality cell phone photo below from my 2004 visit. Detail is what makes something authentic. Everyone can do bold brush strokes, but it’s the fine lines that distinguish masterpieces. The Venetian was missing the details. Even the water in the fake canals was the wrong color.

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Doge's Palace, Venice via Cell Phone

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Wynn Hotel Mosaic Floor via Cell Phone

I wandered the floors of the casinos in somewhat of a stupor. All those flashing lights and ringing bells. The games confuse me. I don’t seem to be wired for gambling. I think I lost too much money playing childhood carnival games. One too many of the rings I tossed trying to win a stuffed animal failed to encircle the target. For me, the joy of the occasional slot machine win doesn’t compensate for the pinprick of persistent losses.

Yet for others, there must be some appeal. Why else would 39 million people have visited Las Vegas in the past year?

January 19, 2007

On Hold

I'm currently on hold with Delta while the representative tries to straighten out our Paris tickets. Progress is slow because the Delta representative is also on hold as she tries to reach their Airline Partners desk.

I bet once she gets in touch with the Partners desk the Partners representative will need to call an expert at her home airline, who of course will put her on hold.

January 7, 2007

Campeche

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We made it back from Mexico today. A day late. I made a tactical error and didn't notice until too late that when Delta changed the flight schedule for our flight from Merida to Atlanta, there wouldn't be enough time to pass through customs and still make our connection to Salt Lake City.

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We of course missed the connection yesterday by 10 minutes and were then unsuccessful in flying standby. We were rebooked on a flight for this morning. Delta provided some vouchers to some hotel I had never heard of and when I called the hotel to confirm two rooms they said they couldn't do it until I was at the hotel. So we walked outside the airport to find the hotel shuttle. It was easy enough to find. It was the only shuttle that had fifty people standing at its door fighting for ten seats on the bus. I was sure there were already fifty people at the hotel trying to get a room.

This only reinforced to me that Atlanta is the worst airport to fly through. If things go wrong in Atlanta, they typically go very wrong.

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Fortunately, there was also a shuttle for the Westin in the parking lot. We hopped on.

I am a big proponent of staying as much as possible within the same hotel change. In this case, my allegience to Starwood paid off because unlike airlines who will charge you through the nose when you are in a bind, Starwood will allow you to cash in hotel reward points at a discount rate if it is late at night and the hotel isn't sold out. They'd rather have the room filled in hope that you'll spend at the restaurant. Seems like a smart business decision to me. So we got our two rooms and the flight today was uneventful. It is good to be home.

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I took the pictures posted here on an early morning New Years Day walk through the streets of Campeche. There is no quieter time in a Mexican city, or probably any city for that matter, then early in the morning of New Years-unless you count the several houses that still had revelers belting out Mexican ranchero songs.

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Of course, one of the challenges about Campeche is while the buildings look quaint from the outside, you never know which brightly painted exterior wall is hiding an interior such as the one below that happened to have one of its outside windows open.

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January 3, 2007

Flamingos

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Who would have thought when flamingos fly they look like pink featherless chickens. The photo above might look fake, but its real. We spent a few days in Celestun over the weekend. It is a small fishing village on the west coast of Yucatan that now does a booming business in ecotours to the flamingo flocks in the area.

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The guidebooks say the flamingos started gathering there after a hurricane in the late eighties disrupted their normal migration patterns. Our boat captain had the real story.

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He said there have always been flamingos in Celestun. The difference is that after 1978 when the Mexican Government set aside much of the estuary as a Biosphere Reserve the people in the area stopped hunting and eating flamingos. Hence their numbers have swelled.

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December 29, 2006

The Maya

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My favorite part of visiting Mexico is the people. Since I speak fairly fluent Spanish, I am able to communicate more so than when I visit other countries - although I am trying my best to learn a little French before Breanna and I visit France in May.

The girl pictured above is from San Cristobal de las Casas in Chiapas. She is ten and has traveled to the northern Yucatan town of Progreso with her grandma to sell exquisitely embroidered dresses and blouses that have been sewn in her town for generations. She said she doesn't remember how long they have been in the Yucatan. Even in a country like Mexico, there are degrees of poverty. Some of the poorest regions are the Mayan mountain villages of Chiapas, where it is quite common for young children to leave their home and school and travel hundreds of miles with relatives to sell textiles and other hand-made trinkets to tourists. We bought a blouse from this girl, whose name I forgot to ask. We wished we could have taken her back to her home and paid for her schooling.

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We saw this woman above in a small Mayan village. Knowing she was quite poor, I stopped and gave her some money and asked to take her picture. She only spoke Mayan other than for the Spanish word "caridad", which means charity. She asked if that money was what the money was for. I told her yes, and she seemed quite grateful. Trying to convey to her that I wanted to take her picture was another matter. I'm not sure she had ever seen a digital SLR camera. So in the end, she started off again and I captured her picture from behind.

December 28, 2006

Henequen and Cenotes

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Hacienda Cuzama

A necessary part of free market economies is change. Industries grow and industries die. Compassionate societies have safety nets to help those who are dislocated by dying industries adapt to the change. Shortsighted societies try to eliminate the dislocations altogether.

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Henequen Processing Equipment inside the Abandoned Hacienda

The Yucatan has gone through its own dislocation. For the past 100 years, a primary agriculatural product has been henequen. The fiber from the leaves of this agave plant was used for making rope. Thousands of campesinos worked the fields, processed the fibers and spun the rope.

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Henequen Plants

With the advent of synthetic twine, the henequen industry has been dying for years. The Mexican and Yucatecan State goverment artificially propped up the industry by paying the campesinos, but there was little market for the fiber. Finally, about six years ago payments to campesinos stopped.

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Sign Post Discouraging Littering

The campesinos in the pueblo Cuzama have adapted. The horse-drawn rail carts that used to carry loads of henequen now are full of tourists who are pulled past the abandoned henequen fields out to a series of cenotes, undergound freshwater sinkholes, perfect for swimming.

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Cenote

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Cenote

We took the cenote tour today. Delfino and his son Carlos were are drivers. They were quite gracious.

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Our Driver Delfino

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Delfino's Son Carlos

Delfino says he makes as much as when he was working the fields. It isn't much, but at least he can stay in his village with his family, rather than traveling each week to work in Cancun or leaving his family altogether and working in the United States.

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The only part of this new tourist enterprise that needs work is there is still only one track. So when a cart that is coming meets a cart that is going, one of the carts has to be lifted off the tracks so the other can pass.

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Car Passings


December 27, 2006

Flight of the Pigeons

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by LaPriel

We have spent our first night in Merida, Yucatan. As with all our prior trips to Mexico, rental car agencies continue to be a challenge. I'll spare you the details, but after repeated phone calls and visits to Budget's car rental office we were able to get a car a day late.

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by Camden

We took these pictures at the Central Plaza in Merida. Lots of people and lots of pigeons.

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December 24, 2006

Merry Christmas

I haven’t felt compelled to write the last few weeks. Writing for me is a need, but sometimes it wanes. Here in Idaho, the weather finally cooperated and dumped 5 or 6 inches of snow the last few days so we have a white Christmas. I’d post some pictures, but the camera is already packed for our trip to Mexico.

I’m always amazed how much work it is to get ready for an extended stay out of the country. One of the most difficult tasks is figuring out what books to bring. I invariably bring too many, but that is better than running out of material.

This will be my sixth trip to the Yucatan. There are more beautiful and exotic places in this world, but for me the Yucatan is special. A place I go to get my bearings and make sure I’m living true to my inner voice. In a post last year, I wrote:

Everyone should have a faraway place that speaks to them. A place they can return to again and again to take stock of their lives and renew their souls. A place both familiar, yet unfamiliar so that each trip brings new discoveries.

My place is Mexico. More specifically, the Yucatan Peninsula. But not Cancun. Cancun is manufactured⎯a pretend Mexico filled with resort hotels, mediocre meals and overpriced boutiques.

The Mexico I love is south and west of Cancun. Mayan villages like Sitilpech or Uayma with rows of casetas tucked behind whitewashed limestone walls and sheltered by citrus trees and flowering bushes. Where chickens, turkeys, and pigs wander across the road and scavenge along its edge. Where villagers busy themselves hand-washing clothes, carrying firewood, and making purchases. Where women dressed in huipiles sit crouched on wooden stools or logs, scoop dough from buckets, patting the masa into tortillas. Just like they've done for generations.

My first Christmas in Mexico was twenty years ago. I was invited to a meal with the Sosa family on Christmas Eve. For whatever reason, the family had already eaten or not eaten at all. My companion and I sat alone at the table in the dimly lit one room caseta.

Mr. Sosa cut henequen for a living. He would get up at four in the morning and ride his bike for miles out to distant fields. He walked with a severe limp, having been hit by a train on one of his early morning rides years earlier. Mrs. Sosa tended house in their dirt floor, straw roofed abode. She raised chickens and turkeys, which wandered at our feet, and cared for her three little girls.

Mrs. Sosa set a plate in from of me. It had what looked to me like a dark green square vegetable. Not wanting to be rude and ask what it was, I picked up my knife and fork and tried to cut it.

Mrs. Sosa laughed and then showed me how to unwrap the banana leave that encased my first Christmas tamale.

Have an enjoyable Christmas and New Year everyone. If you get bored and need something to cheer you, my son Bret has posted some comic strips he drew. He loved to hear what you think and apologizes ahead of time for the small print.

November 15, 2006

Too Much Travel

I like to travel, but I must admit after the last four weeks I'm ready to stow my bags and stay home for a while. Through the end of this week, I will have visited the following cities (not counting airport connections).

New York
Dallas
Seattle
San Antonio
New Orleans
Houston
College Station
Walla Walla
Portland
Chicago
Denver

Here are some quick observations:

Favorite meal: Restaurant August's tasting menu in New Orleans – I don’t even remember what I had but it was good, as always.

Ugliest Airport: Houston George Bush Intercontinental – the commuter jet terminals look like some failed Jetsons experiment.

Best hunting story: A client in New Orleans described his recent alligator hunt. He headed into the swamps and tied a rope between two trees. He hung chicken legs with disguised hooks from the rope. Alligators feed at night so he retired for the evening and returned at dawn to find some very angry gators dangling from the hooks. He ended the hunt with a 22 caliber rifle. Think about that next time you buy an alligator purse or shoes.

Favorite side trip: Visiting my niece who is attending her freshmen year at Lake Forest College. Beautiful campus. Makes me wish I had planned my college years more carefully.

Worst movie: Talladega Nights I never would have paid to see this movie, but it was playing on the airplane. I can’t believe people actually find this type of show funny. It was just stupid.

List of rental cars I drove in the last month that I can remember: Chrysler Pacifica, Toyota Corolla, Ford Mustang, Chevy Blazer, Chrysler 300, Pontiac Montana, Buick LaCrosse.

October 18, 2006

Sunday in Central Park

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I get to New York City about once or twice a year. I find the contrast with my little Idaho town to be invigorating. LaPriel and I hadn’t been together in Manhattan since 2000 when we ventured into the city with our three kids. This trip we met up with my mom and 4 sisters⎯an annual excursion that for numerous reasons we haven’t taken since December 2001.

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When you arrive in Manhattan after an extended stay in rural Idaho, the first thing you notice is the stream of honking horns. People don’t honk in my little Idaho town. It’s considered rude. Not to mention foolish, because if in a rash moment you blindly lay on the horn to express displeasure, you’ll most likely take a closer look at the offender and realize it’s your neighbor, your son’s soccer coach or your second cousin. In New York, it seems offensive not to honk. It’s the city’s universal language. Not honking when someone cuts you off, or is too slow to accelerate on green, or blocks traffic would be akin to not writing a thank you note for a gift.

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The second thing you notice in New York is the press of people. More than once LaPriel and I were strolling along when someone pushed their way between us. This is not a city for slow walkers. Several times I found myself falling into the city’s heightened cadence only to have LaPriel call me back and remind me her legs aren’t as long as mine.

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When I visit New York, I imagine what it would be like to live there. We had the chance to do so number of years ago, but decided against it. I don’t think I have the temperament. After three days in the city, I start to get nervous. I am not a worrier by nature, but somehow seventy-two hours of constant honking and crowds gets me thinking about all the things that could go wrong with my life. I also need more open space and less shadows.

Still, there are things that you can only find and experience in New York, which is why I return.

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This was a productive trip. I bought a new winter coat at Barney’s and some sunglasses to replace the ones that got crushed by a horse. I visited five different stores in Soho looking for sunglasses while LaPriel was getting her hair done. There was no doubt I would buy from the last store I visited, because the salesman without a word selected a pair from the display, had me put them on me, then gave me a look that said these were the only glasses in the store that belonged on my face and if I chose another pair or none at all, then I had no taste whatsoever and I should march myself out of his shop for having spurned his professional advice.

We enjoyed attending the The 25th Annual Putnum County Spelling Bee, eating at Blue Hill, Chennai Garden, the Goblin Market, and a restaurant in Little Italy whose name I don’t remember, spending time with my family and walking and riding the subway and walking some more.

Now we are huddled again in our bungalow, enjoying the silence and the starlit sky. The city will call again, but for now it’s good to be home.

October 10, 2006

The Custom of the Frank Ones

I had to laugh at this poorly translated restaurant description at a hotel we are going to stay at in Campeche, Mexico (I finally gave in to Delta and paid the rebooking penalty to switch our Oaxacan tickets. Now we will fly into Merida, Yucatan and stay in various haciendas in the region).

"In the kitchen of the Balandra we dealt with care to obtain a new [marriage] between yesterday and the today; to sensitize fibers of nostalgia and paladar, to rescue the classic flavors with contemporary shades, taking advantage of today the ingredients that are always born of our earth. Of redescubrir the legacy of our ancestors reinterpretado with the unique aim to please the taste by the good table, since it has been the custom of the frank ones from always."

LaPriel and I are flying to New York on Thursday to meet up with my sisters and mom for a weekend in the city. Since they don't arrive until Friday morning, LaPriel and I will have a quiet dinner Thursday evening at Blue Hill, hoping to redescover the legacy of our ancestors by experiencing pleasing taste by the good table as has been the custom of the frank ones from always.

This restaurant intrigues me because its founder and chef, Dan Barber, sustainably raises most of the ingredients from the good earth up at his Stone Barns farm. I haven't had meat since reading The Way We Eat, Why Our Food Choices Matter last July. Perhaps one of Barber's pastured cows will tempt me to indulge.

September 26, 2006

Lousy Cell Phone Photo Trivia

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Any guesses as to where I took this picture today and what is it?

One hint, it is close to where they sell the most incredible frogs.

September 13, 2006

Renaissance and Remembering

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by Camden

My son Camden and I spent the weekend in Ohio. Our visit included a stop at the Ohio Renaissance Festival. For those who have not attended a Renaissance Festival, it is essentially a carnival in costume. The participants and many of the spectators dress in their finest 14th century outfits. Musicians play ancient instruments like the ocarina, the dulcimer and the crystal glasses filled with water.

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by Camden

Spontaneous dancing breaks out in the street. Vendors hawk swords, capes, jewelry and medieval treats like funnel cakes. Games include axe throwing, tomato pelting and fishing for fake wooden goldfish. All in all a good time for everyone.

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We flew home on 9/11. The airport was surprisingly crowded. One of the books I am reading is The Culture Code. The author's thesis is we apply unconscious meaning to items around us⎯cars, food, relationships⎯that arise from the culture in which we were raised. He believes cultures change very slowly and when "cultures do change, the changes occur in the same way as our brain⎯via powerful imprints. These powerful imprints alter the reference system of the culture and the significance is passed down to subsequent generations."

It is too soon to tell if 9/11 has changed cultural imprints in the U.S. or around the globe. If the events that day have, then how? In the weeks following 9/11, I remember telling clients, perhaps naively, that horrendous things had occurred in the past, yet normalcy returned. I felt it would be the same this time. But I was speaking in the context of investments and markets.

I stood atop the World Trade Center with my family in July 2000. I returned to a different city in December 2001. Five years later, day to day living appears normal, but perhaps our sense of normalcy has been altered. Jared Diamond in Collapse refers to creeping normalcy⎯the concept that slow trends are hidden due to noisy fluctuations and the plodding pace of change. Day-to-day living seems normal because we don’t remember what things were like in the past. Yet, it is our responsibility to remember and then to act if the changes that have occurred since 9/11 have not been for the better.

September 9, 2006

Living Your Bliss

I visited Portland, Oregon earlier this week. It is one of my favorite towns because the city center is so walkable with an eclectic mix of shops and restaurants. Sometimes when I travel I am in a reflective mood and don’t go out of my way to find conversation. Other times, such as on this trip, I am more open. Here is what I learned from a few of people I met.

Sweets is a 64 year old man who wears a baseball cap and a Tommy Bahama shirt with holes over the right breast from seat belt rub. For 12 hours a day, he is harnessed to a taxi cab. He loves it. He has worked since he was nine, starting with a lawn care business in which he pulled a push mower behind his bicycle and charged $2.50 a yard. After graduating from college, he realized what he liked to do more than anything was drive. A taxi has been his office ever since⎯39 years later.

Most cabbies in the U.S say very little, even if English is their first language. Sweets is the exception. He begins talking the minute you sit down, starting with a friendly reminder to fasten your seatbelt. Then he rehearses about being a new man, now that he has discovered a new prescription drug to stabilize his heart condition. He says he hasn’t felt this good since the sixties. He talks about his children, grandchildren, and his ninety year old mom, who has lived with him since his wife died. He muses about college football⎯his other passion besides driving. He’s an Oregon Duck fan. Occasionally, he asks a question, but then seems to use the answer as an excuse to continue his ebullient monologue. I learned more about this man in the twenty minutes I rode with him than I know about some of my business partners after ten years of working together. When I mentioned I needed a ride to the airport later that afternoon, he agreed to return at the stated time. That isn’t unusual. What is remarkable is he actually came back and he was early.

When we reached the terminal, I shook his hand⎯another taxi first for me, but I felt I’d known him for so long it seemed like the natural thing to do. His parting advice was to tell my kids the nugget of wisdom he gleaned from a fortune cookie many years ago: Kindness is the only investment that never fails.

Sean Koreski is a clean shaven, twenty five year old who has the same determined look of a guy who has finished up an MBA and is ready to conquer the investment banking world. Except Sean has opted out of a traditional career. He is standing on the corner of Yamhill and Broadway, strumming a guitar and alternating between singing and creating an exotic melody from the Bolivian wood flutes that are positioned just below his mouth. The music has a tropical flare and reminds me of the marimba band my son Camden and I listened to many years ago on a plaza in Chiapas. When he finishes up the song I approach him to peruse the CD’s that are displayed in the guitar case at his feet. He is surprised I came up and browsed without first passing by three or four times. He says Portland ordinance only permits him to perform on the corner for an hour, but he has been there for three because an hour doesn’t give him enough time to make any money. Most people walk by numerous times before they get up the courage to buy a CD or put money in his jar. He thinks they are afraid he is going to accost them. Kevin learned to play the flute in Bolivia, after a friend invited him down. Now he tours with a band there, but returns up North to make money on the corner during tourist season. I buy a CD. The music is beautiful.

The owner of Vegetropolis has tattoos on her hands and arms that remind me of the marbled paper on the inside covers of 19th century books. She is in her late forties, which means she got the colorful tattoos well before they became popular again. They are the mark of a nonconformist.

Her restaurant has been open for eighteen months. She originally had a lunch cart, but her patrons were so enthusiastic about her vegetarian fare that she opened the restaurant on 4th near Stark. The hardest part about eating vegetarian is it takes so long to prepare the food, which is why a vegetarian restaurant is such a treat. This one is a gem. I order the almond pate on wheat bread. It is the best sandwich I have had in months.

Three Portland folks, all opting out of traditional careers, none making a ton of money, but all with the contented smiles of people who have found their passion, their bliss and are living it.

August 30, 2006

Hotel Memories

I am staying at the Westin in Cincinnati. Some hotels hold more memories than others. This one is full of them.

Tonight as I returned to my room after a delightful Thai dinner with a friend, the fire alarm went off. So I sat in the lobby while the front desk staff decided whether the hotel was burning or not. I hadn’t sat there in a long time. Two memories were particularly strong.

When I was seventeen, my Dad had just gotten out of rehab for alcoholism and was staying at a halfway house. It was Christmas Eve and my sisters and I picked him up to take a drive around the city to look at the holiday lights. It was a frigid night, close to zero. Our car didn’t like the cold and always enjoyed stalling at the most inopportune times. It chose to do so now⎯on Vine Street about a block from the Westin. After several futile attempts to restart the car, we hiked to the hotel to call a tow truck. While we waited, we sat in the lobby near the Christmas tree and opened the gifts we had brought for each other. I don’t remember what I gave my Dad, but I remember he was embarrassed about the gifts he brought us⎯some donated books he had found at the halfway house. He gave me a volume about St. Paul. I have never read it, but I keep it on my bookshelf. It reminds me of the sadness I felt that night. Sadness for my Dad that his life had deteriorated to a point where he had nothing to give his kids on Christmas, other than what he could scavenge from his sparse living quarters. I suppose the experience also had an impact on him. For this time, after several unsuccessful attempts, he finally stopped drinking.

Five years later, during a happier Christmas season, I sat with LaPriel in the Westin lobby listening to a pianist play holiday songs. It was our first date after having broken up six months earlier (I call it breaking up, she would say we were never going out⎯which was probably true. Men are renown for reading more into a relationship than is actually there). Which was why as a love-struck twenty-two year old sitting holding LaPriel’s hand, I was already planning out a wedding while she was probably wondering whether she should be there at all.

August 21, 2006

Level Orange

Today was my first time venturing out into the wide blue yonder under TSA’s level orange. My destination was San Antonio to help a client close a sale. I meticulously didn’t pack my toothpaste, shaving cream or the plethora of other things I can no longer take with me if I wish to enjoy the privilege of pulling my rollerbag through the concourse.

The security line at my local airport was a breeze. In fact, it was if nothing had changed. No one asked if I was carrying contraband like bottled water. They didn’t even search my luggage, even though I was the only one going through with a rollerbag.

My flight to Salt Lake City was uneventful. I stopped in Delta’s Crown Room to hydrate and stock up on supplies for lunch – an apple and some new date nut bars Delta has started serving this summer in preparation for charging everyone an annual fee to enter instead of allowing Platinum flyers in gratis.

On the way back to my gate, I noticed a few flyers who also hadn’t checked their luggage. The rollerbag toting demographic is now overwhelmingly male. The few females I saw pulling luggage weren’t wearing makeup and apparently figured they could do without.

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I snapped this poor quality cell phone picture of this woman’s tattoo. I’m not a big tattoo fan, but this one was ingenious. She has an oak tree on her neck. It looked as if it sprouted out of her shirt. It is also strategically placed, so when she let’s down her hair, no one can see she has a tattoo.

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At my gate, things did not look good. Maintenance was trying to get the door on the plane to open all the way. They finally gave up so they let us board with the assistance of the portable ramp. It was at that point the pilot decided maybe he should check if the San Antonio Airport crew had a portable ramp at their disposal. No sense flying all that way if we can’t exit the plane. Of course they didn’t have one, so we deplaned and proceeded to wait three hours with no information whatsoever. I should point out this flight was run by Atlantic Southeast Airlines (ASA), one of Delta’s Connection Carriers, whose maintenance record was so poor about a decade ago, Delta had to step in and take over. ASA was bought by SkyWest last year.

Three hours later, just when I was about to head back home because there was no way I would make my San Antonio meeting in time, they called us to reboard. I checked with my client, and they encouraged me to still try to get there.
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Onboard, I was amused with my seatmate’s portable life raft, which apparently is still allowed by TSA despite the danger it poses should the thing pop.

I also entertained myself taking pictures of how disgustingly dirty this airplane was. Hasn’t ASA ever heard of deep cleaning?
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When I arrived in San Antonio, I dashed outside into the 100 degree heat in search of a taxi. Luck would have it, the taxi at the front of the line was driven by a 75 year old man. The temperature inside the cab was at least 110 degrees. The driver asked me if I would like the air conditioner turned on. I gave him the obvious reply and proceeded to ask whether he didn’t always drive with the air conditioner on given the oppressive heat. He informed me no. He saved the air conditioner for his customers, and since I was a customer I could choose to have it turned on or not. At that point, I didn’t dare tell him to hurry up his driving, even though I was an hour late for my meeting. It was too risky, because he was too occupied trying to cool off by raising his armpits into the blowing air.

I arrived at my meeting in time to speak for about ten minutes.
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P.S. Total cost for toiletries at the hotel gift shop: $10

August 12, 2006

Airport Woes

Earlier this week I stood in the security checkpoint line at my local airport and thought how nice it was that there hadn’t been a notable terrorist threat in some time, leading to heightened airport security. The next day that had changed.

I have never been one to think flying is a hassle. I don’t insist on an aisle seat, but still enjoy a window so I can see out, even after a million plus flight miles. I don’t drag through airports with an anguished look on my face as if I have been sentenced to a labor camp. I gladly take my shoes and jacket off on my way through security (of course it helps that our local airport is small enough that everyone knows me so I don’t have to be patted down). Now the inconvenience factor has been raised. Here is the list of things that can no longer be carried through security according to the U.S. Transportation Security Agency:

Body creams and lotions
Bubble baths
Bubble bath balls (gels)
Eye drops / gels
Gel caps
Gel deodorants
Hair detangler
Hair sprays / aerosol bottles
Hair styling gels
Hand sanitizers
Lip gels (Carmex in tubes, etc)
Lip glosses/liquids (solid lip glosses and blushes are allowed)
Liquid foundations
Liquid medications (non-essential)
Liquid Soaps
Make up removers / facial cleansers
Mascaras
Mosquito sprays
Mouthwashes
Nail polishes, such as those shown here, are now prohibited from the security checkpoint and in your carry-on baggage. Nail polish and removers
Neosporin like cremes
Ointments
Perfumes / colognes
Saline Solutions
Shampoos and conditioners
Shaving creams and gels
Toothpastes
Topical creams
All beverages (excluding formula/breast milk)
Camelbaks and similar backpacks must be empty
Gel based sports supplements
Jellos
Puddings
Yogurts (or gel like substances)
Baby teethers (with gel or liquid inside)
Children’s toys with gel inside
Gel candles
Gel shoe inserts

A less seasoned traveler would resign themselves to checking their rollerbag. I, of course, will continue to carry on all my luggage. I’ll either buy my toiletries when I arrive at my destination or I’ll learn to groom with baby formula.

July 26, 2006

Calabacita

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Who says vegetarian cuisine can't be captivating. I snapped a cellphone picture of my dinner tonight at La Francesca at Sunset in The Westin La Cantera Resort in San Antonio. This delightful tatuma squash was filled with veggies, seeds and tofu. The best part was putting the lid back on when I was finished eating.

July 10, 2006

Roller Coaster Update

My impression that the ride on Kings Island's Son of Beast, one of the wooden roller coasters I endured several weeks ago, is unduly harsh and painful was unfortunately confirmed yesterday. 27 people were taken to the hospital after a particularly vicious jolt.

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May 30, 2006

New Orleans Revisted

I am spending a few sultry days in New Orleans just in time to celebrate the beginning of hurricane season. Celebrating is not what they are doing in NOLA. Trembling is more like it. I was here in November and not much has changed. Row after row of houses still lie abandoned. Trash and debris sit piled on the curbs. I even saw a boat propped in the median of Earhart Blvd where it has rested for the past eight months as if waiting for the tide to come in and wash it out to sea. Bright blue remains a prominent roof color, given all the protective tarps standing in for missing shingles. This city is unprepared for the next hurricane because it is still shell shocked from the last one.

Through all this, the French Quarter with its debauchery and fine eating carries on. It’s a little more worn around the edges, cook times are slower at restaurants, and trash is stacked in the alleyways, but the food at K-Pauls (Chef Paul Prudhomme was actually there), Red Fish and other eateries is as delicious as ever. Comfort food for trying times.

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May 6, 2006

Travel Takeaways

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We are almost a week into our vacation with no itinerary. We have found a travel rhythm that seems to accommodate both those who hate to be in the van too long and those that get restless staying in one spot. After a night in Salmon, Idaho, we spent two nights in Missoula, Montana, two nights in Kalispell, Montana and we just finished our first of two nights in Sandpoint, Idaho. The weather to date has been perfect. Sunny and in the sixties to low seventies.

What have we learned after a week on the road?

The Moon Travel Guide series is inferior to the Lonely Planet Series. I recognize travel guidebooks are heavily influenced by the author. I just find with Moon’s Montana and Idaho guidebooks I disagree with the author eight out of ten times. Plus they tend to leave out important details. For example, we stopped at Kootenai Falls west of Libby, Montana yesterday. The guidebook said the waterfall was just off the road. What it neglected to mention was it was a least a mile hike down steep, rocky paths to the falls. The hike didn’t bother us, but we saw an elderly couple struggling to keep their balance while clutching walking sticks and a family of five forced to carry their infant and a stroller along the boulder strewn path. Then again, the signage at the outset of the trail was equally as bad with no map showing where we were heading.

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Me climbing up from Kootenai Falls (the short way)

Missoula is the most attractive town in Montana. Not too small and not too large. The homes, particularly around the university are gorgeous, the weather is milder than where we live in Idaho, even though it is further North, the people are friendly and the mountains are beautiful.

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Deer in Glacier

The best time to visit National Parks is in May, right after the roads are opened for the season, but before most of the country knows they are. We spent a day in Glacier National Park. I rode my bike from the Apgar Visitors Center up to Avalanche Creek and had the road nearly to myself. We had a deer walk right up to us as if it wanted to be petted.

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Glacier Squirrel

Camden is turning into quite the photographer. Except for the top photo, all of the pictures on this post were taken by him.

We learned the real meaning of Cinco de Mayo. We stopped at a restaurant in Bonners Ferry and the Mexican owner told us the story of the holiday’s origin. Somehow even though I spent a Cinco de Mayo in Chiapas a number of years back, the details of this holiday alluded me. This woman spoke with such passion about the French invading Mexico after the two countries couldn’t come to an agreement on settling Mexico’s debts, and how the Mexicans had fought with such tenacity to overpower the French on Cinco de Mayo. She said Cinco de Mayo signifies what matters more than anything, even more than money or talent, is the desire and strength inside each of us.

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May 4, 2006

Museum Mash Up

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We visited an interesting museum today: the Miracle of America Museum in Polson, Montana. It is known as the Smithsonian of the West. It is like the Smithsonian only in that it has a lot of stuff. What is missing is any semblance of historical context. There are very few placards describing what is on display. It’s all there jumbled together as if that spot had been designated Montana’s dumping ground for anything old but still intact. Room after room of motorcycles, war paraphernalia, toys, vacuum cleaners, musical instruments, and lawnmowers. My favorite exhibit is pictured above. Five modes of transportation piled together. Where else could you find a helicopter sitting on top of a covered wagon and an ancient tractor?

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April 29, 2006

Travel Mysteries

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Today is packing day for our family road trip. As vacations go, I typically am responsible for planning the itinerary. My usual approach is to have a few hotel rooms booked, several sites penciled in that we want to tour, and a general idea of the type of activities we want to pursue, but we don’t plan out every single day.

For this trip, I have taken a different approach. Our itinerary consists of three elements:

1. Load up the van.
2. Head North.
3. Come back when we are tired of being away.

We have at least adopted a trip motto. Well, I’ve adopted a trip motto. I’ll let LaPriel and the kids read about it on this blog.

Sean Penn in the April 3, 2006 New Yorker said, “It's not an obligation of a tourist so much to observe experience so much as to have it. For me, a greater accuracy of perception comes out of that.”

So in the spirit of Sean Penn, I spent a few days in Texas earlier this week having experiences. While traveling can be eye opening, it also seems to generate more questions then it answers. I jotted down a few during my time in San Antonio and Austin.

Why did the TSA hire so many ex-circus barkers to work the security checkpoints at U.S. airports? If they insist on telling people over and over again to remove their laptops from their carrying cases and keep ahold of their boarding passes, couldn’t they at least play a recording with soothing background music and a pleasant voice gentling reminding passengers of these items. Instead, we have to be yelled at by over-exuberant TSA officials as if they are herding sheep. This is especially prevalent at Texas airports.

Why does SkyWest on two and a half hour flights only provide a baggy with twelve fish-shaped graham crackers to eat? That is only 28 calories of sustenance per hour, 672 calories per day. Is it their contribution to fighting our nation’s obesity problem?

Why do some traveler’s lug around thirty pound laptops the size of the large atlases on display at libraries? These monstrosities barely fit on the airline seat-back trays. That reminds me of an employee we had several years ago who insisted her new eight pound laptop was too heavy and she needed a lighter one. We bought her a metal cart to roll it around on. Later, we recanted after decided we were probably on shaky legal ground.

Why did the Austin Hyatt Regency offer to have me sleep in the parlor when they ran out of non smoking rooms? They said the parlor had recently been redecorated and it was definitely non smoking. I agreed and hauled my bags up to the twelfth floor. The parlor was the other half of a suite. At first glance, it seemed nice. Comfortable chairs, a large table, flat-screen television, bathroom. The only thing missing was a bed. Not even a rollaway bed or a sleeper sofa.

Do they take the shells off soft-shell crabs before serving them or do they just not have any? I had lunch with a client in San Antonio at a seafood restaurant. The server was so excited by the day’s special I ordered it⎯soft-shell crab prepared tempura style. The plate came with the entire crab, pinchers and all, covered with a light tempura batter. I was clueless how to eat it. Fortunately, my client also ordered the crab and he proceeded to eat one of the pinchers. I decided if the pincher was edible then it would be safe to eat the entire thing. Delicious.

Do attorneys ever sit when they address a small group? In Austin, I spoke to non-profit board consisting mostly of attorneys. The twenty or so board members sat at a very long table. The first speaker marched to the end of the table and gave a ten minute presentation. Typically in a boardroom you sit when presenting if there are less than twenty people, especially if they are at a table. This speaker stood. I thought that was odd, but then noticed there was no chair. Hence when my turn came I stood at the end of the table and presented for ninety minutes while my listeners sat comfortably in their seats.

Why do Tejano radio stations only play the same dozen songs? I like Mexican music, especially rancheras. It is an acquired taste. In San Antonio, it's Fiesta time. On Tuesday evening various mariachi bands such as the one pictured above played rancheras from barges along the Riverwalk. The music was beautiful. There must be thousand of rancheras, but when I listen to Tejano stations, which admittedly is a subset of rancheras, they are always playing the same songs.

I have other questions, but it is time to go pack the van.

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April 18, 2006

Great Earthquake and Fire Parade

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Today San Francisco commemorated the 100th anniversary of the 1906 earthquake. One of the events held was the traditional firefighter's parade on Market Street. I love parades. It’s been years since I marched in one, but I still remember the pride I felt in my community and town. I saw that same pride and joy in the faces of the San Francisco firefighters, students and spectators.

On the other hand, maybe they were just thrilled about the first warm sunny day in months. I know I enjoyed it.

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April 8, 2006

Luggage, Suburbs and Cities

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I’ve been traveling on a regular basis for about ten years. That is long enough to notice trends ⎯ which I suppose is one advantage of getting older, you’ve been around long enough to collect sufficient data points to draw definitive conclusions.

Today’s definitive conclusion is people are hauling around more and more stuff when they travel. Ten years ago roller bags were just gaining popularity. Most business travelers still used garment bags. In fact, there are still a few travelers with anguished faces lugging around garment bags. I’m convinced they endure this back breaking work not because they are cheap or can’t afford a roller bag. No, it is because no one has told them that if they buy decent clothes, they can pack them in 22 inch roller bags, hang them up at night and they won’t be wrinkled in the morning. Believe me, I was one of those misguided souls.

Back in the day, if you were going on an extended journey you would pack your things in a wood trunk or a few American Tourister suitcases. The volume of items packed was limited by your ability to physically transport it, especially given the trunks and suitcases were extremely heavy, even when empty. Now thanks to advances in lightweight ballistic fibers and precision wheel technology, travelers are free to pack whatever they want. And they do. This is most evident on rental car shuttles where I see people drag aboard roller bags that are almost as big as they are.

Now if you are going to stay somewhere for an extended length of time, you don’t rent a car. It’s too expensive. So I know these people with excessive luggage will only be at their destination for a week or two. As I sit on the rental car bus and compare my diminutive 22 inch roller bag with the rolling freight cars stacked on the floor, I can’t fathom what one would pack for a week’s vacation to fill them up. Food, perhaps?

If anyone has an idea, let me know.

Yesterday I had a few hours to kill before my flight so I took a long drive through Los Angeles neighborhoods. I headed north on La Brea Street toward Hollywood and didn’t stop until I was on the skinniest of one lane avenues high up in Hollywood hills where the famous folks live.

Los Angeles is one giant suburb. Cities and suburbs were on my mind because I had just read a white paper by Harvard’s Edward Glaeser titled Urban Resurgence and the Consumer City. The paper was an elaborate study of why people in the U.S. still live in cities.

Up until the late nineteenth century cities were a horribly unhealthy place to live because unclean water and poor sewage disposal led to disease. With the advent of the ingenious invention called the municipal bond in the early twentieth century, cities began borrowing funds to build sewage treatment plants and water systems. Cities became more livable and people lived there because that was where the jobs were and without cars it was uneconomical to live anywhere else. These large cities usually developed along rivers and lakes so coal and other goods and supplies could be easily transported.

With the invention of the automobile and cheap fuel, the great migration out of northern cities to warm southern riverless suburbs began and continues.

According to Glaeser, this vast migration out of cities to warmer suburbs is unique to the U.S. because in Europe, the countries are smaller, hence the weather more homogenous within a given country, and the gas taxes are much higher so it’s more expensive to own a car. Gas taxes and land must be cheaper in Australia than in Europe, because I noticed when I visited Australia last August, the country seemed to have as many suburbs as the U.S.

What I found surprising about Glaeser’s study is common wisdom suggests sprawling suburbs lead to longer commute times. In fact, individuals that commute by car on average have shorter commute times than individuals that use public transportation (public transport takes longer due to the necessity of walking to the bus stop or train depot, waiting for the train to come, and then walking to your workplace once you arrive in the city⎯after sitting in LA traffic, I’m not convinced commuting by car is faster in that locale.)

Other surprising thing about the study is folks in the suburbs actually have more social interaction with residents then people do in cities. Also, the reason housing prices in northern cities haven’t fallen significantly despite declining populations is the housing stock is permanent so immigrants and people who can’t afford cars have moved in to take advantage of the affordable housing prices and public transportation.

There is hope for cities though, as many of these places are experiencing a renaissance. Cities are attracting more people because crime has fallen and the choice of amenities is greater in the cities than in the suburbs. These amenities include live theatre, concerts, museums, and fine restaurants.

What I wonder is how suburbanites will adapt if gas prices hit 4 or 5 dollars a gallon, a distinct possibility that I won’t elaborate on here. Suddenly, cities will be even more appealing.

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April 6, 2006

Reality TV

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I’ve been in the Los Angeles area the past couple a days. The picture above was taken from the balcony of my hotel in Santa Monica.

Once a year one of my partners and I try to make it to a finance conference where we don’t have to worry about marketing or networking. We just get to sit and listen to a bunch of rocket scientists talk about things we barely understand⎯the financial concepts and themes make sense, it’s just the math that alludes me. Usually we come away with a few good ideas that could benefit our clients.

We skipped out on one of the sessions, walked along the pier in Marina Del Rey and discovered a television crew filming a show by the bay. We approached, not knowing the twenty people on the beach watching the bikini clad woman paddling a wood raft were not spectators but production folks.

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A worker marched toward us with a threatening glare.

Highly paid television production crew member (HPTPCM): You guys need to get back?

Us, playing dumb: Why? Are they filming a TV show?

HPTPCM: Yes, and sometimes they do wide angle shots and we can’t have you in it.

Us, noticing for the first time we are standing in front of an improvised Tiki bar, boat riggings, wooden chests and other set pieces scattered about to suggest the woman paddling the raft has been shipwrecked. Our blue blazers suddenly seem out of place: What show are they filming?

HPTPCM: It’s a reality show.

Us: What’s it called?

HPTPCM, clearly uncomfortable with this line of questioning: It’s on the bust.

We glance at the shipwrecked woman to see if her bikini top has the name of the show written across it. We don’t see anything. Then we notice the tour bus parked by the set. It’s says Next.

Ah, bus, we realize. He meant bus.

Only now that I have Internet access I can’t find a reality show called Next. Unless it was short for America’s Next Top Model. Perhaps it’s a pilot for a new show.

Anyway, if you see a reality show with a shipwrecked woman on a tropical isle, I can attest to the fact the island is fake. All the tropical fauna was planted in flowerpots.

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March 24, 2006

Airline Economics

I will never understand airline economics. I just found out about a marketing pitch I have to be at in Baltimore on Monday. So I booked a ticket there on Delta from Idaho. Cost: $1,100.

My colleague in Cincinnati also booked a ticket to Baltimore for the same meeting. Cost: $1,200. Can anyone explain to me why his ticket is $100 more when he is 2000 miles closer to Baltimore than I am? The only good news is four years ago that same ticket from Idaho to Baltimore purchased two days before the flight would have cost me $2,000.

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March 19, 2006

Roller Bag Commemorative Post

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While in Boston last week, I decided my Samsonite roller bag wouldn’t stand up to another cross country flight so after five years and 750,000 miles I retired it and bought a new one.

I also decided that if I didn’t do something about the noise on airplanes I would be deaf by the time I was fifty so I also bought a pair of Bose QuietComfort 2 Noise Canceling Headphones. Absolutely amazing. I should have bought them years ago. Their latest version is lighter and more compact since they fold completely flat in their carrying case. I highly recommend them. My Ipod has never sounded better.

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March 3, 2006

Daddy Daughter Weekend

Breanna and I just arrived in Tuscon for a weekend getaway. We are glad to escape the snow for a few days. We had hoped to see the saguaros and wildflowers in bloom, but given it hasn't rained here in over 135 days, the outlook for wildflowers is poor. We'll see when we head out to the Sonoran Desert Museum tomorrow.

In the mean time, here is a picture of the Grand Canyon we took from the plane.

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February 14, 2006

Training Rides

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Stunning Photo of Salt Lake City if My Camara Battery Hadn't Died


My family and I took a training ride to Salt Lake City this past weekend. We need conditioning. Our stamina for long drives is weak, our being-cooped-up-together-and-remaining-civil muscles have atrophied. Thanks to bounteous frequent flyer miles, our motto over the past five years has been if the driving distance is longer than four hours, we fly.

Last month, Camden and Breanna dropped out of their private school and joined Bret in matriculating at the Stein Academy for Wayward Children. LaPriel is the headmistress. I’m the janitor, although not a particularly diligent one. Now that we are all working at home, it seems only logical we should join my virtual office with the Wayward Academy and hit the road this spring for a tour of Montana and Northern Idaho. Hence, we need practice trips to build up our road tolerance.

I met the family in Salt Lake on my return from Seattle so I missed the first leg of the journey. Everyone was in good spirits despite the four and a half hour drive, but it wasn’t a true test because in my absence Camden could sit up front, reducing the population density in back. Still, I think we are improving. The weekend was quite enjoyable.

No fights broke out over who had to sleep on the hotel floor⎯we rent a suite, but Bret and Cam refuse to bunk together. The kids were pleasant on our Saturday morning excursion to the heritage village where we ambled down dirt roads and peeked in pioneer houses.

Swimming at the Dimple Dell Recreation Center in the afternoon was uneventful. I lost the bet with LaPriel that no one would knowingly name their child Dimple. It had to be a nickname. A check of the Babyname Wizard shows that Dimple was the 896th most popular girls name in the 1920’s, although it had died out completely by 1935. The kids lost their bet that I wouldn’t go down the Dimple Dell water slide. Waterslides don’t bother me. I just hate cold pool water.

Saturday evening we took the grandparents to dinner at Samba Grill. This is one of those all you can eat Brazilian restaurants where the waiters serve meat tableside straight from skewers. I must have eaten at too many high-end steak houses, because I found the Brazilian meat to be too salty and tough for my taste.

We visited Temple Square on Sunday morning and prepared for our final test: the drive home. We set a record. Four hours without a fight. Then all hell broke loose. Still, we are improving. Perhaps the détente was due to the inventive travel games. Such classics as find the billboard with my name on it, count the antelope or name the roadkill body parts. On the other hand, maybe my kids are just growing up.

February 10, 2006

Knitting Conventions

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So you’ve probably been wondering what knitters and yard spinners talk about over dinner after a long day of knitting instruction. My hotel in Tacoma was hosting the Madrona Fiber Arts Winter Retreat so I had plenty of time to observe the knitting subculture. Last night, I sat next to a table of twenty women knitters as I ate curry at Galanga Thai. Here is what I noticed.

First, knitters wear their handiwork. Most of the women at dinner were adorned in knitted sweaters, vests and jackets. The yarn harlot wore a beautiful shawl loosely knit in a complex geometric pattern. I recognized her as the yarn harlot because there was a poster in the hotel lobby announcing a signing for her book, At Knit’s End.

These knitters are skilled. No bulky sweaters two sizes too large or floppy hats like my Aunt Marguerite used to give me for Christmas. Only exquisite pieces of fiber art.

These knitters are diligent. Many worked on projects while awaiting their entrees, although skill with knitting needles doesn’t automatically translate into skill with chopsticks. Only half of the women used them.

I didn’t catch all the conversation, because I didn’t want to make it too obvious I was eavesdropping. You can also imagine the noise of so many knitters talking at once. But I was extremely curious what these women would say. Half the fun of travel is learning about folks that differ from you, and when you mostly travel the domestic hotel circuit like I do, the closest you get to other cultures are groups attending trade conventions.

So what do knitters talk about at dinner?

Knitting. Knitting mentors. Knitting conferences. Knitting books. Knitting projects. Knitting disasters. Knitting television episodes⎯apparently Sex in the City had a segment on knitting. How friends don’t let friends knit drunk⎯the saying on a bumper sticker one of the knitters was passing around. What to do with scrap yarn.

Back at the hotel, the lounge was overrun with knitters and spinners, who had set up their wheels and were busy turning fiber into yarn. This is a dedicated group. There would be no carousing. Just knitting and chatting. And the peaceful bond of friends who share a passion for creating beauty with needles and yarn.

January 24, 2006

Collecting Art

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I spent the past two days on the road after a month of not going anywhere. I am always amazed how green an arid place like San Diego looks after experiencing Idaho snow for four weeks. Georges at the Cove is my new favorite Southern California restaurant. The squash soup was the best I have tasted. Squash is sublime when prepared in a soup or a Thai coconut curry; smooth as cream, the color of a crisp autumn day. Dinner was all the more pleasant because I was with a good friend and business partner; a rare treat because I usually travel alone on business.

We had a few minutes before our reservation so we visited several of La Jolla’s art galleries. We must have had art neophytes written on our foreheads because the staff at the first gallery didn’t even rise from their desks to ask if we were interested in anything. It begs the question what does a typical art buyer look like.

We had better luck at the second gallery. The saleswoman, or should I say curator⎯what do you call an art gallery worker?⎯showed us around her shop, explaining the background of each artist, and in the case of the abstract pieces, telling us what they depicted.

She’d peer over her red reading glasses, the silver chains dangling and say, “This artist is from China and he likes bushes. Those are shrubs. You can see them better if you step back a little. Or if, you would like, I can hang this one in the other room where we have brighter lights and you can better imagine what it would look like in your home.” Perhaps she thought we illuminate our homes with floodlights.

The woman was congenial, yet still managed to ask the art world equivalent of the loaded question. Instead of used car salesmanish, “What monthly payment were you trying to stay at?” She asked, “What kind of art do you collect?”

This was clearly an attempt to size up our art world prowess. There is no way to answer that question without exposing one’s complete lack of art sophistication. Unless of course, you actually collect art⎯which I don’t, except for one small painting I bought LaPriel last year while in Australia. I answered the curator the same way I answer all questions I don’t like. I pretended I didn’t hear her. So she change tact and asked a trick question.

“Are you looking for something to match your furniture?”

We didn’t fall for it.

“No,” we said.

“Good,” she said. “Fine art matches any furniture.”

We ended up by the front door where there was a series of paintings by a Russian couple, who apparently tag team when they paint. All of the paintings were of their teenage daughter. In some, the beautiful blonde was walking on the beach. In others, she posed under a tree or strolled through a garden. I glanced at my watch, noting it was time for our dinner reservation, just as the curator went into a lengthy story about how the daughter had defaced one of her dad’s paintings right before a prestigious exhibition, and the wife, not wanting to upset her husband, had repainted it, only to see the painting win first prize.

I didn’t ask if the daughter had done this because she got tired of being painted. Or perhaps her being the subject of all her parents’ art was punishment for slapping her dad's prized canvas with a paint-soaked four-inch brush. Whatever the reason, the curator soberly informed us the painting of the girl at the beach was the artists’ favorite and if we wanted that one we would have to buy at least twelve of the Russians’ paintings.

I suppose if I had done so, next time I visited an art gallery I could then answer the question, “What kind of art do you collect?”

“I only collect paintings of bratty Russian teenagers”

December 3, 2005

Stupid Travel Mistakes Two and Three: Airport Woes

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My sons lost at the airport

I’ve shared about getting lost on the way to the airport, but once at the airport, things can also sour. These stupid travel mistakes go beyond getting on the wrong plane⎯something I’ve done repeatedly when flying out of the E Terminal in Salt Lake City⎯or leaving things behind when disembarking⎯for me its jackets and cameras. I won’t mention losing luggage because that is the airlines’ fault. Unless you know better. Like the time I checked my roller bag on a London to Zurich flight because my friend was checking his luggage and my arm was tired. Never check luggage unless you are fluent in the language spoken at your final destination. I’ve learned most luggage agents are not bilingual.

My stupid travel mistakes at the airport fall under two broad headings:
A. Don’t watch your flight board and depart while standing thirty yards away, thus stranding yourself.
B. Don’t check your luggage to a city you have no intention of going to.

Travel Tip Number Two: Get on the Plane when it’s Boarding

My flight was from Houston Intercontinental (IAH) to Cincinnati. It was delayed so I decided to check my email. Before WIFI was widespread, the only way to get e-mail at the airport was to stand at a payphone and use your laptop’s modem. I found a phone where I could keep an eye on the gate. I read my email and watched to see if seats were clearing or people were walking on to the jetway. I heard no announcements, and I didn’t see any movement. Until the gate agent shut the door. I panicked, ripped the phone cord from the laptop and ran to the gate just as the jetway was pulling away from the plane. I begged and pleaded to get on since it was the last flight to Cincinnati that night. The agent narrowed her eyes and smirked.

“Why didn’t you board when I called the flight?” she said.
“Because I didn’t hear you call the flight. I was just standing over there.” I pointed to the phone bank. “I didn’t hear anything.”
She looked at the side of my head to make sure I had ears. “Well, you should have at least seen the people boarding.”

I didn’t say anything. I grabbed my luggage and walked off. I hadn’t seen anyone board, nor had the seats emptied. I got the “I think I’m mentally losing it” sensation. The same feeling I get when LaPriel swears she has told me something, and I don’t remember anything about the conversation.

Later, I decided there must have only been a handful of people on the plane, and because I was in one of IAH’s circular gate areas, which tend to be crowded and have numerous jetways, I just didn’t notice when all three passengers boarded the plane and others took their seats in the terminal.

Travel Tip Number Three: Check your Luggage to Your Final Destination

I’ve previously related that to save money I used to fly out of cities near Cincinnati. I would park my car at the Cincy airport, rent a vehicle and drive to Lexington or Louisville, and assuming I didn’t get lost, I’d fly twenty minutes back to Cincinnati and then on to my final destination. I rented a car because the return flights would connect through Cincinnati so I would just get off there and throw away the final leg of my ticket. This worked fine as long as I didn’t check my luggage, which I never do when traveling on business. Except for the time in Dallas when I went shopping, and I didn’t feel like repacking my bags so I checked my roller bag, and kept my briefcase and the shopping tote full of purchases with me. I was sitting at my gate when I realized I had just checked my roller bag to Lexington, and I was going to Cincinnati.

I had two options:
1. Drive to Lexington and get my bag.
2. Confess to Delta I was gaming their system.

I confessed. And surprisingly, the gate agent acted like people check their bags to the wrong city all the time. She said she would have my bag rerouted to Cincinnati. Which of course didn’t happen. One of the lessons you quickly learn when traveling is airlines have no way of rerouting bags once they have been tagged and sent on their merry way. In theory they do, but it requires a luggage specialist finding the black roller bag among the thousand of other look-a-like bags and retagging it. If you have ever seen how airport workers load and unload bags and drive their luggage trains around the tarmac like they are late for their own weddings, you will know they are never going to take time to find and retag a piece of luggage.

So when I arrived at Cincinnati, my bag, of course, was not there. But since I had confessed, and the Delta agent did say my bag would be rerouted, I could with a clear conscious go to the Delta’s Lost Luggage Room and tell them my roller bag was lost.

They brought it to my house the next day.

November 29, 2005

La Jolla: Land of Happy Widows

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Artist in La Jolla Cove
La Jolla, California has the happiest widows on earth. Not only do they play bridge in the world’s nicest bridge club (courtesy of the WPA), but the weather is delightful, and the restaurants are excellent. Everywhere I looked, the widows were smiling. lajollabridge1.jpg
La Jolla Cove Bridge Club
The happiest was a woman all dressed in black; her sober garb brightened by the turquoise silhouette of a cat on her sweater front. The brim of her matching sunhat bounced as she pranced along the sidewalk with her large black poodle.

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November 27, 2005

Stupid Travel Mistake Number One

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Photo by Cosmosis

Before you hit the airways to visit Grandma this Christmas, or take a weekend shopping trip to Chicago, or head for the Caribbean to escape the entire over hyped holiday season, I have a present for you. No, not leftover cranberry sauce. I’m going to share with you a list of my stupidest travel mistakes.

Don’t think you need such a list? Believe me, these are not minor blunders. They are “How could anyone be that inept” mistakes. Learn from these nuggets of travel wisdom and save yourself a ton of grief. In fact, in the spirit of Og Mandino, each travel tip needs to be pondered and reflected upon for several days in order to comprehend its true import. So I will be sharing them one by one over the next week or so.

Travel Tip Number One: Know How to Get to the Airport

When I lived in Ohio and before Delta introduced SimpliFares at their Cincinnati hub in a final attempt to hold off bankruptcy, we would play all kinds of games to save hundreds of dollars on plane tickets. One tactic was to book a ticket that originated at an airport near Cincinnati where prices were lower, such as Dayton, Louisville or Lexington. Often these flights would connect through Cincinnati, so I would rent a car at the Cincy airport, drive to Dayton, fly twenty minutes back to Cincinnati and then on to my final destination.

Most airports are located near major highways and are well marked with signage. They are built where the land is flat, or at least where the hills are smaller so that the cost to flatten them isn’t prohibitive. Not Lexington, Kentucky. There, I’m convinced, city planners built the airport in the hilliest place they could find, far from major highways as if they didn’t think people would ever give up their horses and travel by plane. This is a hidden airport.

My destination was New Orleans for a client dinner. I booked a flight out of Lexington and saved $800 off a direct Cincy to New Orleans itinerary. This was my second time flying out of the “Horse Capital of the World.” On my first trip, I tried to stay on major thoroughfares and realized the airport signs had led me southeast then west then back north. For this second trip, I vowed to cut the backtracking and drive on a direct southwest course to the airport. Plus, I’d be able to enjoy the scenic bluegrass countryside. I quickly learned there is no direct route. Northwest Lexington is a land of hills and farms where settlers were content to roam aimlessly on horseback so they didn’t bother to plot streets using a grid pattern. The roads curve and wind like lazy rivers, except at least rivers go somewhere.

When I came upon the first unexpected change in direction, I should have returned to the interstate. Instead, I drove on. In circles. For an hour⎯without seeing the airport, an airplane or even a gas station to ask directions.

I checked the rental car map. It was useless. Apparently, the streets in this part of Lexington are so crooked the map company decided it would be too difficult to print them. I continued onward, trying to remain calm, but with my departure time nearing, I was quickly losing it. My positive affirmations that I could still make the flight and the airport would be around the next bend were now screams of self-loathing. How could I be this stupid? What would I tell my client? “Sorry I can’t make dinner tonight, I got lost on the way to the airport.” I drove more frantically, hands clutched to the steering wheel, tires squealing, going airborne on each hillcrest, cursing the bluegrass and the white fences⎯until I missed my flight. I was thirty minutes late. The next flight wasn’t for two hours.

I called my client and mumbled something about the plane being delayed.

November 19, 2005

Shoulder Season

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Beach at Las Ranitas, Quintano Roo, Mexico

I don’t like late November. The weather turns cold⎯too cold to bike, but not cold enough for the snow to stay and cross-country skiing to begin. So instead of exercising I sit and get fat on leftover Halloween candy. I also dream of escaping to Mexico.

Everyone should have a faraway place that speaks to them. A place they can return to again and again to take stock of their lives and renew their souls. A place both familiar, yet unfamiliar so that each trip brings new discoveries.

Mine is Mexico. More specifically, the Yucatan Peninsula. But not Cancun. Cancun is manufactured⎯a pretend Mexico filled with resort hotels, mediocre meals and overpriced boutiques. Cancun is where Americans go to bake on the beach, drink margaritas, and if they feel adventuresome, leave their resort compounds in tour buses to visit fake eco parks like Xcaret. A few tourists will travel inland to the Mayan ruins of Chichen-Itza, but only if they can be back by dinner. To facilitate this, the Mexican government built a toll road from Cancun to the ruins and beyond that avoids traffic-slowing distractions like Mayan villages and colonial cities. The road is empty except for tour busses. The toll, so high, most Mexicans, even those well off enough to own a car, can’t afford it.

The Mexico I love is south and west of Cancun. Mayan villages like Sitilpech or Uayma with rows of casetas tucked behind whitewashed limestone walls and sheltered by citrus trees and flowering bushes. Where chickens, turkeys, and pigs wander across the road and scavenge along its edge. Where villagers busy themselves hand-washing clothes, carrying firewood, and making purchases. Where women dressed in huipiles sit crouched on wooden stools or logs, scoop dough from buckets, patting the masa into tortillas. Just like they've done for generations.

I love the beaches along the Boca Paila road south of Tulum. A dirt road with potholes deep enough to swallow cars and lined with solar powered hotels and restaurants with quaint names like Las Ranitas (the little frogs). This white stretch of coral with water the perfect shade of blue is heaven. And it’s empty. I lose my kids at crowded beaches. I once lost my son Camden at South Beach when he was four. We arrived early and he was easy to track. But more and more people came, hauling in more and more umbrellas, beach chairs and towels, and at one point I looked up from my book and the boy I had been watching in the water who I thought was my son, wasn’t. I have never been so scared⎯ except for the time I lost Camden skiing at Grand Targhee and being a novice skier myself thought he might have sunk in the snow.

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Bret and I at Chacchoben
I love the lesser known Mayan ruins that rise from the jungle; places with few visitors like Cacchoben or Calakmul, where howler monkeys climb among the breadnut and chicle trees, ocelatted turkeys forage at the base of stone monuments and ancient sacbes stretch for miles into the wilderness. calakmul.jpg
Bret, Breanna and I at Calakmul looking toward Guatemala

Some might accuse me of being callous, of making light of the Mayan’s poverty and not wanting them to change. Not true. I believe people can progress without giving up their heritage and culture. Greater wealth and education shouldn’t mean homogenization. Flooding the globe with $100 hand cranked laptops doesn’t mean every village needs or will soon have a McDonalds. I have found the Mayan people, despite their hardships, to be happy. I believe it is because they stay connected to nature, to the simple patterns of life. They make tortillas by hand from their own corn harvest because not only do fresh made tortillas taste better; they bring satisfaction.

We spent last Christmas and New Years in Mexico. It was a lovely way to end 2004. Toward the end of our trip, I awoke just after midnight from a horrible dream. I dreamt my family and I had joined a cult, and I disagreed with its leaders on some doctrinal points. I convinced several families to take my side of the dispute. The cult’s leaders reacted by ordering our extermination. We were in a death fight. Only eight of us were left. I crouched in the back of a pickup truck with Camden as we rode to the final battle. I told him goodbye and apologized for leading him astray. I was wrong to join the cult, and I was wrong to fight over something so unimportant. Yet, we didn’t flee. We stayed hidden in the truck bed, knowing we would soon die, but wanting to preserve our lives, if only for a few minutes longer. The fear of death was palpable; as was the regret. The truck stopped and I arose. A gray-haired man dressed in a suit and tie ran at me with a bowie knife. Then I awoke.

What did it mean? Why such a nightmare after two weeks of relaxation? The dream’s details began to fade, but an impression remained. I felt like I could reach out and touch time. Let it sift through my fingers like the Caribbean sand. I could feel it moving faster. Days and years that once seemed to crawl along unhurried were accelerating as if the destination was certain, and there was no time to waste. It scared me. I committed to use my time more wisely.

Everyone should have a faraway place that speaks to them. A place they can return to again and again to take stock of their lives and renew their souls. A place both familiar, yet unfamiliar so that each trip brings new discoveries. Where is yours?

November 9, 2005

Looking Toward Home

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Sun Valley Idaho and Beyond

Here’s a shot I took today from the airplane looking toward my house. I live three mountain ranges over. In the foreground is the Sawtooth Range, followed by the Lost River Range and finally the Lemhi Range. Ski slopes should open early this year.

November 8, 2005

New Orleans East - An Empty Land

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Live Oak - Grand Coteau, Louisiana

I spent the day in New Orleans. I visit two or three times a year, and I was interested to see if the city was fairing as poorly as the press made it sound. I’ve read comments that New Orleans will never be the same, that it has lost its soul, and whatever remains will be a mere amusement park; a French Quarter Disneyland. I was especially intrigued after reading Michael Lewis’ essay in The New York Times magazine a few weeks ago. He wrote New Orleanians’ penchant for storytelling had led to the “wild rumors and outlandish fictions” of violence and anarchy, which in turn were too quickly believed by the city’s residents, the media and the government. Now he saw a ray of hope arising from the debris. A city, whose citizens’ inherent distrust had proved unfounded, was “alive with possibilities.”

Seventy days after Katrina hit, the city’s west side is flourishing. The live oaks still stand majestic along Carrolton and St. Charles, and beneath them workers patch roofs, sweep porches and clear trash. Businesses are reopening. nosigns1.jpg
Garden District Signs
The grassy medians at each street corner are decorated with signs announcing store openings, repair services and church meetings. This activity is evident along the mansion-lined streets as well as in humbler sections on the edge of the Garden District.

I drove through the French Quarter and found it relatively unscathed. Throw-beads still cling to the wires that stretch across Bourbon Street. Music blares from bars and souvenir shops. The streets and alleyways still reek of beer. The only differences I could see were fewer empty parking spaces and more uncollected garbage. The city’s waste management department must be having as difficult a time finding employees as other businesses. Most of the radio commercials were from companies pleading for workers. The ad for a national pizza chain was especially telling. I paraphrase, but this is the gist of their message. “Now that your house’s roof has been torn off, your living room flooded, and your job eliminated, here’s some good news: We’re hiring at Bankety-blank Pizza. Come on in and apply.”

New Orleans East is not flourishing. nosign2.jpg
New Orleans East Signs
The placards in the grass are more ominous; ads for house gutting services and businesses wanting to buy doors, windows and fireplace mantels. noeast3.jpg
No stores have reopened. For there are few people here. noeast2.jpg
The streets are empty. The houses condemned. No orderly debris piles along the curbs. noeast5.jpg
This is where the New Orleanians lived who have been relocated across the country. noeastboat.jpg
They left behind their homes, cars and furniture in a swirl of floodwaters. Stray boats sit in the most unexpected places, evidence of how high the water reached.

If New Orleans is “alive with possibilities” then this is where the citizens and leaders will need to be most creative. noeast1.jpg
New Orleans East was the heart of its poverty, ground zero of its 80% school dropout rate, gang violence and drug abuse.

Now the poor have disbanded, comforted and cared for in far away towns, but eventually they will straggle back⎯one family at a time. New Orleans is their home. And home always beckons.

I cannot begin to fathom how to help the residents of New Orleans East solve their problems, which run far deeper then a loss of material possessions.

New Orleans is rebuilding. The city will recover. But to recover its soul, it will need to embrace its poor and help them become productive citizens.

November 2, 2005

I ate Lunch with Johnny Bench

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Johnny Bench Ate Here

Yesterday I had lunch with Johnny Bench. We met in line at Cantina Grill, a Mexican restaurant in Denver International Airport that used to have excellent food until they changed owners, switched recipes and replaced the corn tortillas with hard shell tacos. The best indicator that a Mexican restaurant will disappoint is the absence of corn tortillas on the menu. In restaurants where they are missing, there is usually an abundance of orange cheese smothering mediocre entrées. Real Mexicans don’t eat orange cheese, and they don’t eat taco shells shaped like boats.

Johnny is standing next to me. I look up, startled. He looks back. Johnny is my childhood baseball hero. I read his biography when I was eight. Memorized it. I wanted to wear number 5 on my little league uniform ⎯it was usually taken by the coach’s son, along with numbers 14, 8, 24, 13, all digits worn by key members of the Big Red Machine. I watched Johnny play many times at Riverfront Stadium. Watched from afar. No one I knew growing up sat near the ball field in the Blue Seats, an enclave for businessmen and season ticket holders. We always sat in the Red Seats, high up in one of the top six rows near the centerfield scoreboard where the tickets were cheapest. From that distance, Johnny looked like a red and white speck behind home plate. But now he stands three feet away.

He speaks. “I’ll take a Diet Coke.” The voice is unmistakable. A clear baritone that brings memories of summer nights, a radio to my ear, listening to Joe Nuxhall interview Johnny on the Star of the Game show. I still remember Nuxhall’s ecstatic play-by-play when Johnny hit a home run off a pitcher that was trying to intentionally walk him to load the bases.

I can’t think of what to say. Should I ask for his autograph? Tell him how much I enjoyed following his career. Ask him why he’s flying commercial instead of taking a private jet? Is business that bad? Before I can decide, he heads for my table, leaving me to pay for my salad at the counter. I say my table, because it’s near the door where I was going to sit. But Johnny lives dangerously. He doesn’t keep his briefcase tight in hand like me, ready to fend off any hooligans who try to yank it away. No, he walks ten yards to my table, hangs his sport coat over my chair and leaves his bag on the floor. Then he turns his back on his possessions and returns to the cashier as if no one would dare steal Johnny’s things. Nobody steals on this hall of fame catcher.

I sit at the bar. Alone. And add this experience to the many when I’ve been speechless while standing near celebrities. I speak to groups for a living, but I’m struck dumb in the presence of the famous. I’ve ridden an elevator in silence with Lou Holz, and on another occassion with Ted Turner. Earlier this year, I sat behind Evander Hollyfield on a flight to San Diego. He had a delightful conversation with his seatmate. I quietly watched his bald head bob and weave for two hours.

It comes down to this. I think celebrities don’t want to be bothered. I figure they’ve been hassled for autographs all of their lives, and I should leave them in peace.

My son Bret would have spoken. His hero is Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter. We flew across the globe last summer to visit the Australia Zoo to get Irwin’s autograph. He wasn’t there, of course, but if he had been, Bret would have spoken to him.

Boys are meant to have heroes. And when they see them, they speak out. It’s only as men that we suppress are hero worshipping. Yet, if we see our boyhood heroes on an elevator, in an airplane, or in line at a Mexican restaurant, we stand still, awestruck, and revere them in silence.

October 29, 2005

Finally Some Decent Food at DFW

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Terminal D Art

For Delta and ATA fliers tired of eating at T.G.I. Friday's and Dickey's BBQ in the half empty DFW Terminal E, the airport has opened a bunch of new shops and restaurants in Terminal D. Terminal D is only five minutes away via the new Skylink tram system (no need to pass through security again).

We were there a few weeks ago and everything was still closed. Hence, my kids could horse around in the picture above and not get reprimanded by overzealous security personnel.

Today I ate at Cool River Cafe at a noticeably busier terminal (apparently, American Airlines has taken over some of the gates).

The salmon was excellent. In fact, it's probably the best airport food I've had in a long time. Allow plenty of time for dining, though. Service at Cool River Cafe was on the slow side, but I assume they were still getting the kinks out.

October 25, 2005

Gutsy Sparrow

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I snapped this picture with my Treo at lunch today at Acenar, one of my favorite restaurants along the Riverwalk in San Antonio. This is one gutsy sparrow. It walked up to the bowl of tortilla chips sitting eighteen inches away from me, snatched a chip and then hung out at the corner of my table to eat. I'm surprised it didn't dip the chip in salsa first.

October 23, 2005

Travel Delays

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Clifton Mill - Clifton, Ohio

We spent the last week visiting family, friends and the fall colors of Ohio. The weather was beautiful, but we were a week early for the peak foliage. On our return, the connection through Minneapolis was delayed five hours. I’ve learned it doesn’t do any good to complain about travel delays. All it does is tick off the gate agents, and I fly enough that they do their best to accommodate. So instead, we took the light rail train to the Mall of America (MOAM). Somewhere I never would have gone without Delta’s encouragement.

The Mall of America is like any other mall in the United States. Just bigger. 4.2 million square feet of building space according to their website. 520 stores, 50 restaurants, 12,550 parking spaces, and one LEGO Imagination Center (where we spent most of our time).

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LEGO Imagination Center
I didn’t see any stores that I hadn’t already seen at another mall somewhere in the country. Of course, one doesn’t go to MOAM to shop at unique retail outlets. One goes to find the familiar; hundreds of name brand shops under the same roof, plus a rollercoaster, Ferris wheel, and log flume for those who want to relax at the amusement park after a long day of shopping.

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Breanna in Pink watching LEGO Races
I don’t think I’ll go back ⎯ unless I’m stuck in Minneapolis again. MOAM already looks dated. The best malls today, such as Flat Iron Crossing near Boulder, combine both indoor and outdoor shopping, and incorporate a lot of natural stone and wood in their construction.

This unexpected side trip got me thinking about other interesting places I’ve visited courtesy of unscheduled flight delays or reroutings. Here are some of the more memorable ones:

My son, Bret, and I visited a near-empty Disneyland in late September 2001 after our San Diego flight was canceled and we were rerouted to Los Angeles.

I spent a five hour delay in Omaha during December 2000 finishing my holiday shopping at the mall.

A lengthy delay in Chicago several years ago gave me enough time to eat at one of my favorite Mexican restaurants – Topolobampo

Of course for every pleasant side trip due to a travel delay there were many more where I was trapped for hours in the air while the plane circumvented thunderstorms. I once spent six hours flying from New Orleans to Dallas. A flight that typically takes an hour and fifteen minutes.

By year end, I will have flown a million miles on Delta Airlines. Surprisingly, I still like to travel. I still prefer window seats. And I still get my best ideas and best writing done while flying across country. I loath the day when they permit cell phones calls while in the air.

September 14, 2005

Poor Ugly Girl

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Pike Street Market

From this week’s visit to Seattle:

A young woman with shoulder-length hair the color of silt stands on Pine Street holding a cardboard sign scribbled with three words. She stares at the store window in front of her and watches the reflection of IPOD clad workers rushing to their cars after a late turn at the office. She sees tourists laughing their way to bars and restaurants where they will eat halibut flown in fresh that afternoon. A few of the passersby glance at her sign, but quickly look away with heads shaking as if the sign is emblazoned with a scarlet letter. No one stops. No one looks her in the eye. No one gives. Poor Ugly Girl reads the sign. Poor Ugly Girl.

From my recent trip to Seoul:

The purple-line train bounds toward central Seoul. It is midday so none of the passengers are standing. The seats are filled with students tapping out instant messages on cell phones, old men, heads tilted back, drifting off to sleep, and women guarding full shopping totes. The door at the end of the car opens and the sound of scratchy violins fills the subway. An old man, his feet bound with rags, drags his way across the floor. He pushes a plastic bucket with a worn cassette player inside. The violins whine from the bucket. No one looks him in the eye. No one gives.

From Beneath the Altar, my recently finished novel:

Outside the bus station in a dusty Mexican border town, Antonio sits propped against the wall. His towel, now a dingy gray, lays underneath him, and his bare legs poke out from his Kiwanis skirt. His water gourd rests by his side. After coming here every day for a week and a half, he has memorized every crack in the sidewalk in front of him, every struggling weed. Even the individual ants seem familiar. He knows which merchants to lift his tin can to and which merchants will scowl and ignore him. He knows when the buses come and when they leave, when the postman makes his rounds, and when the workers at the breaded-chicken store with the picture of the old gringo out front toss yesterday’s leftover chicken. The only thing he doesn’t know, or at least refuses to think about, is how long it will take him to save enough pesos to buy a bus ticket home.

A young woman with long black hair and bright red lipstick walks toward the terminal carrying a shopping tote with a kilo of tortillas showing through its mesh sides. She reminds Antonio of Lety, his daughter. He lifts his can.

“Caridad, mi hija, en el nombre de Nuestra Señora, caridad.” The woman looks the other way and hurries past. Antonio watches her swaying hips disappear down the street and shakes his head.

When he first started begging, he would roll his eyes backward and pretend he was an invalid, or crazy, but then he found he collected more change if he stared at the passersby and pleaded in a low voice, just loud enough to prick their hearts. Yet even with the improved technique, only about one in ten gives. Most, like the woman, look across the street and ignore him. They pretend he isn’t there as if he is just a weed or piece of trash. Often throughout the day, he rubs his hand over the water gourd and fingers the rough henequen rope, just to remind himself he is really there, that he isn’t garbage. He is a fieldworker with a wife, son and daughter. He has built his own cinder block house complete with a sink and running water. He owns a caseta with hammocks strung between wood beams he’s cut by hand, and he owns the bicycle he rides to his cornfield.

Mike Krzyzewski, head basketball coach at Duke, spoke at the hedge fund conference I attended earlier this week. He related five team rules that have allowed him to lead his team to three national championships. Rule number one: Look people in the eye.

Such a simple thing. Look people in the eye. It affirms their humanity. It inspires hope. It communicates trust, belief, love. Look people in the eye and connect with them.

August 31, 2005

Smoggy Seoul

The weather turned rainy for our final two days in Australia so we spent them in traditional Australian pursuits. Like going to a game arcade at the mall, eating pizza while watching The Incredibles on the television at the hotel, and sleeping.

On our trip home, we spent a day in Seoul, Korea. Believe me, Brisbane to Seoul to Los Angeles is not the most direct way to get home. It is 3,575 miles out of the way, but then again it was the only route available using Delta frequent flier miles.

I didn't do any research on Korea prior to our trip, figuring I'd be surprised. So what was the biggest surprise? That folks who live in Seoul, a city of 12 million inhabitants just across the pond from the "Land of the Rising Sun" rarely get to see the sun's brightness. The smog is too thick. The sky is perpetually gray, and the sun when it can be seen is an orange ball so shrouded in haze you can stare at it without squinting. seoulsmog.jpg
Smoggy Seoul
Here is a picture from our hotel room at the Sheraton Grande Walker Hill overlooking the Hangang River.

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August 25, 2005

Into the Daintree

We are back from our excursion into the world’s oldest rainforest. Access to the Cape Tribulation area where we stayed is by ferry. daintreeferry.jpg
Daintree River Ferry
Bret suspects they haven’t built a bridge because there are crocodiles in the river. I suspect it is lobbying by the ferry owners.

The Daintree is one of the few areas of the world where the rainforest meets the ocean (in this case the Coral Sea). daintreecrocsigntwo.jpg
Crocodile Warning
It sounds picturesque, but it also limits the areas where you can safely swim do to hazards such as crocodiles. Plus, the entire beach area is off limits to swimming from October through May because of the stinger jellyfish, which has a nasty habit of killing or severely disabling anyone that gets in its way. In other words, if you are planning a beach vacation I would stick to the Caribbean, where the water is warmer and the sand is softer. On the other hand, if you want to take a nighttime hike into one of the most diverse natural places on earth, the Daintree is the place.

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August 23, 2005

Great Barrier Reef

We have relocated to Northeast Australia where the weather is warmer (eighty degree highs instead of seventy). We are staying at the Sheraton Mirage Resort⎯another overpriced hotel I am willing to patronize because I could cash in Starwood points and get free accommodations. sheratonnoosapool.jpg
Sheraton Noosa
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Sheraton Mirage
I liked the room at the Sheraton Noosa resort better. It had more of a beach feel. The Sheraton Mirage tries too hard to be opulent and as a result comes off as tacky. The four acres of saltwater crocodile-free swimming lagoons are nice though.

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August 20, 2005

Hervey Bay: A Whaling Good Time

Hervey Bay is a tranquil body of water that lies between Fraser Island, the world’s largest sand island, and the Australian mainland. It also happens to be the playground where 7,000 South Pacific Humpback whales take a little R&R on their 3,500 mile journey from the warm equatorial waters north of Australia to the frigid seas of Antarctica. Here is where baby whales get to practice important survival skills, such as hunting⎯“open mouth, let kelp flow in”⎯and breathing⎯“No son, you’ll never have gills like a fish, we’ve evolved beyond that; we’re mammals now; we have to go the surface and breath, keep the whale tour boats in business.” That may sound farfetched, but our bus driver said when new baby whales are born, other female whales act as midwives by taking the newborns to the surface to breath while the exhausted birth mothers recover. Apparently, breathing needs to be taught.

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Whale Harpoon Gun
Unfortunately, not all 7,000 whales show up in Hervey Bay at once, so spotting a pod of these mammals requires the hiring of expert sea captains (most likely former Captain Ahabs, who reengineered themselves into whale conservationists after commercial whaling was outlawed in the 1960’s).

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August 18, 2005

Australia Zoo

Today we visited one of the main sites that inspired Bret to want to come to Australia ⎯ The Crocodile Hunter’s Australia Zoo. azoosign.jpg
Australia Zoo
I’ve toured a number of zoos in the past year (Seattle, Phoenix, and San Antonio) so I have some recent points of reference to rank the quality of this zoo. All in all, the Australia Zoo is very well done. Most of the animals are displayed in their natural habitat, but you can get close enough to almost touch them (in fact some, like the koala, you can even touch ⎯ their fur feels like…well, fur; their meat taste like chicken⎯yes, there’s no better way to top off a day at the Australia Zoo then by feasting on a Kaola-Kabob at the zoo’s food court).
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Australian Bengal Tiger
Here is an example of how close the animal action is. I took this photo of the native Australian tiger readying to pounce on its prey.

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Australian Bengal Tiger
Here is the same tiger successfully mauling its defenseless catch. Crikey, you can’t get any more realistic than that.

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Brisbane: Enchanted Land of Food Courts

We took it easy today and explored close to home. In the morning we visited the Queensland Museum and Science Centre. giantbug.jpg
Public Bug outside Queensland Museum
The Science Centre is the Australian equivalent of a U.S. children’s museum. Many of the exhibits were similar to those I have seen at other children’s museums, with a focus on weather, physics, etc. But then again, science is science. Bret enjoyed it immensely. I found the exhibits on optical illusions most interesting.
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Fruit Platter

Here is Bret decapitated with a side of pineapple and banana.

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August 17, 2005

Brisbane: Koalas, Kangaroos and Crocs

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Kangaroo
We arrived in Brisbane, and I began the painful adjustment to driving on the left-hand side of the road. After frightening a cyclist, smashing our hubcap against the curb, and nearly missing being broadsided, I have it down now. The problem is many things are reverse from how we are used to doing them in the States. The steering wheel is on the right side of the car so when driving one needs to remember the bulk of the vehicle is on the driver’s left, not the right. The tendency is to keep the car too close to the curb, because the American driver is not use to being so near the center road line (hence the cyclist and hubcap mishap). As for nearly being broadsided…. just remember when driving on the left side of the road, the oncoming traffic will be from the right.

Interestingly, a country that drives on the left hand side of the road, will do other things opposite of a country that drives on the right hand side. For example, with the steering wheel on the right side of the car, Toyota places the windshield wiper lever to the left of the steering wheel and the turn signal level to the right. I signaled at least a dozen turns today by flicking on my wiper blades. (I had to look twice to make sure Toyota hadn’t switched the placement of the brake and accelerator pedals) Another change is when you walk down the sidewalk and someone is walking toward you, you move to the left and let them pass on your right. And on escalators and moving walkways, you stand to the left and let others pass on the right.

This isn’t the first time I have been somewhere that is left-side oriented. London is the same way, but there they have more American tourists, so they paint warnings on the asphalt at crosswalks advising pedestrians to look to the right to avoid being pummeled by their quaint black taxis. Plus, no Americans in their right mind would attempt to drive in London’s traffic.

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August 16, 2005

The Remainder of Day One

The fog finally lifted in San Francisco so we only arrived ninety minutes late at SFO. I write this after having sat on our San Francisco to Seoul flight for six hours. We now only have to sit for six more. Bret is entertaining himself listening to the sixth Harry Potter book. He seems engaged. I am entertaining myself by watching Korean soap operas on the big screen, which is so far away that I can’t see the English subtitles. A man is talking on the phone. He just hung up. Now he is pensive. Now he breaks into tears. Must be a sad show.

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August 15, 2005

And The Answer Is

How fast would you have to fly so that the sun appeared to stand still and it would always be daylight?

1037.56 miles per hour. Bret took a lucky guess and said 1000 miles per hour. Of course the answer assumes you are flying along the equater.

P.S. We are stilled delayed in SLC.

Ready, Set, Delayed

We are on our way. Sort of. We are in Salt Lake City, awaiting our delayed flight to San Francisco. Fortunately, our San Fran layover is 4 hours. So I am posting this with my Treo cell phone. bretdelayed.jpg
Bret Delayed Playing Gameboy DS

We calculated that even though we leave for Korea at 4 PM Idaho time and are in flight for 12 hours, it will stay daylight until our arrival, because we will alway be flying toward the setting sun. Which brings up an interesting triva question. How fast would you have to fly so that the sun appeared to stand still (i.e. It would always be noon)?

Answer: I don't know, yet. You would need to know the circumference of the earth. I think I will go ask the Skywest gate agent. He looks smart.

August 7, 2005

Three Trees

Within a two month time span in early 2004, I visited three fascinating trees. Unfortunately the only camera I had was my cell phone.

I first drove up to Kings Canyon National Park after a presentation in Fresno.sequoia1.jpg
General Grant Tree

While spring had arrived in the valley, the park itself was still covered in snow. Only Grant Grove near the entrance was open. The trees were massive. It’s difficult to judge their true size from the picture, but if you look close you can see me at the bottom right side of the trunk wearing my snowman suit. sequoia2.jpg
General Grant Tree

A few weeks later I was in Tucson speaking at a conference. I spent a few hours hiking through a desert park among the saguaros. saguaro.jpg
Saguaro in Tucson Mountain Park

It was my first time to see a saguaro close up. I was surprised how pock marked it was, but the holes provide nesting spaces for birds and other critters. The only other time I had seen a saguaro was when I was twenty, looking out the window of a bus traveling along the border of Northern Mexico. At the time, having grown up in the midwest, I assumed all deserts had saguaros. Now that I live in arid Idaho, I realize how many types of deserts there are.

I guess technically a saguaro is not a tree, but it’s certainly the tallest thing in the southwestern desert. In April of this year, I was again in Tucson, presenting to the Sonoran Desert Museum. The saguaros were in bloom. Beautiful yellow flowers capped the cacti like easter bonnets.

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Cherry Tree in the National "Arboretum
The next month I was driving from Washington D.C. to Baltimore and happened upon the National Arboretum. I took a quick tour and found pink blankets of cherry blossoms draped over the daffodils.

August 3, 2005

Weekend in Venice

A year ago I spent a weekend in Venice. I took the train from Lausanne, Switzerland. Fascinating ride. The valleys and foothills of southern Switzerland are covered with vineyards and gardens. Any land that is not forested or too steep is cultivated. The fields are orderly, and in the order there is beauty. Italy is also beautiful, yet the landscape seems less tame. Weeds abound as if Italians are more willing to let nature take its course.

In Venice, I stayed at the Westin Regina, overlooking the Grand Canal and the Chiesa di Santa Maria della Salute. iglesiasalud.jpg
Chiesa di Santa Maria della Salute
I took this picture of the church from my balcony. The Chiesa was built to commemorate the end of the plague epidemic of 1630.

I spent hours and hours walking along the canals, exploring the palazzos, churches and museums.
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In the evenings, when I was too exhausted to walk any further, I lay on my bed, listening to the boats navigate the canal outside my window while watching the European soccer championships on television. My only regret was LaPriel wasn’t with me to share the experience.