Paris

The table by the window hasn't been cleared so I hover a bit, je prefere le fenetre, s'il vous plait.  they clear it what seems reluctantly.  I ask for cafe creme, not American coffee please.... And the waiter in his beautiful grey suit hesitates for a moment as if searching in his data banks for the meaning of the words, and says "of course" that some how ends up sounding like, "you pain in the cou!"

Omlettes are prepared to order, the buffet is loaded with   breakfast selections familiar to the Engliah, German, American, and Italian guests. The window looks out on a grey day, threatening rain.  I see a white van, now a canvas for a graffitti artist- parked under a bridge.  Couples surround me, from all over the world, I see them all with the new eyes of a woman on her own.  What drives us all to union? What drives some of us to solitude? 

The waiters here are all rude in that uniquely professional and French way.

They bump into you without apology, bang down your drink, leave you the bill abruptly.  But they act like this to everyone and so... And so its ok.  I am not singled out for rude service today, I am in fact just like everyone else.  Even the French find Parisians obnoxious. 

The catacombs under the city are filled with neatly stacked femurs and skulls, all once warm, complicated people.  I wander in the dimly lit caves and corridors near the groups of silly tourists and serious artist, alone and conscious of my experience.  Too close and I am subsumed into their banter, too far and I am anxious, small, female, vulnerable.  The placards in Latin and French, quotes from Ovid to Rousseau, are easy enough for me to read.  I thank my mother silently for my education.

Above ground the rain spits a bit.  No one has yet donned their spring clothing, the boots and leather jackets are still in full view.  Another month I guess before the sparkle of color hits the streets. Still, the trees are in bloom and the birds sing sweetly; spring is on its way.

At the top of every Metro station there is a couple kissing.  Kissing is so acceptable here it is almost unacceptable not to kiss. Sweet goodbyes are said by couples parted by their routines, or obligations.  Prolonged goodbyes decorate the streets.

At night I listen to a German lady sing Spanish jazzy loves songs in a club called Havanna Jazz - out side Chicanos posture and grub cigarettes from their friends.  It feels funny to see the tough Chicano clothing and accent here, intermingled with French instead of English.   The club is dark and warm, the music well performed, the cello adding the classy softness to the sound.  I drink red vermouth on ice. 

My friends know a fine place to eat in the Marais district.  We sit and talk of culture and politics, corporate social responsibility, lingerie and of course the amazing food.  The tough looking waiter has a high pitched voice and misinterprets us many times.  He is impatient in a double whammy of gay and Parisienne.  We have a fine laugh, none of us French, yet comfortable enough being dissed by this fussy man.

The rain hurries us to the Metro where it feels safe enough, and wonderfully efficient at getting you anywhere.  My stop comes and I give them all "la bize" the cheek to cheek double kiss the French greet and depart with.    I rush of the car and make my way to my next train.  A short walk with not too much anxiety and I'm back at the hotel.  I text my friends to let them know I'm fine.

Tomorrow I leave for Boston, back to work, back to America again, back to the worries I put on hold.  I leave here feeling refreshed and conscious of that place in me that is at home anywhere and everywhere.  I pray my silent prayer of hope that dreams do come true, that we create our lives and loves and that here, in Paris, I picked up the right ingredients. 

Au revoir-
 

Berlin: I wish I had a camera

I'm in the hotel lobby waiting for my colleague. It will be a while, so I make a call.  I see a man I wish I could photograph. 

He comes in a black mini hatchback Mercedes Benz; dressed entirely in black, there is an insignia on the car and as he approaches I see the same insignia on his shoulder. It is an upside down  broom in a flower of flames.   His hands are black with soot, he holds a black, plastic bucket, his cargo pockets hold tools in custom made holders, and atop his head is a battered but elegant top hat.  He is a chimney sweep.  His name is Herr Mager.

From his professional demeanor and his apparent lack of any embarrassment at  being so sooty and the way the hotel staff hurry to call the manager, this is a good job, perhaps even a great job. 

I read somewhere you have to be born into the business in Amsterdam, and perhaps it is similar here.  That hat could easily be a third generation family heirloom.   He disappears with his bucket and tools, and comes back a while later; if he is any sootier it would be hard to tell.  He gives me a brilliant smile, white teeth startling in his smudged face.  Jumps in his car and is off to another job.  Oh to have a camera to capture this icon, this handsome worker, this classic picture of a  profession.

There is something so proud about the workers here in Germany.  Their job  isn't who they are yet how they represent themselves is  who they are.  The elevator repair man inspires confidence that the Otis taking you to the fourth floor is well maintained  From his uniform to his hair cut to his tools neatly ordered in his carry crate, you just know he doesn't cut corners. 

We never seem to have developed this pride in America that every job is worth doing well.  I like to think as the world shrinks, and globalization spreads the good of these cultural differences will spill over and we will be wise enough to glean this good.

I have to tell you, if I had a chimney to sweep, I'd want Herr Mager to do it. ;-)  

CDG

... Has two ATCT (air traffic control towers) and a big brand new terminal that is interminable. 

I arrive at 5:55 am after trying to sleep in the two cold too hot stuffy cabin atop the 747-  my neighbor is friendly and calm in an older professorial way.  Still just as I was truly asleep the microphone feed back that preceeded every announcement with an amazing squeek, woke me up.

Bonjour Madame et Monsieurs.....

At first the big clean terminal is refreshing, wide corridors and artistic modern bathrooms greet you, the walk toward the first information post is lengthy but well marked- head to 2D it says- there you can hop to Berlin.

A train takes you somewhere else, I follow signs (in France the down pointing arrow means 'straight ahead' ) toward a D - a 2- a 2D and hope I haven't just walked a half hour in the wrong direction- then I see the throng. There is a mass of humanity amidst the orange tape markers all trying to get somewhere beyond a passpoprt check point.  Sweet mother of God I'm only trying to get out of the country!

I squeeze in behind a mob in front of the distant 2D sign and edge my way forward, French, Spanish, German, Italian and African  voices are raised in questioning frustration, am I in the right queue? They all seem to ask-

A totally fit, competent looking man with a name tag on his rollie luggage identifying him as Bombadier Aerospace Melvin Woolman wearing all black and able to see above the crowd turns toward me long enough for me to ask if he too needs 2D - he answers in flawless French que Oui,  and proceeds to duck under the orange tape placing himself in the correct queue, I follow suit not minding at all if the grumpy crowd thinks I'm with him (ooh there's that male female thing again) as they might scold me but not him.  He wends his way throguh the line,, and I follow as tightly as I can.  Bombadier Buddy.  Ok. 

Making it through the blase boarder control I have to wallk another mile, at least, to the terminal that I immediately recognize as the one I've been to half a dozen times in the last couple of years.  Ok, coffee, pastry and a few minutes with Marion McPartland "Twighlight World" on the iPod before braving another security line.  The sound of male voices speaking French surround me, warm, husky, scoffing, intense, and I wonder about the space in my life for men. 

Like the odd harmoniously spaced notes of the jazz piano, my days float by in a melody that races and slows, hesitates and jumps to unexpected places with the sexy earthy beat of my heart following along reaching for the steadiness that love brings.

"Stanger in a Dream" -

I would I could understand how and why and what my needs are, and so go about fulfilling them, but they are to me a mystery.   And so I journey and think and write.

Tropical

Florida can be gorgeous- sailboats docked in the sunset, pelicans, brazilian tunes, open air restaurants, little clothing necessary.

Spent the afternoon, after horrid chores and assignments, at the beach soaking up the last rays of the day.  The salty gulf calm and cool, clear - dolphins played off shore as birds swooped by - there must be a dozen different types of gulls here.

Big fat white families, skinny naked German kids, dark wrinkled Italians playing bocce on the sand, curvy teen girls and firm teen boys pose and point akwardly for each other on the fine white sand.

There is plenty to hate here too; unscrupulous alligator vendors that prey on the elderly, strip malls, mold, toothless dangerous backwoods types in their dusty pick up trucks and the leagues of under paid Mexicans polluting the air with the noise and fumes of the backpack blowers,  wild cats spotted and proud find themselves rotting in the sun after an ignomious death at the fender of a caddy.

Yet some strange confluence of energy occurs here.  Estuaries reconverge in wild color swamps with mangrove pillars and rosy color vaulted sunset skies.  Aged yuppies host second and third generation progeny at tennis and golf clubs, sail the gulf and give a taste of what life can be after corporate slavery or self employed drugery.   The sunsets over the gulf indulge themselves entirely in pinks too outrageous even for the English, purple too deep for prose, golden glows like Hollywood wished it could create.

It is tropical, and American and it has, after a decade of two week stints done twice a year, become strangely like home.
 

Japanese Toilet, note: control panel

This is the coolest. I have seen toilets all over the world, but this one my travelers is the best. Lift the lid and a subdued light glows from the back allowing you to guide yourself properly in the night. Flip the switch and the seat is warmed; it is best to do this in anticipation of that late night visit. One button cleans the bum, the other button cleans the entire underside, a dial allows this cleaning to be performed at different levels of water pressure intensity. The red button is "stop." Yes. I spent some time with this toilet. Fabulous.

PRC - Still a closed place: careful travelers!

Fucking communists! I can't believe I was completely unable to access any blog or reach my own via Shanghai internet, p;rivate, public or otherwise.

Just a note, it may be full of big slick buildings, they may be making a lot of money, but this is still your grandfather's China, baby.

Pictures, impressions, thinking and loving to come!

MaeRenWu
"Beautiful people fish"
The Mermaid ~~

Taiwan

A playful dragon rolls over in the sea and so Formosa is born. A big fertile, steamy island and then the Manchurians come, with their rescued treasures of jade and ink, bronze and pottery; their ideas of freedom, their gods and their ancestors.

I arrive midweek on the last day of the Chinese New Year, the full moon, a lunar eclipse no less, the beginning of the year of the rat.

After meetings and negotiations, introductions and and presentations, we make our way back into the street for our dinner with the office staff, so excited, eager to entertain the forgien guest, the parent company management.

Right outside the building a crowd lights incense, chants a cheer for the new year while a middle aged man holds a dragon costume loosly in his hands. Firecrackers go off and suddenly the dragon comes alive, the chubby man below ducking and twirling, possessed by the spirit of prosperity and good fortune.

We stop for a moment before our taxis come, watching the festivities, grown women wear rat ears and smile at me, as the dragon approaches I walk closer, smiling, excited I touch him, as the others have done, for good luck. They laugh and nod and welcome my participation, the taxis come and we are off to the center of Taipei.


101 is one of the tallest buildings in the world. We gorge ourselves on course after course of Thai cuisine, soups, salads, rices, meats, curries, more flavors than a tongue can keep track of. An Irishman (who is married to a Hong Kong born woman) tells me "you have to just stop eating and push back or they keep brining food.". I taste only a bit of each dish, still, I am so full and my mouth is so full of wonderous flavors that when the whole catfish is brought out I am convinced he is laughing at me. The final course will go uneaten..... But no! There is dessert, custards and sherberts and fruit, sweet, glorious, exotic fruit.

Sated, stretched, filled with smiles and laughter we make our way to the fastest elevator on earth. Hundreds of meters per second we rise up on the smooth aero dynamic lift, gaze at the constellation of stars designed into the ceiling and in just moments find ourselves in a hall, darkened inthe evening marked with maps that explain the amazingly lit city below.

Buildings compete in shape and color to be recognized from far above. It is a carnival of lights, a field of neon that stretches for miles, it is a teeming, blinking, shining game board of life on the eve of the festival of lanterns. If there is a light to shine tonight she is lit.

Such luck I have already, such fortune, such blessings are mine to be here on this day, to witness this evening, to see the tiny lanterns buoyed by warm flames, lift into the night, carrying happy prayers.

The moon shines above, the highest happiest of lights on this night- my world has shifted, I am physically high, spiritually open and learning thinking this other way, I am lit from without I am lit from with in, I am turned around and upside down, on the other side of the earth, I am so delighted, so awed, after so many miles, after so many cities after so many moons, after so many years to be as a child again, to be as new as the year waiting in the open anticipation of life.

Shenshie-

Xmas Part-ay

25 years is a long time to run a business. He did it.  He founded it, he took it through IPO, and now he is going global.   Very impressive.  And he thanks us, he thanks the peeps. Very nice. A class act, this our boss.

The dance floor is heaving.  French interns everywhere.  Sexy boys.  Professional dancers try to keep the party going but they are fluff. We rock.  I am propositioned by a woman half my age. I fall off my shoes for the first time in 23 years.  A french intern saves me.  I dance more unabashed.  I'd like to bed him; note to self; His name is the same as famous restaurant. 

I'm alone again.  This time not just alone here on the dance floor, I'm alone when I come home.  Its ok.  Next year I will be with a man who can dance. Really dance.  I deserve it. I made the pros sweat, I made them wonder, I made them look like aerobics teachers.  I aint doin' routines.  This aint a gig for me. 

I can dance.  And when I dance, it looks like fun.

 

Snowman

The midwest storm blew through and the white stuff is everywhere.  This morning the triangle park is graced with a snowman complete with carrot nose and twig arms. 

I wonder who built it and am surprised to find out - the young family two doors down from me.  He is a recovering drug addict/dealer who hasn't married the mother of his children yet.  She was 16 when the big one was born three years ago. His brother is 18 months old.

But they built the snowman. And he is  perfect in his imperfection.  I  want to give him a hat.

There is hope.

Snow storm

Walked a mile into Chelsea to eat Basque cheese, truffle cheese, and drink three different wines with the wild entrepeneur D, accompanied by a Fabulous friend.  She puts up with fits of adventurous trekking, not only in remarkable weather, but remarkably in adventurous weather.

The boy locked himself out, shoveled the walks and wrote LOG in script in the snow.

The Dog leapt like a deer, the lights shine so bright surrounded by the white and the sparkle and the quiet.

I realize my voice has been muted. Time to write.

I like vistors in my aloneness, lovers, friends, supporting cast but the essence needs be alone. The quiet of a city after a storm. The muted tones of chaos at rest for a moment, the waiting white. Potential.

Alone I can be visited, consoled, pinged, approached, consulted, seduced, invited.

 Potential is precious. 

LHR to MIA

Traffic is abysmal.  Solid lanes of cars crawling towards London impede progress through the roundabouts towards Heathrow, the overcast day is mild, the cab's radio is too loud, my friend isn't answering the phone, my Blackberry has no new mail, I'd hate to miss my flight.

The news is hammering away at Gordon Brown, improper contributons to the labour party from a billionaire. My driver cleverly rips through traffic where he can as Madonna croons and wails; Slow, fast, slow.  We get to Terminal 4 - I'm out.

Bloody Hell! Terminal Fahking THREE for Miami?!?

The polite, calm BA lady tells me to take the lift, if you hurry you're alright, then the free train 4 minutes to the next terminal....
Security checks delay the train, queuing for lifts, queuing for train, running to the terminal, checked in! Whew!

 Queuing for security of course, laptop out, liquids out, 'you want my shoes off?' No.  Pass through, beep beep beep, get felt up head to toe by big firm security lady.  Into the hall, another layer of security, shoes off now and through the new machine!  Bloody hell!

Two items I must buy: then through another random security check without the groping.  Line up with the other passengers to find out the wheels are being changed on the aircraft. One hour delay.

Blackberries out, we all tap away, queue up, stall, wait, and finally, finally, finally I stow my stuff and sit down. 

For the first time ever, and I have flown hundreds of times, I slept through take off.

8 hours later, Miami, what a mess! Big bilingual airport where no one seems to speak either English or Spanish properly.  Immigration doesn't even have posts and ropes to guide the crowd to the officers; people jostle and line up and cut in line and generally make more mayhem than needs be there.

I usually go to BOS or JFK but this time I'm headed to Florida to spend time with my recently widowed octagenerian mother. Tiny, loving, sad and lost we find ourselves sharing our burdens in a strange pair of mirrored lives. She is tinier and more loving and sadder.  But she has had more practice.

I'm home.


 

London

Arrived Saturday night, blew through immigration on the IRIS line (spooky eye scan/reading technology that eliminates need for passport control). Mine was the first bag off the plane (it helps being the last one on). Text messaged my cousins who were right there waiting at arrivals; I made it from airplane to auto in under 20 minutes and that included a stop for a tinkle in the very clean Heathrow lavatory, Terminal 4.

Cousins, Chateau de Grave claret, home cooked meal and a lovely guest bed I know and love.

I dreamt of a train ride and a lover kissing me while another man touched my hand.

Sunday filled with Christmas craft fairs and lunch and walks around town.

 Dark now the rain splatters the taxi window. Alone through the dark I travel the short distance to the hotel near work, where I put out my armor, my costume, my uniform. Tomorrow I become something else, a cautious diplomat, a calculating mover, a smiling shaker. 

And the next day? I have a date the next day, a date with a temptation, a date with a dare, a date with a friend and a stranger.

Rain and dark welcome me here and here I feel welcomed.

T day Menu in Massachusetts

Deep Fried Turkey
Parma wrapped roast Turkey
Dr. Pepper glazed ham
Vegan stuffing
Traditioanl stuffing
Celery root leeks and grapes, roasted/baked in dill and grape jelly
Sweet potato marshmallow pie
Cajun string beans
Honey glazed carrots
Mashed potatoes with horshradish butter
Cranberry almond chutney
A variety of cheeses that out did themselves in texture, flavor and super smelliness
Super choco layered brownies
Olive oil lemon cake
Scottish apple pie
Pumpkin creme brulee
Good coffee and lots of "to go" boxes!

No! I was not the cook, but the guest!

I am thankful for my friends, and for my family, odd though it may be. I am thankful for my job, I am thankful for my work, I am thankful for the special folks who make me happy in secret ways and those that can make me happy in open ways. I am thankful to strangers who take the time to say nice things.  I am thankful that life is too short to squander and that I have learned this half way through. I am thankful.
~E

Cork it!

Visiting an ailing friend, a friend on the mend from cancer, we discussed the healing nature of conversation, courage and cabbage. Really, I am wrapping her in cabbage every night for a week, to discourage lymphedema. She is an earthy, heal-y person, works as a body massage, body rebalancing expert when she isn't layed up with life threatening diseases.

"How is your body feeling through all this?" she asks-

"well my chronic back pain and headaches aren't around anymore. but my arm goes numb at night, wakes me up, and that weird nerve around my ear is painful too. "

She diagnoses cervical vertabrae un - aligned - I ask, " Is that something you fix?"

My chemo brained, disorganized and flaky friend gives me the most emphatic "YES!" I have ever heard. "Oh yes I can, I can FIX that! ... But until I am healthy enough to work on you try this."

She takes out a bag of corks. "Find one that you can put in your mouth (you are supposed to be able to put your first three fingers in your mouth.) " Not surprisingly I can not find a cork small enough to fit length-wise. Tight jaw.

No corks are small enough for me but a Champagne cork when put between my teeth from the fat end, holds the jaw open just so. She recommends that I leave it by my bedside and while I make my bed in the morning I use the cork as a stretcher. Just enough time at just the right time to open and stretch the muscles.

I love this. Do two things at once, and even throw in a bonus third; a prayer to the universe-- to make sure that if what comes out of my mouth is not contributing to the good, let this image of my filled and corked mouth fly into my head. Cork it.

Tempus Fugit

A blessed weekend, yes, it was, thankfully and gratefully. The trip from NYC to BOS was by car and long and rainy and full of waiting for more cars to snake their way north than could possibly have fit on the road going more than 20 miles an hour.

My big sister drove.

So a visit from sis, who lives in the same house, in the same town we grew up in, sis, who waves to her neighbors on Sunday in church, sis, who despairs at her daughter's attire, sis, who hasn't come up to my home in over five years, braves the weather, braves the traffic, braves her daughter's choice of clothing, and braves my tough and gritty hood to pay a visit.

I am exhausted.

I can travel from TGL (Berlin) to HKG to LHR to BOS with less stress than this little trip.

We drove, we stopped, we ate, we drove, we slept, we ate, we went to a tourist attraction, we visited a sick relative we drove we ate we drove we slept. She went to church with the kids, I ran with the dog on the coast.

"Father Wayne said that people who don't come to church don't aspire to heaven." she says over an omlette at Angela's.

"Heaven is the ocean crashing against the rocks, spraying me with salty bits sea. God's majesty speaks to me from every drop. I don't need to aspire to heaven. The kingdom of heaven is at hand."

I slurp coffee.

Her daughter smirks at me. My son rolls his eyes.

Sis loves me huge. She says "hmf."

Nothing got done. The laundry is piled high, the groceries were still on the shelf at the store, the presentation to the CEO was still raw, unseasoned, uncooked, the bills were disordered, unread, the blog was quiet.

She left on Monday and I collapsed. Precious few minutes left to the weekend. The time flew by and nothing got done. I couldn't do anything.

She told me my house is cluttered. She worried for my soul. She cooked me the most fabulous french toast for breakfast. She listened to my worries and counseled me with the best intentions. She even drank beer with me.

Tempus fugit. My little world invaded, time slipped, my goals reordered, my soul exercised, my patience tested, my love given a new puzzle between my sis and my niece. My heart grew. The chores can wait.

I took this pic at about midnight thirty. NYC. Place of my birth. Home. The most forgein place I ever go. I was born walking distance from this spot. Everything here is walking distance, eventually.

I stay at the Millenium hotel, steps from this Times Square the place millions flock to - the place everyone has heard of. Eerie music filters into the room from the street below during the day. It is the Lion King or some other such musical filling the air with the flute and drums sounds now closely associated with some mythical African story. In my room. This advertising is actually in my hotel room that I am paying an OUTRAGEOUS sum for, that is actually lower than 95% of the rest of the residents are paying. (I am in Travel after all...)

Repeating her-story

The son's report is published online with various requests for parent teacher conferences.  That is what tuition buys these days, online communication and electronic recommendations.  They mean well, work hard but haven't found the odd key that will fit my son's reticence to study.  High potential, low performance, high doses of emotion and low doses of conformity.  I'm frustrated because I know what binds him, I am helpless because I can not unbind him.  I am delighted because we actually like each other.

Long ago when I was just starting out as his mother (I am ever a new mother because I have but one child and I am ever new at mothering whatever stage he is in) I had a dream of standing in a green and flowing field among many other fields lined by stone walls.  I had my arms and head thrown back in submission to the heavens.  I was worshiping the universe in an open bodied prayer, arms wide, back arched, eyes and mouth open.  A thought crossed my mind, that my  odd and spiritual ways would endanger my boy, my baby, my son. Could my love and religion of the earth hurt him?  I held this thought like an odd piece of glass or rock, turning it in my mind, seeking every way to look at it.  As I folded my arms in to myself and as I brought my head down to see the green rolling hills before me an ancient and wizened man holding a rake appoached me.  He smiled with infinite love as he leaned on his rake, and said " your love could never hurt me, Mommy". I woke up with a start.

I see myself today decades away from the wild unruly girl who somehow found the road that led through pot and otherdrugs and boys and school and adventures and danger and dreams and ambitions into a life I hold now, precious and fought for, firm in all its faults as mine, earned, what I share with him, the son.  What would I have him learn? What would I have him know?

The son walks his path, a fretting bird of a mother, trilling and cawing above, hopping ahead to show the way, flying high to scout the path, cooing softly in the dark to comfort -if possible-

As I see him find and fight what binds him I love and know him and find as well some love for and memories of myself.  What gift can a child give greater than an opportunity to know yourself a bit more clearly, and in so knowing give your child that which you may have craved, that which you may have needed, that which you can only now understand.  Time folds over and returns, history, herstory, repeating and reforming our selves through time.

Gratitude

My son sits hunched over a tiny sidekick typing to a few friends, mates, neighbors at a time, tiny snippets of conversatios that zip along in an bizarre abbreviated speech pausing occasionally to login to his online game where other friends await, as far away as Australia or England to gang up on each other and participate in their fantastic medieval society that eats lobsters and saws yew logs to get money to buy capes and dragon armor. He romps through the game sitting in his baggy work pants bouncing between the pair of key boards, one the micro the other the macro.

Soon his music is kicked up, Lost Prophets play "A town called Hypocrasy" - he doesn't think it is manly enough to write about but he knows the guitar riffs wont throw me over the edge like the shredder bands he likes. This morning he woke up suffering wishing for bed dragging anchor all the way to school, swearing he would go to bed early tonight and now pumped, tuned in, online, in touch he has nothing of the kind on his mind.

My mother turned Eighty something today. She wants to make a change. I need to make a change. All Saints Day. All Souls day. Day of the Dead. Samhain. We share the dark veil birthday season. 81 I think. Time to make plans.

I wake up and look for the gratitude I can express. The dark morning jeweled by the planet in the east the warm blankets the warm days the pink edge of morning the light traffic our health the view the dog the evenings together I am thankful.

Air Traffic Control Towers

This is how he MW saw Bankok 12 hours after having left LHR. He knows I have a collection of ATCTs and that I adore hearing from him on his travels as well. He is one of the few people I know who spends as much time away from home as I do. His home is just on a different continent. He watched a movie, fell asleep, watched another movie and TADA! he was in Bankok. Unfortunately, there was a mechanical problem. They have to completely unload the plane, and then spray it or something, before they let it go to Australia. He was tired. It isn't a great picture, but the thought; the thought counts for a lot today.
Later, much later, and three hours late he arrives in Sydney. This is one of the coolest ATCT in the world. Note the SPIRAL staircase. The photo is a gem in itself. The sky is crashing light like a scary movie and although totally in color all we see is black and white. He tells me he had to lean over other passengers to get the shot. What a guy!
Now ATCTs are something he knows about. He once was a pilot, after he was a chef and before he was an international man of mystery. I am honored my little collection has these two pics in it. And to think I was going to post the ATCT from BWI today. Ok, I'll do that one too. But it is totally hokey next to these sublime examples of airport art. It will have to wait a while, as I wouldn't want to spoil these delightful specimens.
Bon Voyage MW - enjoy down under.
~E

Wequasset Inn

A hugely pleasant surprise to find a bastion of customer service, comfort and simple New England elegance an hour from Boston! A delightful venue for business meetings and and events, one can imagine the romantic potential as well. Fireplaces in and outside of the rooms, views of the bay, Moulton Brown products and heavenly mattresses and bedding make even a stressful (team meeting) visit a huge pleasure. Photos and further observations to follow.