The MV Island Home Rolls into the Sea

Oh oh oh, it is sooo nice to be on vacation on the very familiar island of Martha's vineyard. Everything here is what I'm used to, this little cottage with all of the same age-old knick knacks, and the front porch where we lazily read and sit and watch the birds splash in the birdbathes. We are truly on vacation, evidenced by the fact that I haven't phoned the cafe or worried about bills.

We strolled downtown and picked up the Martha's Vineyard Times, where I read about
the next generation of ferryboat that will be entering service here next year. The MV (that stands for Motor Vessel)Island Home has just rolled into the sea in Mississippi, and many of the Steamship Authority brass went down for the big event. There was barbecue and solace for the troubles the yard had with the fall hurricanes that put the project behind schedule.

To get the big vessel into the water, a crew of welders sychronize their watches to cut steel plates all at once, and after they are all done cutting they jump out of the way and the 255-foot-long ship slides down greased logs on its side, and quickly rights itself.

Features of the MV Island Home include room inside for 650 passengers (up from 387 on today's biggest boat) and 76 cars. Inside there is a hydraulic lift so there are no annoying poles to jockey around when you're parking. Plus there will be bigger food court and room for 1200 passengers total. Maybe they will even have--gasp--WiFi on board!

Press Trip Tales

Travelwriters.com asked a question "What was your most embarassing moment on a press trip? Here is an answer from "Lush."

"Once upon on a time in a Novotel in Australia, I met the local tourism board PR before I checked into my hotel.

“I’ve left you a special welcome package in your room,” he said. “Why don’t we meet up when you’re settled and we can go through it together.” We arranged to meet in an hour. I went up to my room and found the package – on the bed. Much to my horror, it was a Naughty Weekend Kit containing chocolate body paint, nipple cream and assorted flavoured condoms.

I cancelled our meeting and stayed in my room. “And I won’t be touching your package,” I told him sternly.

Later that night I noticed the OTHER welcome pack - the media kit with brochures and a CD of images - on the desk. Turns out the sexy kit was a gift from the hotel and he knew nothing about it. Oops!

Keith Kellett has written for GoNOMAD and he added this:

"I was on a press trip to Churchill Canada to go beluga watching. One of the party was a Times journalist who spoke like one of the royal family - all "I say!" and "jolly good show!". For those of you who watch British TV, he sounded like Brian Sewell.

We were in a bar one evening, surrounded by men and women in jeans, sweaty tee shirts and those funny high-brimmed baseball caps that train drivers in the Old West used to wear. They had, to a man or woman, turned up at the bar in quad bikes.

There was a queue for drinks, so our Times man joined it. When they got to the head of the queue every man or woman rasped "Gimme a beer!"

This went on for some time until the Times journalist got to the head of the queue and said in a loud voice "I'll have a chilled dry white wine, my man. A Chardonnay would be absolutely perfect," or words to that effect.

All eyes in the bar turned towards him, and then an old guy got up and approached him. "You're wearin a tie son," he said. "Why you wearin a tie? You one of them hommy sex shells?"

Who's Who Squatting in our Edgartown House

The heat is on, and our cafe AC is pathetic. Sweltering as these machines hum full blast, something's gotta give. So we're going shopping tonight. We've found some great new prospects for the cafe position, and soon we'll be at full strength once I return from Martha's Vineyard. Next week we'll close at 2 pm so we won't need the second barista.

We found out today that there have been squatters occupying our Edgartown House when it wasn't being rented last week. A few blokes drove up in their jeep, parked in front, and walked in with beers and food and made themselves quite at home. Our neighbor Anne must have waved hello to these freeloading intruders, but who can tell who's paying the rent and who's illegally camping out! Hope the condition of the house is ok when we settle in on Sunday night. Kent and Lisa will join Cindy and I for a well-deserved MV vacation.

Today I was interviewed for the International Edition of Who's Who. A nice lady asked me questions about my career, GoNOMAD, and the cafe, and even wanted to know my proudest moment. When I asked her to send me a copy, she demurred..."that is something we'll only do for members," she said. "The minimum membership level we offer is $600."

So if you wanna be in Who's Who, you gotta pay the big bucks. Big Surprise, small honor.

Fat Matt Finally Walks the Plank

"Fat Matt Amorello was a complete boob to the bitter end," writes Howie Carr in today's Boston Herald website about the embattled head of the Mass Turnpike's Big Dig. "Two weeks ago today, he had a deal on the table that would have paid him through the end of the 2007 fiscal year - $223,000.

Here it is, exactly 14 days later. The bloated fool spent upwards of $1 million on white-shoed lawyers, and he ends up with a deal by which he leaves the payroll on Feb. 15, 4 1/2 months earlier than under the first deal.

So Fat Matt is out $85,000 - and it cost him a million bucks to lose the money, and his job. Of course, that million was just our money. What did Fat Matt care? It’s only the tollpayers’ dough.

If there were any justice in the world, a way would be found to put a lien on his little house in Wenham to get back at least a portion of the public money that he has squandered on his shameless mouthpieces here in the final days.

Two weeks ago, the legislative leadership thought they’d worked out a deal for their old colleague to walk the plank, with dignity. He hadn’t returned their phone calls all day, not very nice of Matt, considering that for years they had been his sole base of support. But finally, wilting under the public pressure to do something about the unfolding disaster, they got Fat Matt on the speaker phone and dictated the terms of his surrender.

But it was a golden parachute, allowing him to retain a seat on the Turnpike board and that $223,000 salary. Just before 5 o’clock he went outside to do a live news conference. Back at the State House, both branches were getting ready to turn over the tunnels investigation to Gov. Mitt Romney."

The 'Unstealable Cars' that Are Being Stolen

Last night I had trouble sleeping after taking a well deserved nap in the afternoon. There I was, 2 am, tossing and turning while Cindy slept like a dead person. So I got up and read the latest copy of Wired, which as usual provided fascinating material.

Apparently there are many people who have had their cars stolen in spite of the new high tech gadgetry that makes it 'impossible' to start the car without the chip-embedded key. One man from Florida had his Lincoln Navigator swiped even though he still had all three keys. Many insurance companies, faced with $40 billion in fraudulent claims, are denying that the cars could have been stolen...but they were!

The author shows how thieves can hack their way into any car or ignition suppression device, by clever means. On Honda Civic hybrids, for example, there is a special sequence of pulling up the emergency brake, then turning the wheel, for each car. Once you get the right sequence, you can start it up without a key. The poor guy with the Navigator was still paying his $847 per month payment and had no car, fighting with the insurance people about the claim. The other common hack was to remove a fuse from a Ford, this too would foil the device.

Saveurs' Fact Checker Checks In about Pancakes

Today is another busy day at the cafe, with the weather heating up and the people streaming in for smoothies, ice coffee and to use the computers. I was in a meeting with a web designer from Greenfield named Maria when I got a call from Saveur Magazine.

It was Grace Nguyen, calling from the fact-checking division on the west coast, and she wanted to confirm some facts in a story. I was flattered that GoNOMAD is now the place to call when you have questions about Laos, or Cyprus, so I took some time to speak with her.

The writer said that banana pancakes were an American Favorite, and that they were served throughout his trip in guesthouses in Laos. I thought about it, and told her that only once in Malaysia were we served pancakes, and they didn't have any bananas in them. But then I found a story by one of our writers, Marie Javins, that appeared on another website back in 2000, where she said that every place she went tried to feed her awful fried banana pancakes. She hated them wherever she found them.

This confirms that yes, banana pancakes are popular, but I suggested we change the wording since pancakes, not banana pancakes qualify as an American Favorite.

You never know who might be calling here at GoNOMAD--CNN, Saveur, Yahoo Travel, or the Valley Advocate--we love hearing from them all.

In Moscow, the Showers are Cold This Time of Year

Back in the cafe today, I sent Alan home early about 2:30. No sense watching him sit around waiting for customers when I can do it myself. I got a chance to read the Recorder, and found a story from the Baltimore Sun. This story made me glad I don't live in Russia.

In Moscow each summer, they turn off the hot water throughout the city for weeks at a time. Even in this day and age, Russians must endure ice cold showers, so that the 5600 miles of pipes can be maintained. Rich or poor, you must endure, and nobody can do anything about it. The shut off this year, which rolls through residential neighborhoods one at a time, began in May and will run until the third week in August.

Sharing Pools, Joy and Sick Kids

Today we had a big send-off brunch for the wedding party at Cindy's Holyoke ranch. The bagels, coffee and hard boiled eggs from the cafe were all a hit, and we watched part of the wedding all over again on video. I slept, like I often do on Sundays, and lazily picked up the NY Times business section to read a column by Ben Stein.

Stein titled the piece "From Harvey Rd to Crescent Dr, Something Changed," and it tells of the sad evolution our society has made from open to closed. He recalls a family from his youth; a successful blue-blooded brood who one day decided to build a big pool in their backyard. They made a schedule and passed it out to all of the neighbors, inviting them on special days of the week to come enjoy it. They shared that pool with everyone. The small, unheated oasis was a place of joy, unfenced and unbridled joy.

Then Stein recalls his Beverly Hills neighborhood circa 2006: Every house has a large heated pool, and no one shares anything. Most of these pools probably sit empty, no one has the largesse or inclination to share them with their neighbors. Nobody knows their neighbors, since they are hidden behind tall elegant fences.

Likewise, Stein writes, if anybody's kid was sent home sick from school, a neighborhood mom would gladly watch them...in Stein's Beverly Hills world, they have no neighbors who would think of doing such a thing. Community is a fleeting, cherished thing, and we give it up thinking that with our affluence it's better to be alone. It's not.

Cyprus Makes the Evening News Again

Today's the big day, and it looks like the rain is going away. Snuck into the office for a bit, checking emails and thinking about the war in Lebanon, and how often Cyprus has been in the news.

I traveled to Cyprus in February and wrote about it on GoNOMAD. Since Cyprus is so in the news, I took Cindy's advice and posted links to three stories we have up about this ancient island so near to Lebanon. I enjoyed visiting the island, it is so full of ancient treasures and the sunlight and weather was particularly nice at that time of year.

So many things to try to get finished; I've got half my family here drinking coffee in the cafe, and gotta run up to Deerfield Academy to pick up the wedding cake. Tonight will be fun, with all of the family gathered, the big day for Kate and Francisco is here.

A Friday Full of Tasks and Opportunities

Funny Friday at the cafe. Lots of running around waiting for our relatives to come up to celebrate Kate and Francisco's wedding on Saturday. Today I used my friend Jack's truck to pick up tables and chairs at Taylor rental, then back in the cafe to meet with our intern Kristi. She is working on some interesting new feature stories, and just came back from Chautauqua, institution where you consume 'brain food' in seminars and educational talks in the countryside of upstate NY. It will be a feature on GoNOMAD.

On my list of tasks today was to create a toast for Kate and Francisco. I wobbled a little bit, consulted a website and found many boilerplates and corny toasts, then had an inspiration and plowed right through it. Always speak from the heart, and the words flow easily, I say.

Yesterday I spoke with the Adventure Expo organizers, and they confirmed their interest in having me make a presentation about travel websites and search engines at the show at the Javits Center in January 2007. I am developing this angle for public speaking, and it has been a lot of fun making these power point talks.

A Raisin in a Bowl of Milk

Scoop Jackson wrote a long piece about the fact that only four out of 305 sports columnists for US newspapers are black. He makes some angry yet understandable points.

"One time about eight years ago, Michael Wilbon walked up to me during a media event at the NBA All-Star Game and said something to me that now is even sadder than the data learned from this study.

He said, "Do you realize that right now you are the most powerful black man in sports journalism?"

At the time, Slam, the mag I was editor-at-large at (not even editor-in-chief), was just finding its niche, making a little noise and getting a little respect. Circulation might have been about 175,000, while Sports Illustrated's was about 3 million (and it was read by about 20 million).

So when Wilbon sent those words my way, I couldn't understand. I looked around the room, saw every black sports journalist in the business. The pantheon. How was I the ackniculous one?

He said, "Because you are the only black person in the room who can make a decision on what goes on the cover of a national magazine. And that's big."

And the sadness in that is that it's true. As small as the magazine was at the time, the fact that no other person of color had the juice to do what I was allowed to do at Slam was sickening.

It was then I realized how distorted the game was. And eight years later, according to the 1.3 percent doctrine, ain't a damn thang changed.

In the introduction of "My Soul Has Grown Deep," John Edgar Wideman writes, "... the still unresolved question: How should radically unequal, African-descended ex-slaves -- impoverished, landless, stigmatized, disenfranchised, without civil rights, lacking of formal education, with little or no previous experience of citizenship -- be incorporated into a society whose announced creed is democracy, a democracy in theory open and fair that guarantees all its citizens an equal opportunity to compete in the struggle for a decent life?"

Apply that to the results of the Associated Press Sports Editors report, and the question still remains unresolved.

In reality, the situation isn't about race as much as it is about fruit. Strange fruit.

That's why I once told Boston sports radio host Willie Maye, who is a member of the 1.3 percent in his area of sports media, "When I do my memoir about my life as a journalist, I'm not going to call it 'A Raisin in the Sun,' I'm calling it 'A Raisin in a Bowl of Milk.'"

Nantucket, Bittersweet

I met a man today at the cafe who said he lived in Whately, and worked here for a local contractor. A tall, lean man, he said that he painted murals on furniture and in rich people's homes around here and in Nantucket. He said he thought the wealth and the presumptousness among his clients out there was depressing. He said his richest client just couldn't get close to people when he tried to talk...he lavished them with parties and gifts and expensive toys but was joyless inside, and awkward.

I agreed. I have a bittersweet taste about that island, having gone there each month for almost ten years in a row. Now I am going to Martha's Vineyard in a civilian's garb. No sales. love it.

This is a passage about ospreys from Nantucket's Inquirer and Mirror.

"Soaring high above her nest in circles, sending out a worried chirping cry as she looked down on her two babies, the mother osprey was clearly uncomfortable with what was happening below.

What so perturbed her was Elizabeth Donelan climbing a 40-foot ladder with a tote bag in her hand with which she planned to retrieve the baby birds.

Thankfully, the osprey had nothing to fear. Donelan is an intern with the Maria Mitchell Association and was going to place small aluminum bands on the birds’ legs so they can be identified if they are caught at a later date.

Donelan’s activities were part of an ongoing study by the Maria Mitchell Association and the Nantucket Land Council to study the birds of prey and track their movements and numbers on Nantucket, and by extension, throughout the world."

A Tale of a Loser

William Grimes reviews a new book by a total and utter loser in yesterday's NY Times. He's such a loser that it has become his calling card, 'he savors his humiliations like fine dinners.' The man is Toby Young, whose first book was called "How to Lose Friends and Alienate People." Boy he sure did.

He tries to board an airplane using a Blockbuster video card after losing his passport, then hosts a stag party for himself where none of his friends bother to attend, and remains 'entirely unashamed about his pursuit and worship of the famous and rich." He writes a column for The Spectator called "No Life," and the editors kill it. He meets Harvey Weinstein at a party and tries to deliver a pitch while drunk and gets thrown out on the sidewalk. Later he goes camping by himself in the mountains of Wales and gets lost in a snowstorm: only his ringing cellphone brings him back to his tent, where it is his wife asking how things are going.

Later he gets married and has kids, and his boorishness and stupidity aren't as funny any more. While as a man he matures, his kids just don't provide the same sparks as his foibles as a single man. Even posing naked to promote the book can't make him interesting or funny any more.

Way to Live! A Raconteur's Long Life is Over

Today's Washington Post included this story about the passing of classic foreign correspondent Ross Mark.

"The quintessential foreign correspondent, dashing and with an engaging Aussie accent, he much preferred globe-hopping as a reporter to staying in one place and climbing the career ladder as a London editor. According to William Lowther, a friend and fellow journalist, he shared the dictum often expressed by former Baltimore Sun foreign correspondent Gilbert Lewthwaite: "Happiness is measured by the number of miles from the head office."

Mr. Mark did enjoy his creature comforts. When he left Washington in 1959 to report from Moscow, Mr. Mark had just bought a "Cotswold blue" Jaguar, Lowther recalled. He loved the car and wangled permission from Sir Max Aitken, owner of the Daily Express, to ship the car to Moscow at the newspaper's expense.

When the car's battery fell victim to Moscow's punishing cold and the Soviet office overseeing foreign correspondents couldn't get him another one, he threatened to write a story saying the Soviet Union was so hapless it couldn't even provide a simple battery. The next day, two men arrived to install a huge tank battery under the hood.

When he was made chief Africa correspondent in 1962, the car went along, again at Daily Express expense. He eventually wrecked his beloved Jag while following a road race near Nairobi.

Ross Folkard Mark was born in a small town near Sydney called Dorrigo and grew up on the family dairy farm. That period of his life provided him with a seemingly endless supply of cocktail- and dinner-party tales about felling timber with his Uncle Bill and dragging the logs down the mountain with a team of 10 bullocks. He never forgot the creatures' names.

With his cache of colorful tales, he was a legend at the National Press Club. His recipe for "Australian Roo Stew," a red-hot chili, was a Press Club contest winner.

"Ross Mark was a man of words," Lowther said. "He loved poetry and had yards and yards of Wordsworth and Keats and Shakespeare by heart and ready to recite." His favorite was "The Man From Snowy River," the long story-poem by Australian Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson." In Africa, he covered wars in the Congo, Rwanda and Burundi before returning to the United States in 1976. In addition to presidential races, he covered most of the major space launches from Cape Canaveral and twice reported from Vietnam.

Get the Name of the Bra (or the Dog)

Roy Peter Clark advises writers with his Writing Tools column on Poynter.org.
Like me, he insists that details are crucial in writing for the public.

"Which brings me to one of my favorite newspaper stories in a long time. It appeared in the St. Petersburg (Fla.) Times and told the tale of a woman saved from a serious bullet wound by her seat belt strap and her bra.

"A lucky combination of her van's windshield, seat belt and her thick bra straps helped deflect a shot fired at [Robin] Key and her husband, Donald, as they sat in traffic Monday in Riverview," reported Abbie Vansickle. "The bullet grazed her shoulder, but Key, 44, wasn't seriously injured. Deputies later accused two men of the apparently random shooting."

The first part of this story lacked some crucial information: What kind of bra was Ms. Key wearing? If a bra can help stop a bullet, I want my wife wearing one. But what brand, reporter, what brand?

"On Wednesday Maidenform called the Times. The bra company had heard Key's story. A spokeswoman offered free bras and lingerie." Oh, so this wonder bra came from Maidenform? Not so fast.

Key told Vansickle, "I'm a Playtex girl." That company was ecstatic, eager to send their warrior princess new bras. But what model? The Secrets bra? The Thank Goodness It Fits bra?

Vansickle reports that Key giggled: "It was an 18 Hour bra," said Key. "It has these cushy straps I just love." Out of healthy curiosity, I Googled the 18 Hour bra and found this link.

No wonder the bra helped deflect a bullet. It looks stronger than the body armor we've been sending to our soldiers in Iraq.

My interest in this topic is now, happily, exhausted. Thanks to the reporter, whose enterprise reminds us all to get the name of the dog -- and the brand of the bra.

Such a Sad Sad Photo, and a Dirty Deed

We read the Springfield Republican today and the front page was framed in a very sad image. Mariam Shihabiyah, a housewife in Beirut and divorced mother of five, carried her pillows outside the bombed out apartment complex where she lives. The poor women isn't a terrorist, hasn't put out funds to support Hezbollah, probably hates Hezbollah as much as the Israelis...but here she has had her apartment and life's possessions bombed and destroyed.

I have often been a cheerleader on the side of Israel against the terrorist death worshipping Arabs. But this action is making me feel anger at them for this, and for the senseless bombing of Lebanon's airport.

That runway cost $58 million to build, over reclaimed land from the sea. Twelve bridges will cost tens of millions to rebuild. I wish we would come out strongly against these 'allies' of ours and stop funding them.

The Boss Takes His Turn at the Cafe

Every morning when I wake up, I look at my watch and think about what is happening in my cafe. No matter where I am, no matter which time zone or country, I always do this. En route, I phoned the cafe about 8 to check in on whether Alan needed anything. No answer. Well, I thought, he must be so busy he can't answer the phone. When the second call ten minutes later got my outdated answering machine message, I knew there was trouble.

I arrived to a closed cafe, finding out too late that my barrista had called in sick. Egads! The place was sweltering at 8:45 am, no ac on, and no coffee made. I struggled to get the place going, and do all of the tasks that usually take place at 6:30 am. My pal Bill came in and I made him his usual double espresso. He watched me try to catch up, fortunately, friends are easy on you.

I wrestled with the blender and had an entire mango smoothie ooze out all over the machine's shiny metal base. I stumbled and fumbled and through it all, but remained the friendly owner, trying to fill in for his regular guy. It was all ok, and truthfully, I love this place and I love the way the customers react to our little touches. Out in the park, two people surfed the net on our WiFi.

Our coffee ice cubes, that friendly 'hello' that coffee lovers card with the free coffee at the end. These are the little things that make us special, and different, and loved.

Napping is the New Coffee Break

Reading in Time magazine about this exciting new trend, taking a 20 minute nap at work. I'm getting sleepy just reading about it.

"MetroNaps, a company that pioneered the concept of selling naps in sleep environments, is seeing the change in corporate attitudes firsthand. The New York City-- based company opened its first sleep-pod center in 2004 in the Empire State Building, a place where workers could pay $14 and discreetly tuck in to one of the pod-shaped, hooded recliners for a midday nap and recharge for 20 minutes.

The company is expanding the concept with franchises -- the first one opened in New York City's financial district in March -- but MetroNaps co-founder Arshad Chowdhury says he is discovering a new line of business in pods for office use. As he scouted for franchises, he kept getting requests for individual pods that companies could use on-site.

Chowdhury's first client, the ad agency Arc Worldwide in London, leased two pods from MetroNaps after using them in a commercial. "We researched naps, and I think they really do contribute to better idea generation," says Andrew Card, Arc's president. Hannah Roberts, a communications manager at Arc, heads for the sleep pods behind the reception desk whenever she gets hit by a bout of afternoon lethargy and creative block. If she is lucky enough to find one empty, she leans back in the recliner, pulls down the visor, puts on noise-canceling earphones and drifts. Fifteen minutes later, the chair gently vibrates and brings her upright, block removed. "I would use them every day, but I have to share them with 450 other people," she says.

Is napping the new coffee break? Sleep experts say that day is getting closer for farsighted businesses. "I'm seeing a surge in bosses' saying, 'I want to bring this into my business,'" says Sara Mednick, a sleep researcher at the Salk Institute. "Usually the boss is a napper."

When You Earn $1.00 a day, $1.80 is Progress

Reading the Sunday NY Times on Cindy's patio. The languid July heat makes for a mellow surroundings, as I read Daniel Gross's engaging column about microlending in the third world. Instead of lobbying for more government foreign aid, we should invest in and support businesses that are self-sustaining and replicable.

The column entitled "Fighting Poverty with $2 a day Jobs," posits that "the creation of low-wage factories, as well as the establishment of lending institutions that charge rates that many Americans would deem usurious, "is the key to making a real difference in poverty stricken nations. "As you increase the number of factories, demanding labor, wages will be driven up, and eventually such factories will not be sweatshops." That's a tough sell for philanthropy-minded westerners. But before the women who labor now for $1.80 a day in a Tanzanian bed net factory, most earned $1.00 a day as street vendors and domestic workers.

Gross makes a case as well for creating new banks to pressure interest rates down, as occurred in Bolivia. In 1992, Banco Sol began lending small amounts--today six regulated banks compete for this business, and the rates paid by poor Bolivians has fallen to 22%, from 80% in the 1980s.

Topless? No--Tapas-- in Amherst

Christine Barber-Just writes a restaurant column in Hampshire Life, published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette, and wrote a few weeks ago about a new tapas restaurant opening up in Amherst soon.

"Nation's Restaurant News characterizes the small-plates trend as a ''revolution'' that has been ''quietly gathering force since the mid-1980s.'' But while small plates have been booming in big cities for quite some time, they are only just beginning to find footing in the Valley.

Even chefs like Deborah Snow of the BLUE HERON in Sunderland who serve both small plates and entrees say the balance is tipping toward small plates, thanks in part to changing lifestyles. ''We live our life literally in small bites,'' she says ' computer bytes, news bites. ''We want a splash of this, a splash of that.''

No surprise, then, that when it comes to eating out, people are looking for more flavors and textures than ever before. Small plates satisfy that craving, says Snow, whose mini offerings range from $4.50 house-made french fries to $18 ''evening dim sum.'' Small plates generate excitement ''because there's a lot of parties in your mouth,'' she says. ''With entrees, the first two bites are really exciting, then the party left, and now you're just eating dinner.''

Small plates are here to stay, as far as Snow is concerned; she thinks of them not as a trend but as a fundamental change in the way we eat. That may be so, but back at Tabella, Emily Wadham and Adrian d'Errico's experience offers a reality check. As they gear up to open their restaurant, they've been surprised to learn that plenty of people don't even know what tapas are. ''Most of the people we've told have thought we said 'topless,' '' Wadham says. ''We definitely have had to do a lot of explaining."

Sam's Seaweed Salad on the Street in Noho

Back on terra firma, the jetlag from the 19 hours in the skies finally draining from my body. Last night we met in Northampton on a cool deck at the Depot for margaritas under the waning summer light. That little city always picks us up, we proceeded after to the tiny little Japanese restaurant run by our friend Sam.

Sitting outside at the cafe tables, slurping noodles and watching people walk by, so busy here in this hub of all the three Western counties. Everybody heads to Noho on Saturday night, or so it seemed. Sam sent out a few bowls of seaweed salad, a little bonus for us among his regulars. He stepped out and chatted for a bit, I told him about my our new cafe in South Deerfield, and invited him up for a cup.

Today's the lazy Sunday I look forward to each week. The laptop cracked open, the web is mine to explore. Some neighbors are coming for coffee, a few chores on the agenda, but the day is ours to relax and recharge until the week starts again.

Terrorists Who Work at Home

The scary news out of Lebanon drove me to read more about it on littlegreenfootballs and other blogs. Below is some info from Sand Monkey, a pro-US blogger based in the middle east.

"And all of this talk about Israel targeting civillians really pisses me off. Let me clear it up for you once and for all: Hamas and Hezbollah don’t have military bases: they plan, operate and attack from homes, where their families are. The Israelis, in order to retaliate, they have to attack those homes, which always lead to those women and children, who live in those houses, to die.

If Hamas and Hezbollah don;t want civillians to die, don;t f-ckin plan your attacks or launch your attacks near civilians. But you know they do this on purpose, so it would look bad on the Israeli if they attacked. Dude, they called the airport one hour before they hit it to have it evacuated, they warned all of southern Beirut yesterday to take cover because they don’t want to kill them.

Not hezbollah. Hezbollah doesn’t give a shit who their missiles hit. And somehow, they remain blameless in the Arab mind: after all, they are not jews. Listen, you can not talk shit about how you will beat and destory Israel, and then scream “Humanatarian crisis” when they hit you back. Either suffer the consequences of your actions or SHUT THE F-CK UP. I am sick and tired of your f-ckin POSING!"

Georgi Always Cracks Me Up

Back in the cafe after more than 10 days away. Among the things that were on my mind when I left was the door for our Beveridge Aire counter refrigerator. Water pools up every day inside the right side, and I was told the seal around the door needed replacing. But for the life of me, I couldn't figure out how to take the sucker off. So I went to see my pal Georgi who own's Georgio's Pizza next door. Georgi's a big Greek guy who always calls out when I see him..."Hey Maxie, how are ya," then he sidles up and says something that cracks me up. You know those people who just make you laugh when you see them? That's Georgi.

I go next door with the floppy rubber gasket in my hand, and Georgi takes it and begins peeling off his own refrigerator's gasket. "See I think it has glue, it is glued.," he said as he ripped at the gasket pulling it from the door edge. Then his partner came over, a thinner man who told us the secret. "There's a little channel, you put the gasket edge into it," he showed us how it fit snugly into the slot. Georgi picked up my gasket and ran with me back over to the cafe.

We pulled out the old one with pliers and popped in this new gasket, which fits beautifully. Part of the fun of owning a cafe in a small town with a website in the back are these people who help you when you need a hand. I love my neighbors!

Pecking Away at Free Internet in Singapore

Between flights at the Singapore Changi Airport, I stopped by this convenient free internet terminal, after two young boys were finally summoned away by their father. Unlike in other places where I've seen these, this free internet has no strings. No ads, no pop-ups, no clunky keyboard fixed in place, no just a clean flat screen and decent little keyboard. I just passed by an electronics store with expensive Sony laptops that are tiny and cute.

Reflecting back on Malaysia, thinking about the place and what I thought of it. It's a cacaphony of sites and sounds, of honking cars and ubiquitous billboards, it is a melding of so many distinct people and cultures: the Chinese, the dark skinned Indians, the Malays, and others like the many illegal immigrants who stream into the country for the thousands of available jobs. Workers from Bangladesh, Indonesia, Sri Lanka are just some of the people who see Malaysia as their own promised land. And in the paper I read that they are allowing millions more in legally, to do the jobs that many Malaysians turn their noses up at. Sounds familiar!

Our long flight departs here in about an hour. Eighteen hours in the air. I'm armed this time with my book, called 'Castro's Curveball,' and some provocative podcasts on the Ipod to pass the hours. I am looking forward to getting back to Cindy and to Nathan and to Kate and my cafe some time on Friday morning.

Israel Gives Border Duty to the Russians

A few days ago we joined up with another group of writers on the same fam, these were all from Canada and the west coast. One young writer named William Karz told a story about his experience for two months in an Israeli army boot camp. Apparently Americans and others can join this to get a taste of what it's like serving in the military there.

He said that many of the Russian immigrants who come to Israel and have to serve in the army must take a compulsary test to qualify. Due to the language barrier, they often score very low. This means they are usually assigned to working at the border crossings and other hotspots...basically the grunt work where most Israeli born soldiers don't want to go.

That's why you often read about shootings and deaths of rock throwing youths at these hot spots. The immigrants who man these outposts often can't understand Hebrew, or Arabic, and are quick to pull the trigger against the Palestinians. They lack the ability to negotiate, and so, often the CNN reports about these incidents stems from the barely trained soldiers who usually get this undesirable duty.

Bill also told about taking a felucca down the Nile in Egypt and how a man would stand guard all night on deck to fend off would be robbers who lurked in the bushes. Then he joined a new Egyptian friend to go and have dinner with him. They walked and walked and finally made it to the rivers edge. The man lit a bush on fire and began screaming, "Mohammed!, Mohammed!" til finally a friend named Mohammed came to pick them up and bring them across the river for dinner.

Scenes from the Road to Kota Bhuru

On this our last full day in Malaysia, we took the ferry back to Terrengamu and then a long bus ride up the coast to Kota Bhuru, "The Islamic City." On the way we glimpsed scenes that tell the story about this country, I jotted them down as we drove.

Naked little boy sitting in a plastic chair in front of his house, men pulling a huge dumptruck that had gotten stuck in the orange mud, a water buffalo grazing lazily on a soccer field, a man with a large hoe opening a channel in a rice paddy to let the water flow, young girls getting out of school with white headscarves, chasing the little boys with navy blue pants and white shirt uniforms, beauty saloons with Chinese proprietors, cellphone repair shops and men who fix shoes on the street (they sewed up my Tevas splendidly for $1.00), vast swaths of open rice fields, neatly ordered long rows of rubber trees, tapped this morning, shining huge yellow domed mosques, 'polis' stations always with a navy blue fence, huge new schools painted in orange and grey, standing way back from the road, various new buildings built of concrete, road workers in sarongs wielding weed wackers, trimming cutting and buffing the countryside, monuments to Islam, with much arabic script and a combination of so many signs in Malay, English and Chinese, by the side of the road a bicycle with a connected carraige to take passengers, a man riding one of these with a sack of plants sticking sideways out the back, and 'Selamet Datang' everywhere, which means welcome.

I was faced with a four hour wait at Kota Bharu airport so i went outside and flagged down a cab. The three men inside were happy to transport me to town, where I found this bustling no-name internet cafe. This is the second cafe where they have no card no name, nothing to bring back for my internet cafe collection.

I took off my shoes to enter this cool second floor cyber cafe, and began, joyfully, to share my trip with my faithful readers. Thank you for being among them!

Spending Time in an Aquarium on Redang Island

We've been given a day for relaxing at the Berjaya Redang Beach Resort off the coast near Terengganu, Malaysia. This slice of white sand beach is an oasis on a very rugged and undeveloped island in the South China Sea. The first thing you see when you debark the small ferry is a burned out boat on the beach, and lots of junk piled up nearby. But the resort is beautiful, here on the far end of the small island.

Today we made our way out to a boat where we visited snorkeling sites and plunged into the warm waters in masks to see the fish. It was like being inside of an aquarium, looking down at the coral and watching the trigger fish with needle noses at the top of the water and below, irredescent colored fish poking in and out of the coral. The captain was a young man about 18 with a ballcap backwards and leathery tan dark skin. The 'lifeguard' of about 17 looked like someone from the village, with a scarred face, barely able to speak English, who didn't pay much attention to his charges.

It was actually a refreshing contrast to our litigious U.S. where so many rules and regulations make a fuss over everything you do, and you must wear caution like a helmet. These guys just cast off casually and when we hooked up to a mooring we jumped in. No buddy, no worry, no caution and just do what you want. The water was clean and clear, that was a relief, and the sun blazing. Experience snorkelers said this wasn't exactly world class diving, since there was not a wide variety of fish, but for me the thrill of just floating and watching made it memorable.

This resort employs most of the island of Redang, and the women in headscarves are always polite and demure, everyone says 'good morning sir,' when you pass by. The cyber cafe has five computers, but only one keyboard, making it tough to squeeze in time. We head to one last town near the Thai border, Kuala Boru, then back to KL for the long flight home on Thursday.

Watching the Big Game with Italy Fans

GOALLLLLLL! went to bed early then asked for a 2 am wake-up call. The World Cup was in high gear, I entered a room full of screaming fans, inexplicably all of these Malaysians are die-hard Italy fans. They set up rows of chairs and brought us coffee, fresh juices, noodles, and we cheered to the sounds of the game on the big screen. It was a raucus affair, with France's star Zedine ejected for a late game head butt, and decided on penalty kicks right down to 4-5.

I stumbled back upstairs to try and sleep until we had to leave. The sound of the call to prayer from the tall minaret just next to the hotel woke me about 5:30 am. Watching the rapid yelling football fans without a drop of booze in them made their joy more pure, undiluted nor colored by drink. Refreshing. Today at breakfast all of the women are dining in their splendidly colored sarong sari suits, and headscarves. We depart soon to go spend two days on Redang Island, where we can snorkle in clear waters.

Yesterday I made my way down to the South China sea and past a breakwater, where fierce looking excavators rested. I entered the calm waters and floated on my back, out, way out in the distance the excavators and trucks were placing more boulders to build a break to keep back the sea. Flooding has ruined this town enough times to warrant such building.

in the markets there are always cats that look wild, fetid, and scrawny. One of the women we're traveling with pet one, I thought that wasn't a good idea but the little tiny kittens who could resist. Then I saw a man putting the kittens and their mamma into a box and closing up the top, and carting it to his car. Hate to think of what will befall this brood. I watched men building concrete forms wearing conical hats. The rain pounded down in torrents, the regular six pm blast, and pushed away the humidity for just a while.

The South China Sea in View

We've arrived in Terenggamu, on Malaysia's eastern coast, and we are staying in the Primula Beach resort here. The town is decidedly more conservative and poorer than KL, we see that in that nearly all the women are wearing headscarves and there are fewer high rises and more shacks. The market was full of the local specialties, long grey sausages made of flour and fish, and bags of fish and squid chips. I saw three or four amputees, making their way through the market, one armless man being rolled home by his two young sons. In the room is the prayer schedule for July, showing times for exactly when the five prayers must be said, and a plaque pointing the way to mecca.

Our guide told us that Malaysia's moslems have a new campaign to bring their fellow followers to the country to see how they manage to live peacefully as Chinese, Indian and Malay. "We want to show these people that if you preach hate, you get hate, and if you preach love, you get love." Our guide Sohima, a man who talks in a very soft voice, told us that 60 percent of the schools here were private. There are many madrassahs, or religious schools, here too, he said.

The South China sea slopes steeply off this coast, making swimming hazardous. One of our fellow travelers said she saw two big pipes leading out to the beach, probably sewer outflow, so it might be best to swim in the pool and not the sea. I do want to dip my toe in there, just to know what it feels like.

This part of Malaysia is more laid back, our guide said, people don't work as hard, The West coast is much different from the East, he said, we take it slower and relax.

Citrawarna Is Indeed All it's Hyped Up To Be

The main event was last night..Citrawarna,the Colours of Malaysia, the big shindig that the Tourism board brought us all here to see. It did not disappoint, beginning with the resplendent arrival of the King and Queen themselves. Alighting from the Royal float, festively decorated in yellow, the king, a short balding man dressed in regal yellow robes, smiling at his subjects, being photographed by a phalanx of video and digital cameras, made his way to his big yellow easy chair on the stage. The show began and it was a crescendo of fireworks, a joyful cacaphony of deafening blasts boom boom boom from the pyrotechnics....there were thousands of dancers dressed in wild outfits. And beauty queens perched on floats.

Each of the nine provinces of Malaysia had a chance to show off native dances...I remember Sabah did one dance involving putting down these 6' wooden poles tapping them together and then they would jump in and out between them. Then men and women dressed as horses clashed in a fictional battle, and as far as the eye could see were thousands more dancers coming up to show the King and the rest of us how they could dance and shout. The music was piped in and huge Jumbotrons showed scenes of places like Sarawak, pristine beaches, and remote mountainsides on the screens as the music boomed and dancers grinned.

It was more spectacular than any blog can do it justice, and the dancers kept coming in wave after wave. Amazing! Today we fly to the eastern side of the peninsula, hoping that today we can dip ourselves in the ocean. At 10 pm last night it was 85 and humid, so we need a soak in the sea. Today more miso and seaweed to get me going!

Partying Muslim Style

Last night we partied Muslim style! I got an email from cousin Steve warning me about Islamic terrorists and another from my sweet Cindy worried about pirates in the Straits of Malacca. Well we drove right by them thar straits and saw a boat out in the water. I kept thinking about pirate ships...men sneaking up from speedboats to terrorize the crew.

But this Malaysian Islam is not scary, though Americans sadly link the religion to 9/11 and stuff to fear. There was a woman at the food festival in a black burka, poking around getting food peering out through that little slit. But the dancers were lively and fun and no one was puking in the gutter, long into the night. I liked it because I try not to drink during the week, and there was fruit juice, iced lime water, but no beers to tempt me, so all in all these Islamics are fun. The country's mix of Malay, Chinese and Indian brings together a wonderful stew, and we went to a night market that was hopping at 11 pm.

Nothing to fear here, so far, and that is nice to know since Muslim have gotten a bad reputation from the misdeeds of so few. My Malaysian experience doesn't include any fear.

Meeting Iranians in Melaka, Malaysia

This morning we attended a huge tourism conference organized to promote tourism in Malaysia. More than 400 travel writers and agents from 33 countries were in the big hall, and among these delegates were men in suits from Iran. I have always wanted to go to Iran and write a story, so during a break I sought them out.

I wasn't sure who they were, but I approached two men who looked, well, Iranian, but whose nametags were backwards. Bingo! They were indeed from Tehran. We talked about the possibility of going on a fam tour there, and they said that yes indeed, they could help me arrange it. The government, even though anti western, does set up press trips that we take to so many other countries. Then I told them about how often when I am traveling, people ask me about our President Bush, and why he is in power.

I was hoping that this might bring out some similar feelings about their president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, who is famous for declaring that Israel should not exist and other crazy stuff. "Oh no, we like our president, we support him," said Iral, the friendly travel agent. "So people support him, not like in the US, where so many of us disagree with Bush?" "Oh no, it's not like that at all in Iran." During our conversation, a man behind us passed me furtive glances, making eye contact, like he wanted to speak.

At another break, this man approached me. "Iran government fucked!" he said. "Government bad, terrible, we hate them." He made it clear that there was a whole other side to the story...and like in the US, only half of the people need to elect a president, and often the other side can't stand him.

Breakfast in Kuala Lumpur

It's six-thirty am here in Melaka, (the alternate spelling for this town we're in on the Malaysian coast) and it's six-thirty PM where I live. So no need to change my watch, but we're in different zones, I'm just going into 7/7 and they are winding up 7/6. At the hotel I had breakfast, the perfect kind of breakfast, that if I could I'd have every day. Miso soup, rice, some seaweed, a little homefries...then I had a bowl of seaweed salad, not pictured. Felt so great. On the street I had some soymilk sweetened with sugar, it was delicious. Gotta get ready for a big tourism summit, meeting with officials and talking about the industry.

On the Tracks, Holding her Kids, Waiting to Die

Reading the Sun newspaper in KL and found a sad story. There was a diagram that showed the path of a young mother, who walked with her three kids down a street, around a hedge, and onto the train tracks, just ahead of a big curve. You can guess what happened, but it wasn't clear when the story was published that it was a suicide, not an accident.

Today's paper here in Malacca included a tearful interview with the train engineer, who said he tried to stop as the commuter train rounded the curve, and approached the young woman who sat with her back to the train, clutching her three small kids. Then an interview with the grieving husband, who said that yes, they had had an argument, it was a bad one, but never, ever did he think she'd do that. Then more details about Monday's accident, including that one of her daughters managed to wriggle free and tried to drag her brother away from her mother's clutches. But the little boy's head got hit by the train, and now he is in the hospital with dim hopes. Then another story about a proposal to ban the scenes in Bollywood movies that depict these kinds of suicides. Because when a depressed young mom sees a movie showing such an act, she too might be inspired to die in this terrible way.

A Fleeting Glimpse of a King and a Bird Zoo

Today's first stop was the ornate palace of the king. Outside the guilded gates, soldiers stood in crisp uniforms, leaning against silver guns, while tourists snapped photos of their relatives hanging out next to the men. Other guards sat on horseback, while click, click went the cameras. The gates suddenly opened, and we heard the crackle of activity...the king was coming! In short order a motorcade of about 10 white Honda motorcycles zoomed up, and behind that, the royal Mercedes with the yellow flag on the roof. Inside a figure waved to us through darkened windows, and they zoomed up the long driveway into the palace.

Later we drove through the city's bird park, the world's largest. A canopy held up by long poles covered a forest, inside were hundreds of species of birds. There is also a smaller set-up like this for butterflies. We drove past a very modern looking mosque, with a nine-sided turquoise roof. Then on to Chinatown, where a cacaphony of touts beckoned us with DVDs of recent releases for about three bucks. "Please sir you want, you want movie, what you want?" I resisted them but did find a cute little metal miniature of the Petronas twin towers that I'd seen at the tower dinner last night...but this one was only 10 Ringats, about seven bucks.

My radar is keen and so of course I managed to find this little internet cafe, tucked into the back of a hotel where my compatriots are having coffee and beer. Here the cost is 6 RM per hour, about $2.75. I'll bring back some sort of souvenir for our new collection of worldwide internet cafe memorabilia for our South Deerfield cafe.

The humidity hits you when you get back outside, and the noise and hustle bustle is startling. We are heading for Malacca tonight, where they've warned about pirates who terrorize ships in the shipping lanes. But I am not afraid.

Now That'sa Roll: Kuala Lumpur Bakery

How about some chicken bread, or hotdog bread, or savory rolls? This bakery had so many different varieties of meat, dough, and creative kinds of ingredients I'd never thought you could bake into a roll or bun.

Meeting the President of Indonesia

My Johnny Jet moment of the trip came when we were having dinner at the revolving restaurant atop the Kuala Lumpur Tower. Perched 450 feet above a rainforest, where monkeys live, this edifice is now the fourth tallest tower, and we enjoyed a Malaysian buffet with lovely fish and seafood dishes, piled high in typical all you can devour fashion. Seated just down a few tables was a large party including the President of Indonesia, Mrs Megawati. Our guide Julie said 'go ahead, ask her if you have your photo taken with her' and though I was a little embarrassed and worried that her security people would not like this American outreach, she did it for me. Here we are posing me and the President, she has the soft hands of someone who's not had to do much heavy lifting, with her dad General Suharto as her credentials for president of the biggest country in this region.

Kuala Lumpur and the Search for Free WiFi

The search for free WiFi goes on...just as soon as you begin to assume that it's free everywhere, you find so many different place that charge for it. Our hotel, the Boulevard, in mid valley, just outside the center of Kuala Lumpur, has WiFi...but it costs. Then I brought the computer downstairs to San Francisco Coffee...again, you gotta pay for a card. A man next to me on his own sleek little laptop told that Starbucks was, gasp!, free, it's right down the street. Problem is I've already bought this expensive ($1.75 or so) coffee, and I'm not gonna want another one from 'Bucks, when I get there.

Slept off the jetlag in my 18th floor hotel room, down in the courtyard I watched a woman swimming laps, slowly crossing the blue pool while a man swept up leaves nearby. I went to a shopping mall, a subterranean oasis of mostly food shops, offering a staggering array of intriguing baked goods. I bought some hotdog bread and chicken curry bread in a crowded little shop for less than $1.00. And a cold can of ice nescafe. The people here seem relaxed and happy, going about their business of shopping, and many of the restaurants had huge posters looking for help. One of the more common stores offers gleaming cases of nutritional products, beeswax and other remedies. I am heading for the 'Bux to blog but gotta chug this strong coffee first.

A new Kind of Singapore Sling--for Coffee

The longest flight in the world on Singapore Airlines wasn't that bad, even though unlike our Travel maven Kent, I didn't get an upgrade to business class. They called my name and gave me a ticket for a seat at the start of the aisle, so it was legroom aplenty. Now we're parked at the Kris lounge, we journos get these perks I guess because we might write or broadcast something nice about Singapore Air. So that gives me a chance to blog and catch up with my favorite gonomad blogs.

The schedule here includes a tourism summit in nearby Malacca, with officials and dignitaries. Then the King and Queen of Malaysia are slated to be there with us later for the opening of the Colours of Malaysia festival. Their names are very very long, and also in attendance will be someone called a Raja. Gotta find out what a raja does in this day and age.

Next week we'll fly up north to Redang Island. In the airport so far only thing I noticed was a cool innovation at the coffee shop...plastic 'slings' to hold hot cups, that work better than the sleeves we use in the cafe. Maybe I can find these and bring this unique innovation home.

That Nervous Feeling When You're About to Go...

I am nervously awaiting my long-haul flight from Newark to Singapore tonight. Well, not nervous, but I have that antsy sort of feeling I get when I'm leaving on a big trip. The cafe is incredibly slow, so slow in fact that we'll probably close at noon. Who knew that the day before a holiday is such a lousy business day? I read the NY Times in print yesterday, a rare day of no internet and all broadsheet reading. Among the tidbits was this story about the trip I'm taking tonight at 11 pm.
by Joshua Kurlatzick.

"Several months later, I boarded another almost daylong flight, this time on Singapore Airlines, from Newark to Singapore. The flight lasts over 18 hours, yet Singapore's economy seats proved more comfortable than those in business class on most airlines.

The choice of films was smaller than on Emirates, but Singapore included far more art house choices, including Oscar nominees like "The Constant Gardener" and French and Italian offerings. The cabin staff was more polite than any other airline's, even delivering five extra meals to the fellow in front of me who just couldn't get enough airline food.

In the back of the economy cabin, there was a small walk-up station where you could get fruit, drinks, granola bars and other snacks, and attendants hung around to chat up passengers. By the end of the flight, the station felt like a city bar at happy hour, with passengers drifting to the back to swap airline stories, complain about their jobs, and even swap phone numbers.

The flight was, dare I say it, almost fun."

Well I'm ready to go....boarding a bus in a few hours to Newark.

The Soft July Evening with Garrison at Tanglewood

Garrison Keillor is a lot of fun close up. We are heading tonight for our fourth annual pilgrimage to watch the recording of the last Prairie Home Companion show tonight at Tanglewood. The lawn picnic we prepare is usually luscious...with Bill's strawberries and snap peas, fine chilled wines, delicacies from Whole Foods, cheeses and luscious desserts. The folks here take their picnicing seriously, with elaborate candleabra, linen and clinking crystal glasses.

After the picnic, in the gloriously soft July light of Tanglewood, we'll walk up and take our seats in the shed...and be transported by that voice, singing that song, "I hear the band a playin'....and we'll be right there with him once again!