23 Pounds

2010-02-18T13:09:00.000-08:00

Ten past eight on Friday. Airline lounge, cooling heels, waiting on a bing-bong to herald my departure to my Arrival.

Generally this is one of my favorite parts of any trip, whether it's a day or a couple of weeks. This is the space where I get to reflect on the time away, and what that time has held and imparted, before the buzz of a more normal life begins again.

This trip, this refelction, is somehow richer. The context is varied, but the main vein is rooted in a fresh revelation of what I'm doing, in a professional sense. This is more than just a job. My day-to-day impacts how people feel about the place they work, the people the work with, the work they are doing. It impacts how people feel about themselves.

This week I missed my girls incredibly. I missed hearing about their days. I missed sharing life. I missed the sparkle. I missed saving them from the yukkie bits of life. I missed the connection to home life that comes through folding laundry and cleaning the kitchen at the end of the day.

The void that miss-age created was filled, however, with a group of very interesting gentlemen. Ockers. Passionate salesmen who spend their days in some of the remotest parts of Australia, who love the work they do, and are frustrated by not being able to do it as they see best. How common is that story! Blokes who love their footie, their aussie reds, their families and the feeling that the contribute to something Big.

And talking to them over dinner was like being transported back 15 years to tobacco farms in Zimbabwe. The same issues. The same thirst to try and control the uncontrollable. The same philosophical laugh when we all agree at the end of a heated conversation that there are some things we should just accept.

I love how, in an ever changing, ever evolving world, that there are constants. To change, to grow to something new, there has to be a start point. A weird thought has just struck me, and it's hard to articulate. We spend our lives changing, but it seems that we're constantly changing from the same start point. We change, we evolve, we adapt, and then seem to come full circle back to some place of Constant, before we need to change, evolve and adapt again.

Is that true? Or is that pie-in-the-sky?

No clue. Worth thinking about though, and think I will. But now it's time to board a sophisticated tin can, and wing my way back to Haven Space.

Bing-bong.

Hmmmm...

2010-02-18T02:01:00.000-08:00

The world outside is Sydney.

The Sydney Tower is right outside the hotel window. Like a giant cable-bound Peeping Tom, only about 70 metres too tall to bother me. The lights of the big buildings meld into the light of suburbia, and these twinkle away to the horizon north of me.

Inside, it's the same. A desk, a bed, a TV. Hotel room familiarity. The kind that breeds comtempt. The TV with a schedule of programmes that really is quite unsatisfactory. The hum of the aircon. The aircon that is always too cold. The hotel room art, invariably a numbered, signed print of an original. The bath room with no natural light.

Winge. Moan. My life is so hard. 5 star hotel. Shopping in one of the best cities in the world. There's a note on my pillow that says I have the choice of six types of pillows. I got up-graded to a Club Room. Down the hall is the Club Lounge, and according to my personalised letter from the General Manager, presented to me at check, I have full use of the club facilities. Free internet, free drinks, and nibbles between five and seven. My meal was a phone call away. I have a coffee machine in the room.

Sheesh - perspective is a hard, heavy thwack to the cranium.

I don't enjoy travelling on business, being away from home and the girls. I don't like missing Significant Moments. I don't like cooling my heels in airport lounges, sitting on tarmacs, or the whoosh-click-click of hotel room doors. But the truth is, this travel has its upside. I've seen some amazing places, met some neat people, collected a bunch of amazing airpoints and felt the thrill of coming home.

And I guess it's become a part of the plot of our story. Imagine what we would have been without the travel. A dimension of who we've become would just simply be missing. Dimension has cost. There's today epiphany. Dimension and depth carry a price tag. The richer the fabric, the more you pay.

So, a question begs an answer. The cost has been paid, the dimension bought, but to what end? What do we put our dimension to. Does the richness of our fabric serve a purpose, or hang on the wall like a tapestry.

Hmmmm.

Neat Week

2009-10-25T02:20:00.000-07:00

Number of dead birds. Four. Three inside, and one on the front door step. Two in one morning. The girls found the carcasses when they came downstairs on Saturday morning, and bravely manhandled them into plastic bags. The plastic bags sat in the bath until I saw them, and gave the Big Ones the kudos they so very much deserved. Also found a dead lizard under the mat in the lounge. The cats are looking for a new home.

Number of “Where Mum?” Double digits. Mish will stop what she’s doing, look into the near distance and become suddenly aware that Someone Significant hasn’t been seen in a while. We remind her about the airplane and Mum will be back later. She agrees wholeheartedly and then gets back to whatever it was that she was doing. Today, while waiting in a queue at church, she had the conversation all to herself. “Where-mum-gone-in-airplane-come-back-later. Yeah.”

Number of carpet stains. Too many! The grub mat seems to be The Thing to Be Missed. Actually, what happens is the child sits on said mat, whilst the food / drink / random staining agent sits on carpet. I can only think that the grub mat is more comfortable than the carpet, but isn’t good for placing a plate on...

Percentage of tasks accomplished. Oh, less than 50%. In don’t think I even got an E. Who cares. This week has taught me a lot about relating, about putting the task list to one side and doing whatever comes next. And as the week has progressed, I found more grace and capacity to do stuff, borne out of relationship with my daughters. I need to catch hold of this lesson, and let in create change in me.

Number of love treats for the Big Girls, from mum. Six each. One for each day mum’s been away. And they’ve wriggled and giggled with delight at the thought of the daily treat. Kenzie has a neat story about one of hers. I chose the biggest ones for Saturday, and popped them on the bed before we went out for the morning. Kenzie saw some new type of playdough in ToyWorld. Really wanted to get it. Decided against it. Came home, opened her treat (a mini set of playdough), and sat gobsmacked that her Mummy knows her so well...

Amount of tears shed on the first day. Gosh. A lot. We all had our leaks. Squeals of delight on the last day. Just as many as tears on the first. Neat feeling, being excited.

Number of nights slept on the floor in the walk-in wardrobe. Two each. We played coconut crack to decide who got the floor on the first night, and then rotated. Maddy’s very pleased that she gets to have the floor on the last night. That’s significant to our spirited one.

Baskets of laundry – five, and counting. And we’re still nowhere close to making a dent in the mountain. We wash more clothes in a week that most families on the planet actually own. That’s a gluttonous thought, right there.

Number of odd socks amongst those five baskets – 32. Thirty-two socks without a mate. That’s mind-blowingly stupid.

Fights mediated. Lost count. The inherent tension of the week, with the Big Ones acutely aware that their Mainstay isn’t here, has amplified the spikes in sisterly love and hate. One minute they are best friends, the only ones in the world who get what each other is going through, and the next they are at each other’s throat, not able to process what each other is going through.

Cuddles given. Heaps and heaps. Heart food. Mishie drops everything and runs in for a cuddle. Kenzie stops on the way past. Maddy asks for one, without using the words “can I have a cuddle”.

Number of times the first aid kit came out. Just one. K cut her foot on the washing machine, slipping on a damp floor in the laundry. Why was the floor damp? Cleaning up blood from dead bird fest...

Number of fluffies for Mish. Four. Or five. I can’t remember. She’s so sweet about it, and is a genuine connoisseur. The best of the week, Cafe Lounge in Freedom Furniture. Very cute presentation. I do wonder what we are creating in her. She’ll live in Ponsonby one day, no doubt.

Number of attempts at Mishie’s water spout hair-do. One. And it worked, and it held all day. I’m particularly proud of this achievement!

Number of nights I forgot to brush Mishie’s teeth. None. My life’s not worth it!

Number of times I forgot to brush my teeth. Two. Disrupted routine, and not wanting to wake the girls when I come to bed. Those are my excuses.

Number of airplanes spotted by Eagle Eyes. Lots and lots. The Little One can spot a plane before the plane even knows it’s there. She’s human radar. I see the prophetic in this – she’s always looking Up.

Number of cool mornings spent at school. One, but man, it was cool. The kids had the Book Week Parade, and it was a very neat experience. Everyone – and I mean everyone – entered into the spirit o the day. The Kauri Team teachers all dressed as Dalmatians. The principal and deputy principal were resplendent as fairies. Complete with tutu’s. Every single child was in some sort of character. Kenzie was part of a cast – her friends and her paid homage to Peter Pan – and Kenzie’s role was a modern day Wendy. Oversize soft toy, pillow, slippers and jim-jams. Very cute. Maddy went as one of the most original parts; Cinders. Not Cinderella, but Cinders, i.e. the servant girl version before the ball. Maddy was very committed to the part – she refused to wash her feet all week, so that they would be suitably dirty come Friday. Classic. The other kids came in the predictable. About a half dozen Pippy Long Stockings. Multiple Pirates. Disturbingly, several Grim Reapers. Fairies a-plenty. Princesses prancing. A couple of Indiana Jones. Very sweet morning, which ended with me and Mish joining in Jump Jam. Don’t stress, we were very circumspect, at the back and out of sight. Well out of sight of Those Who Would Be Embarrassed!

The male version of SAHM is, I guess, SAHD. That’s like sad with emphasis. But it’s been anything but sad – my week has been awesome. I’ve found a new way of relating to my daughters, a new appreciation for what Love gives to our Unit, and a peaceful grace and perspective that I’m looking forward to walking in. As much as this week has been a Significant Part of the journey that Love is on with God, looking back with eyes to see, it’s also been a pivotal week in my journey too.

Roles Reversed

2009-10-20T01:32:00.000-07:00

Love jumped in a taxi this afternoon, and it carried her up the driveway towards a week of Amazing Encounter. Tonga beckoned, the unknown called, and Love began her response.

Between the both of us, the fact that our roles have been turned on their heads isn't lost. Usually it's me that packs a bag, trying to figure out what to take and what to leave behind, what will be used and what would be gratuitous. Usually, it's me that has to answer questions from the girls as to why I have to go, that makes the assurances that the time will pass quickly.

This, however, is a trip with a significant difference. My work trips have a reason. This trip for Amy has Purpose.

Mishie woke this afternoon with gurgles and giggles, as she normally does. When I opened the door she was playing on the floor, telling me that whatever she was doing, it was "like Mike-hall". While I was checking her nappy - no-poohs-just-wees - she asked "where Mummy?" I reminded her about the airplane. Her blue eyes looked into the half-distance, little synapses processing. Then she said, quietly, "yeah, airplane". And I bit my lip a little.

"Everything reminds me of mum". The wheels fell off Maddy's wagon not long after she got home. We knew that would happen. I was waiting for it. It happened on the trampoline. She was very sweet about it, but Kenzie and Mishie being on the tramp with us didn't help. Her eyes leaked, her mouth descended in her trademark way. She crumpled in my arms, then went stiff. Then crumpled again. Couple of other times she said it again, once in the lounge, surrounded by Mum-stuff, and again in the car, listening to a song on Rhema. (yes, I found Rhema on the big car's radio!). She's fragile, but she'll make it okay.

Kenzie is quieter about her missing. When she got home we shared a hug. I asked her if she was okay, she told me kinda. I squeezed her tighter. She's wanted to be close. No words, just proximity. I get that.

We did hedgehogs for dinner. When got in from getting K from drama (I'll pay the bill in the morning...), we went straight to the fridge, dolupted mash onto plates, and each of the girls went about creating their hogs. Then they systematically demolished them all over the grub mat. Licked clean plates. Literally.

I'm clicking away at this on the couch. It's 10.42pm. Mish went to sleep at eight. The big girls closer to nine, after we digested their new pop-up book - Edwardian weddings were never so interesting. They're asleep in our bed upstairs. I'm on the floor tonight. We played crack-the-coconut to see who got the floor first. Apparently, from the reactions of One and Two, I won. My prize is the mattress in the walk-in. Then we rotate, so that we get two nights each sleeping on either the floor, daddy's side and mummy's side.

The separation is very close to the surface, but after a few hours we're doing okay! So far, so good.

Thursday Morning

2009-09-23T17:29:00.000-07:00

It’s an earlier than normal start today, in Singapore. It’s just gone 7.30am, and I’m up, dressed, breakfasted, awake (in that order), and have made my way to Raffles Place to start the day. I actually had good sleep last night. This is what it’s like to be refreshed in the morning!

So I’m here, in the heart of the business district, watching commerce stir and come together for day ahead. I’m at Starbucks in Change Alley, grande latte in hand, bashing out a quick post before the morning of meetings and discussions and e-mail and-and-and begins.

I love this time of day in Singapore. The air is muggy, but it’s not blisteringly hot. In fact, just at the moment large rain drops are falling, intermittently. Local reach for their hand bags and laptop bags and bring out their collapsible umbrellas. One guy in a very trendy black suit, tie and incredibly shiny hair-and-shoes ruined the yuppy image by unfurling a bright green floral number. I think it must have been his girlfriends.

Starbucks is the kick start for the expat community working around raffles place. There’s a steady stream of them. I recognise the one that’s just walked in from yesterday. Same order – no drink, just a ready-to-go cereal. Yes, I’m living the expat life. I’ve started each morning here this week with a fix from the Global Coffee Magnate. With my sleeps patterns, I’ve needed it.

The trickle of office worker is quickly building to a flood. With each passing minute, more and more folks make their way into the alley, up the escalators and onward to their stations where no doubt they’ll each make a Significant Difference. Singaporeans, in work mode, hold themselves with such purpose. I’m always so impressed by that. Well dressed, bright eyed, efficient walking, head-up. It’s a far cry from the Worker Trudge at Wellington station, for example.

It’s just started raining heavily – the promise of a few heavy drops has been fulfilled. The breeze has cooled, instantly. The white noise competes with more fervour with Starbucks Jazz. Workers are now running across Raffles Place.

It’s Formula One week in Singapore. Practice starts tomorrow night. Yesterday the streets being used for the race were closed off, meaning that traffic was bedlam. The trip from the hotel to the airport is going to be slow tonight, I think. The excitement levels on the island are really beginning to build. Singapore, in usual fashion, has embraced the concept of hosting an F1 race in such a coordinated way. The shops all have discounts and promotions related to the event. The Straits Times has pages of coverage dedicated to all thing race related. Where the drivers have been, what they’ve been doing, where the parties are, when the events start. The flip side too, how retailers in the race village area have to shut up shop for the weekend, the traffic disruption.

It’s hard not to run into the event. Some of the support crews are staying at the hotel. While out for dinner at Chijmes, a sponsors event was being held, and the BMW drivers were in attendance. In Bugis Junction, one of the race cars for the Porsche GT race has been holding centre court. Orchard has been F1 heaven. Later today, apparently, the Ferrari team is doing a drive past. Vrooom Vrooom. The little boy in me is very excited. And in case you’re wondering, yes, I am a little sad that I’m not going to be around for the weekend. But I’m still really chuffed that I’ve got to experience this week. The race will be on TV, and I’ll be watching. So that’ll be cool, too.

Time to head upstairs and join those Making a Difference. Half a day today. Hopefully a slow afternoon. A little tempted to head back to the hotel via Orchard. Vroom.

People Watching

2009-09-21T05:45:00.000-07:00

It's a Public Holiday in Singapore. I'm not sure what the significance of the day is, but all the same it's a holiday in the Lion City. I arrived at about six this morning, and have spent the day really just whiling time. It's been fun, lonely, a little frustrating, tiring and a bit of a breath.

I've shopped. I've walked. I've slept and swum. I've worked. I've ironed my shirts for the week. I've called home four times. I've blogged. I've watched TV. I started reading a new book. Yes, Love, it's a good one. I took an hour and half to eat breakfast. I took an hour to eat a greek salad for dinner. I had both meals in the Olive Tree, kept company at breakfast by a copy of CNN Traveller, and at dinner, Newsweek was my dining companion.

And all throughout the day, I've watched people. At dinner, a young mum and her little daughter went back and forth between their table and the buffet. About eight times. The daughter was about two, a little chinese dot with a Strawberry Shortcake backpack. She tottered along behind mum, flirting with the other diners, and charming the space.

An elderly lady sat down with some dessert from the buffet. Very elegantly presented, she sat down, downed her trifle (a single one, in a glass), said thank you to the waiting staff and moved on.

At the pool, a family lounged on the daybeds. Mum, dad and a four year old. Two elederly couples sat together, but never said a word to each other.

The old man at the crossing of Victoria Street, from BHG to Bugis Street Markets, holding out packets of tissues. He had on a large green bangle.

Bugis Junction always gives me the sense of cosmopolitan buzz. Having the hotel as part of the complex adds to this, but the mix of shops and eateries is so electic. The clientele, fuelled in part by the hotel, is equally electic.

So here we all, some of us belong, some of us transient, some of us familiar with the place and some of drinking it for the first time. Some of can't wait to move on, some of us want to linger for longer.

It's the mix that makes it so very cool.

So now it's late. It's 9.24pm Singapore time. My body clock is on 1.24am. I've been up a long time, and I'm tired.

Good night.

A Two Year Old

2009-09-21T05:21:00.000-07:00

I have this blessing. It’s called Fatherhood, and everyday I’m reminded how much of a blessing it is. It’s a gift so large and so intense that often I miss its presence, or can’t quite grasp the wholeness of it. Like the Taj Mahal, you only the fully appreciate its outstanding beauty and intricacy standing right beside it, reaching out and touching it. Marvelling at the inlaid detail on the marble. But at the same time, you miss the true majesty of the structure if you don’t stand back and get a proper perspective of it, of the layout of the campus, of the architectural wonder that it is.

The point is, like fatherhood, it’s very hard to experience the intricacy and the majesty of the Taj in the same moment. The best we can do is to have the head knowledge that each of the components exists. That in itself is hard, because as with everything that is locked in head-knowledge, our heads – our minds – can fail us.

Some days the blessing of Fatherhood is easier to access than others. My sweet Mishal turned two Friday last, and again I was reminded of the intricacy + majesty equation that Fatherhood is the sum product of. Without the appreciation of each measure in full, the outworking of fatherhood is incomplete.

We spent time together, the five of us, celebrating Mishie’s milestone. We started the day with the unwrapping of gifts, and as we finished the day on the beach and the sharing of a meal, I had a Taj Mahal moment. One moment I was close to Mishie, helping her around the playground, marvelling at her grown-upped-ness, at the intricacy of her smooth cheeks, her bow shaped smile and her bellicose laugh. The next moment she was standing on a bench on Mission Bay beach with her sisters, and I got to see her place in the majesty of God’s blessing for us.

Intricacy. Majesty. Beautiful.

An Angel Encounter

2009-05-19T04:01:00.000-07:00

Saturday last I spent most of the morning clearing a couple of felled trees from the back yard. It was a task a little bigger than my imagination had formed itself around. It was wet, but muggy. The logs weren't sectioned well, and were heavier than they should have been.

After heavy and lugging, raking twigs from and clearing branches, I was fair knackered. I was sweating profusely. I was hot and more than a little bothered - the aim of clearing the logs was to be able to get to the lawn. It badly needed a mow, and my sense of centering has a lot to do with the length of my lawn. Having the lawn mowed was very important. I was not going to have the sun set on shaggy lawn.

As I was fighting with the twigs and branchlets that were entangled in overgrown grass, rendering my cheap plastic rake useless, I looked up. There was Mugsy, walking very carefully towards me. Hands outstretched, very carefully bringinging me a glass of ginger beer, complete with ice.

She had just been up to the Service Station on the corner, with Kenzie and Mishca, and her tooth-fairy earnings. She finally lost her stubborn front toof, and was rewarded with four dollars. She got herself a bottle of ginger beer. And she got me one too. Unprompted. Just a gift from her heart, using half of what was hers.

I was blessed to tears. We shared the glass, sitting on the lawn, sharing a most exquisite moment that I will remember for a long, long time.

As much as there are moments of frustration as a parent, it's little things like that, little brushes with little angels, that are pure gold.

This Is a Long Commute

2009-04-22T05:07:00.000-07:00

It's 8.05pm in Singapore. I'm sitting in the lounge at the airport, in the business section where business-y types are clattering away on keyboards and having louder than appropriate conversations on cellphones. I'm waiting for flight SQ285 to board, in half an hour, so that I can start - wait, continue - the trip home.

I left the office three and a half hours ago. I get home in about twelve hours. fifteen hours, door to door. Traffic's bad, I guess.

The week has been a weird one, as these trips go. I've had a couple of splash dash trips like this - crammed agendas, red-eye flights, no time to stop and smell the durian. So in a way, it really does feel like a commute. It feels no different to popping into the office; only the pop is a very drawn out, expanded p-o-p.

Singapore, in a hurried trip, doesn't have the romance that I guess I've fallen for. No time to drink it in, all I get to see is the hotel, the MRT, the office, and the shops that I stumble across en route. Add to that feeling absolutely knackered, living on double espressos and Red Bulls to keep the eyes open and mind alert through the meetings, and you get a three day trip that hasn't been so enjoyable.

There have been some nuggets, though. Landing in Singapore on Monday morning, and driving into the city from the airport, along the ECP with the sun coming up was special. Seeing all the boats in the Straight, lights twinkling in front of a warming horizon. Watching the sun go down last night fron the 60th floor of the OUB, watching the sky darken and the city scape brighten. Walking past the fountain at Bugis Junction on a genuinely hot Wednesday afternoon, and watching the little ones squeal with delight as they splash themselves cool, and the passers-by taking snapshots of them with their handphones. Nice nuggets.

A nugget of a Thursday beckons though. Home at the end of my commute.

Pure Gold.

What, Ten Already?

2009-04-22T04:53:00.000-07:00

My darling Kenzie Lou is ten. As clichéd as it may sound, I have no idea where the time has gone – I remember her birth as if it were just last week.

But at the same time, thinking back over the past ten years, Kenzie has already lived a very full life, and she’s been gracious enough to let us share it with her.

Love posted on her blog, and captured the essence if K so well. But more than what Love said about Kenzie, as I was reading the posting, I realized how much Kenzie simply takes my breath away. Not just because she’s genuinely beautiful. Not just because of the blessing that we have in her being part of our lives.

She shortens my breath because I see in her the embodiment of what Amy, God and I have between us. When Kenz was just being to move around on her own, and as she came into that very interactive stage of babyhood, Ames and I used to say that watching her was like watching your heart running around. Ten years on, my heart still squeezes a little when I see her. My spirit lifts a little when she smiles. And I know I’m home when she silently snuggles in for a back tickle.

Oh, and at times she so much like me in character that it’s scary.

K Lou, loving you is an adventure. You have helped, in ways you don’t yet know, shape me into the dad, husband and guy I am.

I love you Princess. Happy Birthday.

A Whole New Kind of Disconnect

2009-03-26T07:41:00.000-07:00

My cellphone has died. I was sitting in a meeting room this afternoon, patiently listening to my colleagues describe in minute detail (that's what this week is about - minute mind-numbing detail), when I glanced down at my phone on the table in front of me. The screen had gone blank - it was white. The keypad wasn't responding. Eventually, the screen goes black, the led light goes red, as if in a last gasp effort to save itself. Then the whole thing becomes nothing more than a store display model. Useless.

All efforts to revive said phone have failed. Internet searches reveal that this a relatively common issue for this model. So that's nice. Internet searches also reveal potential fixes. Seven hours later, none of these fixes work. The phone is dead. Long live the phone. When it's replacement is sourced.

Not having the security of the contactability is absoutely dilapidating. The feeling of disconnect and vulnerability is very real. How did I ever survive growing up in Africa without a cellphone? It's a miracle that I made it to adulthood.

In all seriousness, not being able to text or phone Love, on a whim, is really disconcerting. These trips are palatable (sometimes only just) because I can connect anytime, and Love and the Girls can connect with me. Walking through markets, I can slip my phone out of my pocket a pop a question on size or colour or appropriateness. Walking past something that would tickle the girls interest, and being able to snap the moment onto a micro SD card.

Like this evening. I had dinner with Simon and Ping at Suntec, at a Chinese restaurant opposite the Fountain of Wealth. How cool would it have been to snap a shot of the colourful dance of water and include it in a blog. Imagine it - right here.

Dinner with Simon and Ping was great. They are an inspirational couple. So comfortable in who they are in themselves and in God. Simon taught me so much about being a man of faith in the world, in the workplace. That in fact the two aren't mutually exclusive, but the ooposite - they co-exist because they must.
Seeing them again reminded how far we - Love and I - have come since we first arrived here almost exactly three years ago. Brighted eyed and clueless. Knowing of God, but not really knowing God. We've come to the place where we know we'll never really arrive, but arriving isn't as important as staying the course and continuing the journey.

Love posted the most amazing post today. A depth, insight and revelation that was spine tingling. I read it, and re-read it, drinking the words. First gulping them, them slowing sipping them. Letting them linger, to truly taste them, before swallowing them and letting the fill me and enrich me.

Amy Joan, you have a wonderful gift that is being unwrapped. The Giver is sitting across the room, watching with marvel and excitement as you peel away layers of wrapping and become more and more aware of what it is He has given you.

You're not sure yet whether this gift is truly for you. You wonder if it's all a mistake, and when the right recepient will take it from you.

The gift has your name on it. It is yours. Truly, says the Giver.

Let Me Paint You a Picture

2009-03-25T06:50:00.000-07:00

The air is thick with humidity. The sun is setting, and the light fades from natural sunshine through to a glow of city-light. It's warm. Warm enough, and humid enough, that as soon as you start walking, you bead in sweat.

The smell in the air is vegetative. Lush and thick. Sweet. As I leave the open air restuarant on the river bank, the streets are filling with pedestrian traffic. It's eight in the evening, and the professional quarter around Raffles Place is emptying. Young Professionals, suited and i-podded and busy-ing themselves on their handphones walk briskly through the square to converge on the MRT platforms. Escalators fill. The unspoken, automatic movement of those-who-stand on the left, and those-who-walk take the right.

The clunk of the gates through the MRT stations. More escaltor traffic. The silence of the platform, broken by the muffled whoosh of the train as it arrives behind the glass barrier. The very Singaporean clip-ness of the PA announcements. On the train, the effecient hum, punctuated by more PA voice-over announcing the arrivals at stations.

I get off at Bugis. Familiar territory, but I half thought about getting off at City Hall and walking around the equally familiar Raffles Plaza. Decide against it - more of Bugis will do. The clunk of the MRT gate as it opens for me and deducts another 70 cents of my ezi-card. More escalators, more automatic riding.

The basement of what was Seiyu. Smarter and more commercial now than it was before. Jolliebee. Bread Talk. Cedelle. Delifrance. The Coffee Bean. Cold Storage is still there, but the old food court has moved up to the second floor of Bugis Junction. I take the escalator up and walk into Seiyu/BHG through the TopShop entrance. Hand Bags, shoes, costume jewellery, watches and fragrances. Make a purchase, served by an eager young assistant, who moves quickly and snaps my purchase into a bag, hands it to me, along with the credit card and receipt, all in a well rehearsed action.

Into the sweet humid outside. Cross the square, past Starbucks and the fountain, and through into the glass, air conn'ed bubble of Bugis. Wander nonchantly through the carts of Random Stuff on the ground floor. Make my way up through the escalator maze to the Watsons on the third floor. Walk straight to the back of the store, right up to where I left off, pick up four boxes of kids Panadol and made my way to the counter.

Slowly wind my way back, down to the ground floor, and come back into the hotel through the doors from the mall. The bustle and busy-ness give way to muted civility. In the lounge, the piano tinkles a background tune. Guests chatter. Hostesses float. Memories flood.

The bingbong of the lift. The quiet of the hotel corridor, the softness of the carpet. The bridge over the mall, a last gasp of sweet humidity before a night of artificial cold.

Pause to take in the shutters and the blend of the old Peranakan shophouses and the sleek modern glass and steel of the mall.

The whoosh-click-click.

Love, I missed you tonight.

Seat 22A

2009-03-23T06:09:00.000-07:00

Seat 22A on SQ286, bound for Singapore. Two, no three, movies down and still three hours and forty minutes to go. The trip is weirdly same-same-but-different. The feelings and emotions are surreal; automatic and disengaged all at the same time. Excited and empty. Guilt. Maybe some relief to have headspace time. More guilt just for that. Such emotional conflict. Mr Freud would have a field day.

Being in Auckland, and having had the experiences that we have in the past five months in Auckland no doubt contributes to the emotional stir-fry. We have grown and have expanded as a family, and as individuals. There is so much depth to what has happened in us that it truly warrants a posting of its own. Which is really a cop-out on my part. What I’m really saying is that I don’t want to dig that well just now.

There is a physical difference in this trip. Not having to do the Wellington to Auckland thing is s-o-o-o nice. I appreciate only now what an absolute pain in the arse that was. (As an aside, MS spell-check redlines arse. Must be the English spelling.). The getting in the taxi in Northcote, and getting to the airport a half hour later was very civilized. I left Love and Mishie at 11.00am, after a coffee and some QT. Had we still been in Waikanae, I would have left the girls three and a half hours earlier than that, and have had to fill that three and a half hours with a car trip, an airport lounge, a domestic hop and a transfer between terminals. Today; kiss, taxi, there. Reason 432 why Auckland rocks.

I think my bladder shrinks when I fly.

If I drink a fluid ounce worth, twenty minutes later I need to go pee. It can make a movie a very punctuated experience. Thank goodness for the pause function on KrisWorld.

There is lady flying with her son in the seat across the aisle from me. (Aside number two - doesn’t the word aisle have the most non-intuitive spelling in the English language? I mean, really.) So the son is about two. And has zero social skills. From the moment the doors closed and the plane started moving, the boy cried.

Not a boo-hoo-hoo kind of cry.

More I-will-burst-your-ear-drums-before-I-am-finished.

Loud. Unrelenting. For One hour. Sixty minutes. By minute twelve we had only just taken off. By minute twenty-two, we were airborne, and my gentle nature and father-heart are being seriously confronted. My feelings for the woman are somewhere between pure frustration and sympathy. Flying with kids is hard. They should give medal to parents who even contemplate it. But if you do contemplate it – give it some thought! Get a strategy better than having the sprog scream on your lap. Get some help. Get something. Valium for me is a start. Anything! So by minute twenty-seven the hostess finally comes round with the headphones. I damaged the re-useable packaging trying to get the things out. I nearly bend prongs trying to get the things plugged in. Turn the volume up. Loud. Must. Drown. Out. Persistent. Wailing.

The little darling is now sitting in the aisle (great word that), using the retractable remote control for the entertainment system as a throw thing. Cute. Mummy is asleep. Little darling has been running up and down the eye-ill (trying spelling options for that word). The aircrew, usually quite accommodating with little-ones, have kept a wide berth. Smart people.

Of course, my toddler would not behave like this. One, she’s a girl. Girls are inherently good. I have three and am an expert. Girls are gooder than boys, fact. Two, travelling parent would not be sleeping whilst toddler plays Cabin Wars. If said toddler did venture into the i-ll (aisle is hard to spell differently!), she would only do so under supervision, and with express purpose.

Brat.

There are now three hours and five minutes to go now. Must be time for another movie.

Oh, and I need a pee.

A Year Ago Today...

2008-09-17T22:45:00.000-07:00

...Amy and I parked up outside Wellington Women's hospital. We looked at each other, took a breath, and prayed over the life of our soon to be delivered little baby.

A year on, and that little baby is now our rambunctious and gorgeous Mishie. The huge blue eyes, the wise look on her face, the rolls of baby-ness, the will and determination, the bow shaped month, the precious-moments cheeks, the softness of her skin, the infectiousness of her laugh. This, and so much more, is now so much part of lives, and I can't imagine life without Mishal.

She has captured my heart, just as Kenzie and Maddy did before her. The miracle of love, that it grows to encompass that your heart wraps around, never fails to amaze me. Being a dad to these three, being a husband to Love, my logic tells me that the love is going to dry up. But love and care and attention don't transact in the currency of logic. And that's a clue to the miracle.

Mishie, happy birthday my princess. You are, indeed, my Little Wonder.

How to Create Confusion

2008-08-29T14:09:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-29T11:48:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-26T19:08:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-08-24T11:28:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-23T20:09:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-21T21:58:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-08-21T21:20:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-20T11:46:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-19T06:22:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-18T17:34:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-18T17:31:00.000-07:00

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...

2008-08-18T17:17:00.000-07:00

…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.