AROUND THE WORLD IN 40 DAYS

D. de Fontaine

Actually, the trip took 42 days, but I stopped two days in Washington, DC on the way back, which I don't count. Anyway, "40 days" sounds better than 42.

I left San Francisco Airport on June 11 at 11:50 (40 minutes behind schedule) and enjoyed a perfectly smooth flight until the very moment when I decided to start this diary, eight hours after takeoff. Then we experienced turbulence. Before that, I ate a truly excellent lunch, courtesy of United Airlines, business class, drank excellent wine, watched a movie ("The Russia House"; the audio was so bad I had difficulty following the action. Fortunately I had read the book, unfortunately not one of the better Le Carrés.). The next movie was "Sleeping with the Enemy" which I watched intermittently without audio.

I also finished a book which I had begun a week ago, "1790, Mozart's Last Year," by H. C. Robbins Landon. What a wonderful piece of work: highly scholarly yet eminently readable, informative, reasonable but never dry or tedious. The author dispels a number of Mozartean myths: Salieri's persecution of the innocent Mozart, the latter a dissolute child-man somehow blessed with genius, but cursed with a silly, flirtatious wife… To these fabrications and half-truths, "Amadeus," the popular play and film, added a few more, such as Mozart dictating his Requiem on his own deathbed to his arch-enemy Salieri. The truth, as far as modern scholarship can reconstruct it, as usual is far more interesting and poignant than the fiction. I was particularly pleased to read that Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was reasonably well paid as a musician, and was regarded by most of his peers as the greatest musical genius of his time. Haydn, for one, stated after Mozart's death, "Not in 100 years will a like talent be found." We can now revise that figure upwards to 200 years.

At mealtime, a Japanese flight attendant approached with two bottles and asked whether I wanted "white wine or Bolodo." After a moment's hesitation I answered, "I'll take the led wine, thank you."

Having crossed the International Date Line, I just lost a day. It's easy to remember whether to add or subtract a day: if you're flying west, thus gaining time (the day lasts forever), you'll eventually have to pay for it by losing a full day on crossing the line.

We arrived on time at Narita, better yet, elapsed time between deplaning and clearing immigration, customs (with all baggage) and boarding the bus to Tokyo was about 15 minutes. In Europe (Brussels, typically) this combined operation requires about 45 minutes because luggage handling is so slow. In the U.S., such "formalities" can take hours, one two or three,… because of the scandalous delays at immigration. The reason is that America still hopes to conserve its purity by attempting to keep out such undesirables as prostitutes, drug traffickers, AIDS victims, communists (but are there any left, now?), indigents with one-way tickets, and assorted riffraff. Of course, stringent immigration policy does not achieve its aim, it merely infuriates tourists whose first taste of the U.S. is bureaucratic pandemonium.

My hotel is the International House of Japan, an oasis of peace and academic quiet in the heart of busy Roppongi. This establishment is, I believe, partially funded by the Japanese government or private donations (otherwise prices would be much higher) for the benefit of academics visiting Japan for scholarly pursuits. To register, one has to be a member, or invited by a member. In the hotel, the rooms are small but contain all essentials, and some have balconies overlooking a marvelous garden complete with waterfall, pond with carp, rocks, trees, lawn. In addition to a lobby with comfortable chairs and daily Japanese and English-language newspapers, there is a very quiet library and reading room with desks in cozy carrels. A small restaurant serves such extremely bland and unimaginative international food that, fortunately, it forces one out of the hotel for meals. In fact, I am writing this section of my notes in the nearby restaurant "Mireille," a Provençal restaurant with charming atmosphere, remarkably authentic food and a menu with far fewer spelling and grammatical errors (as I remarked to the manager) than can be found in similar menus of most "French" restaurants in the U.S., and yet the owner is Japanese and has never set foot in France (I inquired). The staff speaks little English and no French.

The ratio of women to men diners was bout 4 to 1 while I was in the restaurant. I am told that this is the normal ratio. Japanese wives are quite alone, as their husbands, in the evening, are in bars and night clubs entertaining business guests, thanks to lavish expense accounts. So the wives dine alone, with other business widows. As I mentioned to a Dutch friend last year when we attended a workshop in Tokyo, "Every time you purchase a Honda, you are in fact subsidizing some hostesses, call girls or geishas, think of it." He replied that he much preferred giving money to pretty Japanese hostesses than (as he must do in Holland via hefty sales taxes) giving it to unattractive Dutch bureaucrats. I agreed.

By the way, this meal was the best "Western" dinner I have ever had in Japan. The Japanese chef was a bit heavy-handed with the olive oil, but the Provençal herbs were a delight. Caesar wrote that Gaul was divided into three parts. Actually, France is divided into two parts: the butter-and-cream France and the olive-oil France. The dividing line is very sharp and runs horizontally across the country just south of Lyon. To the north of the line, the Atlantic, actually the Gulf Stream, brings abundant (and dismal) rainfall, pastures are lush and green the year round, cows graze on the plentiful grass. To the south, rain falls sparingly, but olive trees do very well in the arid soil, as do tourists. Local cooking reflects these climatic characteristics and as goes the regional cuisine, so goes France and the Frenchmen and Frenchwomen.

As I paid Mireille's bill, the manager smiled and, reminding me that I had spotted some French mistakes in the menu, presented me with a copy of it along with a pencil and a fresh sheet of paper. The staff seemed genuinely pleased that I had taken the trouble and, as I left, lined up in a double row of smiling waiters and waitresses bowing at an 87degree angle.

The evening "scene" in Roppongi is amazing! To describe the area as wall-to-wall night clubs and bars would be inaccurate: actually, those establishments are superimposed vertically in high-rise office buildings. A typical one will have a Japanese restaurant on the ground floor, a disco in the basement, bars, night clubs and other restaurants on floors 2, 3, 4, 5… But the streets are, as far as I am concerned, where the action is. Throngs of fairly young people are milling about, well dressed (in contrast to sloppy Westerners) and mostly gender-segregated. Groups of young men walk around rather aimlessly whereas small clusters of women, one, two or three at most, hurry along as if they were late for the office. Women dress spectacularly, in fact, I truly believe that Roppongi has the world's largest density of beautiful women per square yard. Not only Japanese beauties but Western girls are running around in sexy miniskirts and high heels. What's going on here? It's all either a very innocent or a very wicked game that's being played out before my bewildered eyes.

Now, after talking to Japanese colleagues, I have begun to make sense out of this inscrutable oriental practice. The girls are indeed professionals; not prostitutes, usually, simply hostesses in private clubs. As they hurry to and fro, applying makeup on the run, they are indeed late for work in those tall office buildings which contain layer upon layer of entertainment establishments. At street level, some bar employees are handing out cards with addresses (floor level), trying to attract clients to come have a drink. Such cards are given out to Japanese only: there is perfect East-West segregation. Why?

Simply because those hostess bars are outrageously expensive: cover charge is typically one or two or three hundred dollars, one glass of whiskey is another hundred or so, and so on. Hence, only Japanese businessmen on expense accounts are admitted. In the past, unsuspecting foreigners were lured into such night clubs and, when presented with the bill, threatened to call their embassy. Inside these bars, the ratio of men to women is the inverse of what it is for restaurants: a half-dozen inebriated Japanese businessmen share a hostess, who could be Japanese but who, increasingly, could be from Europe, the U.S., Latin America, Israel… It's a great deal for these women: they are well paid and sometimes tipped lavishly, yet have to do little more than pour drinks and chat. Holding hands is already risqué.

Each bar is presided over by the Mama-san, a dragon lady who smiles at customers, keeps the girls in line, and supervises the use of the Karaoke machine. Karaoke is a practice which I find absolutely repulsive: it is a combination of laser disk, television monitor and microphone-amplifier. A video disk of some popular song is placed on the machine and the text and music of the song are flashed on the screen. A customer then picks up the microphone and sings along, as loudly and off-key as possible. His drunken friends applaud vigorously as the hostesses shriek encouragement. How is it possible that the Japanese culture, known for its refined delicacy and austere simplicity, should have produced, today, an entertainment form of such loud vulgarity?

One could surely write a lengthy dissertation on gender roles in Japan. The society is practically the most technologically advanced in the world, but in terms of male-female relations it is practically medieval. As in all countries where gender roles are highly differentiated, women are either good or bad. The bad are paid to provide pleasure for the men, the good wait patiently until they are given away to a man, by arranged marriage quite often. The good girls soon age, raise children, and go to Mireille's with friends who have also been abandoned by their pleasure-seeking macho husbands who seek relief in the evening by singing Karaoke, knowing that at work next morning, hangover or not, bright and early they will have to sing the company song, but without the laser disk. Also, as is usually the case in such sexually differentiated societies, male and female crowds do not mix, men and women flow past each other on the street, no eye contact is made. Connections are established only in bars, with "bad" girls, customer-to-hostess on a pay-as-you-go basis, or with "good" girls in family-arranged nuptials.

The foreigner, of course, feels completely left out; he is, in fact, quite unwelcome in the Japanese entertainment world, unless accompanied by a native. Hence, the Westerners are confined to a few ground floor bars where there is no Karaoke, only loud music just as vulgar as the Karaoke music, perhaps evenmore so. Whereas the clientele in Japanese bars wears business suits and ties, and the hostesses dazzling miniskirts and stiletto heels, the sloppy Westerners in their miserable sloppy bars wear clothes so dismally asexual that it is sometimes difficult to distinguish male from female; not that anyone appears to care, actually. When after considerable effort a man has established the sex of a person sitting next to him at the bar, he may or may not make a pass at the creature, but usually patrons just stare straight ahead into the night, looking bored out of their wits.

I discovered a wonderful eating place very near the International House: a place I have baptized "Traveling Sushi." Patrons sit around a roughly elliptical counter. Two conveyor belts go round and round at different speeds: the slow one transports tea cups and soya dishes, the fast one transports small round plates each carrying an individual portion (two pieces) of sushi. One merely has to pick out one's selection as the plate passes by. Close to each seat are large bowls of thinly sliced ginger, (green) tea bags and faucets dispensing extremely hot water. Bowls of shrimp soup also travel along with the sushi plates.

For the foreigner in a hurry, the "traveling sushi bar" is a marvelous institution: no need to read a menu, to order selections or drinks, or to ask for the check. When the meal is done you simply walk over to the cashier who glances at the number of plates that you have accumulated and their color (some sushi selections are more expensive than others) then rings up the total which appears on an electronic screen on the cash register. There is, of course, no tipping.

After lunch, I visited the research lab of a Japanese steel company. An American flag had been raised on the lab flagpole in my honor (I might have preferred a Belgian flag), then my picture was taken with my host on the lawn in front of the building. A few moments were spent in civilities as we drank tea in the conference room.

For private seminars, the Japanese usually plan an hour and a half. Is that out of politeness, or to encourage foreigners to speak slowly? In any case, they seem very reluctant to cut off a guest's presentation abruptly. As a result, I felt very relaxed delivering my one-hour prepared talk. Perhaps the atmosphere was a bit too relaxed: most of my audience of about seven scientists was fast asleep most of the time! As a result, and because of language difficulties, few questions were asked after the talk. My host finally closed the seminar with these words: "Thank you for a most stimulating but difficult talk." I was not sure how to interpret that comment, but I'll take it as a compliment.

Afterwards we had dinner at the guest house. The meal was Japanese with beer and cold sake but was served on a "western" table, for which I was very grateful: I love Japanese food, but having to eat it cross-legged on the floor is torture, particularly as some business banquets tend to last a very long time.

The evening, I sampled the Kabuki-cho area of Shinjuku. Whereas Roppongi is Japanese yuppie, Shinjuku is more popular: the crowds are huge, but individuals are not nearly as well dressed and the girls are not as pretty as in Roppongi. I walked around for an hour or so and saw nothing which appeared particularly exciting or titillating. With all this crowd perambulating in all those little streets lit up with garish neon lights, with all this noise and bustle, I almost lost my way and found myself at the railway station desperately searching for the subway station. I pulled out a map and started to study it when a charming young girl came over and volunteered to help me. She literally took me by the hand and led me out of the JR station but unfortunately lost her way and had to ask several times. I was really worried; the time was fast approaching midnight and the subways close at 12:30. Fortunately my guide eventually found the subway station, led me down the steps, helped me to buy the ticket, then left me as I passed the turnstile. She waved and smiled, as was gone.

I had to change lines at Kasumigaseki and was lucky: I caught the very last train to Roppongi. On the platform I heard a couple speaking a language which at first I did not recognize because it was so incongruous: he was Japanese and she was very dark-skinned, with long light brown curly hair, blue eyes and heavy makeup. They were speaking Portuguese, she being Brazilian and he having lived many years in Brazil, as many Japanese do. They both spoke very good English as well; she told me that she had lived two years in New York and was now "based" in Hong Kong! As she left at the same station I did, Roppongi, and since this was the last train, I asked her if she lived in the area. No, she was merely visiting a friend in the neighborhood. To me, that meant a bar hostess and I assumed that such was the Brazilian girl's profession as well.

I am riding the Shinkansen (ultra-rapid train) to Sendai. I have learned to negotiate the Japanese trains and subways pretty well, now. The Tokyo subway system is quite clean and reasonably user-friendly. The signs are now "bilingual," i.e., the station names are in both Japanese (Nihonji) and Western (Romanji) characters. What most impresses me, however, is the fact that there are plenty of automatic ticket-vending machines at all stations, they are of small size, easy to use, make change and always work. By contrast, the BART machines in the SF Bay Area are huge, too few in number, most do not make change, and those that do are always out of order. This is generally characteristic of Japan: everything always works perfectly. Some romantic Europeans find this mechanical dependability dehumanizing, but they're just jealous: deep down, everybody loves a good vending machine.

Thoughtful planning has also gone into crowd handling (although the Tokyo subway system tends to saturate at rush hour). For example, access stairways have been subdivided by a ramp: the up-from-the-trains stairway is broad, the down-to-the-trains is narrow. You ask why, dear reader? Because the arrival of people down to the platform is random, thus spread out evenly over the time intervals between train arrivals. This steady trickle can be handled by a narrow stairway. On the other hand, people disembark from a train all at once and all together rush up the stairs towards daylight. Come to think of it, I believe that the Paris Métro uses the same principle.

The Sendai subway, being simpler (only one line) and newer is even cleaner and even more user-friendly that its Tokyo counterpart: each sign has its English transliteration and the stations are announced verbally very clearly. As for the Shinkansen itself, it is a model of speed and precision. I checked: during the two-hour trip, train departures at the various stations along the way never deviated by more than about 15 seconds from the scheduled time.

I am staying at the Metropolitan Hotel in Sendai, attending an international conference on "Intermetallic Compounds." The Metropolitan is a large, modern hotel situated next to the railroad station. The rooms are spacious and comfortable, the staff helpful and extremely polite. English proficiency is not as high as it is in Tokyo, however. Laundry placed in a bag before 10 a.m. is returned impeccably cleaned bright and early the next morning. Sure enough, an attendant knocked on my door when I was still half asleep, smiled, and said, "Here is landoly." On the desk in my room a color brochure describes the various restaurants and bars available in the hotel. Here are some examples of the Metropolitan Hotel prose:

The Conference ended on Thursday, but Wednesday afternoon some colleagues and I took time out to visit the lovely seaside town of Matsushima, a short train ride from Sendai. Matsushima Bay, with its oddly-shaped islands, is reputed to be one of the loveliest spots in Japan. The venerated haiku master Bashwas so taken by the beauty of the scenery that he could write no poem, but only exclaimed "Matsushima, Matsushima, oh Matsushima!" I gleaned this precious information from a local travel brochure, but have now been advised that Bashdid describe, in prose, the lovely islands scattered in the bay. The poet compares these to children "being carried on the back, yet others as if they were being hugged… in the manner in which parents or grandparents fondle their young ones." We took a boat ride among the islands and oyster beds, and visited the Zen temple Zuiganji and the residence of the ferocious 16th century warlord Date Masamune.

On Thursday, I returned to Tokyo by Shinkansen on the very day of the inauguration of the line's extension from Ueno to Tokyo Central railway system.

For the first time in my life, I am flying over Siberia: Lufthansa Flight 711 is taking me nonstop from Tokyo to Frankfurt. The meal was good, though strangely enough not as nice as the one on United. I sampled two mini wine bottles: the first one, a French Burgundy, was so bad that I sent it back. The label should have warned me; it read (in English): "Bottled especially for Lufthansa." The next one was better, a French Bordeaux (Bolodo). Later I tried a Frankish white, very fruity, very fresh, very nice.

But what I really appreciated on this flight was the music: Mozart's Violin Concerto No. 2 with Anne-Sophie Mutter, Schubert's "Trout" Quintet (only one movement, unfortunately), Mendelssohn's decidedly German "Italian" Symphony with Christoph von Dohnanyi (grandson of the composer) conducting the Vienna Philharmonic, Beethoven's Fantasy for piano, chorus and orchestra with Alfred Brendel. The quality of sound was the best I've heard on an airline, also the cycle time was about two hours, much more than it is on U.S. carriers.

Several times, I have written to U.S. carriers (TWA, United, Pan Am) about the execrable quality of their in-flight entertainment programs: bad selections, programs too short, terrible acoustics, and what bothers me particularly is the inevitable "host": "Welcome to our stratospheric concert. I'm Bill Kazoo, and I'll be your host for the next 54 minutes." The "host" then proceeds to read a commercial in a most repulsive way, then introduces the various lowbrow selections by systematically mispronouncing all of the composers' and artists' names. So, thank you, Lufthansa, for a no-host program of real music. Whatever the Germans did for or against humanity, they gave the world its best music.

During a bout of turbulence, I interrupted my writing to devote full attention to Beethoven's seldom heard (by me) Choral Fantasy as it came around a second time. It is difficult for me to explain what music means to me after a stay in Japan. Much as I admire the Japanese culture, I find myself starved for music in that country. Not that classical music is unavailable in Japan: some of their orchestras are now quite good, their young musicians are among the world's best. Still, music as I know and appreciate it is not part of everyday life, it's not "in the air." The first course on this flight's lunch was Japanese sushi, the rest, completely Western. Hence, the meal provided a good East-West transition. But the music was what really did it for me: completely absorbed in the sound, eyes closed, gripping the arm rest, overwhelmed by a flood of memories, I could only repeat to myself, "I'm home, I'm home."

Well, not yet, this is Siberia; so here at last is that huge and mysterious expanse of land I've often dreamed about. As I look out of the window I see endless deep forests, intricate networks of meandering rivers, lakes, more lakes, and, as our route takes us increasingly further north, patches of snow lingering on the hills. Not many casual travelers have experienced this, I thought. After all, until a few years ago no flights over the Soviet Union were allowed to non-communist carriers. Actually, I was told, very few airlines fly this route: JAL, Lufthansa, a few others, no U.S. carriers. The flight, the purser told me, is very expensive; fully 10% of ticket costs go to paying the Soviet tracking stations on the ground which maintain constant contact with the plane. Other countries provide this service free of charge. Not the Soviets: they have opened up their skies, but make foreign airlines pay through their capitalistic noses for the service. Also, only the most recent models of the Boeing 747 can fly this distance nonstop. The new planes, faster and carrying more fuel, are more expensive to purchase and U.S. carriers cannot afford them, so claimed the German purser. I commented on the excellent in-flight music program. That too, the purser told me, is expensive: Lufthansa plays recordings from only the top orchestras.

How the world has changed: we can now enjoy Japanese sushi, chicken brochettes, French, German wines, Mozart, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Beethoven over Siberia at 10,000 meters at a speed of 900 km/hr. Below me, there's a wide twisting river with green riverbanks and some yellowish beaches. Could it be the Yenisei? A small town is nestled in a hairpin turn of the river. People actually live here, incredibly isolated from the rest of the world.

We are now flying over the river Ob. What an extraordinary sight! There is one main very wide stream and fifty, perhaps a hundred narrower streams running alongside forming a massive delta-like band stretching for hundreds of miles. From the air, this multitude of rivers resembles writhing snakes of all sizes and shapes. Somehow, a strange-looking town was built on land raised up from the swamps. Airfields can be seen, and what appear to be military installations. Is Boris Yeltsin going to close them down?

Eleven hours after leaving Narita, the flight is finally coming to an end. Traveling with the sun makes for a very long day; in the present case, a normal day plus seven hours. In addition, today is the longest day of the year! I had four meals: breakfast at the International House of Japan, a snack at Narita airport, lunch and dinner in flight. The weather in Frankfurt, as announced, is rainy and cold. Welcome to northwestern Europe!

Upon arrival in Germany, I am immediately struck by the differences of attitude between Germans and Japanese. The differences are decidedly not in favor of Old Europe. Gone is the excellence of service, the extreme politeness, the precision, the professionalism which makes Japan so distinctive. At airport counters, officials look hopelessly bored, never smile, hardly interrupt their conversation, reading or dozing instead of helping customers. You always expect them to snap, "What the hell do you want?" instead of the joyful and highly demonstrative "Irashei mase" or "Arigato gosaimas" of the Japanese.

Of course, the Germans have no monopoly on rudeness: the French are even worse, except that they are a little more imaginative at torturing the visitor. A friend of mine put it very well: "National attitudes reflect the legal system: in Anglo-Saxon countries, you are innocent until proven guilty; on the Continent, you are guilty until proven innocent." At a ticket counter, a store, in an office, Germans, French, Belgian, etc., first assume that you are a nuisance best dealt with by cold indifference or by outright hostility. It is up to you to prove, by a combination of flattery and threats, that you are reasonable, honest, solvent and friendly. In Japan, it seems to me, the visitor, the customer is considered neither "innocent" nor "guilty." He is merely a visitor, a customer; he is therefore honorable and worthy of respect and should be given the best possible service.

When I tried to find the Novotel shuttle bus outside the Frankfurt terminal, I inquired a few times and was given vague directions by a bored airport employee who probably hoped I would get lost, literally. Finally the shuttle bus arrived. A pleasant-looking but sloppily dressed young driver got out of the bus, opened the back door, and "invited" me to place my luggage in the rear. He made little effort to help. When we arrived at the hotel, although I was the only passenger, he left me some distance away from the entrance and proceeded to get himself a cup of coffee. In Japan, the bus would have stopped at a designated area right in front of the main door, would have been met exactly on time by one or more white-gloved attendants who would have rushed to grab my luggage before I would have had even the thought of handling the bags myself.

The next morning I asked at the desk at what time the Novotel shuttle left for Frankfurt airport. The reply: the bus leaves every 20 or 25 minutes. In Japan I would have been given a precise schedule, rigorously adhered to by drivers and baggage personnel. I had to interrupt the desk clerk: he was sending out 8:00 a.m. wake-up calls to hotel guests. He would never have thought, between, between two successive dialing operations, to ask me what I wanted. By the way, the 8 a.m. calls were being placed at 8:05; I checked. In Japan (a) the wake-up calls are handled automatically, electronically, (b) an 8 a.m. call is given at 8 a.m., not 8:01 or 7:59.

One day, I shall write a little essay on the correlation between a country's economic strength and its inhabitants' punctuality. In Japan, arriving two minutes late for an appointment is acceptable, barely. In Germany the acceptable time delay is about five minutes, in the U.S. 10, in France 25, in Spain one hour is still OK. In Latin America it's one day (mañana!) in Central Africa two or three days.

So, it was time to take the Novotel shuttle back to the airport. Frankfurt, like Zürich, Amsterdam and (to a lesser extent) Brussels, is blessed with an international airport which contains within its terminal building a railway station. Landing at one of these airports immediately places the traveler just a few hours away from most of the major cities of continental Europe through fast, efficient, comfortable, relatively inexpensive and usually scenic train rides. The bus driver waited for two Japanese girls to board the shuttle. Since I was the only other passenger, upon entering the bus they sweetly smiled at me, bowed, and said "Good morning," which I answered by a cheery "Ohaio gosaimas." They seemed very surprised that a European, in Frankfurt, should answer them in Japanese.

Between Frankfurt on Saturday morning and Irsee (near Kaufbeuren, itself between Munich and Lake Constance) on Sunday evening I had no plans, no reservations. At the airport, after waiting interminably in line in a travel bureau, I was told that the agent handled neither train travel nor automobile reservations. After more queuing I learned that no car rental companies had vehicles available without reservations and same-day one-way air fare to Munich was outrageously expensive. That left the train, and a direct intercity express was leaving in five minutes. Somehow I managed to purchase the ticket and find the right track with two minutes to spare. And yes, the trains do run on time in Germany. A French night train which I took two weeks later (see below) was 20 minutes late in Lyon and 35 minutes late on arrival in Brussels, in excellent agreement with the national "punctuality index" which I proposed above.

I settled into an empty compartment but was joined, at the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof, by a German couple who smoked incessantly. I had been so pleased to catch the train that I had failed to check the smoking/nonsmoking sign. My companions spoke no English and my German small talk was soon exhausted, so that I was given the opportunity to prepare in silence my presentation for the Irsee meeting, another one on Intermetallic Compounds.

My smoking companions got off at Nuremberg and I could breathe again for the rest of the trip. As we headed south, the weather improved and so did the scenery. For a while, we followed a lovely river. Occasionally, people in small boats glanced up at the speeding train; some waved. We crossed the Danube at Inglostadt, where Europe's most impressive river is still a relatively narrow stream.

I arrived in Munich after a mostly pleasant four and one-half hour ride, and wondered what to do next. Fortunately, the hotel located right at the station had vacancies, so I did not have to carry my heavy luggage very far. The immediate vicinity of the Munich main railway station is pretty seedy: there are drunks and addicts and/or mentally deranged individuals wandering aimlessly about or sleeping on the ground. We could be in San Francisco. As I walked away from the station and its derelicts, I began to appreciate once again the charm of European cities. There are spacious avenues, historic buildings and one observes a desire on the part of the citizenry to maintain a certain uniformity in style, enforced by strict building codes. Cares are banished from certain sections of the old town and pedestrians rule. Much of the old town was demolished in WWII, but much has been reconstructed quite tastefully.

I wandered into a traditional Bavarian beer hall: it was just as one might imagine it. I sat down on a bench at a large wooden table, very close to the orchestra playing in the traditional oompah-oompah style. The musicians were really very good: two clarinetists doubling as saxophone players, two trumpet players. They played better than they looked: none of the musicians was less than 60 years in age nor less than 250 pounds in weight, and their short trouser "lederhosen" made them appear particularly ridiculous. I wonder how these overweight Bavarian beer barrels handle the unbearable heaviness of being.

Most of my acquaintances, particularly in Belgium or France, find this traditional German music quite unattractive. Perhaps that feeling is caused by the physical appearance of the musicians or is related to German occupation of Europe during WWII. I hold the unpopular view that this traditional music is quite pleasant and in fact much less vulgar than current international popular music. The Bavarian oompah-oompah and the music of Haydn and Mozart have the same origin, one evolved, the other did not. At heart, this beer hall music is not corrupted by obscene amounts of money or hard drugs which characterize current popular music.

I had dinner outdoors in the old gothic city hall courtyard. There I met some U.S. families whose children were attending Berkeley.

The next morning I visited the Alte Pinakotek, the famous Munich art museum with its extremely rich collection of old masters, featuring many works of Jan Breughel and P. P. Rubens. I could never appreciate my illustrious countryman's (Rubens) painting, with its extraordinary expanses of naked pink flesh belonging to virgins, whores, angels and assorted cherubim gyrating freely over the surface of huge canvases. The Museum may have rich collections, but the presentation leaves much to be desired: as the lighting is provided by very large windows or skylights, and the paintings are protected by glass panes, the light from the windows gets reflected off the glass, thereby causing the picture to disappear under certain angles of view.

Upon visiting art museums, one is struck by the fact that Renaissance painting is limited almost exclusively to religious subjects, in particular to variations on the Madonna-and-Child theme. Why is that? Had early Renaissance artists lost the inspiration of earlier centuries, only to regain diversity of subject matter in modern times? Fifteenth and sixteenth century artists did not, of course, create original art first, then hope to market it afterwards. Rather, they waited for a commission, then produced the work according to the wishes of the funding patron, then delivered it. Hence, most subjects were determined ahead of time by the prospective buyer who was generally a rich nobleman, merchant or prelate. Not surprisingly, the subjects most frequently requested were religious ones. The Church, in those times, exerted a huge influence and could at all times threaten powerful leaders with eternal damnation if they did not behave properly. So the rich tried to remain in the good graces of the Church by spending rather liberally on religious art: "Look, Reverend, I may be nothing but a poor sinner [read: a rich one], but observe how much pious art I have commissioned! Why, the walls of my palace are covered with Madonnas with Child, St. Sebastian pierced with arrows, and Christ on the cross, a source of constant inspiration for all the members of my family, my friends and my considerable household." Thus, when we stroll today through room after room of art galleries, we behold the lavish attempts of the rich and powerful to bribe their way into the next world after having plundered, raped and murdered in this one.

A few isolated artists appear to have escaped the general trend. Hieronymus Bosch, for example, painted sinners, monsters and devils, which must have been much more fun than a steady diet of saints, angels and virgins. Why this exception, what school did he belong to, how did he make a living? Perhaps because he was so "marginal" we know very little about him. It has been suggested that he belonged to a secret society and that this shadowy Adamite organization paid him for his nightmarish representations of hell and damnation.

Sunday afternoon I traveled by train to Kaufbeuren, thence to Irsee by cab. The short train ride (about an hour) prompted in my mind further reflection on the differences between Japanese and German cultures. Toilets on Japanese trains, even on the Shinkansen, are mostly of hunkering type. In German trains they are, of course, "western style," as the Japanese describe the sit-down types.

Actually, the West only converted to the sit-down type comparatively recently. I recall traveling with friends to rural France many years ago; how desperately we searched for "English" toilets (not found everywhere in France even now). When I did my military service in the Belgian Navy, I had to get used to "hunkering" toilets, the only ones available at the training school. So, there's nothing Eastern or Western about these essential fixtures: one type is ancient, one is more recent.

But who, I wonder, is responsible for the Great Toilet Revolution (GTR)? The British, presumably, but who was the great unsung hero himself? What do we know of this plumber of genius, one of the greater benefactors of humanity, for sure. Think of it, being able to do one's business comfortably seated, in absolute privacy and quiet. What a wonderful opportunity to retreat from the trepidations of modern life (the old word for "toilet" in Italian was "ritirata") to rest, reflect, meditate for a while, perchance to dream. It is a little-known fact, for instance, that Rodin's "Thinker" is actually sitting on a toilet.

Surely one of the most significant accomplishments of the Anglo-Saxon culture is the spread of the sit-down toilet, thanks to the extent and might of the British Empire and, later, the economic dominance of the U.S. The former empire created the necessary plumbing, the latter improved upon it and created the soft tissue paper to go with it. What was actually the cultural impact of the GTR? I do not know but I agree with Aldous Huxley who wrote in one of his novels that the truly personal activity of an individual is the way he or she defecates. The way a person thinks is not really proper to the individual since it can be heavily influenced by the media. Therefore, Descartes should have written not "Cogito, ergo sum" but "Kako, ergo sum."

At Kaufbeuren I took a cab to Irsee. I had previously attended a conference there some years ago, but was impressed all over again by the marvelous job of restoration of the old cloister which the Swabian regional government had undertaken. Rooms for conferees are spacious and equipped with desk, armchairs, private shower, radio, phone. Everything that's needed is there, no more, no less. The cloister itself is maintained in perfect condition, with murals, paintings, gilt decorations almost gaudy. The church is a model of so-called "flaming" (i.e., extravagant) baroque, which the perfectly maintained decorations enhance to the point of offensive excess. The pulpit is amazing: it is designed as a miniature sailing ship, actually a caravel. A plaster sail, painted blue, hangs from a artificial mast maintained erect by artificial stays over which a group of gilded cherubs or angels frolics happily. Under the pulpit one finds a multicolored mermaid hovering over the congregation. I wonder how many dreary sermons this poor creature of the depths has been forced to endure.

The weather became increasingly dreary as the days went by. A general excursion to the crazy castle Neuschwanstein was planned for Wednesday afternoon but, since I had seen this monstrosity before, I decided to go for a drive all by myself. I therefore rented a car at the local agency and was surprised to be offered a Mercedes, no less. The rental price was pretty steep but, as usual with car rental agencies, they claimed that no lesser car was available, and gave me a discount. I wanted to visit the resort town of Lindau on Lake Constance (Bodensee), a place which I was told had the best climate in Germany. When I got there, after a slow non-autobahn drive, a thunderstorm erupted and I drove back via the foothills of the Austrian Alps. Not a very successful trip.

The Irsee conference bus, departing at 6:00 a.m., took us to Munich airport where I caught a flight to Zürich, then, after a long wait (which seemed even longer because I was suffering from acute stomach cramps) I boarded a Swissair flight to Palma de Majorca where I met my family who were coming out from Brussels via Barcelona. In retrospect, instead of flying out of Munich, which was a retrograde move, I should have take the local train from Kaufbeuren to Lindau, thence directly to Zürich airport, which is also a railway station, as I mentioned previously.

The morning of our departure from the Club Med, the couple who occupied the bungalow next to ours was frantically packing suitcases as we were. They asked us about flights to France since, that morning, he had been called back to Paris on an emergency. It turned out that after many phone calls he was able to confirm an Iberia flight to Barcelona, then Air France to Paris. Actually, he and I were on the same flight to the Spanish mainland and he explained to me that his father-in-law had died unexpectedly the day before. I offered condolences as best I could, but then the thought struck me: if he must return for his father-in-law's funeral, why is his wife staying on in Majorca? Unless, of course… Oh well, isn't that what Club Med is supposed to be all about?

Do not take Iberia, gentle reader! The flight from Palma to Barcelona was mercifully short but the atmosphere in the cabin was stifling, the row spacing far too narrow, hence exquisitely uncomfortable, and not so much as a glass of juice or water was offered. Fortunately, the next leg of the journey, Barcelona to Lyon, was by an unknown (to me) carrier, chartered by Air France which was running out of planes. A very small plane this one, with, on my flight, three passengers for a capacity of about 50. For once on Air France, the pilot made announcements in excellent English. Small wonder, he was an Australian! Air France was also running out of pilots and Australia had a surplus due to the collapse of some of their major companies.

A bus took me from Lyon airport to the Grenoble railway station where I took a cab to my hotel. At the hotel I made a bad mistake: usually, on arrival at a hotel, I complain about the lousy room I've been assigned and I ask to change. This time, out of weariness, or simply because I thought I could not do any better, I did nothing but unpack in the unbearable heat of a muggy Grenoble day in a non-air-conditioned room whose only window opened onto a terribly noisy street. At night I tried to keep the door closed, and suffocated, then opened the window and could not sleep because of the racket. The din finally subsided somewhat around 2:00 a.m. and I got some sleep.

The next morning at breakfast I met other conferees who claimed to have slept wonderfully in quiet air conditioned rooms! It's a good thing I am fluent in French and could voice my complaints eloquently. "Ah monsieur, your friends are on the fourth floor, which is air conditioned, the other floors, including your third floor, are not." All right, put me up on the fourth. "Unfortunately, monsieur, the hotel is full, you should have notified us on arrival since you were one of the first to get here. Now it's too late." Later that day another colleague, lodged on the third floor, explained to me that his room faced the back (very quiet) and was also air conditioned. Return trip to the front desk: "Ah yes, monsieur, but your colleague has a room with bath, yours has only a shower, hence the difference." How much more expensive is his? Same price. Well, I made such a row that the hotel manager did find me a quiet, air conditioned, back-of-the-hotel, fourth floor room for the last two nights of the conference. What a delight that was! The heat wave in Grenoble was so exceptional that it was mentioned on national French TV. Part of the problem is that Grenoble is located at the junction of two rivers, forming a Y, with a mountain range between the legs of the Y. Hence the humidity is high and the air stagnant.

The organization of the conference (actually a workshop) was decidedly French. Two rooms had been reserved at the "Maison du Tourisme" but there was only one 35 mm projector, which made things rather awkward during the parallel sessions. The air conditioning was inadequate, but the most amusing incident occurred on Thursday afternoon when the session could not start on time since the main auditorium was locked and the person in charge had left on holiday with the key in his pocket. Finally, somebody located a substitute key, but the presentations had to be rushed because the room had to be locked again promptly at six.

Speaking of closing times, one of the most infuriating aspects of life in at least some parts of Europe, France particularly, is the shut-down of most stores and offices between the hours of noon and 2:00 p.m. Once again I was made painfully aware of this absurd custom when I tried to buy some methyl alcohol (for erasing "permanent" markings on transparencies): all pharmacies in Grenoble were closed from 12 to 2! That reminded me of an earlier trip to the south of France: tourist offices were closed from 12 to 2, and the famous grotto ("le Gouffre de Padirac") was closed during the same interval. The reason, given on the sign at the ticket office was Pour permettre au personnel de déjeuner (to allow the personnel time to eat lunch). Such is indeed the universal reason: as I was told by a French acquaintance, A midi, la France mange! (at noon, France eats!). All work ceases, except in bars and restaurants.

You might say, "Why not? Different countries, different customs; what's wrong about work stoppage for two hours in the middle of the day?" What's wrong is that such practice necessarily creates a gender-polarized society, it locks men and women into roles which cannot be interchanged. Here's how: since stores are open when businesses are closed, and closed when businesses are open, it follows that only women can do the shopping since most men are working. That, in turn, means that women are not allowed to work, indeed they must do the shopping and return home at noon to prepare a full meal for their husbands. After the ritual of the midday meal has been accomplished, the men return to work, and women return to their shopping. Gender roles are thereby frozen in and stereotypes reinforced, Q.E.D.

I had made no advance plans for my return to Belgium so had to inquire locally. The flight from Lyon to Brussels on Friday night would have necessitated my leaving the conference early

and also was terribly expensive. Renting a car would have cost even more. That left the train. Unfortunately, despite the beautiful TGV which now reaches Grenoble, I could not leave Friday p.m. and hope to arrive the same day in Bruges, my final destination. One problem is that Paris, unlike Brussels, has not linked its diverse train stations by rail. Because I had to plan for drizzly hot weather in Japan, cold rainy weather in Belgium, vacation gear for Majorca (including a snorkeling mask), formal wear for parties in Brussels and Bruges, and transparencies and assorted documents for three conferences and two technical visits (Nippon Steel, NIST), I had a lot of luggage which I did not want to transport in Paris from the Gare de Lyon to the Gare du Nord.

What to do?… Then something clicked in my memory: was there not a night train from Lyon to Brussels which avoided Paris altogether? My Grenoble colleagues did not think so but, by inquiring at the station, I proved them wrong. Indeed, there was such a train; unfortunately it left Lyon at 1:20 in the morning, but arrived at a convenient 11:00 a.m. in Brussels. I decided to travel in style by booking a single "cabin" in the sleeping car, which was still less expensive that the plane, and avoided an extra hotel night.

So, after the close of the conference, I left leisurely for the Grenoble station, took the last TGV to Lyon, left my luggage at the station, took a cab to the center of town, walked around Lyon, had a late dinner, walked around some more, and returned to the station.

The blue sleeping car was a venerable Belgian wagon-lit, the porter was Flemish, and it all felt like home. In fact, the impression of déjà vu was striking. As a child, with my parents, I often traveled by wagons-lits and I have retained from this early childhood vivid and fond memories of this particular mode of travel. I recall spending many magical hours gazing out of a small crack in the window at the world of night, rushing by at 100 km/hr. My father would pull down the blind, but after he had fallen asleep I would creep out of the lower bunk, raise the blind a little, and stare out. Most of the time, though, I slept, but always woke up when the train pulled in at a station. I would watch the activity on the platform until the train departed and pulled out of the station. Only after it had accelerated to cruising speed did I regain my bunk, quickly falling asleep again, rocked by the comforting motion of the carriage.

The furnishings in my present wagon-lit had not changed much since my time, though it seemed that the cabin had become much smaller. Was it because I had grown? The compartment was hot and stuffy, and the air conditioning was inadequate (this is becoming a leitmotif). Again, I was faced with the dilemma of keeping the window open and suffering the racket of a fast-moving noisy train, or keeping the window closed and suffocating. I opted for the former solution and I read for an hour, window open (no danger of bugs coming in at this speed!), to cool off the compartment. The outside air too became cooler as the night progressed and as we sped northward. When I did close the window, the temperature was quite pleasant, and the air conditioning system, not having to do so much work, performed adequately. Again, as in my early childhood memories, the pattern repeated itself: I slept very well as long as the train was traveling at cruising speed, but woke up when it slowed down. Fortunately, there were but few stops. It was a beautiful trip, in space and back in time!

I had breakfast in the restaurant car, then returned to my compartment, now converted to daytime use, and watched the familiar Belgian landscape pass by my window. We got into Brussels a half hour late; I left my bags at the station, walked over to the Grand'Place, ate lunch nearby, then took a train to Bruges where I was met by my family. During my stay in Belgium we had one nice summer day, Wednesday, so we drove to the seashore where I hoped to go for a swim. The water was not too cold but I chickened out nevertheless because of the numerous jellyfish floating in the surf. I hate those creatures! On Thursday, in Bruges, it poured incessantly. Hence, during my train ride on Friday, it was a relief to see the sky clearing as we moved south and away from Belgium.

Less than a week later, I was on the road again, the railroad, this time traveling from Bruges to Köln, changing trains there, and continuing on to Heidelberg where I had an appointment with representatives of Springer Verlag. For much of the distance, the train from Köln to Heidelberg runs right along the mighty Rhine River. What a magnificent sight! The swiftly-flowing river is criss-crossed by colorful tour boats, heavily laden barges and occasional yachts. In some places, the cliffs on either side of the river are extremely steep and surmounted by precariously balanced medieval castles, some of which have now been converted into hotels. I could imagine staying at one of these enchanted palaces, gazing down at the silvery ribbon of water way below, perhaps sipping a glass of ice cold pale Riesling--whose vines grow on the almost vertical terrain below me--while I imagine, in the distance, an orchestra playing Das Rheingold. Valhalla cannot be far.

South of Darmstadt we traversed a beautiful forest as the tracks left the Rhine and gradually took us to the Neckar, on the banks of which is situated the university town of Heidelberg. The majestic Rhine is opera (The Ring of the Nibelungen), the smaller Neckar is operetta (The Student Prince).

Heidelberg is truly a storybook town, with neat, freshly-painted houses decorated with flowers at the windowsills, and with well-scrubbed pavements on its pedestrian-only streets. The most impressive landmark, of course, is the castle overlooking the city. Both castle and university (the oldest in Germany) were established in the 14th century, though the castle was transformed and added to over the course of several hundred years thereafter. Hence, in its present ruins one can detect a variety of styles.

The outline of the castle forms a polygon with cylindrical turrets at the vertices. One such tower is truly extraordinary: it has been sheared vertically and its outward half has slipped perhaps 200 feet down the cliff. The part left standing thus has all its interior--floors, arched ceilings, etc.--completely exposed to outside view, somewhat like an architect's cutaway model. Apparently, this strange shearing phenomenon occurred when the French laid siege to the castle in the late 1600s. Some French soldiers managed to creep up to the castle walls and set fire to the gunpowder which was stored in the lower level of the tower in question. The explosion produced the destruction of the tower, the castle fell to the French, who subsequently burned the whole town of Heidelberg, leaving standing (by mistake) only one building, the Ritter house, now a hotel and restaurant.

So much of the castle has been destroyed that, in most places, only the outer shell remains, giving the illusion of an artfully created movie set. That evening from a distance, I looked up at this quasi-transparent fortress made even more ghostly by the artificial illumination of the electric lighting and the natural one of the waxing moon. I could easily imagine the spirits of bygone lords and ladies of the Palatine flitting, like ethereal bats, in and out of the forever open doors and windows of the stand-alone façades.

Even before learning that the Ritter was the only original building in Heidelberg, I had decided to have dinner there. I was attracted to the ancient wood-paneled dining room and by the menu which featured game, such as venison. During dinner, I learned from the guidebook I had just purchased that the Ritter house had been built by the French Huguenot Charles Belier in 1592. The façade of the house is surmounted by the statue of a knight, presumably Chevalier Belier himself, hence the name (knight = chevalier in French = Ritter in German, or "rider" in English, literally). Further down the façade is the Belier family coat of arms featuring, not surprisingly, the zodiac sign Aries (ram in English = bélier in French). Since Aries is my astrological sign, I found it particularly fitting to have supper at the famous Ritter house.

From ancient to contemporary warfare: The next day I took a limousine to Frankfurt airport, an hour away, to accomplish the next-to-last leg of my journey around the world.

The driver had to pick up another customer and drove to a most dismal development of absolutely identical houses and identical apartment buildings. The architecture, such as it was, was obviously local, so was the paint job, but something was wrong: all houses had basketball hoops over the garage doors, and each garage had a flagpole attached to it. The children in the streets were obese, wore baggy clothes and sneakers, and wore an oversize glove on the left hand. This was obviously a sporty community: pot-bellied men in shorts were pitching horseshoes and an overweight black woman was jogging about in a pink sweatsuit. Yes, we were in America, at least in a small American enclave in Germany: a U.S. military housing installation.

The rank and name of the inhabitants of each house were engraved on a plastic plaque on each garage (how else could the occupant recognize his own?), the settlement had its own restaurant, sport center, school. I tried to figure out how much all this was costing the U.S. taxpayer, multiplying the annual rent on houses and apartments, the food, the schools, the salaries. etc., by the number of families living there, then multiplying by the number of such armed forces villages in Germany, in Europe, throughout the world including the mother country whose military installations outnumber many times over those of the rest of the world. I soon lost count, the figures were becoming astronomical. All this to keep the Commies from destroying the universe, even after the "Evil Empire" has self-destructed!

The flight on United from Frankfurt to Dulles airport in Washington was long but uneventful: I drank, ate, slept, read and wrote. There was little else to do. I checked the movie guide which listed some good titles, such as "Dances with Wolves." Unfortunately, on this particular flight, the least interesting one was to be shown. "But it doesn't really matter," said the flight attendant cheerfully, "the projector in business class is broken anyway." Since the flight was fully booked, there was no way to change cabins. So I had to fall back on the audio. I tried the classical music channel, the only one I can stand; it was dead.

That gave me an idea and I asked to see the chief purser. After having had to reiterate my request, she waddled out of first class and asked me suspiciously what I wanted. I explained: I'm on a round-the-world combined United-Lufthansa business class flight. On the first leg of the journey (United from SFO to Narita) the audio was so full of static that I could hear nothing. On this flight (United!) the video is kaput and so is the classical music channel. In compensation, I'd like an upgrade to first class. "But sir," she replied, "if were to accommodate you I'd have to give upgrades to all business class passengers, and…"

"You do not understand, I'm presumably the only one traveling around the world and I want an upgrade, not because I fancy first class, but because, this coming Tuesday, I'd like to take an earlier flight home than my scheduled 5:15 p.m. flight. I could not take an earlier flight because all others have coach and first class only, no business. Since, when I purchased my tickets several months ago, I was denied an upgrade to first for the Dulles-SFO portion of my journey by your chintzy representatives ("It is not company policy"), I'm asking for it now, simply because I want to get home sooner."

"Well," she answered, "if I were to write to the company, it would take some time to process your request, and…"

"No, please write that letter right now, on UA stationery, and give it to me."

That worked: in Washington, I was able to obtain the upgrade, but not before putting up a fight ("It is not company policy." "Let me talk personally with your supervisor…").

I arrived in the Washington area in the middle of a very unpleasant heat wave: 100° in the shade, maximum humidity. Fortunately, unlike to situation in Grenoble, it was possible to avoid the natural elements altogether. I went from an air-conditioned hotel room to an air-conditioned car, to the air-conditioned restaurant, to air-conditioned research lab.

The National Institute of Standards and Technology (NIST, formerly the National Bureau of Standards) is located on extensive grounds with well-mowed lawns, thick woods, small ponds decorated with wild geese and other waterfowl. Herds of deer roam the park and, a few weeks prior to my visit, a black bear was found wandering between the NIST buildings. An NIST scientist explained to me that "bears have been known to travel considerable distances, you know." "Yes, I know," I answered, very seriously, "especially when they travel by bus." For a few moments he stared at me in absolute bewilderment, until he realized I was joking.

Finally, I come to the last leg of my journey, Dulles to SFO, in hard-earned first class. Actually, first class on this aged DC-10 was no better than business on a 747. You are supposed to be more pampered but this flight had a shortage of personnel and the cabin attendants in first class were totally inexperienced.

The announced movie was so bad that I immediately turned my attention to the audio. The classical music sounded very strange indeed. I tried the other channels: the spoken words sounded like mispronounced Swedish. Here we go again: I summoned the flight attendant, asked her to listen and she could not believe her ears. "It sounds like a foreign language!" "No," I said, "it's merely the tape which is on backwards." Strike three, United! The copilot eventually got the recording right side up.

I wanted to listen to music because the row just behind me was occupied by two off-duty flight attendants who chatted continuously in very loud voices. The one with the loudest voice only stopped talking long enough to drink wine in large quantities. By the time we were flying over the Midwest, she was quite drunk and would occasionally, to playfully draw my attention, bash me over the head with a folded newspaper. Those distractions, plus the fact that the meal, because of the inexperience of the on-duty attendants, took three hours, prevented me from continuing to write my travel notes, but at least it made for the shortest trans-U.S. flight I have ever flown.

In fact, we touched down at SFO one half hour ahead of schedule. A seasoned traveler sitting next to me warned, "Oh, oh, that means we won't have a gate to go to." Sure enough, we waited on the tarmac for about 20 minutes before an alternative gate could be found. Still, I thought, I gained ten minutes. Not really. At the baggage claim area, we waited and waited by a desperately still carrousel. "Is it because we came in early," I asked the attendant, "that we now have to pay for it by this baggage retrieval delay?" He looked at his watch. "No, no, this delay of 20 minutes is perfectly normal, there's nothing to worry about." Five minutes later came the PA announcement, "Ladies and gentlemen, due to the fact that we are experiencing some difficulty in getting the cargo doors open, there will be some delay in delivering baggage from Flight 575. Thank you for waiting." Do we have a choice?

Finally the carrousel lurched into action and my two suitcases tumbled into view. I and my luggage has completed our first round-the-world trip. I had covered, in all, 33,500 km, less than the earth's circumference at the equator (about 38,000 km). Still, that's roughly 20,000 miles in about 40 days, or an average of 500 miles a day.