Hope Springs Eternal

For a sport in which almost every dimension of individual and team performance is quantified and summarized, the game I’m watching today holds no statistical significance whatsoever.

For a sport that fields nine players at a time, usually with the highest-paid stars in the lineup, it is possible that none of them will play in today’s game; at best, some of them might play a third of it.



For a sport in which the home team usually thrives on playing in its own ballpark, the game I’m watching today is being played 1,000 miles away from the home team’s ballpark.

Why, then, would 7,000 people pay between $12 and $33 to watch the Philadelphia Phillies play the Houston Astros in the middle of a weekday afternoon in March in Gulf Coast Florida?

Even after seven Springs of watching Grapefruit League games in eight Sunshine State stadiums—like today’s game at Bright House Field in Clearwater—I can’t presume to speak for the other 6,999 spectators in the stands, but I am reasonably sure that at least some of them are here today for the same reasons as I.



The majority of folks who attend these games generally fall into three categories. The first group is made up of the retirees who have lived most of their lives outside of Florida but now call the state home year-round. The second group consists of “Snowbirds”: retirees who pass three or four winter months in Florida but live elsewhere the rest of the year. The last group, of which I am a member, is composed of empty-nesters, young couples, and families on vacation for a week or two.



As generationally different as we may be, we all have one thing in common: we yearn to escape the East Coast and Mid-western snowdrifts, the back-breaking shoveling, the plows that dump the snow just cleared from your driveway back in your driveway, the numbing cold, and those damn ice dams in the gutters.



This place, this stadium, is where we meet to put out of our minds those not-so-distant, unpleasant memories to make room for the distant, more pleasing ones we associate with this splendid game of Spring and Summer.

At game time today—precisely 1:05 pm—the temperature in Clearwater is only about ten degrees warmer than it is in Philadelphia. Everyone in the stadium knows this thanks to a first-inning ritual—a 30-second weather broadcast on the jumbo screen in left field—which features a local meteorologist who announces, with a broad smile, the current temps in Clearwater and Philly.

In years past I have witnessed dramatic differences—from between 20 to 40 degrees. On those occasions, I can attest that the beneficiary of the loudest cheers of the day is not a baseball player but rather that forecaster with the shining white teeth!

Temperatures in the 70s, warm gulf breezes, the smell of sunscreen mixed with the aromas of cheesesteaks and brat fresh off the barbi, seagulls circling and sometime alighting in centerfield, even those distracting ballgirls from Hooters down the right and left field foul lines make it easy to forget about those back-to-back killer snowstorms in Maryland in February.



The second reason I love to come here is for the access. In no major league stadium can a fan get as close to so many players, managers and coaches (most of whom are former players) as he or she can in a Grapefruit League park. All the parks are autograph- and photograph-friendly, and the players and coaching staff expect and seem to genuinely enjoy the interaction with the fans.

While taking some pictures prior to the start of the game, at one point I had to step aside for two retirees who were making their way down the stairs and onto the field. Turns out they were on their way to meet with the Phillies manager. I was close enough to take some pictures of all of them.

When I returned to my seat before the first pitch, I had occasion to talk to one of the guys, who happened to be wearing one of those tropical fish shirts that even AARP members can only get away with in Florida. He was sitting in the seat in front of me and when I asked him how he managed that slick move, he explained that he and his buddy had gone to school with the manager, but that they hadn’t seen him for over 50 years! Despite the passage of time, the Phillies manager recognized them and invited them down to reminisce while he autographed some baseballs for them before the game. Now that’s access!

Unfortunately, I’m not able to send Trop Fish Shirt the nice digital photograph I took of him and his school chums. He may be the owner of a cool knit, but he has no email!



Young fans sitting in the first ten rows always have a reasonable chance of walking away with a souvenir baseball every half inning, as players routinely toss them to the kids in the crowd on their way to the dugout.

In the third inning of today’s game, an "adult" stepped in front of a kid and intercepted one of the balls—the kind of signature move that has earned the City of Brotherly Love sports fans a somewhat tainted reputation. The player who tossed it and followed its flight into the hands of this villain was on the verge of going ballistic when the “adult,” taking note of the reaction, quickly came to his senses and turned the ball over to the child, thereby avoiding a potentially ugly scene on this lovely day at the park.

For kids of every age, there’s a certain thrill associated with being so close to the playing field, which all these stadiums afford. Today at Bright House the grass is intensely green and appears to have just returned from its regularly scheduled appointment at the Aveda salon. The infield dirt is Crayola chocolate brown, lightly dampened about 20 minutes before game time, with a result so perfectly smooth and serene it’s almost a shame anyone has to run on it. The grounds crew tends to the infield with enough care and precision to make even the gardeners at Versailles blush.



The game itself is accessible to the fans. Parents can take their kids without having to dip into the college tuition savings account. Women can get into and out of the restroom within five minutes! Concessions are plentiful and the lines are manageable. If you prefer, you can let the food and drink come to you.

Although this arrangement is no different from what one finds in the major league parks, the vendors seem more casual, even entertaining, perhaps because they don’t have to walk so far lugging around those back-breaking containers filled with beer, soft drinks and peanuts. It might also be that they have fewer badly behaved customers to contend with, although beer went on sale here this morning at 11:00 am.

For example, the middle-aged, pony-tailed “Beer Man” works the crowd hard, but takes time to chat and joke with the fans. During “last call,” he pleads with the crowd to buy one more beer so he can get a haircut and buy a new pair of shoes for his aching feet.

“Lemonade Man” has a standard mantra, which is amusing in the first inning, annoying by the fourth, but then as familiar by the seventh-inning stretch as the crack of a bat: “Dehydration, just say no. Lemonade, just say yo.” Cos-tan-za!

Even though “Italian Ice Man” is hawking three different colors—red, white and blue—today there are no takers. A couple of minutes later, he reappears in a yellow lemonade shirt carrying a rack of tall cups with those built-in straws. Unlike his colleague, however, he doesn’t have a catchy tune, and just can’t move his product.

Finally, for an avid Phillies fan such as I who hasn’t lived in the Philadelphia area since 1976, last attended a home game when the club played at Veterans Stadium, and only catches the Phils on TV or when they come to DC to play the Nationals, there is something comforting and reassuring about being surrounded by a community of like-minded souls, all wearing old- and new-school red caps and shirts!



I had to chuckle, however, at a few of those $95 replica jerseys with “C. Lee” on the back, a star from last year’s team who was traded during the winter to Seattle.

For a few blissful hours, I am in my comfort zone; I feel connected to my extended family, and to all those memories, good and bad, dating from 1960, when I first became assimilated into the Pinstripe Collective. Between 1960 and 2009, the 49 years I’ve been following the Phillies, they have played 7,952 regular season games, winning 3,936 of these, or 49.5%. Not that I’m keeping score!

This is also a very aberrant Philly crowd. Everyone is relaxed. There are smiles all around. Only gulls, no boo birds are in attendance. A lot of people are kicking back and enjoying themselves, the weather, and the game. Of course, today’s game has no effect on the pennant race. This is not to say that the fans are not paying attention or holding the players accountable—far from it.

For example, a shortstop fighting for a roster spot as a utility infielder made two fielding errors on easy plays in consecutive innings. In the next inning, upon fielding the ball cleanly and throwing out the runner, he was serenaded with a Bronx cheer. When he tipped his hat to the crowd, everyone laughed. If that were to happen in July, the shortstop wouldn’t dare make such a gesture, and it might not be boos alone reigning down on his head.

One of my greatest pleasures is to talk up the people sitting in my section, just to find out what brings them here and where they come from. I especially like the retirees, many of whom have Spring Training season tickets and have a very long and intimate history with and love of the Phillies organization. They are not bashful, however, about expressing their discomfort with the way the game is played today or with the amount of money the players “earn.” Some of them actually care who wins today’s game.

As I watch the 9th inning unfold, during which the Phillies eventually score a run to break a tie and win the game on a clutch pinch-hit single, my mind begins to wander.

I wonder how many of the key players will remain healthy throughout the 162-game season and thereby keep alive the promise of another successful campaign.



I wonder what Gail and I will do with the rest of our day. Hit the gulf beaches? Play a round of miniature golf? Dine on the beach? Stop at the Salvador Dali museum on the way home? I forget momentarily that we’re empty-nesters—we can do whatever we want! Maybe we’ll do everything.



And what about next year? I’m hoping I can talk Gail into two Spring trips: one back here, and the other to Arizona. I’ve never seen a Cactus League game!

That just doesn’t seem right.

CHUNK!

“First time out?” he asked with a chuckle, soon to be followed by a broad grin that traveled from the west coast of his left ear to the east coast of his right lobe as he passed in front of me and headed down the path to the parking lot, his golf bag slung over his shoulder.

“How did you guess?” I hollered after him, as I painstakingly peeled the plastic off each of my twelve Wilson club heads while standing on the steps of the pro shop.

It was bad enough that it had taken me such a long time to get to a golf course; yet here I was, five minutes before my first lesson, and I’m fumbling around with the factory-sealed packaging. This can’t be the way Nicklaus started, I thought.

Worse yet, as I stood there in the freezing cold on this windy Friday afternoon in February, dressed more like a spectator who had just returned from the bobsledding venue in Vancouver than an aspiring golfer, I could already hear the guys at Easy J’s D.C. lounge rolling with laughter as their buddy regaled them with alcohol-embellished tales of "Rube the Left-Handed Rookie."

“Bartender,” I could imagine my smiling friend calling out later this afternoon, “Another round for my friends so we can toast the next Phil Mickelson.”

When I decided to give up running and men’s basketball because of multiple ankle surgeries several years ago, I thought of taking up golf. But instead I caught the cycling bug, which I’ve not been able to shake. It has consumed all of my free time. When I’m not riding outside, I’m riding inside.

But then last summer, on the 15th of July, my son, an ex-college baseball player turned golfer sent me a set of left-handed starter clubs for my 55th birthday. When I called him on his mobile to thank him, he said, “Take some lessons, Dad. It’s something we can do together for the rest of our lives.”

With the anticipation of a bright future of considerable father-son bonding fresh in my mind, I introduced myself to my instructor, and then asked him straightaway if 55 wasn’t too late to be learning how to play this game.

“Not at all,” he said. “This is a game you can play for the rest of your life.”

With two lessons under my belt now, I’m convinced that he left out an important adverb that first day, a word he should have inserted immediately after the word play: that would be “poorly.” A few initial impressions that have led me to this preliminary conclusion follow.

First, there seems to be way more geometry and physics involved than I am capable of mastering.

There is a lot of talk about straight lines, body parts forming triangles, and feet and shoulder squaring. Torque is key, of course. There is even an analogy to a lever and pully system, and something about pulling strings. My instructor fails to understand, however, that I barely passed high school geometry, and that I opted for psychology over physics.

I’ve never been a particularly good visual thinker. My spouse and sons can put things together without looking at the instructions; even with a video, simple drawings that any fourth-grader could understand, and user-friendly Allen wrenches, I can’t assemble an IKEA shoe rack.

Second, the ball is disturbingly small, exacting, and seems to have a mind of its own.

Any ball small enough that can be concealed in a player’s pocket shouldn’t be allowed on the field of play, in my opinion. It’s not even big enough for a professional to autograph, for goodness sake.

Basketballs, baseballs, softballs, footballs—in my book they are all o.k. You can’t hide them from other players or the referees, and you can get everybody on the team, from the office, or in the fraternity to sign one!

Weighing in at 1.62 ounces (45.93 grams) with a diameter of 1.68 inches (42.67 mm) the golf ball just sits there on the ground challenging me—a kinetic, heat producing 180-pound human—to simply hit it. Advantage: golf ball.

That lifeless, little white orb obliges me to think about six things when addressing it, twelve things during the backswing, and then twenty-four more on contact and follow-through. Any pre-conceived notion that I had about golf being a simple game of “Seeing the ball and hitting it” evaporated within the first fifteen minutes of the first lesson. This little mass of dimples (anywhere between 250 and 450 of them) shouldn’t be able to exercise that kind of power over any person, male or female.

After finishing my second lesson and wishing my instructor a nice weekend, I stayed at the driving range and hit a bucket of 100 of these wicked spheres with my 7 iron. Approximately nine of them flew straight (and I’m fairly certain that I am exaggerating, by a large measure).

Finally, I fear this game may be more of an art than a science, despite the money I’m plunking down for lessons from a pro.

“Hey, Lefty!” I heard from over my shoulder while I was bending over to place another handful of balls on the mat.

I looked up to discover I had been joined in my cage by another soul who just couldn’t wait until Spring to get started. He didn’t look like much of a golfer, and he certainly wasn’t dressing the part. He was wearing big clunky work boots—the kind construction guys wear to the site each day.

“While I was standing out there on the path, I heard the way you were making contact,” he said. “You’re hitting the mat before the ball on too many shots. You’re chunking it, Lefty! Move the ball back. It’s is too far forward,” he opined.

Of course, my instructor had just finished telling me to move the ball UP because I had it too far back.

“You have to find your own comfort zone, man,” he continued. “Don’t let these guys try to make you into the next Tiger Woods. Just find what works for you and whack that sucker.”

“Thanks for your advice,” I said, turning my head ever so slightly to prevent him from seeing my eyeballs rolling around in my head. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

As I was reviewing the half-dozen things I needed to do when addressing the ball, my train of thought was interrupted by another “Hey, Lefty!”

“Another thing—you’re bending over the ball too far,” he offered. “Try to stand up more, pull your head back, but keep your head in when you hit it. You don’t need to look up. I’ll tell you whether it was a good shot.”

This unsolicited torrent of advice continued for another fifteen minutes or so, until he mercifully moved to the tee in the next cage.

After “whacking” a couple more balls, I hear from the other side of the wall: “Hey, Lefty, sounds to me like your ball is drifting forward again. Move it back. You’ll be o.k. Find your spot!”

After sending each of my last five balls slicing down the fairway, I packed my things, and paused to watch my “coach” hit a few.

Wouldn’t you know it, he hit every ball a ton, and every one of them was straight as an arrow.

He was really enjoying himself.

Go figure.

COZY SANCTUARY

My wife consumes more books in a week than Red Sox fans knock back over-priced cups of beer in a season at Fenway.

During the last two weeks alone, she read La’s Orchestra Saves the World, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Olive Kitteridge, and Three Cups of Tea—all while on a rather intense business trip to Uganda! All four have been sitting on my bedside table since the holidays, but I’ve managed to read only one!

Being in a book club certainly helps her keep her production numbers up—she’s been in three clubs off and on during the last thirteen years here in the DC area.

She’s an unabashed, card-carrying library patron and comes from a long line of librarians: her mother was a librarian, her sister is a librarian, and for two years she herself cataloged Spanish and Portuguese publications at the UNC-Chapel Hill Graduate Library.

If I can’t find her in the stacks of the local public library, it’s a sure bet I can track her down at Barnes and Noble, sometimes running into her while she’s standing in line with her selections and her cherished Discount Membership Card, often reading a magazine while she waits.

In a word, she’s a page-turner who loves a tome with a spine, and has no plans to make the jump from papyrus to E-Book. Speaking of loyalty, she also has her favorites: Kingsolver, McCall Smith, Tolkein, Asimov, Christie, LeGuin, Francis, Conan Doyle, and Rowling—she’s read everything they’ve written.

When I asked her recently about her earliest memories of reading, she told me that comic books and comic strips were among her first loves. When she was young, her mother bought her an Archie, a Superman, or an Aqua Man (not to be confused with the Aqua Velva Man) once a week at Tom’s Grocery in Fitchburg, MA—notwithstanding the contemptuous looks from her mother’s friends, who were convinced that these rags would impede her intellectual development.

With the exception of a brief period of motherhood when she introduced the X-Men to our sons, she put away the comics a long time ago. The comic strips, however, have remained a life-long habit. First thing Sunday morning, she has black tea at the kitchen table with Zits, Doonsebury, Prince Valiant, Hagar the Horrible, Dennis the Menace, Garfield, and the incomparable characters from Peanuts.

As serendipity would have it, in 2005 she had the opportunity to meet all her favorite Charles Schulz characters, up-close and personal, when our younger son was cast as Linus in his high school production of the Broadway Musical You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. Snoopy, “Chuck,” Lucy, Sally, Linus, Shroeder, Peppermint Patty, Pig Pen, and the Little Girl with the Red Hair—they were all up there on the big stage for several performances.



We still laugh whenever we recall Linus’s ill-fated effort to convince his friends, and himself, that he could live without his beloved blanket in the number “My Blanket and Me:”


It’s a cozy sanctuary
But it’s far from necessary
Cause I’m just as self-reliant as before
As a simple demonstration
Of my independent station
I will go and leave my blanket on the floor
Yes I’ll walk away and leave it
Though I know you won’t believe it
I’ll just walk away and leave it on the floor
Yes, I’ll walk
Away
And
Leave
It
On
The…
AAARRRRGGGHHH!

[He runs back to gather the blanket and while clutching it to his chest, says to the blanket:]

Don’t ever let me do that again!



So I had to chuckle when not long after the final curtain had been drawn on the show she told me she was joining the “Linus Project” at her office. The first image that came to mind was that of a collection of blanket-dependent cerebral types, spreading then sitting upon their special keepsakes at lunch time, to think about and reflect deeply upon the nature of the world as it is and could be—a kind of a “quiet time” for adults.

Following a strategically placed poke with her crochet hook, she explained that the Project is a national network of people who knit or crochet blankets for children in crisis. In 2009 alone, colleagues, friends and family from my wife’s office donated 458 blankets to hospitals, shelters for battered women and children, and other agencies in the greater Washington metropolitan area and North Carolina. The group is planning a shipment of blankets to Haiti next month. Since 2005, my wife has averaged about four blankets a year.

Although I kid her about how she will have plenty of time later in life to make blankets in her front-porch rocker while sitting there in her fashionable housecoat and hairnet, the response from the service professionals who receive and distribute the blankets is no joke.

Sometimes their letters of thanks can produce goose bumps on even the thickest-skinned.

"It is a pleasure to thank you again…for the beautiful blankets and quilts that we have received from you via the Project Linus…Your kindness to the patients we serve is tremendously appreciated. We will be giving them to mothers who have already or will soon be giving birth as well as to the many children who are admitted as patients to the Hospital. Your outreach to our families helps us to send the message of caring that is so important. It is through the efforts that you have taken that the hearts of the staff and the people we serve are filled. Again, thank you for your commitment, your talent and your generosity in sharing yourself with us."

****

"…I thank you so very much for the fifteen blankets that you donated. These “hold-able hugs” will be distributed to hospitalized or traumatized children in local hospitals or shelters so that they may be available for holiday admissions. It will make a hospital stay over the holidays easier for children who would much rather be at home. The colors of your blankets are always so child-friendly…They will bring both physical and emotional warmth and comfort to the children who receive them. They will bring comfort to their parents as well, who are often more frightened than the children…It is only through donations from caring people like you that Project Linus can continue to reach so many children…"

****

In the months ahead I am confident my wife will continue to burn through those paperbacks at a high rate. How she can find more time to increase her blanket production numbers, however, is another question. Yesterday she muttered something about a “Husband Project.”

Oh, good grief!

The Beast Is Still In The Box

As the nation’s jobless rate hovers at around 10%, a frightening statistic, I think there may be some hope on the horizon that employment prospects will improve, at least for the unemployed twenty-somethings, who are having a particularly difficult time finding interesting and gainful employment these days.

Baby-boomers, particularly those who initially were happy to see their children move out of the house, now find themselves desperately in need of “translators,” “enablers,” and “corner ring managers”—young people who can help us find our way in the modern world.

Nowhere is this need more apparent than in an Apple Store.

A colleague convinced me to buy an IPod Touch. The device has a nice array of features that my cellphone-for-dummies does not, most importantly, internet and email access wherever there is wireless connectivity.

What is most attractive is the one-time payment; purchasing an IPhone, for example, would entail a subscription with a new service, monthly charges, and a fat penalty plus twenty short, sharp lashes across my back applied by some guy in a cape from my existing service for voiding my current contract.

I had no doubt whatsoever that this acquisition was a good idea, or so I thought until I walked into this very strange establishment.

The encounter started off on a high note: within ten seconds, a young saleswoman, as tall as I, greeted me with a bright smile and immediately asked how she could help. I said I was in search of an IPod Touch.

“Excellent,” she replied, as she pulled her red hair back from in front of her eyes and tucked the strands behind her ear. “Do you have any questions?”

I responded that my colleague had given me a quick demo of the power of the machine and that I was convinced that this was exactly what I wanted.

Although in retrospect I cannot recall with certainty what she said next, I believe an “Awesome” fell from her lips, or perhaps that was merely what I had expected to hear from a woman young enough to be my daughter, and who’s hair had just fallen in front of her eyes for a second time in the space of the ninety seconds that I had been standing there.

Her next query—“You are aware, are you not, that you can only get access to the internet if you are in a wireless area?”—I initially found a bit strange, but then realized that she was probably obliged, by virtue of her training and the insistence of her handlers, to push the IPhone or some other costly device that she was led to believe (not incorrectly) that middle-aged people are incapable of mastering.

I was aware of the Touch’s access limitation, but the mere posing of the question was enough to put the slightest doubt in my mind about the merit of this purchase, and made me painfully aware that I had entered into a foreign country without passport or translator.

In my less confident state, I muttered, “Are there instructions in the box?”—as though I would be able to follow them even if there were!

She declared, with what I registered to be just the slightest bit of derision, “Here at Apple, we are very green.”

Had my translator been by my side, he would have explained, “Mr. Naimoli, she is saying you are in deep do-do.”

Having realized that her left lead had struck a glancing blow, she followed with a right hook, “It’s all very INTUITIVE. When I bought my IPhone, I just stayed up all night until I figured it out.”

Translation: “Mr. Naimoli, do you remember how you hated those video games your kids used to play because you could never figure out exactly what was the objective? Welcome back, Kotter! You are in for a world of hurt, more than you ever imagined.”

As I began to sway, I first felt my knees buckle, and then I desperately tried to regain my balance with one last squeaky, nerdy question:“Will I need a stylus?”

She backed me into the corner with a left-right combination, and with her left eyebrow ever so slightly raised in the form of a soft arc, which was only partially visible through that reckless hair of hers that had fallen in front of her face, again, she sighed: “No, your finger will do fine. Only people who have trouble reading the small keys need those things.”

Kaboom! Thud!

“Stay right here and don’t move,” she barked with authority, like a referee standing over a boxer who had just hit the deck and was being counted out, “while I go in the back room to look for your Touch.”

As I stood there perspiring and taking short, deep, frequent breaths, another salesman came to my aid.

“You look a little lost, sir.” “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

I warbled, “No, thanks,” as I suppressed a very intense urge to ask for a cool damp cloth and some smelling salts.

Within five minutes she reappeared with my IPod in one hand and a mobile checkout machine in the other, like the ones they use at airport rental car agencies when you return your car. I was in such a fragile state that had she asked for my keys I would have probably turned them over to her as well!

“One IPod Touch and 2 screensavers. There you go,” she snapped, sounding eerily like the former governor of Alaska. She then uttered a string of instructions about downloading ITunes, and something about an App Store, and I believe I heard the word “interface” thrown into that Scrabble-like jumble of words that were spilling from her mouth, none of which I was absorbing in my highly compromised state.

I thanked her, but midway through my turn for the door, I remembered the other reason I had come to the store. I inquired: “Do you have any mousepads?"

“Mousepads?” she hissed, incredulously. “I haven’t seen one of those in years!” she laughed.

Translation: “Mr. Naimoli, you’ve been exposed. Run from this place as fast as those wobbly legs can carry you before she rips that IPod out of your trembling hands. And never come back!”

As I was taken up in the rush of mall shoppers who were entering and exiting this popular location, I thought I heard a trailing shout-out: “Mr. Naimoli, call me on my IPhone if you have any trouble over at Radio Shack.”

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)