How to Create Confusion

Go into a Starbucks in the States. Order a Latte. Okay, to be a little kind, order a Grande Latte. That's it. That’s all you ask for.

I asked for a Grande Latte. The poor girl taking my order had the look of someone whose fuse had blown behind their eyes. Her response? "U-um, I'm sorry, a what?"

Me. "A Grande Latte." Slower, and maybe a little louder. I'm thinking my accent is the issue, so I drawl out the clipness of my Zimbabwean-New Zealand colonial background.

Her. "A Grande Latte." Okay, so we've established the order. But no, her Sharpie hovers hesitantly from the take away cup, and she looks up at me.

Sheepishly. "You want that, um, hot?"

Me, cracking up internally, hoping like crazy that that I can hold it together. "Hot would be nice. It's a Latte."

Her. Blinks. Writes the order on the cup. Gives it to the barista, with a wide eyed what-the-heck look on her face.

Me. Thinks. "Did I just ask for something strange? Does Grande Latte not translate at Starbucks? Do I have a booger in my nose?"

So I move over to the pick up counter and wait for my mystery beverage.

Then the dots connect, and I realise that I am probably the first guy who has come into this Starbucks and asked for a Grande Latte.

The customer behind me. "Can I have a Decaf-Lowfat-Doubleshot-Latte-Extra-Hot". Not a blink from What-The-Heck girl.

Then. "Yeah, I'll have a Frappaccino. Mocha. No Wait. Minted. Yeah, heavy on the mint. Hold the whipped cream." Service with a smile.

Next please. "Soya-cappuccino. Please. No sprinkles. No cinnamon. No chocolate. Oh, and extra fluff." What-The-Heck nods, efficiently ticks boxes on the cup, and passes said cup onto Barista Girl, who by now has delivered the Grande Latte to the weird foreigner in the black tee shirt.

Sometimes simple isn't so simple, I guess.

Outside It's America

My last day in the States. It's a work free day, so I'm slowly packing, and doing laundry, and packing the clean clothes, and watching TV, and packing the stuff I've bought for the girls, and generally killing time until I head off to the airport this afternoon.

Two weeks has at the same time gone quickly and ground out excruciatingly slowly. It's been rich with experience, and a genuinely eye-opening view into Another World. In reality, it's not too different from my quiet little life in New Zealand. But the subtle differences are profound, and sum up to the impression of something unique and strangely attractive.

Two experiences that illustrate what I mean.

Last night I went to a boutique concert at a vineyard not far from here. Chicago was playing. I’m not a big Chicago fan, the tickets were free, my colleagues invited me, and I had no better offers.

The setting was Country Club USA. You know the place; green green grass, manicured fairways of a golf course that rambles and intertwines itself through the complex, a carpark that look like a European car dealers forecourt, fresh-faced high schoolers in matching shorts and polo shirts promising to look after your every whim for the evening. For the concert, the stage was placed in view of a out door dining area, in a bowl shaped amphitheatre. The setting was intimate, but not so intimate that a quasi-rock band would be out of place. As the sun set, we ate, and drank the vineyards fare. Mercedes-Benz dealers worked the tables, offering friendly chit-chat and a reminder that the new range is, as always, stunning. Fairy lights in the trees became more apparent and conversation became easier with the complete strangers sharing the experience.

The crowd was wealthy. No doubt. White haired, tanned gentlemen with the unmistakable air of having no concerns about money. Their wives, dressed for a summer evening, even more tanned, dripping jewelry and good make-up. Successful thirty somethings, sunglasses hanging from the buttoning on their very carefully selected polo shirts. Their ladies also dressed for summer, and fast tracking their way to their older counterparts.

And strangely, my discomfort wasn't overwhelming. Maybe I'm very adaptable. Maybe I can get by without being too affected by the setting I find myself in. As an observer, the whole thing was wholly interesting. As a participant, it was fun.

After dinner, Chicago ground out a set of their greatest hits. No fan, I found out that I'm also no stranger to their music. Just as the setting was Anyplace USA, Chicago is Anyband USA, whose songs have been staples of the world pop culture that the US has led over the past three decades. Made-for-TV movies and Classic Hits radio stations all over the planet are built on the kind of band that Chicago are, and the kind of music they play.

After the concert, I got back to the hotel. I had left CNN on the TV, and walked into the build up of Barak Obama's nomination acceptance speech.

Sitting in my hotel room, I immersed myself in the second of my All American experiences of the night. I like to keep up to date with world politics, and there are very few, if any, countries in the world where a setting like what I watched from Denver could exist. Those from the commonwealth often look at America with those-bloody-yanks eyes. Always too over the top. Always putting themselves on a pedestal. Our stiff upper lip upbringing is severely confronted by the displays of whoop-whoops and the general speed and lack of tact with which an American delivers an opinion.

But the over-the-topness is exactly what had me engaged last night. The build-up. The anticipation.

And, in fairness, the moment.

Obama is to this generation what we hear Kennedy and Mandela and Gandhi and Churchill were to generations that have gone before us. There is a sense that when I hear Obama speak, I participating in history. Whether this man gets to be the leader of the Free World or not, the effect he has had on people is going to be remembered for a long time.

He is certainly the closest embodiment of a leader - someone to be followed - that I have seen. Not entirely sure why that is - and I think it's a sum-of-the-parts thing - but I'm looking forward to watching more of this man. And maybe learning a little something along the way.

Yes, Outside it’s America.



I'll finish this post, get up, finish packing, and count the seconds until my ride to the airport gets here and the Task of Travelling begins again. A task started is a task nearly done.

I am so very much looking forward to completing this Task. Love, I miss you so bad.

See you tomorrow.

Bout Ready to Come Home Now

Was walking back to my room from the "gatehouse" (where the reception desk and pool area is at the residence I'm staying at), and from behind me, from the car park, came the familiar rumble of a car engine. It was so familiar that I, at first, didn't even turn around. I smiled and thought, wow, that sounds like a BMW, one of the ones with the modified rumble. Like the one I used to have, the one that gave me whiplash the first time I heard it start up on the car yard.

Slowly, as it sharked over the hotel carpark, looking for a home for the night, it passed me. A black, 320i sedan. Just like the one I had. Like the one that my Girls admonished me for for trading in, because one of their favorite sounds was daddy rumbling up the driveway at the end of the day.

The context, and why seeing the car was such a yang-yang;

I got back to the hotel after a day in a training session here in San Ramon. The town is pretty much a corporate town. The campus office buildings are home to some fairly huge corporations, including the one I work for, and all are global in their operations. So a place like San Ramon is going to process a constant churn of incomings, as folks are transferred into the centre of their employers respective universes. Much like Singapore. And so this wee hotel, made up of mainly apartments and studio suites, reminds so much of Greatworld. Not in its physical appearance, far from it. It's a complex of two storey buidlings, built around a central car park, sandwiched between the campus block of Bishop Ranch 1 and a modest shopping centre. But its feel and function is very Greatworld-esque.

I walk past the pool on the way to my suite, from the campus at BR1. And, just like Greatworld, the pool is a late afternoon gathering point for wives-awaiting-husbands, and the kids-making-friends.

When I got back to the room, and was greeted by the Click, I immediately decided that I wasn't going to waste the last hour and a half of daylight in the room. So I changed and went and picked up my laundry, got a free copy of Newsweek, put my headphones on the blackberry, and sat down at the pool with a coffee. I was in dappled shade, so I wasn't exactly soaking up the sun, but I did emmerse myself in the moment.

Mar-mmy, mar-mmy, watch me swim, as a little four or five old splashed her way across the pool. Marco. Polo. Marco. Polo. Oohs and Ahhs as a mum arrived with her smallest. Shrieks and giggles and splashes. Goggles on the pool side. Little bodies walking quickly and stiffly around the blueness, coz mar-mmy said not to run.

The Girls would be very happy splashing away in this world.

In my ears, blackberry music. Because it's on my blackberry, it's my favorites. Coldplay, Sting, Seal; all comfortable, soothing. A nice accompaniment to the saturation cover-to-cover verbage of McCain-Obama on the pages of Newsweek (that's a whole nother blog on its own - the phenomenon is intruiging). And then U2 comes into the ear buds, the first few bars of Beautiful Day. That was it. Time to go. It'd rather deal with the Click. So I hurriedly pack up my stuff, push back my deck chair so hard that I send it rattling across the poolside. Loudly. Sheepishly pick it up, put it back, and slink out of the pool area, into the car park and on the way back to the room.

Which is where we came in. Rumble.

Can I go home now?

Please.

Oww!

Cut myself shaving this morning. Not something I usually do. But this one was a goodie. Obviously my mind wasn't really on the job, or I could blame the new razor, but I scrapped the epidermis off my adam's apple. Left a red streak about a half a centimetre long, and it is bleeding incessantly. I have a meeting with my boss in a couple of hours, and a 45 minute train ride between now and then.

Perfect.

And here I sit, typing with one hand and stemming the gush with a flannel in the other.

So that's random.

In the City

San Francisco is a nice town. And a window into America.

It felt a little strange to be in a place that I had never been, and yet was so familiar. Thinking about it, San Francisco is a character in a lot of movies and TV shows that I've seen. Driving through the city was like driving through TiVo, or the 7-day-hire section of the DVD rental store. The Dirty Harry movies. Mrs Doubtfire. Nine Months. The Wedding Planner. This list goes on and on. So there was a real sense of being here before. I'm picking that other folks have a similiar experience in other iconic US cities, like New York, or Washington, or Boston. Cities that are so much a part of the our popular culture that they have become so familiar, and in a way that either adds to or or detracts from the experience of the place. I'm not decided yet which.

I had dinner last night with a colleague, his wife, and some of the folks from the office in London. It felt quite cosmopolitan, and in all honesty, way out of my comfort zone. I felt like I was on the set of a TV show, eating with these folks in a cute little cafe on Lombard. The whole experience, whilst very pleasant, was alos quite existential. I'm a home-body; my comfort zone exists when the Girls are around me. Engaging with the my dinner companions was a real struggle, not because of who they were, but more because of who I am.

Needless to say, with four comany folks around the table, the dinner talk was all about work. And as much as we tried, all conversation turned back to work. It's so easy. It's what consumes us. It's our default position, a position that is multiplied exponentially when egged on by the company present. And thinking about it now, there doesn't really need to be too much egging on. Find me someone who remotely understands what I do, and I'll blab and blurt and slutter and splew on (yes, new word! Say it with distain for best effect.) all night and day about my job. With little regard to my audience, at times. Love, I'm sorry I'm such a boar (or bore) sometimes.

My hosts were remarkably hospitable. They're an English couple, about the same age as me, with a lovely apartment in the Union Street area and a view over the bay. The apartment had a contemporary feel to it, but the basic artitecture was deco; high vaulted ceiling with curved mouldings, polished floors, and an open feel. Very nice. I could see me and Girls living there, all it's missing is a yard.

After dinner, we went back to apartment and carried on the discussion on how we'd all, between the five of us, solve the woes of the Company. I was graciously given the use of the futon for the night. The futon was hard. My sleep was light. And at about 7.30am on a Saturday, someone makes happy with a nail gun. All day I've craved sleep.

But, to ward off the sleep, I've had a guided tour of a nice town. My host, after his wife on their other house guest had been dropped off at a restuarant for a lunch date, took me down to Chrissy Field, through the tourist tackiness of the piers. We walked along the foreshore, talking about stuff and stuff, and he, in a low key way, explained SF to me. Why the Golden Gate Bridge is red, not gold. (It's was the bridge to the gate of the city founded on the gold rush). Why the fog rolls in almost daily. What it's like in SF, compared to London. That there are more bums in SF than anywhere else in the States. (The weather, and the fact that a major veterans hosptial was here in SF).

The Golde Gate Bridge is really spectacular, in an inexplicable kind of way. Maybe it's a different thing to everyone. On a base level it is an attraction, an icon that is to SF as the Opera House is to Sydney or the Eiffel Tower is to Paris.

But to me, and I love things like this, it's sweeping and almost romantic. It solidly connects the city with Sausalito peninsular, standing firm as a junction. In the interest of not scolding myself with lyrical waxing, suffice to say it made an impression on me.

My host, incredibly generous with his time, took me from Chrissy Park up through The Presidio and over to Ocen Beach, where all the rich folk live in multi-million homes over looking the Pacific. Apparently Robin Williams has a home over there. Not sure if he was home.

Then back up past Gold Gate Park, where a huge music festival is happening this weekend, and down into the city. I got dropped off at Powell, and caught BART back to Pleasanton. I taxi'ed back to the hotel, and immediately filled the time with Task.

I went to Target (my host and his wife up-grade Target's profile by using it's French pronounciation, Tar-chay...), and did some shopping. I moped around Borders, looking at stuff that the Girls would all love. I could almost hear them saying "Daddy....".

Then back to the room. TV on. A biscuit and a drink. Shuffle some work around. Channel surf.

I enjoyed being in the city. It was, more than anything, a welcome distraction.

Munted

Munted. Quaint li'l old New Zealand word. Just on the edge of socially acceptable. Means stuffed. Broken. No, really broken. Think car wreck. Blown cylinder head. Munted. It'll-take-a-lot-to-fix-this kinda thing.

Maddy, my heart is munted too.

The Restaurant Scene...

The end of another day in California.

I switched hotels today, on the advice of some of the colleagues in the office here in San Ramon. The general consensus was "what the heck...?" when I let them know where I was staying. So, here's a new hotel room. Interestingly, same door clicking sound. Same feeling, although this feeling is slightly diluted, mainly because the room is so much nicer than the one I've spent the last two nights in.

This hotel is a lot closer to the office, like a six minute walk away. There's also some shops within walking distance, so I don't feel isolated like I did at the Hilton. And a Starbucks.

So at least I'm comfy, and coffee'ed up. When I got back from the office this afternoon, I unpacked and changed, and went for a walk to discover what was close by. Other than the grocery store and a lot of eating places, and Starbucks (ahhhh) there's not a lot there. But it is something. After getting my grande-latte-skim-milk-to-go, I stopped at the service station to get some snacks. Then I got back to the room, tossed the dodgy mints out of the jar on the coffee table, and moved in properly...

Went out for dinner tonight, to a place called Bridges in a town a little way down 680, called Danville. If you've watched Mrs Doubtfire, you'll know Bridges. It was the restaurant that the movie culminated in, with Robin Williams trying to be both his character and his/her alter ego. So that's nice. Very nice restaurant, by the way. Try the creme brulee, the pecans are a great touch.

Also, in Danville tonight was the first night of Street Heat. Remember the convention a-brewing at the Hilton? Well, it bubbled over in Danville tonight. The main street, right outside Bridges, was closed off, and lined with gleaming hot-rods brooded over by proud owners sitting in fold out deck chairs. Hot Rod owners are possibly the most easily stereo-typical folks I've observed. Loud shirts. Cargo Shorts, usually khaki. White ankle socks. Sneakers. Baseball cap. Sunglasses with string. Deck chair. Loud speaking voice. Default phrase - "oh, man..." And I take my hat off to them - the care and attention they put into those cars is commendable. If we could bottle that level of love and spread it around, the world would be a better place.

So I'm sitting in the same place that Robin lost his dress, sharing dinner and conversation with a couple of colleagues, when three blondes sit down at the table next to us. A walking advert for the values of silicon. Then, in hushed tones, one of my fellow diners informs us that the one with the lips is the wife of one of the band members from Motley Crue. Wow. The waiter, who was nice, but not amazing in his service levels to us, kicked into over-drive. A whole nother level. Hope he got a tip. And then, as the evening progressed, the table of blonde became a magnet for the Beautiful People, as the dropped by to say Hi, and make OTT small talk (if small talk is OTT, is that really big talk? Just asking...). John, my colleague who by day is a historian, delivered the line of night. He asked, "you want to have your picture taken with her. Some Americana?"

I declined, but marvelled at the spectacle of the moment. This, my friends, is Northern California. Hot Rods in the street. Obscure band member's wives recognised in restaurants.

I miss the simplicity of my real life.

A Room With a View

Mid morning in San Ramon. I'm sitting at the desk in my hotel room, working through some e-mail while I cool my heels waiting for meetings today. I had two meetings scheduled this morning, one of them cancelled (by way of an Out of Office response to my confirming e-mail, so that was nice...), and one of them re-scheduled until this afternoon. So a busy morning has turned into a morning of e-mail, on-line learning and an old episode of Monk.

And the room? Absolutely ordinary. I've always tried to tell myself that a hotel room is at best a safe place to rest my head, no matter how good, or bad, the room is. Nice thought. Noble. Humble. That thought has been genuinely confronted by this room. Check out the view.

Absolutely the best freeway I've had the pleasure of sleeping close to.

The room itself is more at the "motel" end of the accommodation scale. The decor is maybe 1988. No mini-bar. Not that I use the mini-bar much, but it's nice to have the thought of access to a drink and a snack if the urge takes you. It's like being on a fast. The thought of not eating is so much worse than the actual act of not eating.

The mo-hotel itself is pretty isolated too, now shops or restaurants in walking distance. i needed a travel adaptor, and I usually rely on conceirge for things like that. I asked for one last night, they looked at me blankly. I asked where I could buy one. WalMart. I asked how to get there. The said speak to Maurice.

So I spoke to Maurice. And then, as we got in the car, I just sat back and listened. Maurice is one of the hotel's shuttle drivers. Really nice guy. Very generous with his time. And he talked me all the way around Dublin and Pleasanton, as we searched for said adaptor. We eventually found one at Radio Shack, after looking in WalMart and Best Buy. It seems that this wee town doesn't expect too many folks from overseas. Or at least folks from overseas that need to access the national grid.

Hey, there's also a convention a-brewing!! Goodguys. As in Goodguys, the classic car thingie. Hotrod Heaven in the car park, and Maurice assures me that by the weekend, they'll be so much shiny classic metal out there that it'll make my eyes water. This is genuine Discovery Channel stuff. So genuine that Chip Foose is making an appearance. Chip Foose? Google him. Get Overhaul'd.

This is home for the next nine nights. Travelling in Asia has spoiled me. This is not the InterCon in Singapore, or the Conrad in Bangkok. This is the Hilton in Pleasanton. If it wasn't for the truly comfy bed and the 39inch plasma, it would truly suck. So it doesn't truly suck, just has the potential too. Like a dust-buster.

Tee Shirts and Lanyards

Tuesday morning in Houston. It's raining, and so the view isn't so great this morning. Through the rain-haze, headlights and taillights snake slowly along the expressways that I can see from my room on the 17th floor. I head off to SFO this morning, so I'm packed and ready to go. I'll just finish this and then head off to the airport. With this rain it could take longer than usual to get out there.

So I head down for breakfast this morning. No, back up a step. On the way in from the airport on Sunday night, I pass the "Welcome to Houston" sign. On the digital display under the welcome sign - "Home of the the 2008 National Truck Driving Championships". Right there I'm tickled. Truck Driving Championships. Who knew?

There, in the breakfast restaurant, was living proof of the 2008 National Truck Driving Championships. Grey tee-shirts, with stylised truck on the front, and the full details of the convention on the back. Very official looking lanyards. Husbands, wives. Even the kids! It really was a spectacle. And there's me. No grey tee-shirt. No Lanyard. And the maitre-d' (do they do breakfasts?) asks me, the only charlie in the room who doen't look like a truckie, "so, you're not with the convention...?".

About a million wise-crack answers flash through my mind. I mean, really. But I swallow my wit, say no, and go swimming in a sea of grey-marle to find a space to sit. Breakfast with champions.

Houston, the little I saw of it in the day and a half I was they, is a nice place. Quiet. I think it's a work-town, like Jo'burg or Canberra. Not a whole bunch seems to happen there, or if it does, it doesn't happen where I was. Apart from conventions that look like they should be covered on the Discovery Channel.

Nice weather though. Hot and humid like Singapore. Like it.

The Click

The click of the hotel room door. Gets me every time. It’s a whoosh-click-click as the self closing mechanism drags the door back over the carpet, wheezes some air out of the room, and engages itself back into a locked position.

And there I stand. Suit bag and laptop tote over my shoulders, suitcase propped up on its wheels. This is it. “Home” for the night. This is what business travel is really about. Yes, there’s excitement of the planes and the airports and the adrenaline of rushing between terminals, and the drudge of waiting in airport lounges. The act of getting from A to B has purpose. Hearing that click of the hotel room door puts a full stop on that purpose, and replaces it with the empty loneliness of yet another hotel room in Somewhere.

The knowledge that the only stimulation in this “home” is either the TV or the laptop-that-contains-work is truly deflating. The urge to go out for a walk and remove myself from the room is always strong. But I’ve been travelling for just shy of 24 hours. I’m just too stuffed. And so, this time, at the Hilton in Houston, I submit to the room.

Unpack. It’s a settling experience. Put the toiletry bag in the bathroom. Take the suits and shirts out of the suit bag, hang them up. Scope out the room. Mini-bar in the corner. TV with cable. Nice view. Kick shoes off. Crack open a coke from that mini bar in the corner. Glance casually through the concierge book. Same-old-same-old. Find the room service menu. There’s the club sandwich. (I’ve yet to find a hotel that doesn’t do a club sandwich on the room service menu, hence my World Tour of Club Sandwiches. The best so far – the InterContinental in Manila).

And once that’s all done, I realize that I’m trying to fend off the loneliness and the vacuum of relationship by filling the time with activity.

Call home.

Calling home is this lovely paradox. Of course I want to call home, to connect, to talk to see how my Love is doing, to see what they’re thinking and feeling, sense of what has happened in their world in the last 24 hours.

But at the same time, and here's the paradox, calling home is hard because I know of the magnified emptiness that is delivered when I hang up. In a way, it's like a drug with lousy after-effects. I guess, in that rather weird analogy, I'm an addict, then. The high of the drug is more desirable than what comes after, so by definition, a unrestrained addict.

I don't know if every travelling businessman (person, if we're going to be PC) misses his (or her) family as much as I do. Sometimes I feel like a wuss for missing the Girls as much as I do. But here's the thing, I don't do so good when I'm apart from them. I'm distracted. I'm flighty. I replace time and space with Stuff. I turn into a workaholic - it's a coping mechanism. There are many things to do and see on my travels, but they feel hollow and selfish. I want to share these experiences with the Girls. I want Love to see the things I see. And so, I tend to not do stuff. I do get very up-to-date with my e-mail though...

You see Love and me have been together a long time. Over half my life. Love knows me better than anyone. She makes me frown, and smile. Sometimes both in the blink of an eye. She makes me laugh. I love making her laugh. She makes me think. Deep, searching, meaningful, real thinks. Without her it would be just cars and stuff that I think about. No deeper. I miss Love so bad it actually physically hurts. And I love missing her, because in my slightly skew take on the world, the amount I miss her is a measure for how much I love her.

I miss my espresso machine too. Doesn't hurt though. Just miss the coffee.

Seat 3A

It’s two minutes to three in the morning, New Zealand time. The inflight trip-monitor-thingie tells me we’re at 11277m from sea level, and 3 hours and 55 minutes from Los Angeles. I’m not actually on-line, just typing away in the dark, in my steel tube in the sky. I’ll post this later, when I get hooked into the inter-webby.

I’ve tried to sleep, and have had some, but I’m awake now. The rest of the cabin is asleep. The window shades are glowing an orangey-red, which I guess means that the sun is shining outside of our artificial darkness.

I’m in the pointy end of the plane, two seats back from the nose-cone. That’s novel. I’ve never been in the pointy bit before. It’s kinda cool. The cabin in this bit only has 14 seats, so it feels quite exclusive. But then again, and here’s a thought that I had as I woke to someone else’s snoring, it’s also like a boarding school dorm. We all have our flash lie-flat business class seats, and with them all flat and bed-like, it’s very much like boarding school, with tiny single beds designed for sleep, or at least the illusion of sleep. And like boarding school, sleep is easy for some, and hard for others.

Usually I sleep great on a plane. I guess it’s the thought of another four hour flight after this one, and then getting to Houston in time for “real” bedtime that is getting in the way of good, deep sleep. I’d rather nap between here and Houston, and try and get a good night’s sleep in the hotel, than not get any sleep in Houston and spend the next day in meetings in Houston yawning my scone off. That make sense? Makes sense in my head. I think.

So this isn’t the first trip I’ve been on. Far from it. Lost count. Too many to try and dredge up for the sake of a scoreboard. But by far this one has been the hardest, in terms of leaving home and my Girls. My analytical brain has spent much time and energy trying to figure out why this one has been so heart crushing. It’s longer than usual, but not the longest. It’s in a new place, but not the furthest I’ve been from home. There are many, many reasons, I guess, why this is hard. And it should be hard. The day this becomes easy and routine for us scares me.

And, just when we were getting to some meat and substance, here’s the abrupt ending. My battery is running flat. I’m on a plane and don’t have the right power connection. Gotta go.

Oh, and the dorm’s stirring.

Gentlemen...

…start your engines.

Okay, so that’s really corny, but it’s a way of saying that this blog is off the ground. Launched into the ether.

I’ve been thinking of starting blog for a wee while now, but haven’t really found a good reason or purpose up til now. My wife and two of my daughters now have blogs (my third daughter is eleven months old, so let’s be patient…), and it’s a great way of keeping in touch, even if I see them everyday. It’s a side window into their lives and thoughts.

I’m on a business trip, and I won’t be seeing them for a while, to share the high and lows of our days over the dinner table. So, in addition to the phone calls and e-mails, here’s my side window. I have reason and purpose now.

Through the window there’ll be glimpses of a husband, father, white collar corporate, part time golfer, car nut, and what ever else comes to the fore.

If you’ve stumbled on in, Hello and Welcome. Amy, Kenzie, Maddy (and Mish!), this more than anyone is for you. I love you.