Global Wandering

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.

Posted by jd at 9:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

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.

Posted by jd at 9:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

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.

Posted by jd at 8:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

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.

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.

Posted by jd at 7:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

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.

Posted by jd at 9:05 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

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.

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.

Hay Bale Rustling

Posted by jd at 9:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

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.

Posted by jd at 11:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

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.

Posted by jd at 4:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

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.

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.

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.

Pigeon at Mont-St.-Michel

Posted by jd at 8:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

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.

Tuilerie Gardens Lunchbreak

Posted by jd at 3:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

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.

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.

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.

Breanna writing in the mud

A whirlpool made by the incoming tide

Posted by jd at 2:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Posted by jd at 1:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

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.

Posted by jd at 12:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

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.

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.

Posted by jd at 10:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

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.

Posted by jd at 1:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

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.

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.

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.

Elk in the Madison River

Doublet Pool

Posted by jd at 8:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (7)

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

Posted by jd at 9:47 PM | Permalink

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.

Doge's Palace, Venice via Cell Phone

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?

Posted by jd at 5:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

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.

Posted by jd at 11:04 AM | Permalink

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Posted by jd at 6:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

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.

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.

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.

Posted by jd at 8:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

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.

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.

Posted by jd at 7:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

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.

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.

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.

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.

Cenote

Cenote

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

Our Driver Delfino

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.

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.

Car Passings

Posted by jd at 7:37 PM | Permalink

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.

by Camden

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

Posted by jd at 7:05 PM | Permalink

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.

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.

Posted by jd at 6:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

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.

Posted by jd at 8:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Posted by jd at 8:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (14)

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.

Posted by jd at 7:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

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.

Posted by jd at 8:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

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.

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.

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.

Posted by jd at 4:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

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.

Posted by jd at 5:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)

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.

Posted by jd at 8:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

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.