Greetings from Sanibel, FL

My alarm went off at 3:45, Friday morning. I went downstairs, stumbled around and made the coffee. Back upstairs, I woke my family, and we were on the road at 4:30. By mid-afternoon on Saturday, we were on the beach in Sanibel, which is an island near Ft. Myers, off the southwest coast of Florida. I had a lot of time during that drive to mull things over, and I've set it all out below. I hope you'll find this information helpful.

• An 1,100-mile drive is a long fucking time in the car.

• Georgia is the bad haircut capital of the country, if not the entire world. At a Taco Bell in some shithole town between Atlanta and Macon, we saw the most glorious mullet in the history of mullets; I tell you, words can't even describe it. I wish I'd had my camera, although I don't know if having a photo would have been worth the ass-kicking I'd almost certainly have received if I'd tried to take a picture of the guy. I've scoured the series of tubes for shot that most closely approximates the Dixie stud and, although this one doesn't really do it justice, it's sort of close:
  

• Scouring the internet for pictures of guys in mullets is funny at first, then it becomes sort of disturbing. After that, kind of sad. Finally, funny again, oddly enough.

• Southerners love themselves some Jesus. You get past the middle of Kentucky, and you start seeing them: the crosses at the gas stations; the billboards with New Testament quotes; the ads for "Cool Christian Music" (an oxymoron if there ever was one); the billboards with quasi-New Testament quotes (Jesus - He's holding your atoms together or Uninspired by Jesus? Bet you've never met him!); the radio dial saturated with proselytizing shouters. Even the cute, enthusiastic manager at the Gainesville Marriott where we spent Friday night gave off a vibe that said she'd be the kind of woman who, about midway through dinner on your first date, would ask you, "Do you have a relationship with the Lord?" It's Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! until you cross that causeway from Ft Myers and then -- thankfully, as if by magic -- nothing.
  

• McCain is beating Obama in Florida's bumper sticker race. I hope that's a false positive. I don't think about politics too terribly much but, honestly, I believe if McCain gets elected, we are doomed.

• Question: What's more depressing than a McCain bumper sticker? Answer: A McCain bumper sticker placed next to a Confederate flag bumper sticker.

• One word to describe what it's like to grow a beard in a place where the average temperature is about 97 degrees -- itchy. I've jumped back on the goatee bandwagon about 10 years too late, but that's what guys do on vacation, right? My beard can be generously described as "salt and pepper." While I'd like to think I look like this guy:
  

I really look more like this guy:

• Grooming tip for the gentlemen: If the image your beard projects is "genocidal despot," then perhaps it's time to shave.

• Lying out in the sun (or "laying out," as we call it in the grammatically challenged midwest) sucks. I enjoy swimming in the ocean, walking on the shore, looking for shells, and so on, but for the life of me I can't understand how someone can just lie there prostrate, baking. It's madness, I tell ya.

• All right, at the risk of this becoming a "aren't my kids just the greatest" blog, I'll just say this is pretty cool:
  

I guess that wraps it up. We have a couple of days more here, and then we're back on that long, lonesome road. Pray for me.

Shopping Fever!

On Monday, before we left New York, my son and I had lunch on the Upper West Side. Our plan was to walk from there across Central Park, get on the subway one last time, collect our bags from the hotel, and head to the airport. Seeking to delay the inevitable as long as I could, I suggested we take a spin through Zabar's, the fantastic food market and housewares store. Good sport that he is, he agreed.

Once inside, our inner conspicuous consumers emerged into the light. Here's what he wanted to buy:



And here's what I wanted to buy:


Yes, it's a $3,300 espresso maker.

Mmmm . . . $300 cup of coffee.

Postively 4th Street.

My 12-year-old son and I just got back from a greatly anticipated trip to New York. It was a bit of a whirlwind, but we managed to do a lot. We arrived at about noon on Saturday and, after checking into our hotel and grabbing a slice of pizza, we got on the subway and headed downtown. We strolled through Little Italy, which is touristy as hell but buzzing with activity, and from there we took a long walk through Chinatown. I've been there a dozen times but it still blows my mind, just like it did when I was there with my parents for the first time in 1980 (when we attended part of the Democratic Convention).

The boy and I ventured to the Lower East Side, where I'd hoped we could tour the Tenement Museum, but we arrived too late. Luckily, though, we were not too late to visit what turned out to be a highlight of the trip: Economy Candy.
It's a wonderland of sweets from my childhood; it hadn't dawned on me until I looked around in there that you never see Clark Bars anymore. Feeling the "hey, it's vacation" vibe, I let my son spend as much of his own money as he wanted. You'd be surprised how far $15 can go in this place. How much I'll eventually pay his orthodontist in another story entirely, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. As for Saturday, my son got his sugar fix and I ate a Clark Bar.

Mmmm . . . Clark Bar. I had a Proust-like moment when I tasted it -- I could see myself at my son's age, outside the little drugstore near my childhood home, just finishing one off, wrapper in my hand. I could also see myself as a college sophomore, dressed as a Clark Bar for Halloween. Yeah, you heard me -- I dressed as a chocolate bar.

So I guess I had two Proustesque flashes, but I digress. After Economy Candy, we wandered around the Lower East Side a bit more. Before I knew it, he was smoking. I guess that's just what happens in those parts. Looks good on him, though, don't you think?

I let my son choose the dinner locale that night. That meant only one thing: ESPN Zone. THE WORLD'S LOUDEST RESTUARANT! WHAT? SORRY, AM I YELLING? MY EARS ARE RINGING!

The next day, it was time for Reds vs. Yankees at Yankee Stadium. First though, a nice long walk through Central Park, where I tried to convince my son that we should pack up the rest of the family and move to New York. He was concerned that our dog couldn't make the transition, and rather than suggest we could just leave her in Cincinnati, I pointed out every dog being walked in the Park. I think I made my point after we passed six or seven, but I belabored it, as is my wont, until we lost count at about fifty.

Oh, and since he was smoking, I also taught him to drink coffee. Black.

Unfortunately, the Reds lost, but just getting there with my son was a great experience. Paying $9.50 for a cup of beer was a great experience, too. It was special big city beer. Plus, my purchase helped the Yankees finance their new $3 billion stadium. Note the solid gold lettering above the entrance.


There was more to this trip, but it's late now, and I've just written more than I have in the last two months combined. I'm tired and I want to save some material for another post. It was nice getting away for a couple of days with my son, and I wish we could have stayed longer. He's a good kid.

Well that's an abrupt ending, isn't it?

Paris Memories: The Story of St Eustache.

It's been almost a month since my wife and I returned from our trip to Paris. The post-vacation letdown has abated, but not totally. Later this week, I travel to Omaha and Des Moines, which are are sure to make me forget about the City of Lights once and for all, but for now, I'm reminiscing.

First stop, St Eustache Church in Paris' Les Halles neighborhood. It's a beautiful Renaissance building, but what's even more interesting and more moving than the architecture and decoration of the church is the story of the sanctuary's namesake. As even the most casual saint aficionado knows, St Eustache (cf., "mustache") was a hirsute Roman general named Capillus who converted to Christianity when he tired of the pagans' mocking his white man's afro. When Bob Dylan stole his line about the streets of Rome being filled with rubble, that was the final straw, and Eustache packed up his comb collection and moved Paris -- Paris, France.

Eustache was an immediate hit when he arrived in that most fashionable of all world capitals. He was not embarrassed to wear a beret, and he taught Parisians how to tie their scarves just right. He drank strong coffee and charmed local women with his George Bush imitation. Soon a movement was afoot to build him a mansion, but they called it a church to take advantage of certain tax loopholes and utilize peasant labor. His popularity reached its zenith as the building was completed, and he moved in, a happy, hairy man.

But trouble wasn't far behind. One misty night, invaders slipped past the city ramparts, and the now-infamous Brazilian sack of Paris was on. On their way through the city, the Brazilians gorged themselves on cheese and bread, which were readily available since it was 9:30 p.m. and the locals hadn't gone to dinner yet. When they arrived at Eustache's home, he was caught by surprise as he gazed deeply into Carla Bruni's dark eyes. He never stood a chance; his attackers used the wax from the thousands of candles they carried to denude his once virile body. Then, even though Eustache was now as hairless and as smooth as a newborn baby, the Brazilians added insult to injury -- they decapitated him. Now, a visitor to St Eustache Church can climb all over a gargantuan stone likeness of his cranium or leave a loving note on his middle finger.

Of course, that's the part of the story of St Eustache that everyone knows. What's far less known, however, is what led to his canonization. Why was he made a saint, you may ask, when the likes of Oprah Winfrey and Tom Brokaw haven't even been beatified? Here's why: first, he turned peanut butter into Nutella; second, and even more significantly, he convinced Europeans that Nutella is edible. Miracles are the surest way to sainthood.

It's knowing this kind of background that makes the world's great monuments all that much more meaningful.

Stuck Inside of Mobile.

Back home. Great to see our kids, but other than that, I'm experiencing some serious, post-vacation letdown. (Note for my dissertation: the feeling is much more intense when you return from Paris than it is when you return from, say, Indianapolis.) We got back on Thursday evening and soon found ourselves at Noble Roman's pizza when, just 24 hours earlier, we were eating wonderful bread and cheese at a sidewalk cafe. I went to work on Friday, which was a mistake -- it was a particularly difficult day.

I suppose, having just returned from a European vacation, I shouldn't complain, but it's in my nature. I spent so much time thinking about the trip during the weeks leading up to it, and had such a good time while we were there, that real life is going to seem a bit less lustrous than usual for a while.

My wife and I came home with hundreds of photos, so I have plenty of blog fodder. Of course, three of the seven people who read this blog were in Paris and still are, so they've seen it all before. But just as we tell our kids that their soccer games aren't about winning -- they're about having fun, see -- this blog isn't about readership. It's about . . . come to think of it, what is it about anyway?

Anyway, I'll start posting pictures soon. In the meantime, I'll just mention a few things. One day we went to Sacre Couer church in the Montmartre neighborhood and, the next day, I came across a blog post by an American woman living in Paris who had just roamed the same neighborhood. She really captured the experience well, and I like her blog, Badaude, a lot. I added it to my links on the right but be warned: don't read it unless you're okay with the idea of wanting to drop everything and move to Paris.

We also went to an excellent dinner hosted by the husband-and-wife bloggers of Our Family in Paris and Paris Musings, and their lovely children. My wife was the only adult non-blogger there, and she kept the "nerd" comments under her breath. I think I heard her say something about Dungeons and Dragons, but I let it slide. Otherwise, our meal was delicious and it was a very nice evening.

Finally, our hosts for the week were great. My old friend Misplaced and his wife are busy, he writing a novel and she slaving away in grad school, but they spent a lot of time with my wife and me, which was very cool. We stayed at their apartment for a week, which couldn't have been easy for them, what with my daily, three-hour-long beauty regime and my sleepwalking, but they were quite gracious, as was their cat. Great fun.

I think I'd like to go back.

Paris Postcard.

Today was another great day in Paris.  My wife and I spent the morning at the Musee d'Orsay, home to the largest collection of Impressionist art in the world.  Today, you see works by Monet, Degas and their contemporaries reproduced or imitated on everything from toilet paper packaging to motel wallpaper, but in their day, they were real rebels.  When you enter the museum, the first galleries you visit hold the work of the Impressionists' predecessors, paintings described as "Conservative," after the Conservatory where they were exhibited at annual salons. Even the uneducated like me can see what a huge change the Impressionists represented after that.  I think the word used most frequently by the voice in the audio tour guide was "shocked," as in, "The public was shocked by Sisley's blurring of lines."  Personally, I think they may be exaggerating the level of the general public's consternation but, still, I left wanting to know more.

After the Orsay, we took a long walk through Tuileries Gardens and up the bustling Champs Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe.  I'm glad we went, because the view as you walk up the broad boulevard is right out of a Paris poster, but the high-end designer stores didn't really interest me.  Wealthy Japanese visitors seemed to dig them, though.  

I prefer the Marais, where our friends live:  narrow, winding streets, lined with boutiques, bars and restaurants.  I'm sitting now in the living room of their apartment.  The window is open and I can hear the Vespas buzzing along the roads and children laughing on the playground below.  Reality is beginning to creep into my thoughts.  Tomorrow is our last day here, and then we're on the plane and back to earth.  I miss my kids and I look forward to seeing them, but for now I'll sit and plan how I can send for them, find a little place to live and make this city our home.

Yes, I realize the plan is not well-formed.  I'm telling you though, a guy could get used to this place.

What time is it in Paris?

The Parisian day starts later than the American day.  In Cincinnati, I'm up early to milk the cows and fetch water from the well, but here in the French capital I have no such obligations. Our hosts, Misplaced and his wife, live in a great neighborhood, the Marais.  Last night -- a Sunday night, mind you -- the vicinity was buzzing, full of energy and beautiful people.  The mornings are serene.  I was just looking out the window; the street below is deserted.  It's also immaculate.

My wife and I are getting an early start today.  We want to hop on the Metro and make it to the Louvre by the time it opens, 9:00 a.m.  She and I both fell asleep early last night, and so I've been awake for a while.  Thinking the bells for 8:00 were about to chime (and judging from my previous mornings' observations, it wouldn't be odd at all for the streets to be so quiet at that hour) I was just about to wake her when I realized it was only 5:30.  I guess my body clock, such as it is, hasn't adjusted quite as well as I'd thought.  Fortunately, I had my realization about the time before I rousted Red.  Let's just say she's not a morning person and leave it at that.

I'd go get baguettes and pastries, but I don't think the bakeries are open yet.  The problem is, I've drunk half a pot of coffee and I'm doing that leg-jiggle thing that so endears me to colleagues at work during lengthy meetings.  I'll wait for a little more light outside, then I'll go for a stroll. The streets are narrow and cobble-stoned, and there's something interesting around every corner:  restaurants, shops, and did I mention beautiful people?  I know there won't be anyone out walking now, but it could be fun to watch the bakery owners open up their stores.

In the meantime, let me recount a little bit about my day yesterday. Misplaced and I spent a good portion of it roaming around.  We stopped at a restaurant and I'm virtually certain the following actually happened:

(Misplaced and LDP take a seat at sidewalk cafe.  As the waiter delivers two coffees, Misplaced rattles off something in French.  The waiter leaves, then returns and places a sandwich in front of LDP.)

LDP: That looks like gristle.

Misplaced: It is gristle.

LDP: Oh, well . . . I . . . huh?

Misplaced: I said, it is gristle. It's very popular around this neighborhood. All the locals love it.

LDP: Gristle sandwiches are popular?

Misplaced: Yes. (Glancing at the waiter.) Don't hesitate like that -- everyone'll know you're a tourist. Do you want people to think of you like that?

LDP: Well . . .

Misplaced: You don't. I know you don't. Try it, you'll fit right in. I eat one almost every day.

LDP: You didn't have one today.

Misplaced: Yes, I did.

LDP: When?

Misplaced: Before.

LDP: I didn't see you.

Misplaced: Nevertheless, I did.

LDP: But we've been together all day. When did you eat one?

Misplaced: You're still jetlagged.

LDP: Well, that's true. (Taking a big bite.) Mmmm . . . . that's good gristle.

The waiter smiled broadly at me and I could tell I'd made him proud. Misplaced grinned too, knowing he'd taught me something about getting to know other cultures. I left feeling I'd done my part to mend Franco-American fences.

Live from Pont Marie

This has been a fantastic trip so far. Here we have a little trio, with a cameo by my wife, on a bridge from Ile St. Louis to the Right Bank.

How could anyone not love Paris?

Au revoir for now.

Last night was dominated by children vomiting, and so I've just now finished packing for an overseas flight that leaves in four hours. My wife and I are nervous about leaving the kids behind, but we know, in the end, they'll be fine living at the airport for a week. Everybody loves an adorable airport urchin.

I'd planned to take my laptop and blog about how much the Parisian women dig me -- I mean live blogging, as they were actually digging me. It would have been so hot. The problem is, I never got around to copying our photos, music, work, etc. onto an external hard drive, and suddenly I'm seized with fear that I'll leave the laptop in a park somewhere. So it's staying home, but maybe I can mooch someone else's.

Time to go. There's a beret with my name on it, on the table of a corner coffee bar, or something.

It's true, I tell ya.

Whenever I tell people I'm going to Paris to visit friends, the first question they always ask is, "Wait, aren't we at war with France?" After that they start asking about who, exactly, I'm visiting, as if I couldn't possibly know anyone overseas. Once they find out who it is, though -- that's when the questions get irritating.

"Do you really know Misplaced?" they say. "Can you get me tickets to his blog? Is that his real hair?"

You can imagine how frustrating this is -- a frustration not born out of jealousy over the thousands of hits his blog gets while mine languishes in obscurity, I assure you. Whatever its cause, I will begin feeling angry and bitter about it just as soon as I finish bunking at his apartment, eating his food and drinking his coffee.

For those who doubt my honesty, I offer the following photographic evidence that he and I do, in fact, know each other.

Misplaced (right) and me during our stint with the Chippendales (Juniors Division)

I suppose we were 14 or 15 when that pic was taken. Mercifully, I forget the details of that particular junior high dance. I don't even remember who my date was, but I'll say this to her, whoever she is, where ever she is: Sorry! I'm sure the cheesy piping on my lapels and my circus clown bowtie made you think staying home that night might have not have been such a bad idea after all. Plus, Anonymous Girl of Decades Ago, I'm virtually certain I was too nervous to speak to you that night. Let me treat you to an espresso to make it up to you.

On the positive side, though, I think this picture helped me solve my "what to wear in Paris" question. Can't go wrong with black tie.

Cincinnati Saturday Night.

Yeah, I spent my Saturday evening at a mall. What of it?

Christ, I didn't know there were so many teenagers in this town -- gaggles of girls wearing what amounts to matching outfits, being trailed by gawky, pimply boys. I vaguely remember being one of those boys, back in the dark ages of my early teens. We didn't do the mall scene, but the rest is basically the same. Isn't it always? One day last year I picked up my then 5-year-old son and his friend from pre-school. I asked them what they'd done that day, and when they began to talk about recess, they became quite animated. The girls made us chase them! Get used to it, fellas.

Back in the present day, yes, I was there navigating through the swarms of adolescents. I went because I'm in desperate need of new clothes. I know this, but the thing is, I don't know what I want. Plus, I hate to shop, particularly at malls. Can you imagine what a delight it is to go to one with me? My wife, Red, wouldn't come along, begging off with some flimsy excuse about our kindergardener not being old enough to stay home by himself.

It irritates Red to no end that almost every time I go shopping, I don't buy anything. (She has no such problem.) I just can't muster up any enthusiasm for it. Plus, the only clothes I seem to like these days are the really expensive ones. The problem is, tomorrow morning I leave town for a couple of days' worth of company "leadership meetings" in Miami. I'm going because I'm the new guy in my department and this is an opportunity for me to meet people and so on, but here's the thing: what does one wear at meetings in Miami? I scoured the mall for pastel t-shirts and white suits, but I guess they're sold out.

My dilemma was complicated by the fact that one afternoon, we have our choice of recreational activities, and I chose to go out on a catamaran. I don't know what one wears on a catamaran, but whatever it is, I'm confident I don't have one. I could feel myself panicking as my search became more frantic, but then it dawned on me, the perfect outfit. Tell me what you think of this:


Good, huh?

I have another attire issue looming -- what to wear when Red and I go to France. "I don't want to walk around Paris with some doofus," she told me. Apparently she doesn't like my Columbo-style raincoat, which I've had since we got married. I thought she loved me in that thing; I was rumpled hot with it on.

I guess I'll deal with my foreign travel wardrobe when I get back from these meetings. I think I'm going to do all right in that department, because a few weeks ago, at my high school reunion, a woman told me I looked like a French gynecologist. Needless to say, I took that as a compliment and I've been running with it ever since. Bonjour les jolies femmes!

Eat This Story.

My wife and I are going to France in less than a month, and I've started to do my prep work. First stop: food. I Googled our friends' Paris neighborhood and found there's a T.G.I. Friday's near their apartment. I've made reservations for a Wednesday evening at 5:30 but, unfortunately, our friends can't make it. They both have important business meetings that night, as it turns out. Strange timing, at least to an American, but hey, I guess that's France for you!

There will be plenty of other nights, though, and that's good, because I'm feeling very inspired by a story I heard about the late president of France (and alleged Nazi collaborator) Francois Mitterand, who ruled the country from 1981 until 1995. Late in his tenure, he learned he had prostate cancer, and by the December of '95, he knew his end was near. Faced with the prospect of imminent death, Mitterand did what most of us will do as the grim reaper nears -- he traveled to Egypt to commune with the pharaohs. The disease hadn't diminished his ego, and when he returned to France and was asked what wanted for his final meal, he knew he deserved something fit for a king.

Mitterand decided to have 30 friends join him for a royal feast, beginning with fois gras and oysters. The guests dined at the table and watched as the already weak pharaoh-channeling former president, stretched out on a chaise lounge, ravenously consumed the shellfish until he felt sick. Then came the ortolan.

Ortolan is a tiny, very rare songbird. So rare, in fact, that eating it is now a violation of French law. How does one prepare ortolan? Excellent question. From In the Devil's Garden - A Sinful History of Forbidden Food:

The birds must be taken alive; once captured they are either blinded or kept in a lightless box for a month to gorge on millet, grapes, and figs, a technique apparently taken from the decadent cooks of Imperial Rome who called the birds beccafico, or "fig-pecker." When they've reached four times their normal size, they're drowned in a snifter of Armagnac. Cooking l'ortolan is simplicity itself. Simply pop them in a high oven for six to eight minutes and serve.

Mitterand knew the magic of ortolan was in the eating, and he did it just as prescribed by the experts:

. . . place the entire four-ounce bird into your mouth. Only its head should dangle out from between your lips. Bite off the head and discard. L'ortolan should be served immediately; it is meant to be so hot that you must rest it on your tongue while inhaling rapidly through your mouth. This cools the bird, but its real purpose is to force you to allow its ambrosial fat to cascade freely down your throat.

When cool, begin to chew. It should take about 15 minutes to work your way through the breast and wings, the delicately crackling bones, and on to the inner organs. Devotees claim they can taste the bird's entire life as they chew in the darkness: the wheat of Morocco, the salt air of the Mediterranean, the lavender of Provence. The pea-sized lungs and heart, saturated with Armagnac from its drowning, are said to burst in a liqueur-scented flower on the diner's tongue.

Hungry yet? I am.

One other thing. Mitterand wore an ornamental napkin on his head as he chowed his endangered species. There's some dispute over why he did this. Either it was to help capture the bird's succulent aroma, or it was to hide his act from the eyes of God. Regardless, he ate his bird and never consumed another meal. I'm sure he and King Tut had a lot to discuss after Mitterand died in early 1996.

Needless to say, I'm now planning my final meal. There will be no dainty little napkin on my head, oh no. I don't want to hide from God; in fact, I'll do whatever I can to attract his attention, because I know Jesus (the official deity of the U.S.A.) will want to watch me dine on deep fried bald eagle. Look for me wearing a red, white and blue cowboy hat on that fateful day.

But that's years away. For now, it's time to plan for Paris. Maybe my friends can find a little place that serves the illicit ortolan. Mmmm . . . fig-pecker.

A Sorry Tale.

Here's a lesson in the pitfalls of procrastination.

From the day I started this blog, I'd saved up an amusing little story. Here's the set-up: My wife Red (god, how she loves being called that) and I know a couple - J and C - who'd planned for months to take a week-long trip to Paris. They arranged it so that J's frequent flyer miles would cover the flights for both of them, and he did everything he needed to do at work to be able to take the time off. Meanwhile, C arranged the childcare for their four kids -- no easy task, considering that three of them were at two different schools, and the youngest was only a couple of years old.

They did it, though, and on the day of their flight to France, they left early for the airport, so they could relax and have a pre-boarding cocktail. And so they did, sipping their drinks and talking about how they looked forward to spending some time together, just the two of them, in the City of Light.

When the time came to board, they gathered their things and headed toward the gate. They'd checked almost all of their bags, so they anticipated an easy trip through security, but guess what they discovered -- C's passport had expired a year earlier. Disaster, right? I mean, ugly-public-argument-level disaster. But no. J, being a kind, loving and romantic husband and all that sort of thing, basically said, "That's okay, honey. We'll find something else to do." With that, they left the airport and drove to Paris, Kentucky.

Now, the joke: Last summer, my wife suggested we go to Paris (France, that is) to visit friends. I wasn't totally on board at first, mostly because of the expense, but Red found a direct flight that I could cover with my frequent flier miles. Once that sunk in, I started getting excited about the idea. She didn't have a passport, though, and I kept reminding her about our friends, just to set up the punch line, which was that if we got to that day and she didn't have her passport, I'd be off to Paris on my own; I wouldn't be speaking to her for about a week anyway, so I might as well be in Europe.

The problem: She got her passport and killed the joke, and now we're going to Paris. What a buzzkill.

Live on Tour.

On Monday afternoon, I flew to Atlanta for an evening dinner and all-day Tuesday meeting with some of my new colleagues. (See photo to the left for an example of typical Atlanta architecture.)

I don't do that well in cocktail party situations, when I don't know the other guests. Ever since my teen years, I've never liked going to big parties unless I'm in the company of my friends. So, the drinks before dinner on Monday were awkward, but dinner was another story. Dinner parties are easy, because you're there, sitting at table, everyone thrown together. There's none of this having to march up to a group of strangers and interjecting yourself into their conversation. I guess not everyone sees it that way, huh?

The next day's meeting went well, although I can't shake the feeling that I have no clue what's going on. There were moments when I thought, "You people might as well be speaking Chinese, for all I understand." I'll get over that, though -- eventually.

From Atlanta, I flew to Orlando, where I am now. I'm here at Disney World for a department conference. My family and I visited a couple of years ago, and before that, I'd never had any desire to come here. In fact, I'd actively resisted the idea for a long time. Once we got here, of course, a good time was had by all, but it's weird being here solo. It just makes me miss my kids.

I Pity the Poor Immigrant.

Cleaning out a filing cabinet the other day, I found my first passport, which I got in 1974 in preparation for a trip to Italy with my parents. My wife pointed out that in this photo, I look more like a kid coming to the U.S., perhaps in steerage.

I had several observations: 1) hey kid, nice collars; 2) that haircut looks better on me than it does on Ken Burns; and 3) I was 10 years old and had a little nascent facial hair -- now that's virility for ya.