Driving on the Wrong Side of the Road - Part One

May 28, 2009 - Derby, U.K.
(Part Two may be found on my bicycling blog: http://www.lostgears.blogspot.com)

The Magic of the Tardis and other Reality Shifting Devices:

I’ve just had one of those unfortunate flights. Seven hours in economy class; knees braced against the seat in front of me. No sleep possible, none given. I’m dispatched at Heathrow Airport with my bags and a sharp pain behind my eyes. It’s 7:30 AM…in this time zone.

Due to some issues back in the states I haven’t yet received the full details about my destination. I know approximately where in England my client is, (Derby – about 200 miles north of London,) but that’s about it. Not enough to book a hotel, or even calculate my ground transport options. All this weighs on my mind as I emerge from the doors into the bleak cacophony of the arrivals level.

There is some usefulness in ubiquity. As I thrust my bags through the arrival gates, an island of normalcy appears in the form of a Starbucks. I tug my little train of luggage through the line, order a quad latte’ and find a seat. A few moments later my laptop is sparking itself to life and greets me with a Boingo log-in screen. Already my headache is receding. This Boingo account has saved me hundreds of dollars over the past year. For $9.95 per month, I get to log-in free to hundreds of thousands of hot spots around the globe. Just a tip for you travelers out there.

Still I’m in a bit of sticky wicket here. It’s Tuesday morning in the U.K., and my client, Rolls Royce, is on holiday. So there’s no-one answering there. It’s still only 2:30 AM in New York, and my partners won’t turn their phones on for another few hours. I decide to start calling everyone anyway. Oh, and there’s another indication of things looking up….my mobile phone is working perfectly. I’d had to have my alternative service, Brightroam, Fed-Ex a new SIM card to me on Saturday. Upside of that is the new SIM card has data. Text messaging is handy to have here in the U.K..

While leaving frantic messages across four time zones, I also pull up Google maps and begin to make my best guess at where I need to go and how I just might get there. It quickly becomes apparent that I can take a series of trains to Derby, but it’s pouring rain here and I’ve got a lot of luggage. Against the advice of several friends, I decide to rent a car. I’ve got all day and can take my time.

An hour or so later, after making my best intuitive plan of action and catching up on email, I get a little KIA Ceed and pay the extra 27 pounds for a TomTom GPS navigator. She’s got a lilting British accent and is quite cheery. A definite step up from the gal on my Blackberry. I think we’ll be getting along just fine.

60 of Her Majesty’s seconds after leaving the airport my lessons in driving on the wrong side of the road begin. “Go right on the roundabout and take the fourth exit….then stay in the left lane.” Oh my, roundabouts, they may be the end of me. I’m having a very hard time learning to simultaneously look over my right shoulder for oncoming traffic, and shift the little five speed with my left hand. Thank God the pedals are all still in the same positions on the floor. Several times I careen across the roundabout in jerky motions hazarding anyone who might come near. I’m sure they know I’m tourist from a thousand yards away. Somehow I manage to only miss my turn once, which of course sends me round for another lap before I fling the little car towards the proper exit.



A few scary and embarrassing minutes later I’m on the M-25 motorway heading to “the North” in fifth gear and things settle down. I’ve got a two and half hour drive ahead of me. About half way into the drive I start to get a road weary. I’m afraid I might make a mistake, so I find the English equivalent of a truck stop, a “service,” and find a place to park. Bam! I go right to sleep and it feels good. I’m startled awake by the sound of my phone ringing. It’s my contact at Rolls Royce confirming some details. I walk to the service area to get something to eat and I’m beginning to relax a bit.

This service area might as well be on the Ohio Turnpike. The names of all the business are unfamiliar, but the layout and purpose of the place feels right at home. No frills here, just a few shops, a Wimpy Burger, a Costa Coffee – the U.K.’s version of Starbucks, a newspaper stand and public restrooms. About the only real difference I can see is the big sign that reads, “Parking Limited to Two Hours – A Charge Will Be Proffered for Longer Stays.”

By the time I get to Derby, a quaint little hamlet in what are called “the Midlands” of England, I’m beat. I manage to quickly find a hotel – a Holiday Inn Express – where I happen upon a sign asking Rolls Royce employees to announce themselves. I ask for the Rolls rate, and get it without question. It’s 60 pounds, or about ninety eight dollars US. I take the key, walk to my room, put the “do not disturb” sign on the door and crash.

A Thing of Beauty
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

John Keats

In the morning I end up taking a Taxi to the Rolls headquarters. I don’t need the headaches of driving during rush hour in a foreign country before a long day’s work.

The facility is beautiful. It’s specially designed for training. The people here are surprisingly upbeat and gregarious. They quickly extend a welcome to me and make me feel at home. We were warned that they might be reserved in that British way, and a bit difficult to read. I’m relieved the truth is otherwise.

At the end of the day I go back to the hotel and sleep for while again, still trying to catch up. Then I rise, freshen up a bit and head out looking for a pub to experience. As it turns out, tonight is the European Cup Championship League Football game. It’s the Superbowl of European soccer and the match is being played in Rome. England is fired up as they’re being represented by Manchester United, a very popular team here. On the other side is Barcelona FC, from Spain.

I sidle up to bar in the Harvester Pub and Grille. There are no stools. Just a crowd of revelers vying for a place to see the small TV screen. I shout to the barman the name of the first beer I see on a tap. “Make it a Worthington.” “Right then!” he says, and I begin to truly settle in to this new place.

The first ten minutes of the match are very exciting. Manchester United’s famous captain, Ronaldo, is controlling the field and making it look easy. Then, suddenly, the momentum shifts when one of the chaps from Barcelona scores a goal. The waves of blue-clad Man. U. fans in Rome are silenced. They never get a chance to celebrate again. A lot of tears are shed in England.

I’m very happy to be here for this event. It’s my first time in the U.K.., and I’m looking forward to spending a few days as a tourist in London at the end of the week.

Remember, this is my business travel blog, part two may be found on my bicycling blog: http://www.lostgears.blogspot.com

Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

October 26 - 27, 2008

Part Three:

Behind the Veils:

Greg and I are met at the Sunset’s breakfast buffet with two Turkish coffees already in play. For the record these are “medium sweet.” They mix sugar with the coffee grounds before brewing. The service at the hotel is over the top. They seem ready for us before we show up. It appears we’re the only Americans staying here and that in itself may bet the reason we’re easy to pick out of the crowd. It’s either that or the fact that Greg tends to tip our servers with U.S. greenback dollars. You decide.

They are big on buffets here. Breakfast looks like another amalgam of east and west. The table starts as most American breakfast buffets, with breads. Standard white bread quickly moves to croissant and pita. From here it quickly moves further east. Next are huge trays of hummus, tabouleh, goat cheese, and yogurt. Fresh veggies follow suit and then the hot items. Stewed tomatoes with basil are in the first serving tray, then rice, some type of egg dish, (frittata, scrambled, etc.,) then some type of sausage meat. They look for all the world like hot dogs, but are some cross of beef and herbs. There’s also usually some type of lamb dish. In essence it’s as if the hotel chef saw a picture of some American buffet and just filled it in with local foods.

Today we change gears completely and move from a one-day presentation style approach with 100 participants to a two-day workshop approach with about 20 people. Because our MENA region partner, the ZAD Group, set up all these events we’re somewhat less informed than usual. (Here's a picture of Greg and Ahmad Haikal from ZAD in the limo.) These are their clients and we are acting mainly as the drop in big-shot Americans, so it’s not necessarily unplanned. What little we know about the next two days however leaves us off balance to start. My calendar says: “Train the Trainer Program College of Business Administration Jiddah, (CBA.)” We’re also told the day before that much of the class will be women from the college taking the Leading Bold Change™ course as an addendum to their business related studies.

What we’re not told until our limo, pulls up to the well-guarded front gate of the school is that men and women attend independent universities here. This particular school is the women’s version of the CBA, a place where men rarely travel.

We and our partners are simply not prepared for the level of accomplishment and sophistication of the people in the room. As we make our way around to introduce each other it becomes immediately apparent that Greg and I are outclassed by both the men and women here. Many of the participants have PhDs in such areas of study as human relations, psychology, women’s studies, education, etc. Most of these people hold their degrees from some of America’s finest universities: Harvard, Penn State, Ohio, Kansas, Vermont, North Carolina, and several from Michigan, not to mention European institutions. We’ve got our work cut out for us!

Our friend and fellow trainer Dr. Mona Mousa, someone I certified while in Cairo last spring, is a faculty member of the CBA and helped to set up this event. (Here she talks with one of our participants from the Panda Company, Haney Kandil, and Ahmad Haikal from ZAD.) She stressed to the dean, who is also attending the training, that diversity is vital to the success of the workshop both in who attended and how they are seated. In a gesture whose pure brilliance goes far over my head, the dean mixes each table so that men and women are seated together. In the states this would not in any way be considered progressive. I’ll remind you that we’re in Saudi Arabia, a place where women must wear head coverings and are still not allowed to drive in the streets. At one point a male participant takes me aside to tell me that I can be assured this is the only university level course in Saudi Arabia today where men and women are sitting together! My entire view of the importance of this class suddenly changes. Change management has never had more meaning.

Further discussions with class participants unveil that many of the women are in women’s studies programs and that they aim to use the Leading Bold Change™ program to do nothing less than help change the country’s views of women. One young man has a nonprofit NGO that deals with the issues of youth in Saudi Arabia. He started this organization right out of grad school. The women and men are all outspoken and not afraid to voice their opinions in this mixed session. There is a palpable sense of discomfort with some of the men when the subject of women’s rights is brought up, but everyone seems interested in collaborating to get whatever they can from the program. There is some meeting half-way here, compromise of the highest sort, which leaves me with a sense of hope and optimism for my work.

There is of course more spectacular food for lunch. And the realization there is no “facility” for men in this school. So each time one of the men needs to make use of said facility a woman faculty member must first clear the ladies room and then stand guard out front. We are indeed not in Kansas anymore! Before I leave, one of the men jokingly asks me to look in on his house near Detroit to see if I can get it to sell. Another man sets up a holiday appointment with me for a cup of coffee while he visits his other home in Burlington, Vermont.

The two days at the CBA go very fast. The conversation and level of participation is of the highest level. This is another session where the teacher is also the student. We have never before brought our program to a place where the stakes for change are so high and where the willingness to take change on might be a hazard to the personal freedoms of those involved. We learn a great deal from one another and I am sorry to leave them behind.

Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

October 25, 2008

Part Two:

They Know Our Names:

We get our first inkling of the service modality here as we step out of immigration at the airport and a middle aged Philippine man greets us by calling our names. “Mr. Greg, Mr. Bill, come with me?” he says absolutely, holding up a computer printed sheet of paper with our names on it. (It is custom here to call somebody by their first name preceded by a title of some sort. If I had a PhD, he would undoubtedly call me Dr. Bill instead.) Samad walks us to his white Toyota van and pops the door open.

I neglected to mention that we arrived in Jeddah on Friday. That’s the last day of the work week in America and most of the western world. The car ride in from the airport gives us the impression that this big city is desolate. Barely another car on the road for the first few miles. Then as we approach town, it’s quiet. Little traffic, stores closed, just a few people walking the streets. But something’s amiss and I know it. So I ask Samad if this is a day of rest here. In a broken yet clearly comprehensible amalgamation of several western languages he says: “Qui, holiday off Mr. Bill.” In this part of the Muslim world it is in fact the last day of the weekend, what we’d consider Sunday. So right off the bat, I’m confused. Add to that the concept of a 7 hour time differential from the east coast and it’s a mixture destined for calamity.

The Sunset Hotel is located a bit off the beaten track facing a major roadway. We’re told that there’s a very popular shopping mall, (closed today,) just a few blocks from here, but I must admit nothing looks familiar. The Sunset is obviously a bit behind the times and looks as if it caters to more of a middle-eastern than western clientele. Around the corner is the Radisson Jiddah which would look familiar and comfortable to most anyone reading this. Our hotel is a less sophisticated style but nonetheless opulent in its own way. As Samad drops our bags off at the front door we are met by a Pakistini man who quickly shuttles our bags up the marble stairs. Then once inside Mahmud, an Indian man waves us over and drops our preprinted check-in forms on the counter. Without us saying a word he already knows each of us by name. We’ll find this to be a common and always unsettling skill in this part of the world. How do they know our names? Granted, I’m a 6’3’’ tall, really white American. I’m difficult to conceal on the cloudiest of days, especially in this land, but it’s simply uncanny how they do this! One begins to ponder if Google® has something to do with this phenomenon.

As we take our keys and head to the rooms, we cross a beautifully envisioned white marble floor in the lobby. It’s a subdued and traditional pattern with the occasional border or pattern in black or tan. As we make our way to the elevators we pass two Malaysian men busily pushing electric floor polishers. They leave a brilliant sheen behind them as they move from the back of the lobby towards the entrance.

Jet lag strains our minds and bodies as we settle into the hotel for an late afternoon nap. But first we both crack open our computers and seek reattachment to the outside world. A quiet and dim icon greets me when I look for a wireless connection. Then a search around the room for an RJ11 jack proves fruitless. I begin to feel like a smoker whose just gotten on a 17 hour transcontinental flight. Where is it? I need my net! When I call downstairs to inquire, the front desk answers with “Good day Mr. Bill, how may I serve you?” I relay my request with mumbling lips and trembling hands and I’m not sure if they’re symptoms of jet lag or the Internet withdrawal. Mahmud manages to understand me, apologizing, and sends a technician to the room. The technician, a young Pakistani, comes laden with some gear and an armful of wires that drag behind him swishing loudly, echoing on the marble floors of the hallway. The cable modem he installs suffers from an intermittentcy reminiscent of my old VW Bug when the tank would find itself below half-full. The bits and bytes sputter along seeming to gasp for some comfort in the ether. I do manage a noisy and spurious Skype call back home where it is, by this time, early morning the same day.

We’re told unceremoniously by our hosts that Saudi Arabia has a strict if informal labor practice regarding the ex-pats that come from around the world to take part in the wealth streams associated with Saudi oil. Visas are readily available to any American willing to come and work. It gets tougher for others. Brits, Australians and South Africans seem to have equal footing, but from here the disparity begins to creep in fast. As we get to the eastern and middle eastern countries visas are more difficult to get and the jobs tied to them run in a fairly downward economic profile starting with the Americans on top and Pakistanis sharing the near bottom with their global neighbors. Examples of this policy at work might be the Philippine taxi drivers and the Pakistani floor polishers. A pretty common pairing in many places we went.

Saturday, (now Monday in Saudi,) comes early for us. We’re up with the Saudi Sunrise and already it’s our first ghastly realization. The Saudis are not fans of anything that resembles a good American cup of coffee. The hotel restaurant has no big perk-pots. There is no espresso machine. There is only the huge simmering tank of hot water on the breakfast buffet. And next too it - lying sadly in a pile - are the little envelopes of Nescafe’, eek! But all is not lost to freeze-dried woe. Our disdainful looks bring the ever attentive staff running and soon we each have a double Turkish coffee, little brass pots burbling, in front of us. The thick detritus at the bottom of each tiny cup threatens to erase years of tooth whitening efforts.

Eventually we are met by our Egyptian partners Ahmad and Dr. Amr. They’ve done all the ground work for us here in Saudi and will act as our guides. It is already evident that communication here may be an issue. We pile into Ahmad’s car and head to our first paying gig for the week, with a large automobile importer Abdul Lateef Jameel (ALJ.) The car pulls up to a gated compound with ten foot high iron gates. A honk and a nod, the windows roll down and a friendly argument ensues. This seems to be an accepted part of any transaction here. There’s always some amount of lively repartee before any deal is struck. The gate motors engage and we pull though and around to the front of an ornate looking building on the campus of ALJ’s headquarters. This is their training facility where I’ll be working for the next 15 hours or so. It’s nothing short of opulent. We discover from our host Carlo that the entire building is designed after a Moroccan palace and that it includes many artifacts taken from Morocco. 25 foot ceilings are adorned with a rich lattice of mahogany or teak wood. The walls are a combination of fine mosaic tile and ornate sculpted wood. Occasionally a piece of contemporary western art juxtaposes the massive colorful walls. It is by far the most stunning room within which I have ever had to ply my trade.

Today we have 100 or so high level managers from the company. We’ll take them through the Leading Bold Change(TM) program. Greg is here to assist, along with Dr. Amr. As the meeting is called to order, before I’m introduced by Carlo, a young man is brought up to the front of the room to stand before a microphone. He begins to sing an Islamic prayer and the rest of the room falls silent. His clear and sweet voice bounds off the tiled walls with energy and fills the room. When he's done, I want applaud, but resist the urge. Suddenly it’s my turn to step into the silence left by this. The roomful of men mostly dressed in traditional robes welcomes me. We have a great day of learning from each other. The day is highlighted by a magnificent buffet lunch of traditional middle eastern foods. This continues a theme that will repeat itself all week. We love this food!

The first session ends at 5:30, giving us a short break. I step outside and listen to the call to prayer being broadcast from a P.A. system in the minaret of the local mosque just outside the door. It is now dusk and the green neon lights in the tower of the mosque begin to appear providing an eerie backdrop to the long chanting strains of “Allah uh akbar, Allah uh akbar. “ I am left with no doubt that I am truly deep inside the Islamic world.

ATHAN or AZAN
The Call to Prayer

Allah is defined as the ONE who ALONE, without partners or helpers created all that IS created in creation, either known or unknown.
-------------

1 Allah u Akbar, Allah u Akbar
-- Allah is Great, Allah is Great

2-Ash-hadu al-la Ilaha ill Allah - Ash-hadu al-la Ilaha ill Allah
-- I bear witness that there is no divinty but Allah

3 Ash-hadu anna Muhammadan Rasulullaah
-- I bear witness that Muhammad is Allah's Messenger

Ash-hadu anna Muhammadan Rasulullaah.
-- I bear witness that Muhammad is Allah's Messenger

4 Hayya la-s-saleah - Hayya la-s-saleah
-- Hasten to the prayer, Hasten to the prayer

5 Hayya la-l-faleah - Hayya la-l-faleah
-- Hasten to real success, Hasten to real success,

6 Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar
-- Allah is Great, Allah is Great

7 La Ilaha ill Allah
-- There is no divinity but Allah

The day ends with a 3.5 hour board meeting and then another buffet. This one we’re told, is an “executive dinner.” Much better than the earlier lunch. A spectacular spread of seafood, lamb, beef, rice, tabbouleh, hummos, pita, yogurt, pasta, and four types of salads. When the desserts come we are agog. A table full of artwork appears, chocolates, chiffons, crème brulee, a French patisserie on wheels.

My favorite has to be the little pastry bird nests. Each delicate nest of light pastry noodles filled with green roasted pistachios drenched in honey. We have an elegant sufficiency. An embarrassment of riches. We are sated….at least until tomorrow.

Jeddah, Saudi Arabia

October 24, 2008

Arriving in a New Land

Part One:

It starts almost immediately on the plane while the doors are still open. The universal sign of Arabic hospitality. An aromatic scent, clear, precise and something my travel partner is unfamiliar with. It is cardamom. At first it appears as what the flight attendant calls “coffee” but resembles more a cloudy green tea. It’s sweet, light and served in a tiny porcelain cup about the size of a shot glass. Alongside it, a Persian date. Almost wet in its glistening sweetness. Greg my business partner passes me his date and asks the flight attendant for a larger cup for his al-qahwah al-'arabiyyah. He likes the flavor even through its unfamiliarity but would prefer this Arabian treat in an American quantity.

Surprisingly this spice, associated so closely with the Middle East, is sourced from a small region in Guatemala. The Cardamom plant provides work for several hundred thousand people picking, sorting, drying and packaging its green pods for people halfway around the globe. Offering Cardamom to your guests is a sign of traditional hospitality, but also a show of affluence. It’s very expensive, in the same league as saffron.

After the dates and the cardamom coffee the food comes in waves.

We’re in first class, upgraded from business class by our new friend Savahn at Saudi Airlines in JFK. She took care of the discrepancy between the name on my ticket and the one on my passport. Bill vs. William isn’t a big deal in everyday practice, but throw the TSA into the mix and the names might as well be in different languages.

After the first wave of food we’re given our first class gift bags. Huge shopping bags full of Saudi Airlines swag to make the 14 hour flight a bit easier. Among the treasures: slippers, eye mask, ear plugs, an entire designer dopkit, and most amazingly a sweatsuit! The dreaded airport sweatsuit. I’m stunned. Not longer than a month ago I’d asked my friend Torie to promise to shoot me if she ever saw me wearing one of these while walking through an airport. Now I know where they come from!

Another stunning realization about the gift bag is that buried in that dopkit is nothing less than a shaving kit with a razor! A razor! Meanwhile the TSA made me give up my 3 ounce bottle of expensive cologne and my foldable golf putter. But here in first class, they hand out razor blades! Maybe they trust us more in the cushy seats.

The food on the rest of the flight addresses a middle ground between western tastes and eastern tradition. Familiar items like pasta, steak, chicken, and roasted veggies are balanced with rice, hummus, olives, lamb, pita, and curries. Its refreshing to have a choice of food with actual flavor on an airline. And of course each meal is followed by green tea. If cardamom coffee is the aperitif, then green tea is the digestif. It's served piping hot in tall slender glasses, usually with fresh sprigs of mint on the side. Sometimes they ask, “with mint or without?” And the last thing we get is a small dishful of anise seeds. We chew them as a breath freshener so as not to offend anyone with the dread “coffee breath.”

As morning rises through the windows of the 747B, the city of Jeddah (also spelled "Jiddah",) comes into view in the distance. This coastal city of the Saudi peninsula is a flat expanse of desert with some mountains in the distance. Much like Egypt the color scheme is all tan; shades of the sand blowing on the horizon. For the most part the buildings are short and blend into the vista. There is one exception, and the only building that truly catches our attention as we circle for our landing. It’s a worldwide icon and seems a bit out of place here. The massive structure is blueish-purple and has large yellow letters that spell out IKEA easily readable from the plane. Jeddah is the most western of Saudi Arabian cities. It is clear that they are pushing to diversify Jeddah’s economy from its historical base of oil.

Customs in Jeddah is surprisingly quick. It did come with one caveat which was reinforced from the earliest contact with our Visa documents. In big letters on every immigration doc, it reads “Drug trafficking = Death!” No messing around here. On the far side of security our driver finds us immediately and takes us to our home for the next week, The Sunset Hotel, in the heart of downtown Jeddah. Greg and I settle in for some downtime and sleep, then it’s off to tomorrow’s venue to set up.

After the subtle culinary introduction to Middle Eastern food on the plane, our hosts decide to take us to a local fixture that is apparently purely Jeddah. The place is called Al Baik.

And to our chagrin it is the number one competitor in Saudi Arabia to none other than KFC. The stores and the menu are almost indistinguishable from one another, and often are found side by side. The clear difference, and one that immediately lets westerners know we’re “not in Kansas anymore,” is the lack of women in the restaurants. Each restaurant, in fact, has a separate window declaring itself the “women’s window,” on the outside of the building.

Our trip comes not without some very recent historical context. Not far from our hotel sits the US Consulate compound. On December 7, 2004 it was attacked by highly organized militants apparently connected to Al Qaeda. No Americans were killed, but 8 foreign security guards and some attackers died. Most Americans and other foreigners living for any length of time in Jeddah must live in highly fortified compounds with tall concrete walls with armed guards and often tanks in the streets behind. As I said to my partners in preparation for the trip, “We’re not going to Disneyland guys!”

Vilnius

Day three

Part One

It's been an interesting time here. After working with our client today, I excused myself for some rest and went to my room to watch local coverage of the Giro d'Italia. Great stuff. In the US, we only get to watch the Tour. The Giro is a fascinating and a very different beast. Levi Leipheimer had a horrible crash at the front of the pack, ending up struggling to finish with the peloton. Great excitement.

Greg and I went to a local bar/restaurant tonight. It was just five or six blocks from the hotel. He chose it because of its "dive" appeal. That's a Greg thing.

As it turns out, we were the only ones that spoke any English. And the menus were all in Lithuanian. We could figure out a few things... they were at least in a similar order as American restaurants. The top was made up of appetizers, clearly. The next, salads. Then an amalgam of things that might be fish, might be pork, might be beef. Who knows? What we do know for sure is that everything will be served with potatoes...somehow, some way. It's thier thing. We end up asking the waitress to just choose something for us. She winces... doesn't smile. It's not a Lithuanian trait. We try sign language... "you... pick... something... for... us...." Now it's a grimace. Maybe we insulted her, I'm not sure. Greg decides, just like the SNL skit, to repeat the same thing, just at four times the volume, "YOU...., PICK.... SOMETHING.... FOR.... US?" She runs away angry and comes back with the burly bartender. "Jeez,"I think. "It's way too early in this trip to get in a fight." Somehow we manage to communicate that we're hungry and that we want him to pick something. I'm not sure if he thinks we want to buy him dinner or if we're looking for some other type of excitement. We also ask something like, "YOU BRING US LITHUANIAN DRINK?" He comes back with these huge glasses filled with something that looks like brandy and tastes like a cross between an Anise based liquor and kerosene. PERFECT!

Finally he says, "Oh, yo! Porka!" We take this as a good and universal sign for some kind of pig product. This, being Lithuania, is a pretty good bet anyway, but exactly which part of the pig might end up on our plate is still questionable.

The choice ends up being appropriate. It's a slab of pork-steak with a piece of ham on top, with a sauce made of pork sausage. As the French might say, this is throwing "Cochon to the wind." Also some steak fries and a salad. All-in-all, it's not bad and Greg actually eats it! Amazing. Half way through the meal, I go to the bar and point to the draft handle saying "TAURAS." Hell! It's named after a car made in Michigan...well almost. Must be the right thing. We leave feeling sated and culturaly enriched. We nail a good 'ol US Dollar to the wall along with all the other higher valued denominations, (Yen, Euro, Canadian Dollars, etc.) and make our way to the dark street.

I ditch Greg on the way out of the restaurant and go for a Palladino stroll. First thing I come across is a movie theater. I love the poster for Indiana Jones. Check out the spelling... Indiana is spelled perfectly, but "Jones" is a different story altogether.

The walk ends up being two hours in length and takes me through the breadth of Vilnius neighborhoods. I finished up the night at a bar watching one of the weirdest cultural conflagrations I've ever witnessed. Sitting in Lithuanian hotel bar, watching the Championship League Football game between Manchester United and Chelsea with about 50 tourist from around Europe. I ended up calling my friend Dennis back home in Traverse City, just for some sanity. So here I am drinking SVYTRUYS" beer, listening to an all English soccer game, broadcast in Russion (from Moscow,) in a Lithuanian bar, with a mixed group of English, Irish, Russian, Japanese, and Polish soccer fans. Whew!!

Back at the Pub, it's the first time watching the Premier League championships, and the first time doing so at a European bar. Man.United and Chelsea are into overtime and it's a shootout. All I'll say is one team just won, and GOAL, GOAL, GOAL!!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm afraid there will be some brawling in England tonight.

Day One
Part One

Iowa to the Easter Bloc:

I’ve set off on an unusual trip this time. It started with a quick hop and a skip from Traverse City to Des Moines. Two flights, each under 45 minutes… a brief stop at O’Hare. The Des Moines gig is for the Iowa Department of Public Health and is attended by physicians and administrators from hospitals and clinics around the state. They are a great audience! We have fun and laugh quite a bit. One of the more engaged groups I’ve worked with in some time.

Iowa is….well…. Iowa. I am reminded of my days at Minnesota Public Radio, just up highway 35W from here. Long stretches of freeway, greening crops of every kind in all directions, immense wet fields awaiting the tender care of vanishing farmers. They’ve had their wettest (and snowiest) winter in decades here. Everywhere I go there is talk of surviving the winter. It’s different in a place like this than in say Minneapolis. In the Twin Cities people are prepared for such weather. There are winter sports to match the dark hours and a humor designed to dryly pierce the layers of protection a mind puts before it in such places. Snow is not welcome as much as the season itself. Winter represents, if nothing else, a respite from the green vastness of the fertile plain. It is a time to dig in, to play cards, to drink peppermint schnapps along with the beer, and to heal your body of the wounds of a year’s labor. After this long season, these people are looking forward to the work which lies before them.

I am here but briefly, just one night and part of a day. Wednesday afternoon I hop a flight for Chicago to work with a private company. The gig in Chicago is a hidden resort which seems to hover between the suburbs and the city. All the time I’ve spent in Chicago and I’ve never before known of this place. Eaglewood Resort and Spa is technically in Itasca, Illinois. But it’s only twenty minutes from O’Hare, and that was during rush hour. It’s an oasis wedged between the Eisenhower Expressway, 355 and highway 20. It comes highly recommended by me. The entire facility including the hotel and conference center reflects on the architectural work of Frank Lloyd Wright. Everything is in sepia tones, with tall and bright interior areas. Seating is Stickley inspired Prairie School in design. Lovely place. And it’s the only private resort I’ve been to that includes a bowling alley. My clients rented the place on my last night for a great team building gathering. Beer and bowling! What else could a group of hard working folks ask for after a long day of change management?

I left the resort and found a room at the O’Hare Hilton for a couple nights. Rather than race home for a few hours, I decided to stay here and relax. It was a good choice. I was able to catch up on a lot of business, including paying some bills and doing some writing. It felt like a little private retreat.

Today, I’ve walked across the street to O’Hare and searched out Terminal 5, for international departures. It’s a scoot on the tram….ten minutes away. I decided to go and check in early so that I could commence with more relaxing. This was a reality check for my travels to eastern Europe. The ticketing counter for LOT, (Polish Airlines,) was empty at noon when I showed up. Disconcertingly there is a sign here that reads, “Check-in starts at 6:30 PM.” A nice round number, but my flight leaves at 5:30 PM. I’m starting to get nervous.

So I decide to ride back to the Hilton and get a beer….I’m allowed! And I know it’s comfortable and I can find free WiFi. While sitting at the bar I noticed an interesting sign that reads, “These premises are for the use of Hilton guests. Trespassing is not allowed, except by hotel employees.” I find it comforting to know that the low paid staff here can at least choose to augment their incomes by trespassing. I must admit to occasionally trespassing here myself on overnight layovers. The lobby can be quite comfortable, and the staff friendly, as long as you don’t smell like Jack Daniels or act like Jack Black. I’ve met some interesting people while ignoring that sign.

So now I’m finally ticketed, (Business Class Baby!) but as I walked up to the counter I noticed an interesting sign hastily taped to the edge of each station. The sign has no words, but is readily understood by all. It has a picture of a chainsaw, (not just any one mind you, a Husqvarna,) and a big circle with a slash through it. Hmmmm. One has to wonder if they need a sign for such a thing if they’ve had multiple attempts to bring them on board. None of the other airlines had the signs, only Polish Airlines. Hmmmm..

I’m behind security. Here there’s another reality check… no restaurants or bars on this side of TSA scrutiny. It’s funny because Terminal 5 is certainly the most modern construction of all O’Hare properties. It’s bright and clean, but somehow they forgot to make room for vendors. All the vendors are lined up using fold-out carts along one of the walls. No stores, no McDonalds, no Sam Adams, no Brookstone. I must admit it’s actually a relief. I’m waiting in the executive lounge here for Greg. (Imagine that, me waiting for Greg!) Anyway….I’m actually excited to be going to eastern Europe for the first time. Lithuania was behind the iron curtain not so long ago. Now, it’s free to travel in and out, no visa needed.

Day Two
Part One




LOST

I couldn't resist finding a way to ride a bike here. The hotel boasted of over ten miles of horseback and bike riding trails. The process of finding a bike to rent unveiled something I'll just call "the Hawaiian Thing." It actually started the moment I got off the plane. Those of you who know me will understand that I'm a sign Nazi. That is to say I'm a firm believer in signage playing an important role for travelers, not just a way to decorate public spaces. So building upon what I said about this on day one, there became obvious a certain smugness about giving away information. It never seemed malicious, but always oddly familiar. When asking the clerk at the check-in desk of the hotel what there might be to do one night, she said "nothing going on here...you can go to the bar." What she neglected to say was that on the night of my arrival the hotel was hosting a big Luau with dancing, music, fire-twirling, etc. And it was right there on the other side of the building. Just no one thought it important enough to mention.



Then when I tried to rent a bike, another clerk said "no, we don't rent bikes, but you can drive to town and there's a place there." So I did just that... drove to town and right where she said it was, next to a Starbucks!, was a bike rental place. But it was closed up. Funny because the town was bustling otherwise. It looked like he just didn't feel like opening up that day. So now, I get some groceries and go back to the resort, and this time as I'm walking in I see (less than twenty feet from the front desk,) about 15 bicycles all lined up. So I drop the groceries off in the room and call the desk, "no we don't rent bikes." "But really, ma'am, I just saw all these bikes right there near the front desk. What are those for?" "Oh, let me check." Sure enough, of course they rent bikes! I just had to ask enough people several different times. Some of the natives I worked with referred to it as "Hawaii-time," but it was more like some Hawaiian trick they play on us Ha oles.

Interestingly I dug a little to check into this term ha ole. It has both positive and/or negative connotation. I've always known it as the Hawaiian version of "cracker!" But I much prefer this etymology I found on a website, written by Cheryl Taupu. The meaning represented here clearly gets at the Hawaiian Thing I'm talking about. I love this:

"Ha ole originates from Ha meaning breath and ole meaning without and loosely translates into without breath. When western man first arrived in Hawaii the Hawaiians, being of darker skin thought that the whiter skinned westerner must be without breath (oxygen), thereby being of whiter skin. Ha ole is both good and bad depending on the contexts of which it is used. Ex. That ha ole chick sure can surf. as opposed to Stupid ha ole chick find another wave."

A few years back Greg told me about the TV series LOST. Since I don't have a TV, I can't really participate, but waited until the DVDs hit the video rental store. You know the deal, group of travelers stuck on some deserted island and weird stuff starts happening. No, I'm not talking about Gilligan's Island! Anyway, the show is shot in Hawaii.

As I rode the bike along the trail, marked in that Hawaiian Thing way, (a brick seemingly tossed along the trail here and there,) I first came across a beautiful little cove with almost no-one there. Walking along the beach I stumbled upon fresh green sea turtle tracks. Here's a photo, (not mine.) But the tracks I saw looked just like this except they only went in one direction....towards the water. It looks like she made her way in the night before, the surf washing away her incoming tracks, and then must have left early that morning.

The north side of the Island is loaded with places like this. Guess that's why they call it Turtle Bay.

Heading back into the jungle on the bike several interesting things came to my attention. One was the occasional erratic appearance of preformed concrete pillars. They were square, about 12 inches on each side. I first imagined them to be left over from the old military installation here. Maybe they were footings for an old building. But then as I investigated further I realized there would be a crop of five or ten of them in no real sensical order that I could see. Most bedeviling was that they were all of varying heights. One was buried in the ground so that you could only see its square top. Others were twenty, thirty feet tall, some hidden in the undergrowth, some out in the open. To top off the mystery there were signs all over saying Keep Off - Private Property, or US Government Property - Stay Out. But I was following that dumb trail! There was one of those little bricks with the arrow painted on it right there.

In the last photo of pillars in the field, the one on the left is about fifteen feet tall, the two in middle somewhere about twenty, and the one on the right at least thirty feet tall. No wires or other attachments anywhere on them. In total there were at least ten little collections of them around the property.













Then as I went further down the trail, just beyond a big collection of those pillars, there was this otherworldly set of trees. They were completely different than anything else around.
It was like a wall of thick whitish vines hundreds of feet across lining the path. There's a few in Waikiki that look the same but it's a small cluster, only ten or twenty feet across. They were identified as Indian Banyan Trees. Here's a couple shots of them and a video, with one showing how the trees enveloped some unsuspecting boulders. Very Tolkienesque. Remind anyone of Ents?


All of this sci-fi deep in the foliage was already putting me on edge when out of nowhere this guy walks up with a huge Nikon camera and asks "Want me to take your picture?" Really! I started getting flashbacks to episodes of LOST, and Hurley's numbers: 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42. Who is this guy? How'd he find me in here? Who put these pillars here and these weird trees, and why? Was I supposed to find them? "Jaaaaaaack!"


So not wanting to insult the Gods of the Island, I handed him my camera. I'm thinking the gloss white legs helped protect me. I must admit that I had a ball with this mystery, and I'm not sure if I care to find out the answers. Probably far too banal in reality.