I'll Be Home For Christmas

It was 5 o’clock in the morning and the outside temperature was about 7 degrees below centigrade. The last time I had to be somewhere this early in the morning Jimmy Carter was President and I was a member of a Sisyphusian college work crew charged with sweeping tickets at a racetrack in Pennsylvania in the days before industrial strength vacuums. The fruits of our labor never lasted more than 12 hours: another round of jettisoned “sure bet” tickets awaited us every morning, without fail. If I recall correctly, my tenure in this job lasted only slightly longer than the single week I spent as a night watchman at a construction site. But I digress.

The early morning news that awaited me at the Clermont-Ferrand airport was that my 6:45 a.m. Air France flight to Paris had been delayed until 8:30. It was no big deal, hardly a reason to panic, just another inconvenience to which I have become accustomed during the past 20 years of international travel. I knew about the big snowstorm in the Mid-Atlantic, had seen snow all week in Clermont, and was aware that air travel in the U.S. and Europe had been disrupted. That we didn’t actually board until 9:30, now 4.5 hours after having arrived at the terminal for this one-hour flight, was mildly annoying, but as I walked across the tarmac, under a light shower of large European Union snowflakes, I was cheerful. How could I not be: I was on my way home for Christmas, a mere 6 days from now.

My fellow passengers and I waited patiently in our seats as the ground crew de-iced the wings, the pilot cranked up the heat, and I watched the propellers on the twin-prop plane reach their maximum velocity. All of a sudden, they stopped turning. Five minutes later, the crew chief announced that because of weather conditions in Paris and a technical problem with the plane, all passengers would be disembarking, and she instructed us to pick up our luggage in the terminal. It was at this moment that I experienced my first twinge of foreboding. Upon re-entering the terminal and collecting our luggage, things quickly deteriorated.

There were no Air France agents to meet us. There were no announcements about how we would be accommodated for the inconvenience. The only thing we were told was to not approach the check-in counters so as not to interfere with the next wave of passengers who were being processed for the 11:30 a.m. flight to Paris! In a word, we were being abandoned and left to our own devices. There was a great bit of milling about, with people wandering around the terminal wondering what to do next. Some headed for the railway station. My two World Bank colleagues and I discussed our options: take a train to Paris, rent a car, return to the hotel and try again tomorrow, or hang around until we could get some clarity? We opted to hang out.

Clarity, we were soon to learn, would be in short supply this day. For example, our attempts to secure the number of the international operator, through whom we could make a collect call to our American Express travel agency in the States, were frustrated. The agent at the so-called “Information” counter—an example of the French penchant for hyperbole—had no idea what we were talking about. The agents at the rental car desks wanted to help but were no better informed. We couldn’t even get the pay phone, that dinosaur of a by-gone era, to operate. I had to remind myself that this was France, in 2009, not one of the many African airports where I have been stranded from time to time over the years.

You can plan on me

The first glimmer of hope came in about an hour’s time. An Air France agent casually mentioned to a couple of passengers within earshot that a fifty-seat bus could be mobilized to take us to Paris. If you were lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time, you learned that the bus would be departing at 12:15 with estimated arrival in Paris at 4:45. There was no formal announcement. Of course, there were many more than fifty passengers who needed to get to Paris, and if you happened to be getting a coffee or taking a bio-break, you would have missed out on this relatively important information! Gradually, news of this breakthrough spread throughout the terminal by word of mouth.

It was during the next fifteen minutes of discussion with my colleagues about whether to take the bus that I realized that we should never have left behind those warm beds at the Holiday Inn. Apparently, at some point, the pilot had appeared in the terminal, and casually mentioned to a few passengers that he “knew how to fix the plane.” When we eventually learned of this, again through the 21st century communication miracle of word of mouth, I was dismayed. Mind you, this was the pilot, not a technician or a mechanic! Before I could finish collecting shoelaces, gum, and dental floss from my fellow travelers, we were instructed to drop our checked luggage bags directly on the conveyor belt behind the counter. Only a half-hour earlier we were told to stay away from the counter; now we were being invited into territory normally reserved for Air France employees. It wasn’t bad enough that they weren’t doing their own jobs; now they were asking us to do theirs as well! During the chaotic rush to the belt, I thought to myself, what are they going to ask us to do next?

May we have your attention please! Is there a volunteer willing to hold his or her thumb firmly and steadily on the cork the pilot extracted from a 1972 bottle of Chateau de Boeuf and which he has placed in the little hole he found in the emergency exit door for the short trip up to Paris? We would prefer a Dutch passenger, if possible. In return for your service we cannot offer you a free round-trip ticket to your choice of any destination in France, but we would be happy to give you the opened bottle of Pinot, we’ll throw in a lump of Camembert, and we promise to locate the number of the international operator upon arrival in Paris. Please approach the counter if you are interested, or, better yet, whisper your interest in the ear of the passenger standing next to you and tell him to pass it along up the line.

Merci de votre attention et patience.

My heart sank a bit as we proceeded through security, AGAIN, on our way to that frozen icebox of a plane, which must have misbehaved at some point not to merit its own terminal. In any case, as I sat in my seat anxiously waiting for those propellers to begin their rotation in preparation for take-off, I thought I saw a large blue rubber band around the right wing. I’m sure it was just my imagination. For heaven’s sake, this is France, and the year 2010 is practically upon us. Approximately 45 minutes later, a plane with about two-thirds of its original human cargo taxied down the runway. Without the pilot even having to ask, we all leaned forward in our seats at the moment of lift-off, just to make sure that this twin-prop with auxiliary cork contraption got off the ground. At this moment I looked at my watch. It was 1:30. Eight and one-half hours had elapsed since the time of our arrival. We were all glad to leave Clermont-Ferrand behind, and anxiously looked forward to our arrival in the City of Lights.

Please have snow and mistletoe

With the cork still firmly in place, we landed safely at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. Although nothing to this point in the trip had given me reason to be optimistic, I saw in the domestic terminal where we waited for our bags a very thin, but nonetheless silver, lining. On this day in which most trips to the States had been cancelled, including ours, because of the East coast blizzard, surely the transfer and rebooking chaos would be unfolding in the international terminal. Better to deal with the process here in domestic, an underwhelming structure that had the feel of a converted airplane hangar, where it was likely that fewer passengers would be requiring assistance. It wasn’t long, however, before I learned that today chaos had no boundaries.

As we entered the terminal, my eyes were first drawn to a counter with two passengers and three agents. I thought, “this is too good to be true,” which, of course, it was. The reality show was just next door, where about fifty passengers, some of whom had been on our flight, had formed an impressive queue. At the front of the queue were two beleaguered agents and what seemed like half a dozen supervisors moving about behind the counter sporting looks of intense preoccupation coupled with comfortable disengagement from the traveler-proletariat. Obviously, theirs was a higher calling. So, this afternoon’s drama would be played out between us, the needy and tired, and these two agents, the most powerful men and women in France on this Saturday afternoon in December. It was they and they alone who stood between us, two turtle doves, and three French hens.

For a fleeting moment, there was one last breath of hope. Just beside the queue was a sign that appeared to indicate the availability of a separate line for business class travelers. But before my colleagues and I could form such a line—in truth, we didn’t approach this task with great enthusiasm as we could feel the intense heat generated by one hundred squinting eyes boring little holes into our necks—several passengers told us that they had been instructed to form a single line. Reluctantly but understandably, we took our place in the back of the queue, but were at least comforted by the fact that we were all in this together. My unofficial estimate of the average passenger-agent interaction was about thirty minutes! This was definitely going to take awhile.

About an hour into the wait, I was rudely awakened from my daydream of dancing and prancing in Jingle Bell Square in the frosty air by a wild bunch of about forty passengers who came roaring and rumbling and grumbling through the terminal, several of whom could be heard complaining bitterly and loudly that they had been travelling since 5 a.m.! “Pity,” I mumbled under my breath, “there’s plenty of space for everyone at the back of the line.” After about 15 minutes of tongue and finger waving at a new agent who had led them from wherever they came, these folks raised the day’s drama to a new level. What happened next was nothing short of incredible.

This new agent told the thundering herd to form a second line, next to ours. As soon as she had them installed, she took off, leaving us to deal with the impending disorder she left behind. The two besieged agents were so preoccupied with their tasks that neither looked up from his and her respective computer screens to witness what was happening. And none of the half dozen supervisors said a word! Mon Dieu! It was apparent that this scene was about to get ugly! Very ugly! In the absence of any kind of discipline, it became clear that we had to organize ourselves!

Our first initiative was to push everyone forward, to the point where each passenger could smell the respective perfume and cologne of our two agents. We could not permit any of these pushy barbarians to think for even one minute that we were going to take turns! A melee would have surely ensued had not one of our fellow passengers, who had miraculously made it to the counter, explained to the agent who had just rebooked him of the impending bedlam. Luckily, before accepting another client, the agent stood up and directed all the newcomers to move about one hundred feet down the counter, where they would be assisted by a new agent, who had just come to his computer. Although this meant that some of these new travelers would be served before some of us who had been standing in line for what was now two hours, order had been restored, and we had regained exclusive property rights to our two agents.

By my unofficial count, only two people had managed to slip through our fail-safe system. One was a mother, the other a young jerk who had outlasted the agent who had at first refused to serve him, and with whom he had had a running argument for about ten minutes. The agent eventually caved. Had he known that the volunteer who had held the cork in place on our flight to Paris was willing to hand over his Pinot and a chunk of cheese had he remained steadfast in his mission, he might have held his ground.

By the time my colleagues and I reached the counter, another 20 or so passengers had joined our line, night had begun to fall, and we heard that Jimmy Choo shoes and Prada handbags were no longer in fashion. Of course, by the time we were being served, a new agent had come on the scene, which improved the ratio of clients to agent from about 25 to 1 to 17 to 1. Way to go Air France! After about 45 minutes of hard work, a very amiable agent had us rebooked on a flight the next day—to Boston, not Washington. Although he offered us some tempting options for re-entry to the States, Orlando and LA included, we decided it was best to get as close to DC as possible because of the approaching holiday and the logjam in the system.

As we walked away from the counter on six tired feet, but with boarding passes and vouchers for a night’s hotel stay in our hands, one of my colleagues was verbally assaulted by a female passenger in the back of the line, who tried to blame us for the extended time it took to rebook us. Having just spent three hours in line ourselves, and it being Christmas and all, we cut her some slack and moved on. It was 5:15 pm when we left the terminal.

And presents on the tree

In all of their wisdom, the French gods of efficiency have created a “day hotel village,” called Roissypole. About two dozen well-known brand hotels make up this village, which, unfortunately, is only accessible by 1) airport bus to electric rail station, 2) electric rail station to hotel shuttle bus station, and 3) shuttle bus station to hotel. Taxis are not an option, the bus part of the bus-rail-bus system can be rather slow and crowded, particularly when the entire European and continental US air travel system suffers a major shock, and the standing around is exacerbated by frigid temps below 0 degrees centigrade. All this to say we didn’t check in to our hotel until 6:15 p.m., thirteen hours after we first embarked on this forgettable voyage. We were grateful, however, that we could even secure a hotel room with hot water, heat and internet access. And now, finally, I could get a hold of that elusive international operator, who I needed to book me a flight from Boston to Washington.

I called the front desk. I asked the receptionist for the number of the international operator. He told me he didn’t know it. In fact, he said that no one at reception knew it; they had never known it. Was it possible that no one in all of France knew it? Could it be that switching over to the Euro was just too much of a shock to French nationalist pride? Knowing the phone number of the international operator was too much to ask? Luckily, I was able to secure an AT+T direct access line, which I could use to gain access to American Express. An hour later, I had a reservation from Boston to National on Delta for myself and one of my colleagues. Although exhausted, I only managed to sleep for about four hours, fearful, I think, that I might sleep through my alarm and end up standing in line with another unruly assemblage of people in search of a hot meal and shower.

As I awoke Sunday morning, I watched a fresh snowfall from my hotel room window thinking that I might be home for Christmas only in my dreams. Reality soon came knocking, however, in the form of a phone call from one of my colleagues. He had just heard on CNN that the storm’s next target was Boston and Eastern New England, where forecasters were predicting a foot of snow and winds likely to reach fifty mph. News from Washington was also not good. Only a few flights were getting into Dulles and National was still closed. Ground transportation was also problematical, which left us with visions of spending the night at the airport, even if we could get that far. A further complication was that only two rooms were available in the hotel for that evening, which we risked losing if the flight to Boston was cancelled, which we fully expected it would be.

So, we decided to stay another night, while our intrepid colleague decided to venture forth into the great unknown. She was rewarded for her courage: the 1:30 flight to Boston did eventually take off at 5:10; unfortunately, she missed her flight to Chicago by five minutes and was forced to spend the night in Boston. We heard that she made many, many new friends among the 300 passengers with whom she stood in line the next morning, all of whom had been trying to get out of Beantown for two days!

As for me, I spent Sunday unpacking, surfing the web, catching up on some sleep, reading, and talking to an agent from American Express, who proceeded to ruin a perfectly fine day. A Monday departure to Washington was out of the question. The soonest she could get me to the States was Tuesday! Later that evening, my colleague and I had planned to dine at a local restaurant in what we had affectionately come to call our “Abominable Snow Village,” but I had a sense that it might be prudent to visit our cheerful and efficient friends at the Air France desk in Charles de Gaulle to confirm our flights on Tuesday and to explore, by chance, the possibility of getting out on Monday.

It took us an hour to get to the terminal, but at least we were not weighed down with luggage. Luckily, we did not have to wait in line; unluckily, the agent informed us that we should be thankful that we had seats on Tuesday, but that we risked losing them because the rebooked flights had not yet been ticketed. He told us it was urgent that we contact American Express immediately to secure these seats. About an hour later, after a shuttle bus ride with a bunch of people who looked like they were in no mood to sing Christmas carols, we reached our hotel. The American Express agent told us not to worry, tickets would be issued that evening or the next morning, and that the agent could have taken care of this. Upon hearing that, I described to the naïve agent the countless actions that Air France should have taken but had not since Saturday. All we could do was sigh, in harmony.

Monday was uneventful, save for the discovery of a nice Chinese and Thai restaurant within walking distance of the hotel. With the exception of a one-hour delay, the return on Tuesday proceeded smoothly. I even managed to do a little bit of Christmas shopping in the terminal and on the plane. There were no lines, plenty of announcements, and the only dramas unfolding on this day would be those we could watch in our seats and listen to through our headphones. As I boarded the plane, I happened to catch a glimpse of the pilot, who with a wink of his eye and a twist of his head, soon gave me to know I’d be having French bread.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

A TEXAS LOVE SONG: I'M BUSTIN' WITH "PRIDE" BUT I GOT THE B-B-Q BLUES

A trip that began with me standing in the middle of the women’s bathroom at BWI and ended with Gail leaving her laptop in the food court at the Austin airport might sound like one we would just as soon file under “F” for Forgettable. On the contrary, the pleasant memories sandwiched between these two curious events are ones we are savoring as we head into Thanksgiving. A chance to spend a long weekend with our two sons Matt and Stephen and daughter-in-law Jeannette was just the kind of opportunity for which today we give thanks on this most American of family holidays.

From the minute we picked up Matt and Jeannette at the Austin airport, after their 4-hour flight from Boston, we recognized a certain resolve on Jeannette’s face: she had come to experience Texas, no doubt about it. Her quest, we were soon to discover, was to eat at least one authentic pulled pork barbecue sandwich. Approximately 24 hours later, it appeared that both her primary directive and appetite would be satisfied, as we pulled into the parking lot of Ruby’s Barbecue on an unusually cool and rainy Austin afternoon. On this day, however, the stars over Texas were not yet quite aligned in her favor, as the wait staff informed us that they were out of pulled pork! The pain! The disappointment! They were palpable as she slumped into the arms of her husband, nearly collapsing to the floor, upon hearing the devastating news!

How could a barbecue joint in the middle of Austin run out of pulled pork on the day of a UT football game, which was to be played later that evening? Does anyone ever ask the pig while he’s alive if he prefers being sliced, cut, or pulled when his time has come? What was I doing in the middle of the ladies room at BWI? For some questions, there are no easy answers. Putting on her best game face, Jeannette ordered a BBQ chicken sandwich, which was served on a roll, although we think that deep down she would have preferred it on Texas Toast.

Forgive me, but I am getting ahead of myself.

“This weekend,” our UT student Stephen reminded us soon after we welcomed him at our hotel room, “is all about me.” Indeed, his mother and I and brother and sister-in-law had traveled 1,500 miles and farther to celebrate his first appearance in a University mainstage production (Pride and Prejudice), his 20th birthday, and his first Thanksgiving away from home. Well, his weekend got off to an especially good start when his Mom offered, at a very weak moment, to do all his laundry for him, before he even had a chance to tell us that we needed to fill up his car with gas. Things got even better when we all headed to Potbelly’s for lunch, where he could catch up with his brother and sister-in-law.

After lunch, we introduced Matt and Jeannette to the UT Co-Op. Although ostensibly the place where students go to buy their books and school supplies, most of the square footage is an homage to the Longhorn phenomenon. Your first hint? The textbooks are in the basement. Looking for those hard-to-find burnt-orange boxer shorts? No need to look anywhere else; you can find them here, in spades. Need some accessories for your burnt-orange bathroom at home? You’ve come to the right place. Tired of those old-school pink flamingos on your front lawn? Come on in and help yourself to a pair of leggy burnt-orange birds (I’m not kidding!). Running low on burnt-orange flipflops, hats, key chains, pillows, sweatshirts, tee shirts, mugs, shot glasses, Christmas tree ornaments? Welcome to Nirvana. Want to know how many national championships the baseball, football, swimming, soccer, and field hockey teams have won? You don’t even have to ask—the information is all on display.

We followed this retina-scorching experience with a walk around the “40 acres”, as the campus is known, the home to some 50,000 undergraduate and graduate students. The “40” are very compact, and the place has a very manageable feel to it. The academic buildings are attractive and architecturally interesting. There are several museums and performing arts venues sprinkled about. For the most part, the dorms appear to be in good shape. One particular dorm houses 3,000 students, which is about the population of a small Texan town. Unfortunately, only about 7,000 students can live on campus! Most juniors and seniors, such as Stephen, live in privately owned apartment complexes, most of which are conveniently located within walking distance of campus.

Of course, the athletic facilities are first-rate. The football stadium is colossal. With recent renovations, it now seats approximately 100,000 and there is never an empty seat, except, of course, when there is no game. We had a chance during our walk-around to visit the stadium, which reminded Matt, at first glance, of the coliseum in the movie The Gladiator. Although we did not attend the next evening’s game, against Kansas, we did have an opportunity to absorb some of the energy that 100,000 Longhorn fans and thousands of tailgaters camped on every conceivable piece of property around the stadium can produce as they encourage their heroes to “hook em.” The tailgaters are extremely well prepared: almost all come with their UT canopies and many with full service gas grills. Some even set up satellite dishes and televisions so they’ll be sure not to miss what is happening inside the stadium. We pulled over by the side of the road during the second quarter to take pictures and listen to the roar of the crowd. It was quite impressive. Curious, though, as Matt pointed out, that this gigantic stadium is filled to capacity by students, alumni and fans only 6 days a year! The revenue generated during those six days? It probably rivals the amount of money many developing countries spend on health care each year.

The highlight of the weekend was the Friday night performance of Pride and Prejudice. Most of the lead parts were played by graduate students. All of them were quite strong actors. Although Stephen did not have a speaking part, he was on stage—sometimes as a footman, other times as a militiaman—a considerable amount of the time. He carried out every gesture that was required of each role with precision, including a 19th century ballroom dance number, and looked great in his different and quite elaborate costumes. The only disappointment was that we couldn’t get a picture of him in his powdered wig!

We enjoyed the show and were impressed by the actors’ mastery of their English accents and their many and difficult lines, which they had to repeat over eight performances. We were especially proud of the professional manner in which Stephen carried himself on stage. We are looking forward to seeing more shows in the future. We finished the evening and welcomed the morning at the Magnolia Café, where we met many of the local employees and customers who work hard every day to keep Austin Weird.

Saturday was our time to celebrate Stephen’s birthday and to pre-celebrate Thanksgiving. In the morning, however, while the footman was fast asleep, and Jeannette could only visualize her erstwhile pulled pork sandwich, about half the laundry got done, and then the four of us drove to Mellow Johnny’s. MJ’s is Lance Armstrong’s bicycle shop in downtown Austin. The shop isn’t just about bicycles; it’s about the cycling experience. The place is part retail, part training site, part commuting center, and part museum, with a nice coffee shop to boot. It was a treat to see all those yellow jerseys from the Tour hanging on the walls, each bearing the signature of LA. A close second treat were several Lance-Wanna-Be’s, who had parked their rides and were wandering about the store hoping to be seen. Many of the bikes Lance rode in different races, not just for the Tour, were also on display.

A quick stop at Allen’s Boots followed, where the youngins’ modeled several cowboy hats and the ancients each bought a pair of cowboy boots. Jeannette purchased a pair of earrings at an outdoor craft market, and we all watched some professional glass blowers practicing their craft in our favorite decorative glass store in Austin. From there we headed straight into the disappointment that awaited Jeannette at Ruby’s. But the “Great Pulled Pork Quest” continued several hours later as we drove through the Texas Hill Country to the Oasis restaurant, a magnificent structure overlooking Lake Travis, about one-half hour’s drive from Austin.

Before we even entered the restaurant, we had a fairly good idea of who was not going to be on the menu that evening. A large Longhorn steer was available near the entrance for the picture-taking pleasure of guests. Saddle and black cowboys hat were provided, and guests were invited to strike their own best western poses. Jeannette and I opted to take our own pictures, at a safe distance from those really, really sharp horns! Once inside there was more picture taking on a balcony from which guests can normally view one of the best sunsets in Texas. Unfortunately, there would be no sun setting this cloudy day. We settled in under the outdoor heaters for a nice dinner.

It became quickly apparent, however, that the cuisine was decidedly Tex-Mex, which meant that Jeannette’s persistent pursuit of the perfect pulled pork plate to please her pleading palette would have to be postponed for yet another day! All was not lost, however, as we were celebrating Stephen’s birthday and Thanksgiving, the drinks were cold, the food was tasty, the treasures of a gift shop were waiting to be explored, a country rock band was beckoning us to ascend to the next floor, and there were plenty of televisions in an adjacent bar to watch the Texas-Kansas football game. Following a brief sampling of all of these, we headed back to Austin, where we tuned in to watch the Longhorns take care of business.

The next morning, following a brief tour of the State Capitol building and a relaxing snack at the Blanton Museum café on campus, we made one last excursion downtown in hopes that Jeannette could grab that gold ring of a sandwich. Alas, once again she was to be denied her pleasure, but she contented herself with continuing her search at the airport, where several good opportunities awaited her. After dropping Matt and Jeannette at the airport and wishing them safe travels, we purchased and delivered Stephen’s birthday present (a keyboard), we met him later for dinner at Chipotle’s, printed Southwest boarding passes, watched the Eagles defeat the Bears, and finished the laundry.

All in all, it was a splendid trip and a great start to the holiday season. We look forward to seeing the kids during Christmas, both in Massachusetts and Maryland. Next time we go to Texas, we'll be sure to make time to visit San Antonio, see a rodeo, and maybe even go to a baseball game!

By the way, Gail recovered her computer, thanks to the kindness of an airport employee. And, we heard that Jeannette finally put her hands around that long-awaited sandwich. However, we still haven’t figured out how I ended up in the middle of the ladies bathroom. Oddly enough, as I recall, the five women I ran into hardly even noticed me and no one seemed the least bit surprised. Then again, at this time of the year, they are all accustomed to looking at a turkey.

These Are A Few of My Favorite (and not so favorite) Things

I just spent five days in Glion sur Montreux, a postcard stamp village in the Swiss Alps, located about one hour’s drive from Geneva. It was a unique place to have a business meeting. After traveling aboard Lufthansa Airlines from Washington to Frankfurt, with a connecting flight to Geneva, I took a commuter train to Montreux. In Montreux, I boarded a cog rail train, which took me directly up the side of the mountain to the Hotel Victoria, the venue for the meeting. Although I’ve made numerous trips to Switzerland over the years, this was the first to a destination outside of Geneva, amazingly enough. A few observations drawn primarily from this and previous trips to the land of clocks, cows, cuckoos, and army knives follow.

A Few of My Favorite Things

1. The highlight of the travel en route to Switzerland had to be the self-cleaning toilet seat in the men’s room in the Frankfurt airport.

Immediately following the automatic flush, a cleaning device emerges from behind the seat, which transforms itself from an oval to an oblong as it rotates under the device, which emits a blue liquid. Being behind a locked door allows you to stare at this latest technological miracle without having to worry about other people frowning upon your adolescent fascination with the convenience. Obviously, I’ve made too many connections through Frankfurt if this is the kind of thing that now pushes my buttons. My first trips in the late ‘80s were to visit my son Stephen while he was in the neonatal intensive care unit in the 97th Army General Hospital. Now I go to watch the magic toilet seats. Something is definitely wrong with this picture.

2. Once in Switzerland, you have to love the fact that the trains and buses run on time.

People say you can set your watch by them, and it’s the truth. I did overhear one woman complaining, however, because her train left the station at 10:19 rather than its scheduled 10:17. Somebody’s head is sure to roll!

3. Chocolate. Chocolate with cream. A variety of cheeses. Cheese serve with chocolate and cream, smothered with raspberry sauce, and a free coupon to any Swiss hospital for a complimentary angioplasty.

4. The Hotel Victoria, first constructed in 1869

*At 700 m altitude, the Victoria offers exceptional views of the snow-covered Alps, which descend to the shores of a shimmering, placid Lake Geneva. It’s a truly spectacular sight.

*Gourmet meals in the hotel restaurant, which also serves as a training school for Swiss chefs

*Museum-quality masterpieces on the walls of the bedrooms, in all the meeting rooms, and throughout the lobby and hallways

*Plastic bag dispensers strategically located on the manicured grounds for picking up after one’s dog, although I’ve never witnessed a Swiss dog doing its business in public. Frankly, I’m surprised that such a thing would be permitted.

*A bidet in every room, perfect for rinsing out exercise clothes after a workout on the stationary bicycle

*WiFi, even though you shouldn’t desire such a distraction in a place like this

*Fresh apples and nectarines in bowls and flowers in vases on every floor

*The most accomodating hotel staff you will ever meet

5. The peace and tranquility and sheer beauty of life on the side of a mountain

6. The International Finishing School, which is located directly behind the hotel. The School, according to the sign I saw posted at the front gate during a walk, was founded to help tourists who have trouble cleaning their plates at the hotel restaurant, who do not make their beds before leaving their rooms, or fail to pick up after their dogs.

A Few of My Less Favorite Things

1. Everything about the Franfurt airport, with the exception of those nifty toilets

2. A curious Swiss predilection to recreate things in miniature

En route to the hotel from the cog rail station, the traveler passes a model of the village of Glion, complete with a mountain stream. There is something slightly askew with the collective psychology that delights in this kind of activity. I suppose it’s a fine craft and obviously a quite skillful thing to construct. It’s just that it makes me a bit anxious, the way I feel when I watch movies such as the Wizard of Oz and the Lord of the Rings, or when I see a circus clown in the flesh, up close and personal.

3. Pulling a large suitcase up the side of a mountain from the cog rail station to the hotel, while kicking myself for not bringing my suitbag

4. Discovering, after all these years, that the hills are not alive with the sound of music

People, we’ve been duped, unless you are willing to count the sound of the church bell that tolls several times a day, and all those ring tones from cell phones.

5. Order, timeliness, and all matter of perfection, with the accompanying low tolerance of the opposite of any of these

The one exception I observed was the prolific amount of stylized graffiti on warehouses and other buildings along the train route to Montreux. A chink in the armor perhaps?

6. An extention of #5 above: Roger Federer

It’s not so much all the winning, but rather how simple he makes it all look.

7. The Hotel Victoria

*No matter how one negotiates the shower set-up, a guest cannot avoid getting the floor wet or being partially exposed to the cold air at various times during a shower. There is a half-door attached to the wall, and a detached shower head with two aluminum anchors where it can be affixed, neither of which is high enough for a 6’ human to settle under comfortably. Holding the shower head securely in one hand while soaping up and shampooing with the other is not only unsatisfying, but I also usually end up with a ceiling much wetter than the floor.

*Advice to the restaurant staff: Enough already with the cream!

8. Based on a small number of observations of a non-scientific sample of the Swiss in action, my hypothesis is that folks tend toward a high degree of outrage over the most minor of infractions.

For example, on the train ride back to Geneva, there was an incident in which a would-be thief entered the train at one station, lingered in the aisle for a few minutes while pretending to be interacting with his phone, then suddenly removed a bag from the overhead bin directly above me. As soon as he realized he had a woman’s compact in hand, he dropped the bag, and quite nonchalantly exited the train, before disappearing down some stairs. Although I didn’t realize exactly what was transpiring until it was all over, perhaps because I had stored my bags elsewhere on the train and was half asleep, the event, all-in-all, seemed to me to be rather harmless, even a bit amusing.

Well, the bag’s owner obviously thought otherwise. She gave her traveling companions and others in the vicinity an ear-full for a good 20 minutes. She went on an on about this “fool,” questioning both his mental state and his audacity, then called the steward so she could repeat the entire story again. Many more passengers became engaged in this drama, both commiserating with her “tragedy” and questioning the current state of Swiss affairs. I suppose such an unusual event is a bit shocking for this place, but in the end no one was hurt and everyone departed with their personal effects.

9. Aggressive Birds in Search of Food Inside the Geneva Airport

On my return home, I was eating a croissant while leaning against a large clock (of course) in the Geneva airport before passing through security and making my way to the gate. After one bite, I heard some noise behind me, and turned to see three tiny birds, which had alighted on the top of the clock. Before I could take a second bite, one of the three dove at the croissant, broke off a section, adroitly retrieved it from the floor, and took off with his treasure. At first I was outraged that such a thing could happen in an airport! Then I thought about the incident on the train and decided to get over it and move on.

10. All that neutrality (soon to be a Broadway musical)

From the Archives: Breathing In, Breathing Out (February 2004)

I was stuck in an elevator yesterday afternoon for approximately one hour and twenty minutes. The process for getting rescued was not as smooth as I would have liked and I have brought this to the attention of the proper authorities. I assume that the building managers will be following up and issuing guidance on what to do should such an unlikely event occur in the future. In the meantime, and upon reflection, here are ten practical do’s and don’ts of proper elevator behavior under these circumstances.

1. Try not to think too much about where you are.

Fact: I am involuntarily suspended in mid-air in a highly confined space with questionable oxygen capacity.

Fiction: I am sitting on a sun-drenched beach sipping a cold Corona mesmerized by the steady ebb and flow of gentle waves lapping upon a sandy shore.

Always reach for the fiction.


2. Do not be fooled by the word “emergency,” which figures prominently in the elevator car.

With some degree of authority, I can tell you that this word is interpreted differently by different people depending on where you happen to be SITTING!


3. Pushing ALL the buttons in the car doesn’t help much when you are stuck BETWEEN floors.

It might make you feel better in the short term, but pushing the button of every floor isn’t likely to help or reassure you over the long term. I did it, and I was hopeful, momentarily. But then I had to stare at a fully illuminated panel for the duration of my stay. Looking at all those lighted buttons just reinforced the futility of trying to rescue myself. When the emergency people finally got in touch with us, however, I could take some pleasure in saying, “Yes, Sir, I tried all the buttons!”


4. Breathe in. Breathe out.


5. Before entering the elevator car, pay more careful attention to your prospective passengers.

Glass half full: Getting stuck may just be the best thing to happen to my social life in a long time.

Glass half empty: I’m learning more about my fellow hostage than I ever wanted to know.

Glass half full: This conversation is an excellent distraction from the reality that we are in this box together indefinitely, and it sure beats talking to myself.

Glass half empty: I should have asked him if he had a history of anxiety attacks, whether he suffers from claustrophobia, etc.

I was fortunate to have been traveling with a calm, cool and collected colleague from the IMF. I’m sure that we were both wondering in the first five minutes, however, which of us was going to be the first to crack. Nervous laughter, therefore, is inevitable.


6. Once the cavalry arrives, never, ever listen to the conversations that transpire between the technicians, who are probably sitting on top of the car.

Exchanges such as “The car just won’t move,” or “Let’s bump her down, but be careful,” or “I am going to get the crowbar and we’ll have to do this manually,” or “Yeah, there are people in there,” are not particularly reassuring. It is said that ignorance is bliss, and this is certainly one of those occasions.


7. Remind yourself, often, how much worse it could be.

Ever been in one of those elevators with piped-in Manilow? I’m talking about exclusive Manilow! Well, think about spending eighty minutes listening to that! Ever notice that these kinds of elevators always seem to be in buildings with lots of dental offices?


8. Breathe in. Breathe out.


9. Always carry snacks, but do not drink anything for at least one hour before boarding an elevator car.

Don’t beat yourself up over the fact that you skipped the restroom before getting into the car because you were in a hurry to get back to the office or to get to a meeting on time. If you happen to have a bottle of water on your person, think twice about taking a swig.


10. No bonus points will be awarded for trying to do something “heroic,” like breaking open the fireman’s emergency box, or climbing through the roof of the car, or jumping up and down to try to dislodge the car.

Also, pray that you are not stuck with that childhood daredevil friend of yours who always stood up in the canoe in the middle of the lake, or got a kick out of rocking the ferris wheel chair back and forth hundreds of feet above the ground!


My advice? Whenever possible, take the stairs.

Knowing

Fifteen hundred miles—from Maryland to Texas—is a long way for a middle-aged parent to drive with his college-age son, in a 12-year-old car, under a blazing sun, in relentless 100-degree temperatures, over three dog days in late August. The food, scenery, lodgings, and quality of sleep across five states are highly variable. Upon arrival at the university, several days of repeatedly climbing two flights of stairs while lugging lamps, a sofa, chairs, books, yet-to-be assembled furniture, and groceries into a student apartment on the edge of campus reminds parents they are not getting any younger and that their own college days are a memory fading fast.

Despite the rigors of this kind of trip, parents should cherish the experience. What better way these days for a father to reconnect with his son during this unusually long stretch of time that he is partially “offline.” Of course, the omnipresent cell phone, with continuous text messaging and twittering, keeps young people connected to the collective, to be sure. Nevertheless, it’s a perfect opportunity for a father to gather more insights about his son.

For example, on this trip I learned that my son has set a simple but challenging goal for this academic year: to reach out to and interact with more people. I told him this was a noble objective and I wished him well. I learned or re-learned how well he knows himself. When I suggested that he approach a certain task both slowly and patiently, he responded, “I don’t do slow and patient.” Spot on!

I also learned that he is still holding fast to his hopes of someday performing on the big stage. More power to him! Finally, I learned some things about his many friends, both virtual and actual, with whom he maintained a running dialogue throughout the journey. I took mental notes of what excited him about the coming semester, and what made him anxious.

Better yet, the time together offers an opportunity for children to come to know their parents better. Children should know their parents. Children should know their parents well. It’s important that both my boys know I like putting ketchup on my scrambled eggs, pickles in my sandwiches, and mustard on my pretzels.

Children should know what brings their parents joy, what makes them laugh, what makes them sad, what makes them cry. My boys know that I’m happiest and proudest when I watch them living out their dreams, whether on the baseball diamond or the stage. They know because I’ve told them so, even though I probably didn’t need to. Showing up at all those games and performances was evidence enough, I hope.

They know I love to sing my favorite songs aloud, even though I only know a few of the lyrics. They know I love to dance, even though they know I’m making up steps as I go and have no idea of how it will end. They know I have a difficult time finishing the movie Field of Dreams. They know oh so well how cell-phone challenged I am, and that I am better off avoiding all tasks involving fine motor skills.

They know I live and die with each of the 162 Phillies’ games from April to October every year, and that everything worth knowing in life I’ve learned from Seinfeld and Dave Barry.

Children should know what their parents stand for. The boys know I am proud of my work, even though they are hard-pressed to explain what I do to their friends. They know I cannot tolerate injustices served up by the self-absorbed and arrogant, particularly when they or vulnerable people are the direct victims.

Children should know how their parents feel about them. My kids know that my love for them is unconditional. That being said, I don’t think you can ever tell your kids enough how much you love them. So, I’ll keep working on that.

Most importantly, perhaps, is that kids should know how their parents feel about each other. Love, respect, admiration, fondness, friendship—I hope they got the message and that their lives become filled with the same for their loved ones.

I’ve come to realize over the years, through both reflections on my own life and by watching how my wife interacts with the boys, that knowing provides young adults with a sense of security and a compass to guide them in their travels in whatever direction they choose. And kids these days have so many wonderful directions in which they can travel! They prefer drawing up their own navigational charts, as it should be, but knowing their parents gives them the freedom to take risks, to fly, to travel to the end of the world.

I’ve been fortunate to travel the world, meet the most interesting and inspiring people, and do the most unusual things. There was a time, however, when I couldn’t venture far from my own dorm room, which was a mere thirty minutes from my home. The year before I entered college, my father died, suddenly, at the absurdly young age of 47. I was seventeen.

It happened during the Fall semester of my senior year in high school. Although my tight-knit family, friends, and teachers carried me through the Spring semester and graduation, it wasn’t long into my freshman year in college that I began to feel my confidence erode. Throughout my undergraduate years, I was adrift, sullen. In retrospect, I believe that not ever knowing my father, never having had an adult relationship with him, probably explains a lot about that period of painful disorientation.

So, it’s important that we know our kids and they know a lot about us—from the mundane to the profound. Life is good, but good can be fleeting. I am really looking forward to that May 2010 road trip from Texas to Maryland. Who knows? We might even buy cowboy hats along the way and take in a rodeo!

100 Words, 1,000 Emotions

Two years ago this week, my teenage son had cranial surgery. The search for the cause of the various neurological problems that caused considerable distress for him, his family, and his friends and teachers during his high school years had been long and circuitous, but we were fortunate that a diagnosis was made before the Chiari Malformation (a congenital birth defect) advanced to a more serious stage. It all came as quite a shock to us and forced him to delay the start of his university studies.

During his recovery, I wanted to capture the experience of the day of the surgery, which was probably the most distressing 3 hours of my life as a parent. I fumbled around for a bit. Then one Sunday while reading the “Life is Short, Autobiography as Haiku” feature in the Washington Post Arts and Style section, I decided to try my hand at a submission. The purpose of the feature, according to the Post, is to “Find a way to give insight into your life in under 100 words.”

I had never submitted anything to a newspaper or magazine before, and accordingly had very low expectations. The week I submitted my piece, the feature was discontinued. Until this week, I had lost track of the original piece. Reflecting recently on this challenging experience, I set about trying to track down the original submission. I'm glad I found it. It helps me remember, and every time I read it I take away new insights.

Since his consult with the neurosurgeon, my 17-year-old rarely mentioned the impending operation. When colleagues asked how he was doing, I replied, “Just what other teenagers are doing: reading Potter and hanging out with friends.” Moments before the surgery, he whispered, “I’m nervous.” My wife asked him why; he turned towards her and asserted, “Mom, let me have my fear.” Then he smiled. We all laughed. When he squeezed her hand as the anesthesia flowed, her eyes welled as did mine, and we watched the OR staff wheel him down the hall, by then already oblivious to everything around him.

Resistance is Futile

Thanks to advances in modern technology, it has become theoretically possible to carry out most of the rites and rituals of daily living without ever having to engage another human being. In truth, we can all cite examples of the many imperfections in today’s human-proof “systems.” It will only take the ITers a little longer to work out the remaining kinks in the architecture. In the meantime, I fear that most of the temporary human custodians of these imperfect systems may have already turned to the dark side.

Yesterday, I stopped at the Public Library. I picked out three books, two by John LeCarre and one by Wally Lamb, and approached the check-out desk. To my surprise, there were two self-checkout card readers. I passed my library card under the infrared light, but was immediately informed that there was “a problem” and was instructed to consult the librarian.

When she scanned my card, she looked at me severely, as librarians are prone to do, and declared that I “wasn’t even in the system,” in a tone that unambiguously suggested it was my fault. How could I not be in the system? I was issued a card based on my application. She commanded me to “show some ID,” which I did, whereupon she properly entered me into the system, checked out my books, gave me a receipt, and sent me on my way. There is no doubt in my mind that the “Borg” has assimilated this woman, at least partially, and that she and her colleagues are well on their way to full integration into the Collective.

Last week I went to the newly renovated grocery store in my neighborhood. All the grocery checkers were wearing new outfits, which carried the new logo and reflected the colorful décor of the store. It was as though the company had ordered more material for the curtains than was necessary and so decided to make uniforms out of the excess. At least they weren’t wearing those ghastly company hats. More surprising, however, were the self-checkout machines that had been installed in the aisles that heretofore had been reserved for “express” checkout, formerly staffed by people with a pulse.

Having had prior bad experiences at these automated machines at the Home Depot, I hesitated. Eventually, I decided it was better than waiting in line. Plus, I noticed a clerk milling about who had been assigned to help the risk-averse customers like myself. Everything was going well, until I tried putting my scanned items in a place where they didn’t belong. Next thing I knew I was caught in an automated error loop. I couldn’t proceed to check out, or pay, or receive a receipt.

Just as I was about to call for help, an alert was broadcast from the speaker on the side of the machine: “Danger, Will Robinson. Danger.” Immediately, the clerk came running. He was pressing buttons faster than a guy stuck in an elevator with a snake. We never spoke. Upon resolving my problem, he moved on, C3P0-like, to help the next bewildered, hapless human. As I passed him on my way to the exit, I caught a glimpse of his name tag. Just as I thought! It read: “I, Robot.”

Of course, these days we can accomplish just about anything from the comforts of our homes. We have online banking, shopping, job hunting, travel planning, and entertaining. With these conveniences, however, comes even more dehumanization. We believe we are the kings and queens of our castles. We are not! We are just Users, with unique electronic IDs and Passwords. And we are communicating with disembodied cyber entities that send us electronic messages from unattended sites to which we cannot respond. For anyone who has forgotten or lost an account password, you know exactly what I am talking about.

If you don’t want to wait for 24 hours and are brave or foolish enough to call the company instead, all that you can hope for is an automated message that informs you that you have been placed in a virtual line, with virtual humans, where you can expect to wait for 724 minutes before your call is answered. The only thing worse than the wait, which you can’t even complain about with the other poor souls in line, is having to listen to Barry Manilow doing a cover of the Bee Gees’ “Staying Alive.”

Just when you thought things could not get any more impersonal, you realize it’s time to refill a prescription. All you need is your touch-tone phone and your empty prescription bottle, and “Ready-Refill”, the automated system at your local drug store, is at your disposal. In this case, however, you’re not even a User ID and a Password. You are simply the Rx number in blue on the label at the bottom of your medicine bottle.

The situation isn’t any better at work. For security reasons my multiple passwords change every three months. New software systems are introduced. Updates and patches are applied every so often. When things go wrong, I’ve been instructed to call the Help Desk. One or two failed simple fixes later, however, the “helpers” always take control of my computer, remotely, from wherever in the world they are sitting, while I am reduced to watching the cursor bounce wildly around the screen. It’s Pong all over again! Windows are opening and closing so fast my head spins and I eventually go in search of an Advil.

Whenever this happens, I often wonder whether these IT folks ever have trouble checking out books or groceries. I am betting they don’t. I’m sure they have all crossed over.

From the Archives: Reflections from Hotel Room #224 (April 2004)

Soon after checking into the Hotel Des Milles Collines during a recent trip to Rwanda, I turned on the T.V., tuned to CNN, and lo and behold, there was Mr. Jean Aristide, Haiti’s President-in-exile, giving a press conference from, of all places, the Central African Republic. I doubt that Mr. Aristide’s brief sojourn in this doleful country in the middle of Africa was of sufficient duration for him to form any lasting memories; accordingly, I am happy to share some of my own. It’s a place I called “home” from 1987 to 1990.

Never say never

My journey to the “C.A.R.” actually began in 1986, in Togo, West Africa, at the exact moment when my wife glared at me and declared, “We are NEVER going there!” This was her reaction to a recounting of a series of incredible mishaps and misfortunes by a fellow Peace Corps couple, who had just transferred to Togo after one year in C.A.R.. Of course, one year later, my wife, my 2-year old son, and I found ourselves in Bangui, C.A.R’s capital, after I accepted a position with the CDC as a technical advisor to the government’s Ministry of Health. By the time you finish reading this piece, you probably won’t remember that my wife contracted malaria during her first month in the country, but I suspect that you will be impressed by her knack for forecasting trouble.

Wild game, big and small

I never made the trip to the far southwest of the country, where lowland gorillas and elephants welcome the rare visitor. I opted out because my job required that I be on the road so much of the time. The Lonely Planet Guide describes C.A.R.’s roads as “poor throughout the country.” This may be one of the great understatements of our time. Had I been asked, I might have said: “It’s all gorge, gulley, gulch, chasm, rift, and abyss.” I never regretted missing out on the animals as I was fortunate to experience many sights and sounds that most tourists never did. Take my hotel room in Bambari, one of C.A.R.’s 5 regional capitals, where one of the great incidents in modern entomology unfolded before my very eyes. Actually, my eyes were closed most of the time.

Following a late afternoon arrival, I noticed a solitary cockroach in my armoire as I was unpacking. Luckily, a full can of insecticide was included in the cost of the room, and so I set about giving my roommate a thorough spraying. About 8 hours later, I awoke to what sounded like Orville Redenbacher’s stove-top, quick-popping corn. What I witnessed was anything but. A population of dead or near-dead cockroaches, equal in number to the residents of Rhode Island, had come to rest peacefully on the top of my mosquito net. Many of their less-acrobatic colleagues had missed the net and had fallen directly to the floor—herewith the source of my middle-of-the-night tropical alarm. Those that clung to the ceiling—none of which, in any part, was visible to the naked eye—were in the throes of their last spasmodic movements. Having just spent two years in West Africa, during which time I came to appreciate how quickly the unusual could rapidly become the ordinary, I went back to sleep.



The beauty of C.A.R., however, was that you did not have to leave the comforts of your home to observe wild game. One afternoon my family and I had lunch with a reptilian guest. Mind you, I’m not talking about a picnic in our backyard; I’m talking about a routine sit-down at the dining room table. Well, there the snake was, having just emerged from the inside of the air conditioning unit, staring at the three of us from across the table like one of those zany Dr. Seuss creations. This time, though, we weren’t reading one of his stories to our son, we were actually in one!

Of course, one of our two security guards, to whom we had appealed for help, just happened to be a twin—which was good news for our uninvited visitor, but bad news for the rest of us. According to the customs of his ethnic group (the guard’s not the snake’s), if a twin killed a snake, the sibling would die. Luckily, his partner was not a twin and he managed to capture the creature, eventually carrying it out to the compound on a broken tree branch. “Snake on a Stick” made for wonderful theater and provided further evidence of my wife’s unassailable instincts.



Up against the wall, or I’ll wipe my brow

For anyone who has traveled extensively in Africa, the usually innocuous “shake-down” at an airport or a border crossing is as familiar and annoying as that mosquito buzzing your ear while you are trying to sleep at night—under the mosquito net. There are those who view this African institution as an unwelcome, even aggressive encroachment upon one’s personal space. For others, it can be an excellent opportunity to refine one’s negotiation skills, as the following vignette demonstrates.

Male and female police officers routinely took positions at different points along the circumference of Bangui’s central traffic circle. The female officers usually stood under an umbrella, which offered protection from C.A.R.’s equatorial sun. They commonly packed in their holsters 9-calibre hankies (I’m not kidding—not enough guns and ammo to go around, I guess). As a colleague of mine from CDC was moving through the circle in one of our project vehicles, he was stopped by one of Bangui’s finest male officers. After having spent a good 30 minutes “negotiating” the amount of fine to be paid for his egregious, albeit ill-defined, transgression, it appeared that my friend had finally secured his freedom and was about to be released.

During the negotiation, however, the officer had ascertained that my colleague was a physician. Consequently, the parting words turned from money to medicine, and the officer offered freedom with no fine in exchange for some treatments for whatever ills were ailing him at the moment. Without hesitation, my colleague pointed to the Toyota Landcruiser and asked the officers to read, aloud, what was printed on the door. He read, “Department of Preventive Medicine.” My colleague then replied, “If you had come to me BEFORE you had fallen ill, I might have been able to help you. Now that you are already feeling sick, there is not much I can do for you.” Recognizing that he had met his match, the officer bid farewell to my colleague, who drove directly into the Shake-Down Evasion Hall of Fame.

The Once and Future King (Not!)

If anyone has heard about the C.A.R., it is usually because of the notoriety of a former president, who declared himself “Emperor,” had the French pick up a major share of the tab for his coronation at a cost that exceeded the country’s annual GDP, and changed the name of the country to the “Central African Empire.” The excesses of Jean-Bedel Bokassa are legendary. He was eventually overthrown and went into exile in France and Cote d’Ivoire. His statue was torn down from the downtown traffic circle and the pedestal left in place (see photo above) as a silent testimony to this bizarre period in the country’s history. In 1987, our first year in C.A.R., the self-declared Emperor decided to return from exile, expecting to be welcomed home with open arms. The only arms that welcomed him were those slung over the shoulders of then-President Kolingba’s troops, who immediately arrested him as he stepped off the plane in Bangui.

He was eventually convicted of treason and other crimes of hyperbole and sentenced to death; his sentence, however, was later commuted to life in prison. He spent the rest of his days under house arrest at the Presidential Palace in Bangui, where he eventually died in virtual obscurity. One day, as my driver and I were passing by the palace, we saw an elderly, unshaven man in shorts and a tattered tee-shirt, washing his clothes, by hand, in a basin on a primitive wooden table located in a rear courtyard. My driver insisted that it was the erstwhile Emperor. Although I was not entirely convinced, if what my driver said was true, I’m willing to bet that these were not the new clothes this Emperor had in mind when he first took the job.

Oh, no, not another spoonful of sugar!

At a time before internet, DVDs, and CDs, in a place where there was not much to do after work, and where there lived few compatriots, finding diversions and distractions was always a major challenge. There were swimming and tennis at the U.S. ambassador’s house, the occasional softball game, and even some basketball with the local university students at the house of the U.S. Marine detachment. At our house we had a pool, which had achieved some notoriety because its diving board had been installed at the shallow end. The Central Africans, particularly the young people, were passionate about basketball. In 1987 the national team won the Africa’s Cup. The day after an animated and exuberant victory celebration through the city, a colleague from the Ministry turned to me at one point and said, with no small amount of discomfort, “Well, I guess it’s nice being #1 in something other than infant mortality.” Sad, but true.

For us, having a young child meant organizing playdates and watching videos at home. We brought with us from the States a couple of classics—“Mary Poppins” and “The Sound of Music”—to hold us over until our personal effects arrived. The shipment took far longer to arrive than we anticipated, however, and we were forced to watch or listen to these two films more times than the manufacturer recommended, and twice as many times as was legally permitted. To this day I still suffer from Post Julie Andrews Traumatic Stress Syndrome. The principal symptoms are random, inexplicable urges to clean out my chimney, and transitory impulses to jump from any second-story window with umbrella in hand.

Lepidoptera flying amok

What the C.A.R. might lack in artistic tradition, it certainly makes up for in creativity. C.A.R. exports butterfly wing “art” all over Africa, and the world as the living rooms of many a home in Atlanta or Washington, DC can attest. Again, as with the word “road”, I use the word “art”, liberally. Whatever you choose to call these creations you can be sure to find just about any image of an animate or inanimate object fashioned out of butterfly wings: village women carrying large water buckets on their heads, birds (parrots are particularly popular), assorted wild animals, and even circus performers. Two collages that I’ve never seen in African markets, or hanging in anyone’s home in the U.S., however, are the butterfly “portraits” of then-President Reagan and then-Vice-President Bush, which were hanging in the lobby of the U.S. Embassy in Bangui. The likenesses created by the “artists” were uncanny.

Oh, the places you’ll see and the people you’ll meet

One of the nice things about being a resident advisor was that consultants and colleagues were always passing through. Many of the consultants were quite entertaining, while others were memorable for other reasons. For example, there was one consultant who was an accomplished squash and tennis player, a very dexterous juggler, a man of great humor, and a connoisseur of chicken bones. He used to eat all the bones at one sitting. He was very popular with my Central African colleagues and with the expat community, as well as a favorite at our house, with the exception of our dog, who used to eye those bones with considerable, albeit unrequited, longing. I will always remember the colleague who almost dove into our pool—from the diving board. And then there was a colleague who accidentally slammed the door of the project vehicle on my fingers.

During supervisory visits to the interior of the country, European and American missionaries kindly offered me lodging. The European Fathers were most hospitable, albeit men of few words, even fewer possessions, and Spartan quarters. The Americans were equally hospitable, albeit more chatty, and some had spent many, many years in C.A.R.; accordingly, their homes had become repositories of Americana Past. As I strolled from kitchen to living room to bathroom, I always felt as though I was walking through a 1952 Sears showroom that had suddenly materialized before me.

For administrative purposes, I had occasion to travel to Cameroon once a year to touch base with the staff at the local USAID office. Most of these trips were uneventful, with one exception. At the time, the passport control area at the Yaounde airport was organized into 5 kiosks, each designated by several of the first letters of the traveler’s last name, and manned by highly specialized agents, as I would soon discover. On this particular trip, to my dismay, approximately 90% of the arriving passengers happened to have last names beginning with the letter M or N. Consequently, a long queue formed at this kiosk, while the few remaining passengers moved quickly through the other lines. Once they had cleared these travelers, the agents responsible for these kiosks closed their books and took off, leaving the unfortunate, middle-of-the-alphabet-travelers to spend most of their morning in line at the airport.

An amazing labor of love

We had arranged for my wife to depart C.A.R. a full 2 months prior to her projected delivery date. So, when a complete stranger came to tell me that my spouse was in labor at the precise moment when we were about to begin a training course for health workers deep in the interior of the country, I was skeptical. She was only in the 6th month of her pregnancy! Nevertheless, he informed me that he had just received a radio communiqué from the U.S.Embassy, and insisted that I return to Bangui immediately.

We still laugh about the moment of our reunion at the local clinic in Bangui where my wife had been admitted. She thought my ashen complexion was a reaction to seeing her in this unexpected place, three months ahead of schedule. She was already well into labor, the medical evacuation plane from Switzerland was not expected for another 8-9 hours, and no one was quite sure whether there was an incubator anywhere in the city. Even if there were, the electricity in Bangui at this time of the year was completely unreliable. The truth was that I never thought I would survive the six-hour return trip from the bush that we completed in just four! The driver claimed, at least ten times, that he used to work for Bokassa. Well, the self-declared Emperor sure could have used this guy two years earlier when apparently the royal welcoming party got caught in traffic somewhere on its way to the airport.

Miraculously, my wife’s labor did not progress, and she held on through the escorted ride to the airport in the President’s personal ambulance, and the seemingly endless wait for the plane on the tarmac, on a stretcher, in the most chic hospital attire. Once she was successfully loaded onto the plane, we all breathed a sigh of relief as we watched her head off to Frankfurt and the U.S. 97th Army General Hospital. It was there that our son was born 2 days later, weighing in at 2.2 lbs, and where he would stay, in the neonatal intensive care unit, for the next three months (and in Frankfurt for another four). My older son and I joined the new baby and my wife a few days before Christmas, and it will always be, in our collective memory, the best of all our holidays.

During the next seven months of family separation life was far more challenging, and my memories of C.A.R. are less clear. One last recollection cannot help but come to mind, however. The event in question occurred on the eve of my departure from C.A.R.

Excuse me, but do you work here?

It was barely perceptible, but unmistakenly familiar—the sound of the glass door, sliding, like a fingernail across a chalkboard, in its rusted metal track in the upstairs living room. I rose sleepily from my bed, stumbled over to the window, and peered, with difficulty, through a covering of screening and metal security bars. It is difficult to see much of anything through these windows at night. The back of someone’s head against the screening, however, makes the task even more difficult. In fact, as I stepped back to gain my bearings and a better view, it became clear that it wasn’t just any head, but one attached to shoulders, over one of which was slung a “coupe-coupe”. A “coupe-coupe” is a crude version of a scythe, usually employed by residents throughout C.A.R. to cut back the elephant grass found throughout the country, which, despite repeated cuttings, insists on behaving like a cowlick on a bad hair day and just plain refuses to be controlled.

My first thought was: “Does this guy work for me?” When I came to my senses and realized what was transpiring, I approached the window, and, after a deep breath, screamed, directly in his ear, “Thief!” The kid almost had a heart attack. He leaped into the air, his coupe-coupe went flying, and he scrambled to find his legs, which suddenly were failing him. As the cacophony of whistling from security guards gradually unfurled down the river’s edge, where most of the embassy and expatriate residences were located, it wasn’t long before six more pair of feet joined those of the erstwhile “look-out,” who, while still in control of all his visual faculties, was now running around with impaired hearing.

The other 12 feet came tumbling, in cascade, down the external staircase that led from my house. I watched with a mixture of amazement and bewilderment as best I could as they scaled my compound wall and disappeared into the African night. By this time, Dali, our German Shepherd, came upon the scene. I don’t know where he had been (probably looking for chicken bones!), but now the chase was over, and the thieves were halfway across the river to Zaire in their dugout boats.

Luckily, they only made off with our VCR. Unfortunately, they forgot to grab the Julie Andrews videos on the way out!