John McEnroe

“Don’t go away”

“Please”

Johnny Mac implores with a good humored yet resigned grin as the camera pans back from him and his guest to make way for the dreaded commercial break. A necessary evil that pays the bills for the show but only so far as viewers don’t grab the remote to indulge their desire to “surf the break”. It is public knowledge that viewers have indeed tended to catch the break and ride off to other primetime temptations.

It is endearing to see Mac the Mouth reach out to keep his viewer base tethered. For more than a decade as the brash entertainer extraordinaire on the world’s premiere tennis stages, he had a magnetic hold on a fan base by combining electrifying play with volatile theatrics. I was and still am a Big Mac fan. Admittedly though, I was an even bigger Connors fan.

Connors had a longer though more patchy career. Part of his appeal for me was that even at his peak (save for 1974), you didn’t sense he was as thoroughly dominant as Mac was against the competition. You felt that your fan support was critically integral in willing him to his tough victories. His win over Mac at Wimbledon in 1982 symbolized that. And every Connors fan remembers the 1991 US Open. Connors now maintains a very private life in contrast to Mac. Obviously understandable, but as a fan who felt like a partner in his victories, I am now jilted.

On the other hand, while Mac was on top of the tennis ladder, though never directly unappreciative of his fan base, one nonetheless felt his impregnability as a competitor extend into an aloof detachment as a person. Today, Mac’s colorful and insightful commentary at all the Grand Slams makes him one of the best reasons to watch the sport on TV. This continued visibility in a more mature but still edgily irreverent incarnation has lengthened the longevity and warmed the timbre of his post-player public image. Not to mention his cameos as a rock guitarist and ongoing dealings in the fine art arena.

And now, he is a talk-show host. One of the earlier reviews contained a comment that stuck in my mind. Amidst the backdrop of slick and over-choreographed talk-shows in general, it described the McEnroe show as one in which “stuff could go wrong” and alleviate the humdrumness of the generic talk-show experience. I’ve only seen the show 2 or 3 times and I’ve seen Mac struggle to do a sit-up, box a punching bag and even labor to keep it lively with Roger Federer the day after he won his 1st US Open. The production crew also appeared to botch an intro segment, with Mac listing a lineup of guests on “tonight’s show” that was in fact wrong. I find all this quite entertaining as it displays sides of McEnroe that we’re less familiar with. This is not the supreme athlete in total control of the moment, attacking or parrying with perfect timing and coordination. This is an entertainer who’s taking a risk and feeling out a new playing field. To be frank, I thought Mac would slide into the role of talk-show host quicker than Arnold did into that of political leader. But that’s another story.

I visited the McEnroe show’s website and found that not only can you attend a show taping, the “package” includes free transport, an audience photograph and a chance to meet Mac. I fired off an immediate email and within 24 hours got a reply with 2 confirmed reservations for the date I’d requested. Remarkable.

For years, I’ve attended the US Open in Flushing Meadows roaming the grounds with a softcover coffetable photo book of tennis champions from the ‘70s - Connors, Evert, Borg, and even a young Lendl. Mac is on the cover and I’ve coveted his autograph on this book for a while now. Twice I’ve encountered his brother (Patrick) in public and each time had the fleeting thought of walking up to him and requesting an address to which I could mail the book to – return postage included – in order to get it signed. Prudence got the better of me each time.

Two days after the email confirmation from the McEnroe show, I dreamt I played tennis with Mac himself. Actually, it was Tim Mayotte (don’t ask me why), Mac and I. The only episode I recall about the dream was – giddy with apparent mutual conviviality, I jokingly disparaged Mac’s current tennis form and failed to receive the light-hearted reaction I expected. A silent scowl is the expression I remember.

Given the uncertainty of the McEnroe show’s future, I hope my date with Mac will be spared the producer’s hatchet. Mac needs his fans now – seemingly more than he ever did when he was racking up Grand Slam and Davis Cup titles - and I’ll be there to lend a hand. A hand that will be holding out a book that’s been awaiting his final put-away signature volley.

P.S. I in fact successfully get my books signed and in the process have an amusing interlude with Mac. I’m seated in the studio audience when Mac announces his main guest as Phil Hellmuth, World Poker Champion. Mac apparently spies me snickering with mild excitement to my buddy in the adjacent seat. The following exchange ensues:

Mac (looking in my general direction): So you a poker fan?
Me (not realizing I’m being spoken to directly): ?????? (freeze in silence)
Mac: Uh – yeah, YOU….you speak English?
Me (realizing I’m being addressed by Mac, look straight at him): hey – just calling your bluff!
Mac (grinning): hey! (fingers pointing at me gunslinger-style)

US Open

The 2005 US Open at Flushing Meadows, New York ended last weekend.

People everywhere regardless of changes brought on by career, family, travel or all-round personal turbulence, have certain anchors that ground them. These may include career, family, religion, relationships, hobbies, pets etc. One of my consistent anchors over the last several years has been the final Grand Slam tournament of the world professional tennis tour.

My earliest memory of professional tennis was when I was with my family visiting an aunt in upstate NY. It was the first time I’d ever visited the US. I remember being glued to the TV screen as I watched Jimmy Connors brashly demolish a helpless Ken Rosewall 6-1 6-1 6-4 in the 1974 Wimbledon Final. Connors seemed uncharacteristically out-of-place, this mop-headed grunter with no visible respect for the courtly air surrounding Center Court, the posh almost artificial greenness of everything, the white hats on the dukes and duchesses. Connors ended up being my favorite tennis player over the years even though he was a frustrating player to support, succumbing to many a foe as a result of hand-wringing unforced errors off his flat forehand. Borg, McEnroe and Lendl seemed to have his number as time went on though when he did defeat them in big matches, the memory was etched forever.

It was thus only fitting that the first ever US Open I attended in person was in 1991. I was at a first-round night match – my first ever Grand Slam match attended in person between two players I don’t remember when midway through, an announcement came through the PA system that they were releasing a limited number of tickets for the next night’s play featuring Jimmy Connors. I dashed out the stadium and returned shortly after with tickets. My tennis lackey buddy, Martin, in attendance that 1st night would also join me for Jimmy. It was a Tuesday evening and Jimmy quickly went down 2 sets to love and 1-4 in the 3rd to Patrick McEnroe. The stadium practically cleared out and Martin and I eased down to near court level to witness what had to be the last few games. Remarkably, Jimmy clawed his way back from the brink and at almost 2am in the morning, won the match to the absolute delirium of a disbelieving crowd. At the time, I was recovering from shoulder surgery and my arm was in a sling. When Jimmy won the last point, I was so overcome I raised my arms in a reflexive burst of ecstacy, temporarily forgetting my frailty and immediately was brought to my knees in agony, laughing and whimpering simultaneously. My favorite player had completed an incredible comeback at age 39. And this was just a 1st round match. I would return to the stadium to witness another dramatic match. Labor Day weekend, the stadium was packed as Connors, the living legend was playing for a quarterfinal berth on Sep 2, his birthday and the eve of mine. In a seesaw battle Connors, behind the entire match forced a 5th set though fell behind rapidly 2-5. Again, he fought back and won the match in a tiebreak and this time, both my friend Marcia and I could barely contain our tears of incredulous joy. Connors became the oldest Grand Slam semifinalist ever since Ken Rosewall in 1974.

After 1991, I moved to NY and religiously attended the US Open every year that I lived there. Even when I was on sabbatical, I'd try and schedule my walkabouts around the Open. I played once on the courts there with my friend, Kathy who had a wicked backhand for her diminutive frame. One of my best friends, Lester, was a marketing executive for Heineken, the US Open’s biggest sponsor at the time. He was involved on the tennis end of things too and for several years on end, I would receive a birthday present envelope filled with dozens of prized US Open tickets. They were frequently 2nd-week tickets and almost always in premium seats. I felt like a sugar daddy, doling out invitations to my favored friends who all came to know of Lester even though few met him. I have countless memories of the weeks I “camped out” (as one friend affectionately put it) at the Open.

I left NY in 2000. Since then, wherever I am in the world, those two weeks in Aug/Sep will find me trying to carve out time for the tournament. 2001 I labored to find friends with satellite TV in Zambia where I could watch matches, often with my equally-avid tennis fan friend, Yiannis. 2002 I caught matches in sports bars as I made my way through New Zealand. 2003 I watched from San Diego. 2004 I managed to maneuver my Los Angeles-based job into a business trip back to NY, armed with tickets from work & Lester. This year I fulfilled my quota with early-round coverage off German satellite TV in Ibiza. It was also the first time I “listened” to the Final on Internet Radio, unable to locate a telecast anywhere in Cairo. 2006 will be the 15th anniversary of my love affair with the US Open. What awaits?

10 days of Ibiza

“Clubbing” recap of my 1st-ever visit to Ibiza from 28/8/05 to 6/9/05.

Sun 28/8: Danny Tenaglia (Be Yourself) @ Pacha

The displacement of Flower Power (a highly touted party) to the following week from tonight’s Pacha billing w/DT initially disappointed me but not enough to defect to Spun (Infected Mushroom/GMS) @ Privilege. Free bus deposited me at the club just before 2am. No queue at the entrance and club was relatively empty. DT was in the booth but not spinning. This being my first time in Pacha, arguably the world’s premier club “brand”, I took the opportunity to scope the joint.

The first room after clearing the security brigade has a bar with cushioned platform seating alongside it and the far wall. Several other comfy table/chair sets make it a good space to adjourn for a respite from any excessive headiness. This leads down to the main dance floor from which you can see the rest of the stylish multi-level interior. Lighting and layout manage to infuse a sense of warmth into the spaciousness afforded by the 360° panoramic view of the multiple balconies and bars. There are also several VIP areas cordoned off in random spots. I recall at least one other room with different music.

Having safely washed down the evening’s head with some water (both of which cost the same!), DT took to the decks to much applause. Crowd density still sparse and the beat lackluster & monotonous, I was beginning to feel underwhelmed. Remarkably, all the elements started to converge simultaneously. DT picked up the tempo and energy, right when the floor began to fill up and the head started to tingle. The backup visuals consisted of a montage of boxing images and what appeared to be childhood family photos. DT maintained an edgy but not overly deep house groove without resorting to the short-wavelength crescendos often favored by DJs bent on catalyzing fist-raising frenzies. As I was as yet unfamiliar with the season’s popular tracks, I only encountered 1 or 2 hummable strains though judging again from dance floor reaction, DT didn’t pander to “Top 10 hits” selection. Crowd density stabilized ultimately to an optimal level around 4am and consisted largely of “serious” clubbers as most tourists and teens were likely at Space. As testament to this, most everyone (including myself) stayed till the very conclusion of his set at a respectable 8am.

Mon 29/8: Manumission (featuring FischerSpooner) @ Privilege

Bar M (Sant Antoni) pre-party had its smattering of scantily-clad/costumed performers warming up the mostly young British crowd. Persuaded ticket girl to toss in free admission to Carry-On@Space and she kindly consented with a VIP bracelet, most welcome after having to endure a 30+ minute line to simply catch the free bus to Privilege. The ride was overrun by boorish English kids bellowing football fan-like chants, much to my and the few other non-English patrons’ bemusement.

As the “world’s biggest club”, Privilege takes your breath away. I was able to sneak a camera in for some sub-standard snaps. The main hall is vast as a hangar, with multiple staircases and passages leading to split-level terraces and stand-alone rooms, including the popular Coco Loco. A large pool/moat occupies the center with numerous stages and podiums for performers. There’s also the customary souvenir shop, as well as clairvoyance and head massage service.

I chose to go to Manumission for its past lore, which in its heyday included explicit sex shows. The famed crowd contribution to its legendary atmosphere was disappointing with little costumery and an overwhelming percentage of tourists, especially in contrast to Danny Tenaglia. The show itself was passable, with an impressive aerial “bedsheet suspension” act by a pair of gymnasts, stilt walkers, a confetti machine and several sexy dance choreographies. FischerSpooner came on for a total of two (3?) 10-minute sets. I enjoyed their rock guitar-energized Queen-like theatrical interludes, though it seemed discordant to the general club ambience. DJ mix was sufficiently enjoyable, with a crowd-pleasing selection of Disco/‘80s remixes & Ibiza house. Coco Loco featured spurts of psytrance & tribal beats but stuffy ventilation drove me out the room quickly.

All in all, Manumission didn’t meet the lofty expectations and I departed at 6am for a power nap in preparation for the Carry-On.

Tue 30/8: Manumission Carry-on @ Space

Recharged my head in the apartment before stumbling out into the harsh sun and ambling the 300m or so to Space. SO looking forward to my 1st Space! As I wandered through the parking lot, a voice behind me called out “Eh Hombre” and I spied a Ray-Ban-ed uniformed Guardia Civil motioning me over to his parked car. My first thought was “thank heavens for the in-apartment recharge”. Having no goods en el corpo, I fearlessly went over. Emptied all pockets, every cigarette inspected closely, patted down meticulously. Then I was asked to unzip my pants. I objected in principle, and the thought flashed that his thoroughness would not be inconsistent with possible police planting. To get on with it, I let him look where he wanted and thus satisfied, he brusquely asked me to gather my stuff and move on as he got in the car and stationed it closer to the club entrance. Future visitors are thus hereby forewarned. I shall say here too that Space club staff (roaming security and bartenders both) was super-vigilant on stamping out visible drug use, tipping over powder, upsetting lines and stubbing out joints. I didn’t witness any evictions though.

OK – back to the fun stuff.

The outdoor terrace was bathed in a warm 11am sun as I sauntered in and was greeted with a sea of grinning, beautiful people moving joyously to the infectious Balearic House that I’d grown to love in a matter of days. After a quick inspection inside the one interior hall that was open – which had a moodier trancier bent, amenable but not what the doctor ordered – I heeded the words of one of the Manumission staffers I’d struck up a yak with, “get the lay of the land, then stay on the terrace the rest of the day”.

Friendly smiles were abundant and before long, I found company in the form of a group of longtime Ibiza regulars - Spaniards and most gracious to share their love of the island. Graca immediately shared her party favors and a sampling of the very tasty local liquor, Hierbas. The energy and spirit of the party was such that I was actually a trifle winded and didn’t take to the floor much, content to lean back and bop incessantly on my bar stool, people-watching and engaging in numerous randomly-generated conversations mostly with forward Italian women. Just when you thought it couldn’t get any better, Space staffers began walking around depositing garbage bags around the terrace and dance floor. Whoops and yells emanated from all corners as the range of freebies was soon revealed. Snazzy sunglasses, shiny golden wigs, fake mustaches/boobs/butts, pink-tinseled toy microphones etc. found their way around the crowd. Happy became hilarious and crazy became nonsensical. All the while, the music wove us all together. On the basis of my first party there, it wasn’t difficult to see why Space was voted the World’s Best Club in 2004.

I left at some point in the afternoon with my new friends to a private party in the hills of Es Cubells, notable mainly for the world-class view, the appearance of Richie Hawtin (though he didn’t spin) and large groups of cliquey Italians. The evening wound down at sunset (circa 8:30pm) on Playa D’en Bossa with a leisurely demi-pill & local smoke, after which I eased into my first stretch of sound sleep since arriving.

Thu 1/9: Steve Lawler (Viva-Fundacion) @ Space

On my 30min hopper from Barcelona a few days earlier, I’d sat next to what initially appeared to be a fidgety guy who upon takeoff, whipped out a stack of CDs and promptly cocooned himself in high-end noise-canceling headphones, industriously taking notes as he made his way through the stack of tracks. I was gazing out the window at the magnificent Mediterranean islands when he struck up friendly conversation. Noting it was my first time to Ibiza, he inquired of my “party schedule” and it turned out he was a resident at Space with Steve Lawler on Thursday. Pete (Gooding) also regularly DJed the sunset set at Café Mambo (adjacent to the cultish Café Del Mar) and without any hesitation, offered to guestlist me for Steve Lawler. That solved the tricky dilemma of my hardest scheduling decision of the entire stay – Cream (Paul van Dyk et al) or Lawler.

I took full advantage of Pete’s generosity and brought 3 newfound friends met earlier in the evening at Bora Bora’s famed pre-party, conveniently located between my apartment and the beach, mere steps away from Space. On this night, Space was relatively empty and Pete intimated that end-Aug/early-Sep is typically a short lull when Ibiza catches its breath from the headiness of Jul/Aug and the frenzy of the mid-Sep closing parties. I caught my own breath, realizing everything I was experiencing was during a “quiet week” in the season.

Most everyone at Space that night was in the one main room that was open though I never made it up to inspect the chillout roof. Steve didn’t take too long to come on and quite rapidly wrapped the room in his traditional hypnotic wave of deep, dark, sexy trance. I was mildly disappointed that the usual Thurs doubleheader line-up of Sasha/Lawler was not to be (victim of the lull week?) but I knew I’d be at the marathon 22-hour WLS (We Love Sundays) at Space, headlined by Sasha & Groove Armada. Steve was relentless and I might have favored a freshening/lightening up at points but I’m being picky. My companions, partial to the “cheerier stuff”, bagged after a few hours and I happily ground on with the other diehards of the evening. We made plans to meet up the following evening and with the knowledge that I’d be celebrating my birthday then, I begged off the dancefloor at a modest 7am.

Fri 2/9: Pete Tong/Darren Emerson et al (Pure Pacha) @ Pacha

This was another (what wasn’t?!!) eagerly anticipated night, not only for the birthday excuse but the impressive line-up. I’d heard extreme opinions about Pure Pacha, many decrying its “commercialism” (let’s face it, this is Ibiza!), others extolling its vibe. And while I love Space on account of its unbridled energy, Pacha – for all its attendant snootiness (VIP areas, hyper-priced drinks, nattier dressing, reserved tables) – has accoutrements that admittedly make it a comfier club.

I arrived at 2am and instantly realized this was going to be a different experience than Danny Tenaglia. I’d gotten wind of this earlier as everyone seemed headed to Pacha tonight. It was THE party to be at with little competition elsewhere. The line was not ungodly but somewhat unruly. My experience with Cairo “queues” helped ensure reasonably swift entry. Inside, there was barely room to see, let alone move. Forget dancing. After an hour, I realized I’d never find the people I’d arranged to rendezvous with. So much for “old friends” - I would spend my birthday with brand new ones, primarily a Dutch group and later an English crew, the latter bequeathing me a half-bottle of Absolut they’d inherited from their table’s previous occupants.

The layout was markedly changed from the DT night, with the main DJ booth oriented differently and 2 (?) other active booths going simultaneously. More smartly-dressed crowd tonight and I was ushered out of one table I’d temporarily planted myself at by a foursome of ostentatious Luxembourgers - the only friendly one being the lone lady – who upon being seated had two bottles of champagne immediately uncorked. The constant stream of visual stimuli afforded by the density of people was accentuated by my departure from a hitherto consistent diet of Ibiza warEz to a remnant rogue South African souvenir I’d somehow saved from years back. This packed a headier punch than the local stuff and along with the unexpectedly pounding Pete Tong, who stayed clear of his oft-favored vocal tracks, I rarely found my legs throughout the night.

This night was memorable for the well-wishes & compliments I received, the at-times unnerving crowd levels and a relentless music tempo that wreaked havoc in conjunction with my Capetonian catalyst. I was energized enough to make a spur-of-the-moment decision to attend the morning party at Space to further extend my birthday euphoria and the pragmatic side of me took leave of Pure Pacha before its end for another power nap.

Sat 3/9: Matinee Group @ Space

This had been touted by the locals as an excellent day party, notable for its attendance by serious aficionados with few tourists, who’d be gearing themselves for WLS the next day. The price for spontaneity was paid via a ticket at the door for 35 EUR (1 drink included). This time, the open rooms were the two main halls, with the outdoor terrace closed off. The magic of daylight however, bathed the room, which previously held court to Lawler’s sinister grind, in a wide swath of warm sensuous sun and I was struck by the rawness of energy visible on all the faces, expressions which hide themselves in the dark of night. The locals obviously were right.

Music was anthemy but hardly pandering, with hints of disco expertly woven into the upbeat summer Ibiza house. Notable too was the gay pride strength on display in both rooms characterized by a large visually uniform group of muscular shirtless men in jeans dancing in a cohesive mass in the center of each floor, exuding a pulsing statement for all to take in. Tempo and mood stayed at an unvarying high level, attractive but a shade monotonous and just a bit draining. The week’s toll was starting to take its measure.

Sun 4/9: Jeff Mills, Groove Armada etc (We Love Sundays) @ Space

There was palpable anticipation for this party all week amongst the newcomers like myself. Once in, I was devastated to see that Sasha was missing from the line-up sheet posted just inside the entrance. Further inquiries revealed his previous 2 gigs had drained him, and he was taken off the lineup today - HIS birthday no less!

In consolation, Jeff Mills was added to the line-up and since I hadn’t seen him before, I was sufficiently mollified. All the rooms were open for the first time, including the open-air roof terrace playing an R&B/Chill mix to go with the hot baking sun. Relaxing there with newfound friends of the day, I sweated more than any other occasion and soon made my way downstairs to the throng below.

I didn’t think it could’ve gotten more crowded than Pure Pacha but WLS made that seem like an evening at a suburban jazz lounge. I spent most of the afternoon on the terrace jostling with a crowd that was pleased with the rotation of familiar current Ibiza hits. I was pleased too though only familiar with about a tenth of the tracks. Knowing that Groove Armada was due on at 9pm, I took my pass-out at 6pm for a quick dinner break and peek at the US Open.

Returning at 8pm, the line was the longest I’d experienced – roughly 20 minutes. The terrace was now crammed and everyone was near frenzy. The DJs were just as animated as they edged from the bass line of Michael Jackson's "Smooth Criminal" to the most inspired crescendo of a decibel-crunching full-length mix of Nirvana’s “Smells like Teen Spirit”. Shortly after this unbelievable high, I receded indoors for a reprieve in the relaxing air-conditioned discoteca and remained inside the relative spaciousness for some extended bona fide dancing.

At midnight, I met an attractive Indonesian couple (one of few Asians I encountered all week) and we could barely contain our excitement over Jeff Mills’ imminent start. There was some confusion as the outside terrace stayed silent until we realized JM was spinning inside. The room was already packed and I guided us to my favorite spot on the mezzanine level. JM was less “techy” than I’d expected and I was emotionally won over with his patient, teasing segueway into a thumping mix of Santana’s “Jingo”, augmented by original vocal chorus. The mesmerizing beat droned on and for variety I nipped in next door to check out James Zabiela (a Sasha protege) and unbeknownst to me in the other room, JZ was blitzing a crowded dance floor with a wicked, eclectic high BPM mix. High-octane lighting further juiced the adrenaline. I stayed contentedly here for some time before deciding I’d end things with one more JM techno session.

In all, WLS was the extravaganza it promised to be. Good vibe, inspired mixes and a real marathon. Sasha spinning on his birthday as well might have been too much to handle.

Notable missed dates

Clubbing in Ibiza is spectacular for its weekly roster and for a supposedly lull-week, I must list the numerous acts/parties I regret simply not being able to attend.

Infected Mushroom/GMS
Circo Loco @ DC-10
Roger Sanchez
LaTroya (DJ Oliver)
Timo Maas (Closing Party)
Erick Morillo
Cream
People from Ibiza
Hed Kandi
Satoshi Tomeii
Sander Kleinenberg
Carl Cox

September 11, 2005

I don't watch EuroNews, a pan-European news channel, much but they have a riveting segment called "No Comment", which highlights newsworthy clips devoid of overlaid commentary and punditry. The images and original soundtrack speak for themselves and viewers draw their own conclusion.

First time I saw it, there was a 3-minute clip of the Israeli evacuation in Palestine. The tension was palpable in the "live" sounds of residents pleading with perplexed military personnel, ubiquitous scuffles and the occasional gunshot – all happening in real time.

This clip segued immediately to the scene of a traffic accident on the outskirts of Bangkok. It was clear the accident had just occurred. Again, no commentary. Only the sounds of grief, shock, panic and urgency as police and bystanders took stock of the situation. A raging fistfight broke out though between whom I didn't know as everything was in Thai.

Unvarnished reality TV.

Today there was a long silent clip of Downtown Manhattan and immediately I knew. There was barely any traffic noise. A large flag was draped down the side of a golden skyscraper. Image after image of people clutching framed photos of missing/deceased loved ones, many with heart-wrenching dedications written next to the pictures. They were gathered at Ground Zero to remember.

Every time I remember, my chest feels heavy and my eyes well. I didn't lose anyone close but I did live and work very close by. Numerous friends and neighborhood acquaintances had horror stories to tell. I heard them all, from the buddy called up on reserve duty to assist in combing the wreckage for remains and the unspeakable images he'll carry with him for life; the friend who while running for his life wanted to stop and help those he was overtaking on foot that were collapsing from suffocation but was relentlessly driven by survival; another who while fleeing the scene recalls the thud thud thud of bodies hitting the pavement. I would have been on my way to work that morning too and who knows how I'd have been altered.

On the 1-year anniversary, I was on the Tranz-Alpine from Christchurch to Greymouth. I was in the middle of a month strolling around New Zealand on my own and was glad that on this somber day, my haphazard schedule should place me on board one of the world's most spectacular train journeys, gazing out the large windows - with Marlborough Pinot Noir in hand - at the beauty and majesty of our natural world while contemplating the inexplicable twists in the journey of life.

On this the 4-year anniversary, I am in Cairo. It is mere days after Egypt's first-ever multi-candidate presidential election. Uncannily, the Israeli withdrawal from Palestine is complete today. While the human toll from recent natural disasters around the world is more staggering, the self-inflicted root of 9/11 renders it painfully sad and thus, it requires our remembrance.