I and the Caucus

I went to Des Moines, Iowa. I wasn't quite sure the reason; some friends at the time lived there but they weren't the closest of friends, honestly. They traveled regularly to Chicago where I was living at the time so there wasn't much reason to go but I ultimately figured why not, got on a plane and went.
Forty-five minutes after take-off the flight landed in the state capitol of Iowa, center of American presidential politics. Again, not sure the reason behind that but I could research that history easily enough. By the time I arrived and got my hotel room I was more than a little curious about the city, its people and the surrounding area. To dispel a myth right from the start it was not completely surrounded by corn but there was no major highway leading from the airport in to town, either. I wasn't completely in the sticks but they probably weren't too far away, either.
A comfortable population of just over 200,000 call the city home with the entire metro area not quite hitting 600,000. Wow. It seems as if I've lived in "suburbs" with larger populations. Still, the downtown skyline was impressive enough in having at least one decent skyscraper, 801 Grand, while a very nicely landscaped river park system runs east-west through the heart of town. Interstate #35 runs up from Texas north to Minnesota while I-80 crosses it on the run from New York to San Francisco. At the center of all of this is the Iowa State Fairground, home of the daddy of all state fairs.
My friends picked me up that evening and promptly took me to the inner east side of the city where the warehouse district held some of the larger and more popular night spots in the city. One was a country western themed place which was smallish by Chicago or Dallas standards but nonetheless turned a healthy business, blaring country music for the locals, not one of whom was chewing a stalk of wheat. The second place we went to was more along the lines of something you would find just about anywhere in Los Angeles, multiple venues under one roof catering to all comers in all stripes. Even then, warehouse club or not, everyone in the place seemed to know everyone else on sight if not by name.
Like just about every other state in the union Iowa derives its name from indigenous place names but Des Moines itself is shortened from Ft. Des Moines which takes its French origins from the "River of Monks" that runs through the heart of town on its way to the Mississippi. The native American nations did not fare well in the area but their story pales in comparison to their Sioux Nation brethren further west and north. The fort created to control the locals was abandoned after they were removed from the area but the population lingered and eventually grew in to the city I flew to see one weekend in June.
I went to satisfy a curiosity and when my plane left I knew it would be under rather unforeseen conditions that would cause me to return. I've lost touch with my friends there and have no family of my own in the area. But I went, it was pleasant enough an experience and I'm happy to say that I did.
Gotta go.

Not Enough Land...

"So, Ma," I asked. "What do you think of Hawaii?" It was 2005 and we had arrived only the day before for an unplanned stop over on the way back from Japan. There was some time left in our vacation with my aunt and cousin so the three of us decided to visit Hawaii for one last hurrah before heading home. The aunt and cousin had never been to Hawaii before, indeed, they'd never been to any of the places we visited on this trip, and Mom had not returned to the 50th state in over 30 years so we figured why not? Today found us on the North Shore facing the massive expanse of the Central Pacific from a high overview.

"Not enough land for all that water" was her now famous reply. Charged with a heady mixture of absolute fear of open water along with memories of the tsunami reports coming from Bali in 2004 Mom saw very little in the way of scenic beauty. While not visibly shaking in her shoes she gamely went along with us for the ride around the island fighting to keep an eye on the road and the water at the same time.

We weren't there in time for the famous "Big Wave" season when surfers the world over arrive to tackle seasonal waves coming from as far as Japan and culminating in monster waves up to 20 or more feet high. That was a good thing if for no other reason than traffic was non-existent, no more than the usual island trade plus a few other curious tourists who chose to venture beyond the pineapple plantations in the center of the island. For me it was a first because I had never completely circumnavigated an entire island before and it gave me a first real perspective on the size of Oahu, 2nd largest in the chain, compared to the largest body of water on the planet. Maybe Mom was stating the truth after all.

We chose a random beach to pull over and get out of the car for a little while where three of us lit out for the water as soon as we could get our shoes off. There was no tide, the surf almost non-existent - for that side of Hawaii, anyway - and the air and water cool, blue and inviting. My aunt could barely contain her glee as she hopped in and out of the water, recalling one good story after another of her days as a young girl in South America. My cousin was pleased to simply stroll in the waves as they lapped over the sands while I made as big a splash as someone my size would be expected to make. That's when the screaming started.

"Come out of that water!" Over and over again Mother implored us all to leave the waves which in her opinion were far too high and strong. "You gonna get pulled out to sea! Y'all get outta the water!" One wave had indeed snuck up behind auntie and flattened her on the beach. When she reappeared in the froth, hair all off on one side, salt and sand in everything else, she was howling with laughter, free of the cares of the world once more.

"I give up," Mom declared. "Y'all drown if you want to, I can't watch. I'm going to the car." One and all made it home just fine.

Gotta go.

Working the Line - An Airline Career's Meaning

My friend was so excited about the recent profitability of a prospective employer that he could hardly contain himself. His long and painful search for work was heading into its ninth month following a sudden furlough and here at last was a tiny glimmer of light at the end of the aviation tunnel. He worked in the travel industry and had for the past 25 or so years. Despite several conversations to steer him in to a more sustainable profession at least during this most recent ten years of turmoil he resolutely believes there is a future, his future, in the air.

Few industries or professions offer the rewards of the travel industry or the airlines in particular. Hotel workers get free nights but typically only the management staff can afford the airfare to get to the better properties around the country. I would not necessarily imagine too many front desk agents having the ability to take time off in Tahiti at the St. Regis. Airline employees, however, get the kind of perk the rest of the world can only dream of: free or significantly reduced air travel to just about any place on the planet with a runway.

Except places like Tahiti just about every destination on the planet has a full spread of hotels from no star to five star accommodations. That means that anyone from the chief executive to the guy driving the lavatory service vehicle can hop on a plane to Paris or Australia for little more than the cost of a weekend at home. On top of that, the hotels and cruise lines who depend on the airlines to bring customers to their properties and party ships offer attractive discounts as well.

That's a lot to no longer be a part of; more rewarding, however, is the work itself. To be a part of a larger thing that links people, places and products together all across the planet is to surely find great personal satisfaction in each day at the office, be that office a cube at headquarters, the cockpit of an airplane or operations control, the very nerve center of the whale. There is a realistic sense of connectivity to every flight, be it Chicago to Omaha or Los Angeles to London.

This type of work can be defining, even all consuming. Sadly, several hundred thousand employees have lost their jobs in this industry since September 11th. As glamorous as the airline game may be it suffers the boom and bust of every economic cycle like few other industries in existence. Where once it was unthinkable for major airlines to fold, Braniff went first in 1982 followed by Eastern in 1989 and Pan Am in 1991 with nearly every major carrier since then either in and out of bankruptcy or swallowed whole by one of its less wounded peers.

Airline workers in general have been held to flat or reduced incomes for nearly a decade in a business that collectively has lost money since the Wright brothers yet still they soldier on. There are few other jobs out there and certainly none like those related to air travel. Jet fuel runs in the veins, though, and my friend, like so many of his airline brothers and sisters, believes to his core that air travel is too essential to the world we live in and that good times - and hopefully good salaries - will return.

With flight benefits suddenly the niece's 8th birthday back home doesn't have to be missed, the sorority reunion an affordable given and a visit to the home country of the foreign exchange student a no-brainer! With all things being equal wouldn't you like to do the same job you have now, conference calls and all, only for a major airline with the chance at getting away anywhere in the world just about any time you wanted?

Gotta go!

Tahitian Time

If there is one island in the entire world that comes to mind ahead of all the rest as an exotic, dream vacation in paradise it is Tahiti. A wide stretch of white powdered sand, the endless aquamarine ocean before you, a cabana, an umbrella and your loved one at your side there was simply no more powerful image of getting away from it all than two weeks in Tahiti. I didn't have two weeks or a loved one but I went anyway. A co-worker at the time had connections with the airlines and I was able to score tickets for a dream come true weekend in the South Pacific.

I was looking forward to the flight on Air France as much as the destination and they didn't disappoint. After take-off the flight attendants changed in to Polynesian outfits while serving a meal of beef in wine sauce that few other airlines have matched before or since. The flight was on time and smooth, circling in to land at Fa'aa International Airport sooner than we expected.

My resort, the Moorea Pearl, was on the neighboring island of Moorea, "The Apple" because of its shape which could be flown in ten minutes or sailed in about an hour from the main island of Tahiti. I had a "half-beach" cabana, one of three they offered for the low-rent tourist. The others were completely over the water and charged accordingly but not so far from land that you were left feeling adrift in the shoals. The landside of my cabana featured an outdoor shower with a privacy wall along with at least one curious lizard sharing a stare with me and wondering who was more out of place.

The patio featured steps down in to the lagoon for a relaxing morning swim but I chose instead to join a snorkeling expedition a few miles off shore. Now this was as close to swimming in the wild Pacific as I had come to that point and was both nervous about the experience and body shy over swimming with a boat load of strangers. I got over both phobias and jumped in to the sea to find the kinds of fish usually seen in nature specials, Pixar films and Dr. Seuss primers. "I saw a red fish and a blue fish and a yellow fish...!"

I used my pigeon French to buy postcards and sat at the bar filling those out while listening to three couples across from me talk about their experiences thus far. One of the guys actually said he'd already forgotten what life was like being single! "Whipped," I thought to myself as I smiled and enjoyed the waning hours of my weekend away from the world.

There are no clocks on Tahiti, or at least in the resorts since you're not supposed to worry about time. I cajoled the desk clerk in to a 6AM wake-up call as I had to get off one island and over to the main one to catch my flight back to Los Angeles in time for work Monday morning. They did and I did.

Tahiti is many things, beautiful foremost among them but one thing it is not is geared for the single tourist. Newlyweds are all over the place, infatuated with themselves and each other and even the locals seem at a loss how to make a person traveling alone feel welcome, always asking where my wife was but I didn't mind. I wouldn't necessarily go back but anyone who asks I just tell them how I saw it.

Gotta go.

Pleasant Penang

It was finally the weekend. A long and grueling week of software upgrading, trouble shooting and staff training was in the books and I was faced with trying to decide what to do with myself until time to go back to work on Monday. I ran through the usual list of things to do and nothing really struck my fancy. If I stayed in then it would be nothing but cable all weekend which was absolutely out of the question. What to do?

"Have you ever been to Penang?" one of the office staff suggested politely. Intrigued and quickly informed I found myself on the way to the airport to catch Malaysia Airlines' evening nonstop service to Penang, a popular island resort off the west coast of Peninsular Malaysia and close to the southern Thailand border in the Strait of Malacca at the southern end of the Andaman Sea. I had never been to this corner of the world which includes the more well known Thai playground of Phuket a bit farther to the north.

It made no sense to fly me home to Chicago only to send me all the way back to Hong Kong where I was working so this was a rare opportunity to stay through the weekend. Still managing to stay within policy for hotels I cancelled my hotel in Hong Kong and picked up two nights in Penang at the same rate. And my new hotel, being a resort, automatically came with a beach. Sweet!

All kinds of thrills and jitters filled me as the 747 winged southwest over the South China Sea to break land over Vietnam and Cambodia, two mysterious countries whose images in my mind still smacked of nightly updates on the war followed by the killing fields of the Khmer Rouge. Over the Gulf of Thailand and across the peninsula, we landed in the evening at a quiet airport on the south end of the island which set up the hour long shuttle ride to the north end where the main resort areas were clustered.

The Shangri-La chain was an accepted set of hotels by the company and they did not disappoint. Not quite as loaded with features and fine touches as the signature Kowloon property back in Hong Kong, I had a large room, very comfortable bed and private balcony overlooking the pool are and the sea. The pool had an aquatic bar, there was a broad stretch of white sand in front of us and the setting was like something straight out of James Bond and Scaramanga's hide out, exotic, otherworldly and beautiful.

For a weekend away from the hustle of Hong Kong and the worries of work, I couldn't have had better luck and assistance in discovering this little hideaway. My one and only culture shock in this devout Muslim nation was turkey bacon for breakfast in the morning.

It was only a weekend but the food was good, especially the authentic satay as prepared by the culture that invented the dish. There wasn't a false note to be heard or found; everything else in Malaysia was served just as warm and always with a smile.

Gotta go.

Ghosts of the Pecos

The first time I ever heard about the Pecos River I was watching Drip Along Daffy match wits with Nasty Canasta in the classic Warner Brothers cartoon. I've been laughing at that duck and curious about that river ever since. It was the demarcation line to the way west for those seeking a new life, hope and freedom. If the film wasn't set along the Rio Grande it most often was in the area around the Pecos River which separated "civilized" Texas from Native Americans who were not about to sit idly by or step aside quietly.

The John Wayne treatment of the way of the wild west had me envisioning a river as mighty as the Missouri, equally wild, untamed and full of rapids, high water and strong currents. On one side, the east side, stood the rancher's widow, alone on the prairie and at the mercy of crop-killing heat, thirst parching winds and warrior Comanches at her back. To the west was the Apache Nation, equally aggravated and uncompromising; surrounded on all sides with only the Duke and Tab Hunter to save her!

Six hours to the west of my home in Dallas/Ft. Worth on I-20 is the middle stretch of the Pecos River, traveling 900 miles start to finish from North Central New Mexico through the Permian Basin to the Rio Grande. The interstate does today what wagons, horses and trains did before, carry people and commerce to other places as fast as possible because no one in their right mind wanted to stay here long. The terrain is skillet flat with scrub bushes serving for vegetation and tumbleweeds the closest thing to a road hazard as they flit and roll across drunkenly across the pockmarked landscape. Small cotton ball clouds tease one and all with the rain they hold but rarely part with in this area where men fought and died for sovereignty but all seem to have abandoned since.

When I got to the river I surely felt as awestruck as any tourist with a Hollywood image of what it was supposed to look like. It was tiny! A good quarter horse could have easily jumped the thing where the only possible danger may have been any snakes or scorpions lurking along the banks. The view was clear for miles in every direction leading me to further surmise that even the Apaches back in the day cared little about this particular stretch of nothing going on.

No, this can't be the fabled Pecos that separated white and black men from the riches of California, I thought to myself. Where was the butte crowned by the frighteningly beautiful sight of a war band atop pawing palominos with war paint, buckskin and feathers accenting their majesty and deadly purpose? Where were the historical markers listing one major campaign after another or the site of a frontier fort trying in vain to anchor a sense of order to the lawlessness in the very air? Oh how Hollywood had a hold on me that this boring little brook very near to completely destroyed.

It was then that I looked at the sum of the whole around me. Here, at this stretch of the Pecos River, there was nothing to be seen, nothing to be done and nothing to work or fight for in any direction. The river was the final barrier to a long quest for something better and, if surrounded by nothing better and most likely worse than where you were before, what was the point in going on? Most certainly like some before me, I followed the river north in to New Mexico before turning back east to Dallas and home.

Anyone for tennis?

Gotta go.

Southampton, Simply

There are a ton of day trip options outside of Greater London that the packaged tour crowd rarely have an opportunity or interest in seeing. Dover, Canterbury, Bath and Stonehenge are most likely the big four that attract day trippers from the English capital with a few stragglers maybe showing up at Leeds Castle or down to Salisbury Plain to see the great cathedral there. Each of these attractions has a tourism infrastructure to support what business comes their way.

One city, Southampton, does not enjoy much business unless you're catching a cruise ship heading somewhere else. I decided that since I'll probably never dive to the wreck of the Titanic then I can at least go to Southampton to view some of the touch points, markers and memorials erected in the city to honor this great vessel and tragedy.

The "M3" Motorway southwest of London speeds you straight to the city on the southern coast of the country in hardly an hour's drive. At the time of the tragedy few residential streets in Southampton were spared the loss of life as fully a third of those lost came from this working class city by the sea, in most cases the sole breadwinner for the household which, often at crew wages, wasn't much to begin with. Those homes are still there today along with a few pubs frequented by both workers and passengers alike.

The grandest building, the South Western Hotel, also still stands though it has since been converted to private condominiums and flats. First Class passengers arriving from London on "the Boat Train" stayed here the night before the sailing. They could look out their windows to view the Titanic lying at anchor and finishing up final provisioning.

Holyrood, the Sailors Church, was bombed during the Second World War and preserved in that state; it contains a small memorial to the Titanic's Stewards while elsewhere is a small plaque honoring the 1st Class Band who's musicians famously played on during the sinking on April 14th. The hulking Engineer's Memorial in East Park seems barely noticed by passersby today where 100,000 attended the unveiling barely eight days after the tragedy. Beyond a doubt for me, however, the most telling marker wasn't even a memorial, plaque, tower or monument at all. It was the mooring bollards along Ocean Dock #44 that marked location of the ship prior to its one and only sailing.

The RMS Titanic berthed here and not even a wind's whisper on this calm day to tell the tale. #44 is a commercial use pier, as lacking in beauty and sentiment as any other seaport dock would be. No one travels from London to see a single, ugly, empty pier; there's nothing to see! Sometimes history cannot be seen but can surely be felt as I gazed at the stretch of concrete and up to the blue sky, smelling the smells and tasting the sea air around me. This being England there still remained traces of coal in the air as it would have been for the coal-burning Titanic and other vessels of the period.

No gift shops, no guided tours, no city ambassadors or others engaged in an effort to preserve the history and legacy of the city and the shipping of Southampton. For that I felt saddened. I saw one other thing on the way back to London, however, that gave me a shot of inspiration:

The Mayflower Memorial.

Gotta go.

Earl, Ralph, Bert and Gavin

A group of friends wanted to go to Hawaii for the weekend so we all bunched up and flew off in to the setting sun for some waves in Waikiki.
Landing in Honolulu late on a Friday night pretty much leaves one option open for things to do and that is head out on the town. I've never been much of one for drinking but nobody was going to be driving so I let my guard down for an evening of blue fruity thingies with umbrellas and heaps of vodka. For a man with the dimensions of an NFL offensive linebacker I am a classic lightweight but at least I fall in to the category of being a happy drunk. It was all good. Mostly good.

It turned sad for a moment when we finally got back to the hotel where we flipped on the television in time to watch live feed from the Princess Diana funeral in London at Westminster Abbey. (What a surreal, out of body thing to deal with: drunk in Hawaii and watching a funeral!) Glad to be back safely in our rooms we, as over-indulged boozehounds sometimes manage, had plans to go sailing at dawn in barely four hours time.

The sailing started with me confidently announcing that I don't get sea sick and I was right for the entire outward bound cruise with a following wind. The setting couldn't have been better: it was a perfectly clear day to be on the waters around Hawaii. Diamond Head from offshore beats any view from the landside and I was riding in rhythm with the seas, enjoying a light chop and mild wind moving us along at a good clip towards the east. The only thing missing was "Southern Cross" by Crosby, Stills and Nash!

I surely could have used some kind of cross on the way back for all the praying I did over the side of that boat! They didn't tell a brother about having to tack against the wind going back the way we came. And the four friends no man ever wants to have went with me the whole way. First, there was Earl. "D'ye rrrememberrr mee?" he trilled in his whiskeyed brogue as he reacquainted me with all of the unfinished booze from the night before. The splashes hitting the water served as a call to order for all the fish in the depths below: they came rushing up to the surface with cracked ice and olives, and we were just getting started.

My second new best buddy Ralph decided he wanted a piece of the action and helped me pour a second round of drinks to the seafood below me who were by now swimming in the wake on their backs in really mellow lazy 8s. Ralph is the one who likes to torment to the point of not being able to come up for air and he was in rare form today. I couldn't stand any more of this bunch and careened from side to side to the hatchway where I went below to try and get away from the merrily bouncing horizon.

"And where do you think you're going," called out Bert, my third BFF, who fixed me with an evil smirk and promptly rushed me back up on deck to satisfy the demanding marine life who were by now slamming empty schooners against the sideboards looking for more. True to his reputation, Bert helped to prime the pump because more froth and gas was spouting from the tap than anything else. The fish were not amused while my companions and I seemed barely a furlong closer to the end of this agony. Diamondhead, once proud and majestic, now turned its nose up in scorn and derision.

"Leave him alone, boys, you've had enough." I looked to the sky to thank my benefactor only to feel the now blistering heat of the sun in my eyes as Gavin, the most sinister of them all, made his presence known. "I didn't say that I'd had enough," he oozed as I went once more chin first over the side, white-knuckled on the railing. Gavin is also known as the Dry One. He prodded and poked mercilessly at my sides and slapped me on the back causing me to hunch and churn in violent convulsions, salty tears now the only offerings for the liquored up fish below who slowly descended in to the depths, bubbling disgusted curses over last call.

We eventually made it back to port where I staggered off the boat, a sickly greenish-brown around the gills. Looking back to the sea I tried to remember the fun I had at first but only glimpsed my four fair weather buddies skittering off over the waves to find a new friend to go sailing with, the backstabbers.

The red-eye back to the mainland couldn't get there fast enough.

Gotta go!

Shoot the Elephant!

"So this is a first for you?" my friend Larry asked me one day. He was famous for that line, his signature move in getting me to try new things, from changing the oil in my car to putting a new roof on a house to skiing. I played willing pigeon to his schemes so long as I kept him in front of me and my car keys in my pocket. Skiing for the first time, though, was definitely one I could neither back out of or turn down. I trusted the instigator to think enough of me to not get me killed or permanently disabled so off we went to Colorado.

A buddy of his joined us and the three of us set off from the Denver airport in to the "front range" of the Rockies to Breckenridge, there to spend a weekend watching me make a Green Hill fool of myself while they continued their lifelong friendly rivalry on the moguls, slaloms and intermediate courses. The real fun began simply in procuring our rented gear. Other than reasonably protective clothing I needed to be kitted out from top to bottom so the hootin' and hollerin' began while I patiently let the rental agents pick out the skis and poles that would best protect me, the environment and their equipment for any calamitous mishaps.

The main event was finding shoes that would fit; at Size 14s, the largest they had to offer was Size 12. Since I wasn't going to buy a pair for what might have been my only skiing experience ever, I knew that I was going to pay a price for tight shoes that I'd never worn before.
"How do ya walk in these things?" I asked, not at all being able to get the hang of the forward angle to induce a permanent knee bend while skiing.

"Just pretend you're walking in heels," the butch frat jock type replied, not at all disturbed or embarrassed by his wizened advice. The look on my face, though, said enough. I wanted to know how he knew that! Not even slightly perturbed, he gave me the next critical piece of advice which was at the end of the ski lift, kick off from the seat and ski down the very slight incline before stopping. The lifts were constantly moving and if I didn't time it right, I'd end up riding the thing right back down to the bottom of the hill!

That never happened but by the time Larry and I got to the top of the lift I stood straight up first instead of simply letting the lift give me the momentum needed to shush down the small hill. Still running behind me, the chair took the back of my knees out and then swung away from underneath me, leaving me flat on my back and looking up through the boards of the chair as it rolled overhead.

"Shoot the elephant!" came the immediate good-natured yet taunting outcry from the dangling passengers still on the lift and waiting their turn to alight as the attendants sighed, rolled their eyes and slammed the stop button to bring the entire apparatus to a halt. This sobriquet applied to one and all who couldn't handle the lift I later learned and actually ended up enjoying my day on the bunny hills. I was s-turning and slide stopping fairly well by mid-day but mixed in with my share of belly-flops in to the snow and watch-out-for-that-tree moments, to be sure.

When it was all over I had not torn any ligaments, broken any bones or suffered from frost-bitten digits or snow-glare to the amazement of one and all. Returning the shoes, however, brought everything back in to focus as I removed the left boot to reveal a double set of snowy white socks that was strangely bright red at the tip. With my feet being somewhat numb from the cold all day and myself having concentrated on surviving my first ski experience the price of tight shoes, snow heels, no less, was indeed paid: the left big toe nail had separated itself completely, sparking a race between the onset of the pain and the effects of the pain killers hastily bought at the onsite drug store to kick in. It wasn't even close.

I haven't been on a roof since that one and only time which was in a pouring rain but I do appreciate the lesson in advanced car care and Larry and I later followed up this adventure with another skiing adventure to Kirkwood at Lake Tahoe, but that's another story.

Gotta go!

Air Alone

“Geez, man, we’re sorry,” they started. Sorry for what I ask? “That you’re not going to be able to go to Heidelberg because of us.”

I looked at them like they were completely out of their minds. Humans are pack animals, instinctively favoring “herding” or gathering in groups versus being out on their own in most things. The interesting thing for me has always been that for some it is a given that if the entire group cannot attend an event, go to the movies, dinner or travel, then naturally no one else can or should go.

Why not?

One of my closest friends often comments that he is "reserving" Fiji for his honeymoon. Another friend decries the desire to see Paris only in the company of her beloved. Ain't neither ONE of them dating anybody long-term so what the hay? I subscribe to the school that says go when and while you can.

a) You may meet somebody with no interest in ever leaving the country or possibly even home.
b) Go before meeting your soulmate and you'll know your way around and can act as guide.

"Oh, I think it will be so much more romantic if we discover it together for the first time" she said. Right. Like two people on their honeymoon spend much time outside of the room?

c) Start a family and the last thing you may see for at least 20 years is (fill in the blank)_____!

Death and taxes are guaranteed and time waits for no one. I've enjoyed many a trip escorting friends and family to places they've never been or discovering a country for the first time together. At the same time, when an opportunity presented itself to travel to Thailand and no one I knew was interested or able to go I admit to being intimidated the night I arrived; after that it was like riding a bike, Thai style!

In the case of Heidelberg my friends and I were actually planning on traveling to Scotland but circumstances led to the entire thing falling apart right at the curbside of the airport terminal. While others tucked tail for home I marched in to the lobby, swapped the Scotland ticket for one to Germany - yes, this was back when such things could be done on the fly and for free - and was airborne to Dusseldorf a couple of hours later.

I enjoyed a leisurely two-hour train ride down the Rhine before pulling in to Heidelberg Hauptbahnhof along the Neckar River with a gorgeous view of the castle. Down to the main square I went for a fantastic luncheon at one of my favorite restaurants from childhood, "Der Wienerwald." Over a bowl of goulash and a plate of schnitzel the waitress and I carried on a rusty (me) conversation in German about how her native daughter married an American who took her back to the US to live. When "Mutti" arrived for a visit she discovered not a single American woman she met knew or was interested in learning how to cook for their man!

The weather was agreeable, the castle was beautiful as ever, the food as hearty and memorable as always and the singular moment of friendly conversation with my "Bierfrau" of a waitress added up to a moment only I was able to enjoy.

I wish my friends had come along but I didn't mind telling them about the adventure when I got home, in between their stories of cleaning out the garage and hosting the in-laws.

Gotta go!

Bonito Brasil

"Dallas is not available," my managers stated flatly. It was June and the end of the one year assignment I had taken in Los Angeles. They were now trying to find new homes for each of the six of us on the team and after telling me my first choice was off the table made me an offer: San Francisco.

"Give me the weekend to think about it," I countered. Neither city offered a cheap cost of living but I knew I didn't want to stay in L.A. Taking the position meant secure, high visibility employment. Turning it down started the 30-day clock for me to find something else within the company or leave. I needed to think and I had to act fast.

I took the rest of the afternoon off, dashed to LAX and hopped a flight to Miami from where I picked up a connection to South America. Some 17 hours after leaving Los Angeles I arrived in Rio de Janeiro, the legendary Brazilian party town that I was about to experience in legendary fashion.

After arriving at the hotel I immediately signed up for a half-day tour. Our itinerary included the beautiful stained glass cone of the Sao Sebastiao Cathedral. The design of the building allows naturaly light to shine in from all sides but the most memorable moment here for me was being scolded by the tour guide for wandering off to get a better picture angle. Rio's opportunistic street urchins were everywhere and any tourist was fair game.

The biggest lesson I learned was that Carnival is indeed a citywide event but only after each samba "school" competes in tournament at the Sambadromo, a mile long boulevard where performances are staged in front of judges and high society. This quiet, unassuming stretch of concrete dead-end comes alive in ebullient grandeur once a year but otherwise sits empty. We ooh'd and ahh'd politely at the canyon like risers around us but the thrill is definitely of the need-to-be-there variety.

A drive by of the massive Maracana Stadium sufficed as a visit on the tour as we motored on to the statue of Christ the Redeemer high above the city. Words only minimize the impact of the view. Religious or not, even Christian or not, the site, the statue and the setting never fails to bring the strongest emotions to the fortunate visitor. We could have stayed the rest of the day but had to press on.

The beach culture being what it is in Rio it seems natural to include at least one on the tour. Unexpectedly, though, we were taken to a fairly quiet section of a park and down a path through some greenery to a forlorn, sand-pitted stone statue. This impressionistic earth-toned carving, intoned the guide, was as important to the rhythm of Rio as Carnival itself.

It was Yemanja, goddess of the sea. Afro-American traditions across the ocean identify her as the queen of the ocean, protector of children and the essence of motherhood, from whom all life comes. Every New Year's Eve, citizens of Rio in the millions come to the ocean to honor her spirit and then, of course, they party, in sort of a just for family warm-up to the international madness of Carnival.

The last stop for the afternoon just as the sun was beginning to wane belonged to Sugarloaf Mountain, the bookend to Corcovado as an international symbol of Rio. Looking like half of an American football sticking out of the sand, Sugarloaf sits at the mouth of Guanabara Bay, guarding sun-soaked beaches laid out in all directions and stocked with speedos and T-back thongs. The mountain offers panoramic views of the ocean, city and mountains; the trouble is getting to the top for that world class view.

Rock climbers help themselves, the rest of us take a hanging cable car. The fight scene from "Moonraker" playing in my mind, the contraption sailed quickly and smoothly to the summit where the view exceeded its billing, as everything in Rio does. Facing west we viewed a textbook golden sunset over the city, the welcoming arms of Christ the Redeemer enveloping us in warm silhouette. Later, sighs of relief at reaching solid ground mixed in with sighs of satisfaction at the end of probably the best half-day city tour I've ever experienced.

And the timing was perfect, too. Back at the hotel I changed clothes, caught the shuttle back to the airport and flew back to Los Angeles that same night. Thirty-five hours of flying for barely 12 hours on the ground in Rio? It was worth it, and I made my decision about San Francisco, too.
Gotta go.

Did You Really...?

As in visit a state or a country if you weren't there long enough to at least bed down for a night?

I’d written previously about a Day Trip to Copenhagen that touched on the subject of whether or not the full Denmark experience could be had in less than 24 hours on the ground. While that may be possible, even the only option in The Vatican, San Marino or the island nation of Nauru it begs further consideration in larger countries or any place with a long and storied history such as Denmark. Personally I like to at least bunk in for a day or two and hopefully visit more than one destination in a given place but here are four types of day tripping that I've been just as guilty of.

“The Turnaround” – These are the visa and postcard collectors who are on the ground only as long as it takes to walk, ride or fly back across the border. One clever trick might include a six hour layover in Tokyo; knowing they have plenty of time to get hung up in customs they’ll officially “enter” Japan then go right back upstairs, complete the exit formalities for leaving the country and calmly proceed to the gate for their continuing flight, passport stamped, veteran immigration officials completely unperturbed.

“The Pass Thru” - Some in the US will say that as long as they cross the border to a state, they’ve been there. Rhode Island, Delaware and the Gulf Coast of Mississippi come to mind as places “on the way” to somewhere else that take less than an hour to drive thru. The exits seem to be for locals or tourists who need gas. Heck, I’ve talked to people in San Francisco who only set foot in Oakland while heading to Tahoe.

“The Port Call” - Cruise lines are famous for shore excursions, this we all know, but a weeklong sail through the Baltic still only gives you nine hours in Stockholm. Sweden is larger than Germany but it has only one city worth seeing and even then for barely half a day? I find that hard to believe for the sake of Sweden. They say you can always come back but how many people really do once the bloom is off the stem?

“The Border Patrol” - San Diegans and Texans are famous day-trippers in to Mexico but are they aware that beyond the five miles in they went to do some shopping there is over 3200 miles of country between Tijuana and Cancun? The European Union is designed exactly for such things, especially for anyone sharing a border with the Low Countries. A majority of the greater distances are flown these days but the point and question remains – is one toe over the line the same experience as the whole enchilada?

One thing I'd bet for sure is, "real" visit or not, the states, nations and merchants of the world would all welcome you for a day versus not at all!

Gotta go!

Football and Flying

One of the perks I received while working in San Francisco was the opportunity to fly on a team charter with the San Francisco 49ers. This was rarified air indeed and despite being a Dallas Cowboys fan I wasn't about to pass a chance like this up!

On this particular occasion the Niners were scheduled to play the Carolina Panthers in Charlotte at the then new Ericsson Stadium. The team owners did it in style in those days, insisting on flying out on Fridays for games instead of the standard day before. This, they felt, along with the DC-10 United Airlines was contracted to provide, made the difference in the team’s performance on Sundays given the distances a west coast team has to travel.

Fine with me! In the two-cabin widebody the front office and coaching staff would be seated in First Class, the media and guests on the all-male charter – the only “distractions” allowed were the hand-picked flight attendants – sat in the middle of the plane in the first coach section while the players themselves all sat in the back, curtained off from the rest of the plane. Each coach passenger had two assigned seats to themselves and I reveled in my window and aisle set just in front of the wing.

Among the other charter rules besides no contact with the players was that they were off-loaded first in to the lead two of five buses for immediate departure to the team hotel. Guests were not allowed on their floor and no begging for photos or autographs unless they were in the lobby where, if they so chose, they were fair game. Team events and even the game itself were optional but miss the charter and you’re on your own. Oh, and no rooting for other teams!

Sports rivalries aside, we might as well have been a diplomatic delegation on a state visit. Charters like this pull out all the stops with First Class dining throughout, private motor coaches and even a police escort to our hotel that evening. This was going to be a great weekend!

Steve Young, above, was gracious enough to stop for fans the Saturday before the game in the lobby after team meetings. At the game itself on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, seats for charter guests are not what you would call premium. Visiting teams receive tickets for family, friends and guests who are expected to simply enjoy being at the game and not necessarily to have a luxury suite or sideline passes. In most stadiums you can always tell where the charter guests are, usually clumped together in the upper stands, a huge patch of opposing colors all seated together and hoping for the best.

They got pasted, 23-7. In their early years the Panthers had the Niners' number, giving them a beating on nearly every occasion. They dialed up another one that Sunday afternoon, packing us off to the airport for a long, six hour flight back to where we came from.

I learned a final lesson on that flight as the plane droned on in to the westbound night sky: One of the inflight games they like to play after a win is "Apple Ball," where apples are rolled along the floor to see which one travels the farthest before getting lodged under a seat. After three hours of unimaginable physical exertion, when the team loses they don't have much of an appetite for apples or food of any other kind.

What an adventure! I tried to hide the smile on my face which was not because they lost. I ate in silence, alone in my thoughts. Despite the loss these charters are special - routine business for the team, maybe, but clearly once in a lifetime for civilians like me.

This was not a Learjet, Paris or even the playoffs, much less the Superbowl. In fact, the entire event barely registered in American sports history as anything more than another day at the office but for an airplane geek and a diehard football fan this package was a behind-the-scenes peek in to life on the road with backstage passes.

It was only the wrong team short of the Holy Grail!

Gotta go!

Counting Copenhagen

We went for a day. Some co-workers and I flew on a weeklong assignment from Chicago to Zurich and London before returning home. Between Zurich and London we were booked on SAS via Copenhagen which prompted me to look for a way to stop over in the Danish capital since I’d never been there before. I arranged a late evening departure from Zurich which gave us an overnight stay so we could wander around before continuing on with our business.

The question is does that count as a visit? What experience can one really get with less than 24 hours on the ground?

Friends at the airlines formed loose associations with such titles as the “100-Club” or the “200-Club,” indicating the number of countries the person has visited around the world. The only proof required was the passport entry stamp and some took it to exactly that minimalist extreme. One colleague of mine flew from New York to Brussels simply to boast not only flying on what was then an inaugural service but also merely to collect the passport stamp. Having little interest in Belgium itself he turned around and flew the same plane back to New York that afternoon.

The only locals we met in Denmark were the drivers to and from the airport and the desk clerk at our hotel. We largely had only one thing in mind for this hot minute in Denmark.

Copenhagen is closer to Sweden, which we couldn’t see and weren’t looking for as we dashed about town on a mission to see the Little Mermaid before catching our flight that night to England. This iconic, often vandalized statue is a good hike to what must have been the edge of town when the work was first unveiled. It is located near the Kastellet, a pentagram-shaped fortress guarding the inner approaches and is a lot smaller than imagined. Worse, where she might once have gazed across the open sea one as one would expect, today she sits across the inlet from a major industrial port built on a manmade extension. Forlorn as ever, though, we walked around it, stared at it and snapped the close-up pictures that give the work the mystical setting expected - as well as to hide all the container ships barely 1,000 yards away - and then dashed back to Kastrup International Airport.

Mission accomplished and we all could say “been there, done that” but did I really and would I go back? We didn’t get to Billund, the home of a favorite childhood toy, Legos; we didn’t get to Skagen on the north cape of Jutland where the Baltic meets the North Sea in explosive fashion; not even Elsinore at the far end of Zealand, famous for Shakespeare’s setting of Hamlet. Despite skipping the Tivoli Gardens we headed for the airport, satisfied that at least it was a day trip to Denmark instead of 45 minutes at the airport. Still, I think of my friend on the Brussels flight and others who deign only to drive or walk across a border, collect the stamp and turn around on the spot, their attitude being “C’mon…what is there to do in Luxembourg?”

If they only knew.

Gotta go!