Notes from the Road

Airports: 13
Cities where I at least stayed overnight: 5
Hours of jet lag: 9
Number of movies seen in theaters: 3
Number of movies seen on tiny airplane screens: 9

Washington DC

Portrait of a typical conversation among people interested in politics in Washington:

Obama...the weather is cold...Obama...have you noticed the economy seems to be melting?...Obama...I wonder if I can rent out my house for the inauguration...Obama...isn't Christmas soon?...Obama...I know someone who knows someone who knows Obama...Thai or Vietnamese food?...Obama...

I walked by the Bush White House. It was kind of nice to think that he might be packing boxes inside.

They have bagels in Washington, round ones or square ones, your pick. I like that.

New York City

I fulfilled my lifelong ambition in New York City on Thanksgiving Day. I confess it here. It wasn't eating turkey, thought that was a good thing. It wasn't seeing the name of my grandmother etched on a wall at Ellis Island, though that was moving. No, it was something else, something I had dreamed of doing since my eyes first locked onto the image on a small television screen as a boy in Southern California (where cranberry sauce is often served in short sleeves), an image of giant balloons as big as a house floating down a street of skyscrapers.

On Thanksgiving I went to the Macy's Day Parade. For real!

The massive blue and white Smurf scared me a little. A floating Buzz Light Year the size of an apartment building was truly impressive. Seeing an inflated Horton larger than an airport lounge reminded me of another life achievement -- when I had a convention of 5,000 PTA parents in California read Horton Hears a Who aloud together at the Orange Country Convention Center.

But it was Sponge Bob Square Pants I will remember. He was huge. He was inflated. He was obviously gay. And he was dashing as he dodged light posts along Broadway, his giant yellow frame bordering on terrifying. But I think the young girls really cared more about someone named Hanna Montana.

Tibilisi, Georgia

When I was a kid growing up during the Cold War a common expression said only in partial jest was, "The Russians are coming!" It was one of the reasons we had to spend a certain number of minutes each month laying under our school desks with our eyes covered listening to the comforting sound of an air raid siren. Just in case the Russians actually did come.

In Georgia in August they actually did come, in a conflict that hangs over the nation more darkly than the meltdown of the economy does in the U.S. Pick a point of view: Option 1: The newly aggressive, oil and gas wealthy Russians decided to teach "the west" and its former forced satellite state a lesson by bombing it as it was being considered for entrance to NATO. Option 2: The inept and not especially bright Georgian President provoked the Russians by bombing a small town on the disputed border, unleashing a needless war against his people.

I was only there for less than a week, so I have no real expertise to offer on which one is more true. But that's the debate. I did notice that there are four new luxury hotels since I was there last in 2002 (I did not stay in one of those), and that the Beatles Bar where I once over drank and danced was still there. Why was I there? Option 1: Doing a training for UNICEF and its partners in child advocacy. Option 2: Spying for the C.I.A. You pick.

London

They still have that whole monarchy thing going on over there. Looks like they are sticking with it.

We did two public events for our new book on Bolivia. Many people came. Many questions were asked. Many books were sold (we make zero pounds per book under are carefully negotiated U.K. publishing contract. And Bolivia still continues to intrigue and inspire people abroad. And some in Bolivia too.

One night when I couldn't sleep from jet lag (which is pretty much every night after you have traveled across both the equator and nine timezones) I watched a British comic on television do a routine about the U.S. It went something like this.

I mean, in the world the U.S. is like just about the worst flat mate you ever had. He breaks everything up and then says, "Hey, it wasn't me!"

I am just passing that along.

The Miami Airport

Since I pass through this airport with a good deal of frequency certain things have become ritual. Like visiting Starbucks (my daughter in college is a barista now, so don't hassle me) and buying a New York Times and sitting outside in the little grass-less park outside Terminal E. Hey, after nine house in a plane I'll take any real air I can get.

And then there is my bagel sandwich. The guys at the bagel store and I have a long relationship. He's from Jamaica and he used to always call me John Kerry back when Kerry's face was still on TV every day. He makes me tuna on a toasted seedy with roasted red peppers. In my rush between flights on my way into the U.S. three weeks ago I accidentally left behind by lovingly prepared tuna on a bagel, a sad fact that I did not discover until I had crossed the wide Rubicon of airport security.

This afternoon when I went for my ritual sandwich he immediately told me that he had discovered the meal left behind and saved it for me that evening, expecting me to return. He then proceeded to recreate it from memory, free-of-charge.

And that is what I truly love about America, the kindness of the basic people who live their lives behind bagel counters in airports, or in any of the zillions of other low-status gigs in this country (immigrants mostly). Thank you all for the little kindnesses you have shown me along the road.

And now back to Cochabamba!!

I hear that nothing much has happened while I was gone.