'Tis A Gift To Be Simple...

In this season of Thanksgiving, I am pleased to be able to report that I have arrived at the end of several long journeys. Not through any stroke of luck, but through simple, persistent effort. The gift of success has been its own quiet reward and immediately brought to mind a favorite American Shaker hymn and Aaron Copeland's music for it; appropriate for a Thanksgiving holiday.

I am pleased to report that after fourteen years of payments I have finally eliminated my college education loans. In the same month, I also had corrective surgery on my eyes. I waited ten years for this procedure until the technology was safe enough for my liking. So after more than a decade of patience, I have arrived debt and glasses free.

Simple Gifts

'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free,

'Tis a gift to come down where we ought to be,

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gain'd,

To bow and to bend we shan't be asham'd,

To turn, turn will be our delight

'Till by turning, turning we come round right.

Simple Gifts was written by Shaker Elder Joseph Brackett, Jr. in 1848. It was first published in The Gift to be Simple: Shaker Rituals and Songs. Simple Gifts was a work song sung by the United Society of Believers in Christ's Second Appearing (more commonly called the Shakers, an offshoot of the Quakers).

Mexican Thoughts

I've recently had the opportunity to make a visit to Mexico City. Given that my occupation is measuring and understanding cultures, peoples, beliefs, values and opinions, it has been an eye-opening experience. I now see Mexican immigrants and US immigration in a different way.

It seems that Mexico is a country where you can readily get just about anything, domestic or imported. This makes it different than many other places I travel. The problem is that the disparity in income between the rich and more is so marked that there are only certain classes that can afford things we take for granted in the US. Thus the power of our dollar.

So with that in mind it suddenly makes sense to me why Mexicans would come to our country for a few years or seasonally to earn greenbacks and then go home. It makes since that they are the slowest to integrate into our society and learn English. With a wad of US cash, a Mexican can suddenly live a couple social classes above his native income level. The disparity is so flagrant that I can understand why some people would risk so much to do so.

For example, across from my hotel, in the wealthy Polanco district of the city, is a huge sports field surrounded by stadium seating and impressive buildings. I once asked the steward in the hotel what it was. "A polo field," he said, "though in all my years here they've never played polo. It's used mostly for government speeches and such."

During my trips to Mexico, I have also reconfirmed again that once you've really learned one Romance language you can generally hack your way through all of them, except maybe French. Many thanks to Imperial Rome. My Romanian has helped me through Italian and now Spanish. The French language though, just like the people, is still just....different.

Mexican food is great. My wife converted me many years ago in Utah to liking Mexican food. As a Midwesterner, Mexican food to me had once meant Taco Bell, and was disliked. On my trips this year I've found I like Oaxaca cheese and dislike papaya. And as with the restaurants here, I've enjoyed the mariachis walking down the street outside the office playing their instruments in the afternoon.

Mexico City also has its disturbing sides. Illegal airport cabbies who charge more than the going rate of unsuspecting visitors, for example.

There is also apparently a growing subcomponent of the Catholic religion called the Cult of Death, replacing the Virgin Mary with Santa Muerte (Saint Death); a female skeleton. Its members worship the power of the finality of death, as an affirmation of the value of life, rather than the gift of the Virgin Mary. A little creepy, to say the least.

Familiar Places; Old Acquaintances

One of the benefits of traveling widely is opportunities to revisit places and activities of my past and see old friends flung widely about the planet.

On a recent trip to Afghanistan I had the chance to visit with an old university friend outside New York City. For those of you who know Sasha Philips-Arasakumar, he hasn't changed a bit. We shared some hours at a seaside diner. Good to see you Sasha. My family and I look forward to your visit.

I missed Ilian Casu while in Berlin. He had just left with his family to return to his homeland of Moldova not two weeks earlier after a stint living in the city. He left me another old friend at the hotel counter; some of my favorite Moldovan wine dressed up in spiffy new labels with real corks. Back in '95 when I got to know Moldovan wines, you were doing well if there was a plastic stopper in the bottle. Noroc, Ilian!

Along with the people, there are also the places. Last summer's American Association for Public Opinion Research Annual Conference was in Los Angeles. Matt Warshaw and I took the opportunity to travel down to San Clemente and eat at one of my favorite seafood places on the pier; The Fishermans Restaurant and Bar. Ron Lindorf introduced me to it many years ago ('99?). Sorry we didn't drop in Ron.

Budapest yielded a few suprises on my return. My first visit had been in '95 to share Thanksgiving that year with Zoltan Janosi. Zoltan had been a former Hungarian student of mine many years before when I worked at the Washington Workshops Foundation in DC. The city was much the same, though this time it was warmer than November and I had more purchasing power.

I had enough purchasing power that the hotel I was in was of sufficient status to host the European Cup Wheelchair Fencing Championships. For those that don't know, I spent well over two decades fencing on and off. I had the chance to watch for some time, fascinated by the differences in strategy immobility of the legs creates in the sport.

More recently I returned to Berlin, where I had not spent significant time since I was a student at RFW University-Bonn in 1989-1990. The memories, and the German, came flooding back after 18 years.

My student years in Germany were seminal to shaping my career choices. The night the wall came down I rented a car and drove the city to be part of the experience. It was a transition for me from a hoped for career as a US Army officer protecting then West Germany from the Communists to one involved with US Agency for International Development work rebuilding East European societies after the Iron Curtain's demise.

It was good to revisit a unified Germany. There were things I had forgotten; distinctly German things. There was a bakery selling loaves of fresh bread in the airport terminal, pretzels with mustard for breakfast, good red kraut for dinner almost every night and wine glasses larger than water glasses at dinner (a reverse of the French practice most of us learn in the US).

And there were new things. You can now rent Trabis by the hour to drive around Berlin as a gimmick. I remember seeing them as a standard feature of the landscape on a trip through East Germany in '89. Much of Berlin which was once a no-man's zone between East and West on my last visit has been rebuilt in Bauhaus style. I'm a lover of Bauhaus, but too much in one place goes from being utilitarian to downright sterile.

On one side of the Brandenburg Gate, the old Reichstag has been given new life as the Bundestag with a spiffy new glass dome replacing what was lost during the Nazi era. Next to the nearly-finished US Embassy on the east side of the Brandenburg Gate is a new, thought-provoking monument to Europe's murdered Jews. Oddly enough, it is built on the site of the former Nazi Chancellery and abuts an experimental sign marking the spot of the entrance to Hitler's bunker where he committed suicide at the end of the war. The sign sits in front of what was the height of East German luxury apartments; intentionally built atop the bunker to eliminate it from memory.

Also on the Eastern side is the Berliner Fernsehturm, another landmark I visited 18 years before. It hasn't changed at all; the restaruant at the top still rotates slowely in panoramic motion around the spire, the decorations still smack of the communist era, and the clientle and service are still geared to the teeny-bopper set before 9PM.

My newest, and perhaps lightest, memory to add to the German repertoire was the Ampelsmannfahrraederin. Only in Germany would the city pay someone to ride around on a bicycle with a big placard of the crosswalk signals, handing out literature reminding people to cross with the light. Ah, Germany...

Air Travel Blues

I recently completed trips to Poland and Hungary via Heathrow and Newark, Salt Lake City via Cincinnati and Kabul and Cairo via Dubai. I must say air travel experience is no longer what it used to be, a fact reently confirmed by the FAA reporting only 69.8% on time flights for 2007. And yes, I blame Al-Qaeda.

Newark (EWR) has a reputation for delayed flights, with one of the lowest on time departure ratings in the country. I've never been keen on it for that reason. Combine it with a flight on LOT, the Polish airline, and the receipe is one for frustration.

LOT is not an organization for high levels of communication and service. No reason was given for the delay nor expected new time of departure and despite promises of making up the time in the air, we were as late arriving as we had been departing. Combine this with the fact that the video system on the plane was broken and the toilets ran out of paper of all kinds and you get the idea.

I had expected British Air to be better. However, due to the tremendous storms in London that weekend, our flight from Budapest to London was delayed on the runway for two hours in the 102 degree heat. The heat apparently short-circuted a warning system computer, which led to another 3 hours delay on the runway as they tried to fix it (which they eventually did by rebooting it....). Kudos to the captain for telling us all this, and thanks for the extra leg room, but 5 hours?

Heathrow Airport (LHR) was a nightmare. A 4 hour line to get rebooked and assigned a hotel room was followed by a 1 hour bus ride to Gatwick for a transfer. I eventually by-passed the Brits, called the US, booked both myself, and left the line. This built the British Empire?

I went to collect my luggage for the transfer and found the baggage hall filled with untidy piles of luggage. I was told both that there was no order to the mess and that new luggage was not being unloaded until tomorrow due to the pile up. Of course, they couldn't transfer my luggage to Gatwick for me.

Gatwick (LGW) saw more queues. British Air does not pre-assign seats, so it was 3 hours to check even without my luggage. I watched women with children fight for line positions as the British Air staff melted away. It was generally ugly.

My luggage arrived several days later, just to be turned around for Salt Lake on a Delta flight delayed 3 hours departing from Raleigh (RDU) connecting with a Delta flight delayed 4 hours departing Cincinnati (CVG) for Salt Lake City (SLC).

Kam Air of Afghanistan is always a hit or miss proposition. I usually fly either Kam Air or Ariana Air from Dubai to get to Afghanistan. It doesn't much matter whether you are coming or going though; expect the times on your ticket to be meaningless. A few hours past departure, more or less, means little here. Manyana is the rule.

Kam Air is better than Afghanistan's other airline though. Ariana Air flights often just suddenly don't exist any more. And Kam Air actully offers an in-flight movie. Its the same movie every time you fly, and there are no headphones so you have to strain to hear it coming from overhead speakers, but they have one. Interesting contrast to LOT and BA's broken systems.

I can say that both Afghan airlines serve hot, real food both ways. That puts them one up on the US carriers. I en joyed my rice with roasted mystery-meat while watching Mr. Bean's Vacation in French for the second time. The joke by the Paris traffic police is much funnier in French, as is the waiter at the restaurant in the Gare de Lyon.

Then there's Kabul International (KBL) airport. Slowely being improved, its security process continue to get more thorough every time I vist. That's good, since I could have gotten a sub-nose of any caliber onto the plane the first trip I took. However, efficiency has not improved. So now there are three stops in half-hour queues standing outside in the parking lot before you reach the front door, followed by another half hour at ticketing and customs. Then you get to wait and see what time the airlines might decide to lift off.

Even Emirates sometimes fails spectacularly. My flight out of New York (JFK) left 2 hours late, but they still arrived in Dubai on time. That puts them one up on the Poles. However, I am now sitting in the lounge at Dubai Airport, Emirate's main hub, because my flight to Cairo has been delayed 5 hours. High marks for service and amenities, especially because I rate the business lounge with all my air miles (free food, Internet with unlimited wine!), but things break down fast when there's a problem.

So hooray for the Hungarians on Malev; the only international airline flight to get it right in the last 60 days. Even Budapest Airport (BUD) was efficient and clean, complete with a Sbarro's. I thoroughly enjoyed my second visit to Budapest as well.

My next stops are Berlin on Delta via JFK and Mexico City via some undetermined carrier and hub, probably Continental and Houston. We'll see how that goes....

Thoughts On The 4th Of July

Some you of may not know that my brother is a US naval officer. In June, my eldest daughter and I visited Newport R.I., Boston and points in between to celebrate his graduation from a course at the Naval War College. Here she is pictured with my brother and her two cousins.

New England is a region of the US steeped in colonial history. It is much like parts of North Carolina in this sense. However, North Carolina was a sleepy little colony compared to Boston's urban industry. Conflicts in North Carolina during the revolution were generally scattered skirmishes between Loyalists and revolutionaries, with county militia on each side. It is a much different picture than the city-wide bombardments, encircling fortifications, and British Army occupation of Boston.

RI is also the location of homes of some of the great captains of business our country has generated. A walk along the Breakers and a visit to the Vanderbilt Mansion were part of the trip.

My eldest daughter has a particular fascination with Paul Revere. As part of our trip we were sure to pilgrammige to all the relevant sites in downtown Boston including his home, the Old North Church (one if by land...), Bunker Hill and the USS Constitution, among others.

I've often said that if our country had relied on our German ancestors in Pennsylvania to start the Revolution, it would not have happened. The Scotch-Irish and English colonists, steeped in Boston's history culture of cantankerousness, were the ones to bring it about. My more recent reading of 1776 by David McCullough would seem to confirm this belief.
Coming right before the 4th of July, the trip brought back memories of the research I've done on the history of my family tree and aroused a bit of patriotic spirit. So I put together this little piece in celebration of our country and who we are.

"Freedom is nothing else but a chance to be better." --Albert Camus

I Am An American

by Karl Feld

I am an American.

I am descended of foreigners from many lands. Most of them came to our country speaking no English with little but their bodies, minds and a desire to succeed. Some sold everything they had to get here. Some sold themselves into servitude to reach our shores.

I am descended from farmers and tradesmen who accepted the risk and pursued the possibilities of choosing the challenging, the uncertain, the opportunity: people who rejected the reliable, dependable sameness of their existences for an opportunity with no guarantee of success but their own hard work.

I am descended from ordinary people who took to up rifles to protect what they had built with their own hands from a government who burned our cities, seized our money and quartered troops in our homes.

I am descended from people who fought to provide the opportunity to have our way of life to people they’d never met. Some fought their cousins to free others they didn’t know. Others volunteered to protect and assist other peoples they couldn't communicate with. All did it because they believed it was right.

I am descended from ordinary people who through their own hard work earned economic success, watched it erode from their fingers, and built it anew; people determined to build a better life for themselves and their families whatever the personal price.

I am descended from people who continue to demonstrate the same spirit, energy and stubbornness that brought their Dutch, German and English ancestors to our shores many generations before. I will do my best to pass it down to my own children and grandchildren as their heritage.

I am an American and this is who I am.

"We have enjoyed so much freedom for so long that we are perhaps in danger of forgetting how much blood it cost to establish the Bill of Rights." --Felix Frankfurter

A Wedding In Kabul

It could have been Provo.

The wedding hall was designed specifically for that purpose. Three stories high with wedding receptions running simultaneously on each every night. Alcohol could be had, but no-one bought any except one boy outside who didn't know his limits. Some rather benign dancing went on in front of a loud but innocuous band. No-one was privy to the ceremony itself except the couple and the family elders.

But there the similarity to Utah customs ends.

The reception is the third day of festivities in Afghanistan. It was explained to me that the previous two evenings are given over to the immediate families, and the third night is reserved for everyone who would otherwise complain about being excluded. This explained much, since most of the guests sat around their tables and said nothing, staring off into space.

That is until the food arrived late in the evening. Then the table came alive with hands and double-dipped spoons scraping food from common bowls; rice, dumplings, falafal and kebabs right off skewers which could be used to kill a man. Afghans are always ready to eat.

Utah readers note; only Coke products were served here.

They were a colorful lot. A wide mix of attire from bright suit and shirt combinations, to short sleeves for people who came from work, to peraan tunban with waskat and lungee or turban. And they were all men.

Afghan wedding receptions, like everything else in traditional Afghanistan, separate women from men. In this case a 7 foot high folding partition down the middle of the room. The reception hall had separate entrances for each gender. The children were allowed back and forth, but only the band could see over the wall from its raised platform. Now I know why the boys want to be rock stars....

The music was pop Indian, or Bollywood music. For those that don't know, India has its own film industry which dominates the East Asian film market. Yes, its named after Hollywood. Some of our staff speak passing Urdu from their film exposure. The music dominates the pop culture. The young men dancing at the wedding spread their arms and moved their hands in an Indian style, dancing with one another.

Men escaped the noise by going downstairs and out the "men's door". There they engaged in the traditional handshakes, hugging and cheek kissing. Some could be seen walking hand-in-hand, a custom among friends in Afghanistan.

It was an odd mix of old and new. The wedding hall stood on a road with many others, lit by neon signs proclaiming names like "Kabul-Paris Wedding Hall" (missing every other letter) over facades of glass. But in the foyers of each, men were called to evening prayer at the appropriate time, or they clicked their tasbih while sitting silently at the table. Outside, the couple's car, an '80s white stretch Lincoln Towncar festooned in white flowers and streamers, waited to carry them away along Kabul's dusty, potholed roads at the end of the night.

Music And Memories

Two weeks ago I performed with the North Carolina Master Chorale and the Tar River Philharmonic Orchestra our final concert of the season. Works on the program included Elegischer Gesang, Op. 118 by Beethoven, Little Requiem for Father Malachy Lynch by Tavener and Mozart's Requiem, K. 626. For the Mozart the Chorale was joined by the Wake County High School Honors Choir, a composite of Honors Choirs from across the county. For those of you who sang with me in the Honors Choir at Libertyville High, you'll understand the good memories the experience stirred up. The hairstyles have changed, but teenage singers remain the same.

As always, the concert was at the state's orchestral hall; Meymandi Concert Hall at the Progress Energy Center for the Performing Arts. I've spent a lot of time there in the last few weeks, as my eldest daughter rehearsed and performed there the following week with her grade school choir as part of the county's Annual Elementary Choral Celebration put on by the Raleigh Fine Arts Society. Its a great program, actually getting the kids into a concert hall at an early age.

Not sure what I'll be doing for music during the summer. The Chorale goes on hiatus, so I'll have to find something else to keep the voice in form.

The Power Of Words

My reading for this trip is "Approaching the Qur'an," the book which created controversy at the University of North Carolina when it was selected as required summer reading last year. The gist of the text is that the Qur'an is supposed to be transcendental simply because of the beauty of its language. When sung, the singing should move you as the word of God. Indeed, Mohammad is cited as saying that the beauty and perfection of the language and its power to move is the proof of its authenticity

The call to prayer sung from the minarets has always created a feeling of peace for me, even though I cannot understand it, in much the same way as a well-crafted Presbyterian sermon will do. Perhaps there is something to the power of beautiful language.

The ancient Egyptians believed this was the case. During my visit to the Egyptian museum I saw several instances of hieroglyphics where the cartouche containing the name of the Pharaoh had been chiseled away. The ancient Egyptians believed that the existence of the name in writing gave power to the dead to influence the living. Defacing the name erased that power. Oddly enough they'd leave the faces of the pharaohs intact in earlier dynasties, only choosing to scratch out eyes and ears later on.

Language is one way we reach out to others, and can convert strangers into friends. While at the museum I was approached by some Egyptian youth who assumed I was German and wanted to practice their language. A few words and we were buddies for the rest of our time in the museum.

Command of languages and the cultural habits that go with them can be a powerful thing. I often am mistaken for a German and do a passable job at blending in with them. Entry to the museum was a jostling, crowded affair for individual tourists. I went through once and was sent out again to store my camera outside. The next time in I mixed with a German tour group and was swept through the tourist entry in a matter of seconds. Ausgezeichnet!
Even in English language has power, turning strangers into friends during my trip to the Great Pyramids and the Sphinx. Belgian, Portuguese and American, we all enjoyed one another's company.

Fortunately, many Egyptians speak passable English, so it has been a tremendous tool to get to know folks on the street. Most educated Egyptians speak excellent English, and many university classes are taught in that language. I have found them all to be very polite and friendly.

Unfortunately, Egyptians around sites frequented by tourists are usually trying to use the power of their English to prise a few dollars out of your pocket. Though they haven't read it, they're are quite good applying the principles of indebtedness, similarity (through language) and co-location described in "The Psychology of Persuasion" to sell you things you really don't want.

Often they can be quite aggressive, even hostile in their approach. "Take this as a gift. No, I won't take it back. Forcing me to take it back is insulting. Now pay me." Here I learned the power of Arabic. You can say "No, thank you." in any Western language you please until you are blue in the face, but its like you never spoke. However, use the Arabic la shokram (thank you, no) and they disperse like leaves in the wind.

And for those hawkers that are confrontational there are the tourist police, aka the camel cops. The Pyramids are the site of horse-drawn carriage and camel rides, pushed on tourists like the t-shirts. Camels are bigger than t-shirts though, and here the camel cops come into play, running off hawkers in low speed camel chases amusing to watch. They also intervene on foot, pushing and shoving hawkers away from tourists when they are downright mean.

Cairo is crawling with uniformed police. Parking police, traffic police, antiquities police, secret police, customs police, hotel police. The city's districts are even defined by police stations.

It's a lot like DC actually, except that these police generally don't do anything. They and their officers sit along streets with their automatic rifles, loiter behind bulletproof riot positions, and sleep in their guard boxes. I've watched hotel guards put mirrors under cars but not look at mirrors, immigration officers flee their posts as soon as the crowd of foreigners appears at the airport, tourist police ignore metal detectors wailing alarms, and parking police shrug their shoulders when people are stuck in their parking spots. Its a running joke that law enforcement is a make-work project for the unemployed.

They're very friendly though and a few words will get you a big smile and a handshake.

My line of work requires more than a few words though, so there has always been plenty of opportunity for the traduttore, traditore. For those who do not speak more than one language, the reality is that languages translate imperfectly. Translation and interpretation, like music performance, remain one of the last great bastions of human-ness, where the mind is necessary to perceive and linguistically repackage concepts beyond language which are associated with words. It is not a mechanical function. As a result, it is often imperfect.

In survey research of we deal with precision in written and spoken language and its meaning. By definition we therefore are often victim to traduttore, traditore. Add to it that interpreters can only function for so long before their minds tire, and things can go downhill rapidly.

I spent Monday trying to control a room full of people in training through an interpreter who lagged a few minutes behind the instructor. Today was spent on a noisy street in front of a mosque with dozens of people staring at me while I tried to manage our subcontractor's job performance through an interpreter. Nothing like it to get a sense of how powerless a lack of words can make you, especially when your interpreter's batteries start to run low.

A Tricked Out Renault

Cairo is a city of contrasts. For a while I couldn't be sure if this was a pleasurable or undesirable thing. Traffic in Cairo is insane. The streets have lane lines, but they're optional. I've actually seen our driver clip two people in the last 24 hours. Anything that rolls is on the street, from ancient Ladas serving as taxi cabs cruising next to the newest Mercedes zipping silently by. I spent an hour standing still in this free-for-all on the freeway as we left the airport

Cars and traffic serve as a good metaphor for Cairo's contrasts. As I sat in the traffic, I had nothing to distract me from listening to the calming call to evening prayer from the minarets. I could admire the ancient, silent Pharaonic statuary in the median strip which looked like it was carved yesterday. I could watch the old men washing away the dirt on the highway banisters by hand, one pole at a time.

I could appreciate the tricked out Renault.

I wish I could have captured it on film. The car, checkered black and white, had to be 20 years old if a day. It glowed neon blue in the dark, with its interior and exterior add-on lights. Its aftermarket chrome hubcaps glinted from under the lifted fenders. Best of all it sported Loewenbraeu beer mudflaps on its rear wheels which swayed as it zigzagged through traffic, blasting away with its squeaky horn, while its passengers conversed in the dim blue light, oblivious.

For me, that Renault will always be Cairo. Old and new, jumbled together in a way that works, even if not in the most attractive manner. The city is the same way. New apartment buildings, intentionally unfinished on the topmost story to avoid taxation, creep their way from the Nile into Greater Cairo to threaten the foot of the Great Pyrimids. Pharaonic statues, unmarked by time, stand amidst buildings which look old and worn-out but were built yesterday in comparison. The city is scattered with billboards advertising familiar brands in Arabic, but held by European or American models.

The airport reminded me of the Luxor in Las Vegas, with stylized Egyptian building facades. The guards at the airport drive Jeep Liberty's and sport AK-47s, both built in Egypt. The office vehicles are Ford Explorers with cup holders, but the Egyptians fill them with plastic ash trays that look like little trash cans.

The riverboat casinos in the Nile cinched it for me. Some float. Most are buildings made to look like boats which will never move downriver. Many have neon paddle wheels flashing at the rear, none of which work. All glitz, no function. But they seem to attract people none-the-less, just like the Renault.

I'll give Cairo another chance tomorrow. After all, the hotel restaurant offers a hookah, called a "shisha" in Egypt, with your meal and belly dancing on Saturday nights....

Elgar's "Dream of Gerontius"

While not technically travel, this post is something which my family and friends could not attend, so I am including here.

As many of you know, I sing with the North Carolina Master Chorale (NCMC). The NCMC is regularly hired by the NC Symphony to perform large choral works. Last spring it was a work by Mahler. This quarter is was Elgar's "Gerontius".

The program read, "In a North Carolina premiere, Grant Llewellyn will lead the orchestra and the North Carolina Master Chorale in a work rarely performed outside of Britain. Cardinal Newman's poem tells of the journey of a man's soul after death – 'Gerontius' may be translated roughly as 'old man.' Elgar was given a copy of the poem in 1889 as a wedding present. 'This is Elgar’s greatest masterpiece,' says Llewellyn. 'It’s a large-scale chorus, a sweeping, emotional work.' "

I continue to return to this group specifically because of these opportunities. There is nothing to compare to performing with a world-class orchestra. The sound is incredible! It doesn't hurt that both our director and of course Grant Llewellyn treat rehersals and performances as professional, non-nonsense affairs. Appeals to my Germanic side... Grant's British public school accent doesn't hurt either.

I'd love to invite some of you to attend next year's performances. Next year's line up with the symphony currently includes;

September 28-29: an extraordinary semi-staged production of Mozart’s ever-popular opera, The Marriage of Figaro. Along with the North Carolina Master Chorale Chamber Choir, the world-class cast includes Sari Gruber, Christopheren Nomura, Krista River, and portraying Countess and Count Almaviva, a real-life married couple, Barbara Shirvis and Stephen Powell. Noted director Marc Verzatt, whose credits include the Lyric Opera of Chicago, Atlanta Opera, Toledo Opera, National Grand Opera and the Lyric Opera of Kansas City, will bring his considerable talents to this enterprise as the combined forces showcase Mozart at the very height of his powers.

Nov. 23-25, 2007: William Henry Curry, Resident Conductor North Carolina Master Chorale Holiday Pops Jingle up the winter season with the North Carolina Symphony’s beloved, traditional Holiday Pops concert featuring the North Carolina Master Chorale and the annual sing-along.

December 7: Handel's Messiah (unconfirmed)

Mar. 14-15, 2008: Grant Llewellyn, Music Director Peter Serkin, piano, North Carolina Master Chorale
Bach: Cantata No. 118, “O Jesu Christ, meins Lebens Licht” Stravinsky: Concerto for Piano and Wind Instruments Stravinsky: Concerto in E-flat (Dumbarton Oaks) Bach: Cantata No. 50, “Nun ist das heil” Bach: Keyboard Concerto No. 5 in F minor Stravinsky: Symphony of Psalms
In this unusual program, Grant Llewellyn explores the deep connection between Bach and Stravinsky, aided by his guest soloist, the incomparable Peter Serkin. Stravinsky’s fascination in the second half of his career with music of the Baroque, and his idol Bach in particular, is the inspiration for this program which bounces back and forth over 200 years of musical history. The concert ends with Stravinsky’s profound Symphony of Psalms, featuring the North Carolina Master Chorale.

Date Not Yet Set: Karel Husa: Violin Concerto Beethoven: Symphony No. 9, “Choral”
Steely-toned firebrand violinist Ilya Gringolts is featured in Karl Husa’s Violin Concerto. Husa, a national hero in his native Czechoslovakia, is one of the world’s most famous living composers and currently lives in Cary. His granddaughter, Maria Evola, plays in the violin section of the North Carolina Symphony. The concerto was written for the 150th anniversary of the New York Philharmonic. This powerful program closes with Beethoven’s supreme Symphony No. 9, “Choral,” featuring North Carolina Master Chorale, the Durham Choral Society Chamber Choir and a cast of extraordinary soloists

In case any of you wondered what professional musicians look like when they're not wearing black and white, I snapped a couple of photos during "dress" rehersals with my trusty cell phone.

To Kabul and Back Again

January marked my first trip to Kabul, one of many in my future. I've started working with a new company which owns a joint venture collecting survey data across Afghanistan. As part of my role I am involved in refining the operation while helping managing the ever-growing client base.

My first trip was marked by world class air accommodations. While I had at first intended to fly a domestic airline to accrue preferred customer status, my colleague talked me into flying Emirates Airlines through Dubai. A cannot begin to express the difference. I'm not sure I'll ever fly domestic to the Middle East again. www.emirates.com

Flying business class only added to the experience. Beginning with the fine wines and Middle Eastern buffet in the top flight private lounge at JFK to the free chauffeured cars to the hotel in Dubai, the experience was second to none. The cocooned seats, simulated starry skies on the airplane roof, Internet connectivity on the plane and 150 channels of on demand movies, radio and games on a 14" screen in the seat added to the experience. At 33,000 miles a round trip, I'll be a gold status customer on my second go. Free upgrades here I come!

It is well earned luxury, for the leg from Dubai to Kabul is inglorious. We generally fly Ariana Afghan Airlines, primarily because the scheduling works out well. We also joke it is less likely to draw Taliban attention being indiscriminately packed full of Afghans from various places. Of course, this also means I am packed in with them. This trip appeared to be a plane full of a group of pilgrims returning from the Hajj. My colleague and I noted in the terminal the number of these pilgrims clothed in their uniform ihram who were ill and coughing. We survived the plane trip and the airport in Kabul, where we stood packed in the processing chute for immigration with these folks.

Kabul is not especially cold in January. At 6,000 ft. elevation nestled in the wintry mountains of the Hindu Kush, it reminds me of Utah winters. But there is no heat. The airport is a bare, concrete ice box. I felt sorry for the pilgrims standing in line in their two piece ihram, that is until we got to baggage claim. At that point it became a free-for-all under the dim light of a few bulbs hanging by wires from the unfinished roof. It was polite. It was not pleasant. I marveled at how the pilgrims could sort out which 5 gallon container of holy water belonged to whom as dozens without markings, but with identical orange caps, rolled out of the baggage door in a row. Perhaps it didn't matter.....

During a previous trip to Haiti I began to keep a list of things which are common to developing, post-conflict, or just plain forgotten parts of the world. European, Caribbean, Asian; I have come to find that it makes no difference, as the requirements of living encourage their existence. Kabul is no different. Items on this list include;

• wild dogs wandering the streets, sometimes in packs
• mostly muddy, unpaved or broken roads
• second hand cars of all kinds and conditions imported for resale
• public transport as single vehicle enterprise
• buildings made of preformed concrete slabs or unfinished masonry
• rusty steel where concrete won't do
• retail sales as cottage industry, mostly street vendors or kiosks
• people sitting or walking about without much else to do, generally watching those that do
• few or no utilities; water, electricity or gas. Thus no heat, light or working toilets.
• landscapes stripped of anything consumable
• packs of children or older women begging for handouts from foreigners
• wooden carts with used tires for wheels drawn by beasts of burden (or people)

As you can imagine, "living" in such places takes on a whole new meaning. One of the novelties of my Kabul experience was having an office full of computer equipment, but heated by wood-burning stoves made from converted 55 gallon diesel drums. We run an entire two story office off our own generator, but continue to heat it with wood shipped in from the countryside. This is primarily due to the poor electrical wiring in the building which limits the load we can pump through it. The hotel we stayed at was somewhat better, with the dining and guest rooms heated by portable electric heaters, though passing through the hallways from one to the other caused my breath to steam.

But the hardships are all worth it because of the people. I am fascinated by people's values, beliefs and behaviors, which is a good thing as I get paid to observe and measure them. Kabul was full of interesting experiences.

The employees in our office are a cross-section of Afghanistan. Divided into the two primary language groups of Pashto and Dari, many of them have to work at communicating with each other. English is rare and not well spoken. Russian is slightly better. German is unheard of. As with all my other experiences working outside native English-speaking countries, the result is people speaking whatever language accomplishes the goal best, regardless of whether it is native. Abdul our accountant speaks halting German and worse English, so I found myself using German with him. My colleague speaks fluent Russian, which a number of the Kabuli staff speak, so there was some of that flying around at times. And depending on which field team staff you were talking to, you would need a Dari or Pashto translator respectively. The pace of company staff meetings is often painfully slow due to language issues.

Our office employs several women. Women in urban Afghanistan are beginning to reclaim the freedoms which had been brought by the Soviets. We hired two younger ladies during my visit who were university educated, but wore headscarves and were uncomfortable making eye contact with men. This is the custom in Afghanistan. We discussed with them what they did growing up under the Taliban and they indicated they had mostly been locked up at home. Conversely, our operations manager is an older lady who has no such customary behaviors and wears a suit.
There are other customs which I learned about on this trip through work on one of our projects novel enough to mention here. They have apparently persisted for a long time and are traditional sentences handed down by tribal elder councils, or Jirgas. They include the burning of an offender's house, blood money, collective social boycott, and giving a women from the offender's household to that of the victim.

More pleasantly, I also enjoyed the custom of sitting on carpet-strewn floors to interview a new supervisor for one of our field operations. In Afghanistan it is obligatory to treat a visitor as an honored guest. It is also customary to sit in a circle or with backs to the walls of a room with the honored person across from the door. So imagine an interview of one person in a room, on the floor, in a circle of 10 people, where interviewer and interviewee are 15 feet apart, conducted in three or more languages (Russian, Dari and Pashto). That the applicant was dressed in traditional garb with turban just added to the novelty.

Meals were also taken on the floor. As is custom in Kabul, the office provided lunch as part of its benefits. Here I am eating with my colleague and our German speaking accountant. Rice, beans, flat-bread and kebab yet again! Can't complain, really, I like it, especially the rice with raisins and saffron.
So much for this posting. My next installment will probably be from Cairo in March. Looking forward to it!