Bill on Nigh(y)

The British actor Bill Nighy.

Last Sunday night, after the dinner dishes had been washed and all the household chores were finished for the day, and I finally had a quiet moment, I sat down on the couch with the intent to vegetate and watch a little mindless television before I went to bed.  I channel surfed through the dozens of cable channels at my disposal providing the usual vapid, short attention span programming so common in America.  I eventually made my way through all the crap and landed upon the premiere of a new show, produced by the BBC and broadcast in America on PBS, called Page Eight.

What caught my attention and made me stop on this particular show?  The face of British character actor Bill Nighy.  While driving in my car earlier in the week, I had heard him interviewed on NPR about the show and his long career.  He seemed like a good, thoughtful bloke, just as he does on the screen.

I first noticed Nighy in his role as an aging rocker in the 1997 film Still Crazy.  Although he was a working actor for decades on the stage and in television in the U.K., most American moviegoers probably first noticed him in his hilarious role - also of an aging rocker - in Love Actually and most recently as Davy Jones, Johnny Depp's nemesis, in the hugely successful Pirates of the Caribbean movies.

Nighy as the villainous Davy Jones in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies.

Page Eight was engaging and well-written, and had a fine cast that included Judy Davis, Ralph Fiennes, Michael Gambon and Rachel Weisz, among others, but it wasn't brilliant.  Very little happened in the way of plot or action; there was nary a chase, car crash or even gun shot in the entire two hours.  Nighy played an agent for the British intelligence agency MI5, but this wasn't an American-style spy movie.  This was British all the way: quiet, moody, cerebral and starring Bill Nighy.

I got sucked in and somewhere in the back of my head was the thought that I would watch the show as long as Bill Nighy was onscreen.  I just couldn't turn away or take my eyes off him when he was on camera.  Turns out, he was in every scene in the damn show.  Unwittingly, I wound up killing the rest of my evening watching the show.  Getting up two hours later and turning off the TV, I thought to myself, "That show was alright - although the ending was lazy and unsatisfying - but damn, that Bill Nighy is one interesting actor."

The next day I woke up thinking about the show and why it was still in my head, and the only reason I could grasp was Nighy.  He was mesmerizing.  He didn't actually do anything.  As a matter of fact, it was often what he didn't do that was so interesting.  He didn't have great or hilarious dialogue.  He never screamed, yelled or cried.  He was just spot-on in every bloody scene in the entire show.  He made it look effortless and easy.  And that, to me, is always a sign of a great actor.

I don't think there's a middle-aged actor alive today who does lonely, detached, disillusioned and awkward better than Bill Nighy.

Page Eight reminded me of another hidden Nighy gem, that also starred the wonderful Kelly MacDonald, entitled The Girl in the Cafe (in my mind, if you can't make an interesting little picture with Bill Nighy and Kelly MacDonald as your leads, then you might as well get out of the picture-making business).  It got a little preachy and heavy-handed at times, but that film was so Un-American, moody and just...different that I was charmed.  I believe Nighy was in every shot and his chemistry with MacDonald was incredible.

The Girl in the Cafe was nominated for seven Emmy awards in 2006, winning three - including best TV movie and MacDonald for Best Supporting Actress in a TV movie, but Nighy was not even nominated.  He made it look too easy.  That can't possibly be acting.  It's too effortless.  

Billy Nighy and Kelly MacDonald in The Girl in the Cafe.

Of late, he's also been a fashionable choice as a villain and/or character actor in such films as Shaun of the Dead, Vigilance and the British Equity Employment Act (also known as the Harry Potter series).  He makes it look so simple to be an aging British rocker that you can't help but think he must be a bit like an aging British rocker.  Not much range there.  And then you see him as an awkward, shy, lovelorn British bureaucrat and you think, well, that suited him so well that he must be like that.  And THEN you see him play the hideous Davy Jones in Pirates of the Caribbean and then it starts to dawn on you that this guy is one bloody brilliant actor.  He just makes it look so easy.

Something I enjoy about watching Nighy work is that I don't know a damn thing about him.  I have no idea if he bears any resemblance to his film roles in real life or not (although presumably he doesn't have sea animals protruding from his face), and that, to me, is a perfect way to see an actor.  I can project anything on him I wish and it works.  I can't do that with Crowe, Cruise, Damon, DiCaprio or most other Hollywood leading men.   They all carry too much public baggage.

The other thing I love about Nighy is that he's fully aware of how powerful reticence and silence can be.  He makes the pauses and awkwardness work for him in a way that's authentic and genuine.  You don't see the acting.  He just appears as if he walked off the street and accidentally stumbled on a movie set.  And that's really, really tough to effectively pull off.

As I was doing some research on Nighy before I wrote this post, I was looking for a scene from Girl in the Cafe on YouTube to link here (the opening from that film is below).  The entire movie is on YouTube in 10 minute segments (but that's a dreadful way to watch an entire movie) and I thought I'd look at the first segment to watch him again.  And dammit if I didn't find myself sitting there all the way through the third segment - an eternity in YouTube time - because Nighy's understated, subtle performance just completely drew me into the film.  He's just so seamless.

Nighy said in the radio interview on NPR last week that they were planning to produce a couple more of the Page Eight movies.  If they do, I suspect I will be there.  Not because it's brilliantly directed or written, but because it's a good role for Bill Nighy.  You can keep your theatrical, well-known actors who garner all the nominations and awards as they pile on the pounds and make-up, scream and yell and get all the attention.  I'll take Bill Nighy and his ability to make it appear as if he's not doing anything every day.   Because the most difficult thing for any actor to do is nothing.

Tide Presents "Going to War..."

If it's got to be clean, it's got to be Tide™.

When the "513" area code - Cincinnati, Ohio -  popped up on an incoming call on my cell phone the other day, I figured it was just another telemarketer.  So it was quite a shock when I answered the call and heard a voice with an Indian accent on the other line say, "This is Sanjay Fukya, V.P. of Social Marketing for Proctor and Gamble calling for Vince Cleary."

"This is Vince speaking."

"Hi Vince.  Great to finally talk to you!  How are you?  Are you familiar with Proctor and Gamble?"

"Yes.  I believe so."

"We are the largest maker and advertiser of consumer goods in North America.  My job is to expand our advertising footprint and consumer awareness in less traditional markets.  We've been keeping an eye on your blog for several weeks now, and we have a proposition for you.  Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm listening."

"Great.  I've been looking at the latest figures and search results from Google, and I see that your blog has grown from 25 page views a day to 250,000 in the last two months, is that correct?"

It was.  My page views have skyrocketed ever since I discovered a way to make every Google search for "Scarlett Johansson & naked," "Scarlett Johansson & nude" and "Scarlett Johansson & cell phone pictures" link to my blog.

"Yes, that's true..."

"Well, we here at Proctor and Gamble would like to harness the power of your loyal readership and personal network to leverage our products.  We would like to advertise on your blog."

"You mean it would be 'Going to War with Proctor & Gamble'...?"

"No, not quite that obvious, Vince.  We prefer to sell our actual products over our corporate name.  We have 24 brands that each have annual sales in excess of one billion dollars.  We would like to advertise those brands through your blog."

"I don't know, Sanjay.  It was Sanjay, right?  I just feel my blog is a personal journalistic endeavor that has enabled me to develop a special relationship with my readers.  I don't think I could risk my journalistic integrity or abuse my reader's trust for monetary reasons."

"Vince, I am authorized to pay you a four figure amount on a weekly basis if we proceed with this marketing plan."

"You'll pay me more than a grand a week to shill household goods on my blog?  Where do I sign?"

And that's how I sold out.  Hey, I've got two hockey-playing kids in private school and need to put food on the table.  I promise I will still provide you the same hard-hitting, insightful pieces I always have, just with a short word from my sponsor during each blog post.

(Oops!  I just spilled my coffee cup on my pants while I was typing the previous paragraph.  Good thing I have plenty of eco-friendly, stain-fighting Tide™ in the house to clean these pants!)

"I'll have legal e-mail you the paperwork and we can get started.  I'm really excited about partnering with you on your blog, Vince.  One more little thing, some of us here in Marketing have a few 'suggestions' if we are going to pay you for your blog."

"You do?  Suggestions?  What would those be, Sanjay?"

"Yes, Vince.  Just a few things that our team here thinks would improve your blog.  Little things.  First, the title..."

"The title?  You don't like the title?"

"No, no, we LOVE the title, Vince.  It's great.  We just think it has some room for improvement.  "Going" implies that you are about to do something in the future, not now.  We find our customers live in the moment.  They want instant satisfaction.  We would like to change "going" to "Go."

"OK.  'Go to War...'  Not sure that makes sense there, Sanjay."

"No, you're right, Vince.  Not quite.  Which leads us to our next suggestion.  Advertisers prefer to stay away from negative words like 'War.'  Could we find a more pleasant word than war?"

"Well, it's not my word, Sanjay.  It's from a quote by Donald Rumsfeld."

"Yes, it is, Vince.  And it's a very good quote.  It's just a bit harsh.  How about 'brush' or 'encounter'?"

"You would like to call my blog 'Go Brush with the Army...?'" 

"Not quite, Vince.  We have another suggestion."

"Somehow I thought you would, Sanjay."

"Our blog title focus groups tell us..."

"You have focus groups for blog titles?"

"Oh, absolutely, Vincent.  We don't do anything without focus group data.  Anyway, those focus groups tell us that people find the word 'Army' offensive.  They feel it has a violent association."

"Well, Sanjay, Army's tend to kill people."

"Yes, that's certainly true, Vince, but we have some alternatives..."

"I thought you would.  Fire away."

"How do you feel about 'team' or 'unit'?"

"You would like to title my blog 'Go Brush with the Team You Have?'"

"Not entirely.  You see, we are not crazy about 'You Have.'  We can't sell something to our customers if they already "have" it.  We would prefer the title without the "have."

"You would?  What do you propose as an alternative, Sanjay?"

"We have a couple of suggestions.  "Are" and "want' both tested very well."

"They did?  You had them tested already?  So you would like to change the title of my blog from 'Going to War with the Army You Have...' to 'Go Brush with the Team You Want...?'"

"Almost, Vincent.  We have one final request since we will be paying you a considerable weekly sum.  We would like the name of our product in the title."

"You would?  Of course you would.  So what title would Proctor and Gamble prefer there, Sanjay?

"We found 'New and Improved, Fresh-Scented Tide™ Presents Go Brush with the Team You Want...' tested very well among all demos 18-49.  It's a good title."

"I don't know, Sanjay.  That sounds like a big change.  Is that all?"

"Not quite, Vincent.  Our Executive V.P. of Marketing read your blog the past week and he has a few recommendations as well."

"He does?  Dare I ask?"

"He said you write too much about Ireland.  Ireland is a foreign country with a violent past.  That's not the type of topic that will provide positive association for our customers."

"Anything else?"

"He says you write a lot about hockey.  He feels people find hockey foreign and violent.  We may be able to put your hockey posts up in our Canadian markets, but not in the U.S."

"I see.  Is that it?"

"A few more things.  You seem to write a lot about airlines and flying.  People don't like airlines and our testing shows they hate to fly, Vince.  We'd like to cut those posts out."

"No Ireland, no hockey, no flying.  Anything else, Sanjay?"

"Just one more thing.  You sometimes write about Hollywood.  We still do a great deal of advertising on traditional broadcast networks and we fear some of those 'inside Hollywood' stories may offend our partners in old media."

"No more Hollywood stories?  I'm not sure what there's left to write about."

"Oh, Vince, we here at Proctor & Gamble all love your blog.  We are prepared to compensate you handsomely for all these changes."

"I guess I could try it for a couple of weeks and see how it goes.  Is that it?  Anything else?"

"One last thing.  The name 'Vincent' didn't test very well.  People associate it with crazy painters who cut off their ears.  How would you feel about changing your name to 'Justin' or 'James?'  They both test much better."

"Sanjay.  Maybe I'm not your guy."

"Oh, you are, Mr. Cleary.  Very much so.  You have tested very high.  Try it for a week and see how it goes.  At the end of the day, you can always go back to your old blog.  Trust me."

This has been Justin "Presented by Tide" Cleary with today's post.

Runners, Take Your Marks!

The beginning of the New York City Marathon on the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge.

You wouldn't think it would be difficult to get a seat on a subway car in New York City at five a.m. on a Sunday morning in November.  But every car on the train was packed.  On a Sunday morning.  At five a.m.  The conclusion of one annual ritual in New York had converged with the beginning of another.  If I told you this occurred early in the morning on Sunday, November 1st, you could probably tell me that the event that had just concluded was Halloween.  And you would be correct.

Halloween is a huge event in New York.  And dozens of the costumed revelers from the prior evening's celebrations were scattered throughout the subway car, in various states of consciousness, returning from an evening of trick or treating.  Most of them reeked of alcohol and tobacco.

Now, you would probably have to be a die-hard New Yorker to know the second event that was ready to commence, so early in the morning after Halloween, was also a huge happening in the Big Apple:  the New York City Marathon.

The runners among the group were in much better spirits.  Stretching, jumping, running in place and trying to warm up and stay focused.  Putting on the "game" face.  6-12 months of training for this one event where we were going to fail or succeed before lunch.  This group reeked of Bengay™.

I was in this latter group, minus the Bengay.  How did I wind up here, 2,500 miles from my own comfortable bed in Los Angeles, and why did I feel the need to get up at 4:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning so I could run 26 miles and 385 yards?  Phidippides.  I would have to blame it on Phidippides.  Every runner that morning sitting or standing in that subway car would blame Phidippides.

You see, in the Fifth Century B.C.,  Phidippides was the young Greek runner who was selected to run as a courier before and after the Greeks, badly outnumbered, defeated the attacking Persians in a bloody battle at Marathon.  In three hours, he ran from the battlefield at Marathon to Athens, a distance of 26 miles, to give news of the Greek defeat and the warning that Persian ships were preparing an attack on Athens.  The Greeks defeated the Persians, a turning point in the history of Europe.

The extra 385 yards were added for the 1908 Olympics in London.  The marathon course of 26 miles had been measured and set when it was decided to add the extra 385 yards so the race would end in front of King Edward VII's royal box.  This final distance was made official in 1924, leading to the modern marathon as we know it today.

So I blame Phidippides.

The New York City Marathon starts out on Staten Island, crosses over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge - longer than the Golden Gate Bridge - at 7 a.m. in the morning, and then continues into Brooklyn and all the other boroughs of New York - Queens, the Bronx and Manhattan.

As a runner, you have to show up in front of the New York City Public Library, on 42nd street in midtown Manhattan, early in the morning to head over to the staging area on the far side of the bridge in Staten Island.  The last bus leaves Manhattan at 5:30 a.m.

You get over to the base of the bridge and have time to wait.  Most of the runners wear old sweatshirts and pants, or plastic bags, to keep themselves warm while standing around in the morning chill, but that they could immediately discard as soon it comes time to start the race.

Everyone does a little jog and stretching as the clock ticks closer to the 7 a.m. start.  By 6:45, the runners are lined up like cattle, hopefully clustered around runners carrying signs with mile pace times, 6:15 mile pace towards the front down to 9:30 mile towards the back, etc.

Excitement starts to build as the sun rises over Staten Island.  The first weekend in November is chosen because it usually provides the best running weather.  60 degrees and overcast would be perfect Marathon weather.  The day's forecast was a high of 65 and sunny.

You could see some clocks around the staging area counting down the minutes until the start of the race.  It gets quieter and focused as the start nears.  The assembled throng of 20,000 runners grew completely silent and a gun shot was heard precisely at 7 a.m.  And the runners were off.

One of the things I had been warned about was not to get too caught up in the excitement at the start of the race.  You're body will be pumping with adrenaline, you've been standing around for over an hour ready to run, so you have to show some discipline and stick to your pace - don't go out at a quick sprint.

I started running away from Staten Island and over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge at 240 feet over the water and felt my legs and body warm up.  Other than a couple of 20-30 minute runs I'd done in Central Park on Thursday and Friday leading up to the race, it felt as if I hadn't had a long run in a while.  This is called "tapering off" in running terms.  You cut back on your training in the final week before your race, saving your energy and letting all your leg muscles heal up, and your body will be anxious to run came race day.

Coming down off the bridge and into the streets of Brooklyn, I was already past the two mile mark of the race.  Even though it was early on a Sunday morning, Brooklynites were out in force along the race route, cheering on all the runners.  Except for when I ran through the heavily Orthodox Jewish neighborhoods of Brooklyn, where spectators - mostly men - just stood on the sidewalk in their black slacks, suits and hats, silent and stone-faced, while we ran by.

Thousands of Orthodox Jews watch the runners in Brooklyn.

The race route continued north up through Brooklyn into Queens and up onto the Queensboro Bridge - which most New Yorkers call the 59th Street Bridge - made famous in the Paul Simon song, "59th Street Bridge Song/Feelin' Groovy," for our crossing of the East River and first entry into Manhattan.

As I made the climb off the surface streets of Queens and up onto the bridge,  I realized you don't think of a couple of hundred feet of elevation being a tough climb, but when you are halfway through a 26 mile run, it's something you definitely feel.  As the noise of the crowds in Brooklyn faded behind me, I took in the silence on the bridge.  The only sounds I heard were the footsteps and heavy breathing of the dozens of runners around me.

The thing I noticed next was when I looked down and realized I was not running on pavement, but just a metal grate that let you see clearly down 130 feet to the East River below.  I felt like I was floating across the river.

The throng of runners along First Avenue in Manhattan.

As you come off the 59th Street Bridge and into Manhattan for the first time, you experience probably the coolest part of the course, and something people who had run the race before had told me about.  You come off the bridge and down a ramp and into a dark tunnel - where at first you can just see a glimmer of light at the other side - and as you come out a few seconds later you are greeted by New Yorkers lined 5 - 6 people deep on both sides of First Avenue.  In a matter of moments, you go from complete silence to a raucous Manhattan welcome.  It was incredible, as advertised, and gave me a big mental boost.

I continued to run north up First Avenue towards the Bronx.  It was straight and flat for over three miles - the most difficult conditions to run in from a mental perspective.  There wasn't anything to vary the routine and give you a mental distraction.  When I looked up ahead, I couldn't see anything but a sea of runners stretching out for miles.

Just past the nineteen mile mark, the course briefly went up into the Bronx, around Yankee Stadium and then back into Manhattan at mile twenty-one - now heading south along Fifth Avenue through Harlem and down towards the Upper East Side - where the race turns into Central Park for the finish.

If you are training for your first marathon, the one thing you hear about over and over again is "The Wall."  "Hitting the wall" is when your body just starts to break down - usually around the twenty mile mark - and you can't run any longer.  It can happen to any runner from a novice to well-trained Olympic runners.  There's just no way to know if you will hit the "wall" or not until you get to this point of the race.  I felt good, but I was now in uncharted territory: past any distance I had ever run leading up to the race.  And everyone will tell you that the last six miles of the marathon are the toughest.

Yours truly, in the gray shorts and white hat, a mile from the finish in Central Park.

Soon the course moved into the final two miles in Central Park.  The spectators lining the course grew more sparse as I moved off the streets of the Upper West Side and into the Park.  But people kept yelling out encouragement along the way.

When you are strolling through Central Park on a Sunday morning, you don't necessarily think of it as particularly hilly, but if you are in mile 23 of a marathon, I can assure you that it is.  Rolling hills that constantly go up 20 feet and then down 20 feet.  Up 30 feet and then down 30 feet in elevation.  Runners around me were hitting the wall, forced to stop running and just walk, and several runners around me were stopping to vomit on the side of the road.  I felt good and pressed ahead.

The finish line in Central Park.

I passed the 25 mile mark feeling strong and taking in all the sights and sounds of the Park and Central Park South on this beautiful morning.  With my fear of hitting the wall in the past, I picked up my pace for the final mile to the finish.  The crowds grew deeper and more vocal as I neared the finish.

Suddenly, I looked up and saw the sign a hundred yards in front of me overhead that said "Finish," sprinted as fast as I could over the line, raised my hands and it was over.  Months and months of training, apprehension about hitting the wall running a distance I had never run before, and now it was all over.  I was a marathoner.

Hands raised, I crossed the finish line right at my projected 8 minute mile pace.

My uncle, who lived in New York and had run the race a couple of times himself - and had strongly encouraged me to try it - met me briefly just past the finish line and handed me a candy bar.  He said he had craved a candy bar when he finished the race, and had a little treat ready for me.  I was glad to have him there to see me finish.

When you run a big race like that, there are literally thousands of volunteers that make the race possible - hundreds of them at the finish line - and they keep you moving into a series of chutes and lines and checkpoints at the finish.  They hand you a finisher's badge, water, orange slices, bananas, a blanket and assess your condition. 

My uncle had told me there was a tent at the finish where they have massage therapists who will rub your feet and legs for free, and I was sure to go into that tent and get a free post-race massage.

I felt pretty good.  Like anyone doing something for the first time, I didn't know what to expect and finished right at my projected pace.  Looking back, I probably could have pushed a little harder early on and shaved 5 - 10 minutes off my time, but that's probably true of most first timers. 

The race was a great way to see New York City.  It was fun to be a participant in one of the few annual events that unites the city of New York.  All week long leading up to the race, New Yorkers I encountered were constantly asking me if I was in town for the race and wishing me good luck.

I made it through all the post-race checkpoints and reunited with my uncle.  As I recall, I think we actually walked back to his place where I was staying on the Upper East Side.  I had wanted to weigh myself after the race and I hopped on the scale and weighed 125 pounds - and I haven't been anywhere near that weight since!

That night, we went out to dinner with a couple of friends at an Italian restaurant over on the Upper West Side.  I feasted on bread and pasta and reloaded all those carbs my muscles had burned off during the run.  One of our friends kept saying over and over again that I looked great and she wouldn't know by looking at me that I had run the race that morning.  I thought it was funny each time she said it.

I flew home to California the next morning, and sitting for six hours on an airplane definitely stiffened up my entire body.  I went back to work on Tuesday and did some light jogging on Wednesday.  By the end of the week, I felt like my body had recovered .

This Sunday will be the 41st running of the New York City Marathon.  Next year will be twenty-five years since I ran the race.  Once in a while I think about trying to do it again - it would require 6 - 9 months of training - just to see if I could finish it 25 years later.  On second thought, I think my wife would kill me.

My Political Apology

With the G.O.P. primary season just around the corner, and the next big Presidential race only a year away, I thought, as a public service, I would create an all-purpose, one size fits all political apology that the candidates may use in the coming year as their past follies and foibles are continually exposed in the national media.

If you are reading this and running for elected office yourself, feel free to customize your apology as you see fit to your region and your past mistakes.  This is only intended as a template.  Your actual political mileage may vary.

Dear (choose one) esteemed voters of Iowa/free citizens of New Hampshire/clueless and delusional people of (name of your state or district here):

It is with tremendous (choose one) sadness/regret/political necessity that I appear before you here today. 

Recent reports of my past (choose one) political cronyism/affair with a staffer/inappropriate bodily contact with a farm animal have been (choose one) greatly exaggerated/blown out of proportion/thankfully not caught on video.

My past behavior was (choose one) inappropriate/ill-timed/something anyone in my position would have done and I have caused great public humiliation both to myself and (choose two) my wife/my family/my public supporters/the American people/Theo, my childhood sock puppet I still carry with me everywhere I go.

As you know, if you have (choose one) read about the sordid affair in a gossip magazine at the beauty salon/seen the cell phone pictures on the internet/watched Jon Stewart mock my texts on The Daily Show, there is no excuse for my past behavior, but let me say in my defense that (choose one) I was addicted to Oxycotin following my back surgery/it was a mere youthful indiscretion/I only did it to better serve my country.

This is a little misunderstanding and there’s a simple explanation for everything.  It was all just a matter of (choose one) a misinterpretation of something I meant as a joke/my accountant inadvertently adding some extra zeroes to that check/Mr. Binky accidentally slipping out of a hole in my pants.

At the end of the day, this election is not about (choose one) me/my opponent/the creamy, smooth thighs of a 17-year-old intern, but the American people.  Now that I have acknowledged that mistakes were made, it’s time for all of us to (choose one) put this matter behind us/return to the more important business of leading America/stop putting that crazy bitch on every cable news show on television. 

If there's one thing I have learned in my previous career as a (choose one) C.E.O./elected official/fellow at a left/right wing nut job think tank, it's that (choose one) my family is more important to me than anything else in the world/America is the greatest country on earth/the media has such a short attention span that they won't give a crap about this story in two weeks.

If I am elected, I will humbly use this experience to (choose one) be a better husband/make America great again/use Air Force One as one kick-ass party in the sky.

Most importantly, I want to thank (choose one) you for your time/you for your forgiveness/ my staff for disabling the security cameras. 

God Bless America.

Keep Left

A typical road in the West of Ireland.

The Irish - as a consequence of hundreds of years of political domination by their neighbors in Great Britain - drive on the left side of the road.  When you are planning your first trip to Ireland, you keep reading in guidebooks and seeing in pictures that the Irish drive on the left side of the road.  If you are a typical tourist on your first trip to the Emerald Isle, you fly into Shannon airport - located in the rural, West of Ireland - and pick up a rental car and drive through the scenic West and South of Eire and up into Dublin - where you dump the car as quickly as possible, preferably in a car park, and not in a ditch by the side of the road.

As you prepare for your departure before your trip and pack all your belongings, somewhere in the back of your head is floating around the notion that, "This time tomorrow I will be driving on the left side of the road in Ireland."  It's in the back of your head as you board your flight and try and get a couple of hours of sleep as you cross the Atlantic.  As you feel your plane descend and get your first glimpse of the forty shades of green coming into view on the island below, that notion of driving on the left side of the road starts to get a little more pronounced in your head.

You collect your bags, pass through customs and immigration and make your way to the rental car counter.  You show your proof of insurance, your American driver's license and pull out your credit card.  You sign and initial an endless stream of papers that state you promise to return your tiny, dented, manual shift rental car in Dublin within a week.  You are exhausted, jet-lagged, hungry and mostly just glad to finally be there at this point, but somewhere closer to the front of your brain is swirling around the notion that you are about to drive for the first time on the left - or "other" - side of the road.

Everything seems to be in order and the friendly Irish lass working at the car rental agency hands you the keys to the car, writes down the space number where it is parked and then asks you one final question: have you driven in Ireland before?  As you answer "no," you can sense an almost imperceptible flinch in her face, but she proceeds to give you a few more helpful tips for driving in Ireland (such as which direction to turn out of the rental car parking lot).

You walk away from the rental car counter with your rental agreement, car keys, baggage and, trust me, it still hasn't quite sunk in that you're about to drive on the left side of the road.

You find your car, undoubtedly while dodging a few particles of liquid sunshine as an Irish welcome.  Don't worry about the moisture because the forecast for later in the day is for "good sunny spells."  How do I know this?  Because there are only two possible options in the weather forecast in Ireland: "good sunny spells" or "a bit soft."  In the summer months, it's nearly always "good sunny spells."  The rest of the year, even in a driving snowstorm, the weather is still "a bit soft."

You put your keys in the lock, pop the hatch, place your bags in the back and then you make your first Yankee mistake.  You walk over to the left side of the car - what back home would be the driver's side - until you look into the window and realize the steering wheel is on the other side: the right side.  "Oh, yeah, that's right.  They drive on the other side of the road here," you remind yourself, even though you've been thinking about this fact in the back of your head for weeks.

Entering the car from the opposite side from what you've done all your adult life, you adjust your seat, check your mirrors and pull out a map of Ireland and explain to your travel partner which direction you are headed, and then, finally, put the key in the ignition.  Even though you are now seated on the right side of the car - the driver's side in Ireland - and you know you are about to drive on the left side of the road, you will probably reach down with your right hand, near the door, to move the stick shift.  No, that's not it.  You are about to shift with your left hand for a week because they drive on the other side of the road here.

Seat?  Check!  Mirrors?  Check!  Lights?  Check!  Map?  Check!  Ignition?  Check!  Parking brake?  Check!  Off you go! 

You will back out of the parking space, with your left hand on the stick shift and your right hand on the wheel, and then move forward to the guard shack at the exit to the rental car lot.  You pull up to the left of the shack - it feels a little weird to lower the window on your right to poke your head out the window - and another friendly Irish lass checks your rental agreement and wishes you a safe journey.

You move forward slowly, cautiously, a few feet and try and figure out which way to turn.  Left.  You watch the steady stream of cars going back and forth in both directions, and noticing a gap in the traffic, hit the gas and then proceed to turn left and finish your turn in the right hand lane on the road - the wrong lane! - and then as your travel partner screams in terror "LEFT SIDE!  MOVE TO THE LEFT!" a voice in your head will yell "HOLY SHIT!  OH, MY GOD!  WHAT THE ....!" and at that very moment, it will finally hit home that you will be driving on the left side - the wrong side - of the road for the next week.

I cannot exaggerate how strange and terrifying those first few moments driving on the left side of the road truly are.  It goes against everything you've done on a daily basis for years.  You quickly gain some speed and confidence and move north on the main road from Shannon up to County Clare.  Your partner's heartbeat has now dropped below 150 and you feel more comfortable every minute - "Hey! this is kind of fun!  I'm getting the hang of this!" - and you think everything's going to be just fine when you spot a sign in Gaelic, and please let that be English, that looks just like this:

This road sign indicates you are approaching a roundabout.

You are still jet-lagged and completely disoriented from a full day and night of traveling, when you notice the above sign that indicates you are quickly approaching a roundabout - the Irish version of an intersection - that varies from an American intersection in that there aren't any stop signs (cars entering the roundabout yield to cars already inside the roundabout) and that you can get trapped inside it for the REST OF YOU LIFE.  The other quirk about roundabouts is that the signs never tell you which direction - west, east, north or south - to take, but just prominent cities in each direction, and as in our example above, only one of which is anywhere near Shannon (Limerick).

This is why the first time you drive in Ireland it is very helpful to have a navigator - someone capable of holding and reading a map - in the car with you.  No matter how confused and panicked you may be approaching or driving through a roundabout, do not yell at the navigator, even if they seem more confused about which direction to go than you, although they are holding the map of Ireland.  It's a small island, so there's only so far you can travel in any direction.

It's a couple of hours later, and you and your travel partner/navigator have now adroitly maneuvered numerous roundabouts, swerved to the left to avoid several passing trucks, and as you drive out to the most remote part of Ireland, and draw nearer to your final destination for the day, you may come across a situation similar to this:

Rush hour in the West of Ireland.

My advice for those of you who have never read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is: Don't Panic.  You may be restricted to the left side, but livestock in Ireland have the run of the entire road.  It's time to just stop, grab the camera, eat a Cadbury bar and smile.  Isn't this why you left home and traveled to this charming island in the first place?

After a week of driving through some of the most scenic, narrow and decayed roads in Europe, you will arrive in Dublin and return the car, hopefully without any additional nicks or scratches. 

The next day you will find yourself staying up for almost 24 hours to return to your home in the States, collect your bags, hop on the shuttle bus to long term parking and then you will breathe a sign of relief at the familiarity of your good, ol' American (but made in Japan) car that you can drive on the right side of the road.  Just don't be surprised if after you put your bags in the back of the car and finally find your car keys, you catch yourself walking around to the right side to drive the car.

Don't Panic.  There shouldn't be any roundabouts or sheep in the middle of the road on the way home.

The Final Flight

The remains of a U.S. soldier arrive at Dover Air Force Base.

I flew so many thousands of flights in my eighteen years as a flight attendant that the majority of them just blend together and fade from memory.  But there were a select few that I can still remember vividly, as if they occurred yesterday.  Having the honor of returning a United States soldier to his final resting place, back home in Hartford, Connecticut, was one of the most memorable.

I was based in Philadelphia for the last ten years of my flying career.  I began and finished every trip in Philadelphia, and often flew back through there on every day of my trip.  I came to learn the airport and its traffic, rhythms and routines like I did my own neighborhood back home in California.

The Philadelphia International Airport is the closest commercial airport to Dover Air Force Base in Dover, Delaware - home of the Defense Department's joint services morgue and mortuary - the point of entry for the remains of most U.S. soldiers arriving back home to the United States from overseas - particularly those killed in the line of duty in the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Every couple of weeks, after a particularly brutal string of casualties in the Middle East, I would be in the terminal or on a plane looking out over the tarmac, and I could spy several baggage loaders moving around the airport, each carrying a coffin wrapped in an American flag - ready for their final flight home.

With thousands and thousands of American servicemen and women dying in the wars in the Middle East, I guess I knew in the back of my mind I would have one of them on a flight at some point, but I still was stunned and surprised when it occurred.

I was the Senior, or "A," flight attendant on a trip on the Boeing 737.  Everything about the trip had been ordinary until we arrived in Philadelphia, ready to make a quick BDL (the three letter code for the Bradley Airport near Hartford, Connecticut) turn.

It was mid-afternoon during the week and the loads were light.  A gate agent came down to let us know he was going to start boarding, and that we had a Marine honor guard on board who was escorting the remains of a U.S. soldier, killed in the line of duty in Afghanistan, back home to his final resting place in Connecticut.

The Marine came down and introduced himself and we did the same.  We made a little chit-chat and asked him if he had done this assignment very often - he hadn't - and assured him we would do anything possible to accommodate him.  The young Marine, who was very polite, serious and completely focused on his task at hand - probably just like the soldier he was escorting home - seemed a bit nervous. 

I led the Marine out the jetway and down the stairs to the tarmac.  We walked around the front of the plane and I stood with him at the open forward cargo door.  I wanted to make sure the notoriously lazy and surly Philadelphia baggage handlers were aware what was going on here, and when I turned to look at a couple of them coming out of the back cargo bin, they each took a look at the Marine and nodded.  I'm sure they had seen this ceremony many times in the past, and even they were smart enough to do their jobs in this situation.  I told the Marine I had to get back for boarding and I would be at the door when he returned.

We started boarding our 40-50 passengers headed up to Hartford.  There were only a couple of people sitting in First Class, and I was able to keep an eye out on our Marine, standing below on the right side of the plane.  A few minutes passed and finally a baggage loader arrived with the flag-draped coffin, and slowly pulled up to the open cargo door at the front of the plane.  The Marine stood at attention and saluted the coffin as it arrived.  He watched as the baggage handlers scurried around and loaded the precious cargo inside the bin.  They closed and locked the cargo door and pulled the baggage loader back from the plane.  The Marine, satisfied that everything was shipshape on the ground, walked around the front of the plane and back up the jetway.  I saw him leave his spot on the tarmac and walked over to the jetway and held the locked door open as he came up the stairs.  I motioned for him to enter the plane and he walked inside and sat in seat 1F, in the window seat in the first row of First Class, overlooking the cargo door on the right side of the plane.

The other passengers on the plane during this time, slowly becoming aware of what was happening with our special cargo, grew quiet and somber.  The normal chit-chat and ambient sounds during the boarding process fell silent.

It was a rare beautiful, clear day in Philadelphia - and even rarer still - we taxied out to the runway and took off without delay.  It was a brief 40 minute flight up to Hartford and I kept checking in with my Marine, asking if he was alright, and if there was anything I could do for him.  He was quite adamant - in a polite but firm way - that he wanted to be the first one out the door, and get down on the tarmac in Hartford just as soon as we blocked in at Bradley.  I assured him he would be the first one off.  He seemed more nervous as we started our descent.

We arrived at the gate at Hartford and the Marine was standing next to me at the forward door before it had even been opened, and, as promised, I let him out right away.  The gate agent led him down the jetway and back down to the tarmac.

The other passengers started to exit and we gave our normal "have a nice day's" and "thank you's" as they departed.  We had 30 minutes to wait until our return flight started to board, and the two other flight attendants and myself all took window seats in the first three rows on the right side of the plane.

An old, white, stretch Chevy Suburban pulled up with six uniformed Marines.  They came out of the Suburban and saluted the Marine who had escorted the coffin up to Hartford.  They met in a circle and discussed how this ceremony was going to play out.

The baggage handlers on the ramp in Hartford had pulled a baggage loader around to the front cargo bin, but hadn't yet opened the door.  The Marines, straight and stiff, stood at attention just off to the side of the plane.  And then a couple of vehicles, escorted by a police car and an official from the airport, pulled up along side the plane with the surviving family members of our deceased soldier.

There was a set of older couples that came out of each car.  We quickly assumed his parents had divorced and remarried, and it became quite easy by their emotions to discern who was our soldier's actual mother and father.

A black hearse pulled up as the family members continued to get out of the cars and comfort and reassure each other.  The hearse backed up to within a couple of feet of the baggage loader,  The driver of the hearse - expressionless and dressed in a dark suit - came around to the back of the hearse and opened its rear door.

As the family members clutched and held each other for strength and comfort off to the side of the baggage loader, a couple of baggage handlers scurried up the conveyor belt and inside the baggage bin.

My crew was whispering to each other about what was happening as the families first pulled up, but then we all fell quiet.  No one on the tarmac looked up or even seemed to notice that we were watching.

I saw our Marine position himself at attention and salute as the coffin started to slowly move down the conveyor belt, out of the plane and towards the hearse.  As the coffin reached the bottom of the belt, our Marine came around and directed the other Marines  into positions on each side of the casket, to act as pallbearers to move the coffin the last few feet from the bottom of the baggage loader and into the hearse.

The woman we had determined was the mother had remained stoic and motionless up to this point, but she started to lose her composure and broke down in tears as her son's remains were moved into the hearse.

Our Marine came back around to the mother and handed her a couple of envelopes and said something to her and she continued to cry.  The Marine hustled back to the hearse and got inside on the passenger side, carrying out his escort duty, and the family members made their way back into the vehicles sitting next to the plane and then drove off, following the hearse.

The Marine honor guard that had met the plane on the ground in Hartford returned to their vehicle and drove off.  The entire event was over within five minutes.  

All of us in the crew just sat there in silence for a moment, absorbing the emotional impact of the intimate scene we had just seen.  We were witness to a tragic ceremony that was being performed all throughout the country several times a day - and would be for years and years.  What do you say after witnessing an emotional moment like that?  What can you say?

I felt sorrow and empathy for the young soldier and his family.  Another one of thousands of young American men and women who died serving their country, and would never see their loved ones again.  Was it worth it?

I do know that President Bush - even though he initiated our country's two wars in Iraq and Afghanistan - never once went to Dover AFB - a mere 100 miles from the White House - to welcome home the remains of the thousands of young soldiers return from his wars.  A gesture that President Obama made within his first year of office.

We fight our wars now with live feeds and drones and precision weapons that make the killing seem so surgical and detached that I'm not sure we fully absorb the results of our actions.  As a Nation, we never collectively mourn the enormous loss of human life.  The U.S. media - until recently - was never allowed to cover the return of the bodies of the fallen at Dover.

It's important to remember war is not a video game and Americans continue to die every single day.  Is it worth it?  If you can witness the powerful scene I did of a mother breaking down over the body of her fallen son, and not reassess or question our government's actions overseas, well, then you are a better man than I.

Godspeed, young Connecticut soldier.  Godspeed.

The End of an Era

A US Air BAe-146 at the gate in San Francisco.

When you work for an airline, one of the events that marks the passage of time is when the company removes an aircraft from the fleet that you were trained on during your new hire training.  The BAC-111, BAe-146, Boeing 727, 737-200 and Douglas DC-9 were all aircraft that US Air owned and operated when I was hired in 1988, and which I worked at some point in my career.  Ten years later, US Air was no longer operating any of those aircraft, making me feel just a bit older.

But I only witnessed the retirement of one of those aircraft types in person, and that was the BAe-146.  Built by British Aerospace in the early 1980's, the planes were a commercial disaster for Pacific Southwest Airlines (P.S.A.) from the start.  They leaked oil, had problems with the cockpit windows, crammed 100 passengers into a fuselage that could only comfortably seat 80 and, most importantly, had four engines that were incredibly unreliable.

The planes were purchased by P.S.A. for their fuel efficiency, low noise rating and ability to serve smaller cities more effectively than its larger MD-80's.  The fuel savings touted by British Aerospace were negated when P.S.A. finally succumbed to passenger complaints and pulled a seat in each row of seats, drastically reducing their seating capacity.

The planes were ordered to serve smaller cities in the route network such as Stockton and Concord, California and Bend, Eugene and Medford, Oregon.  Stuck with planes with poor British engineering and reliability that never remotely lived up to expectations, P.S.A. tried to make the best of a bad situation.

They never could solve the engine reliability problem.  By the time P.S.A. had been purchased and merged with US Air in 1987, and I came on board in 1988, the employees joked the "BAe" in the plane's name stood for "Bring Another Engine."

The trips I flew on the 146 were invariably shorter "commuter" type flights of only an hour or so that would have as many as six "legs," or flights, in a day.  If I picked up a four day trip on the 146, I could just about count on a cancellation due to an  engine malfunction at some point during the trip.

After a couple of years of operation of the 27 BAe-146's that they had acquired in the purchase of P.S.A., US Airways management finally decided to retire the planes and take them offline in 1991.

By pure luck, I was flying a BAe-146 trip on its last day of operation.  By that time, there was a huge culture gap between the laid back former P.S.A. employees who made up the majority of the employees in US Air's West Coast operation and the hapless, button-down East Coast executives from US Air who claimed to know what was best in running an airline, and then proceeded to run the entire West Coast operation into the ground.

Never did I witness this East Coast/West Coast US Air/P.S.A. corporate culture clash more in evidence than working the 146 on its final day of operation.  I worked six flights that day and each flight was from SFO to a smaller city and then back.  Both the pilots working my trip had brought "For Sale" signs with them that they placed in the cockpit windows.

After we flew from SFO to Burbank for the first flight of the day, a group of former P.S.A. employees came out to take one last look at the old bird.  Two mechanics put some tape on it's front nose, made an outline of P.S.A.'s iconic "smile" on the front of its nose, and spray painted the smile back on the front of the plane.  The employees on the ramp all smiled, took pictures and waved as we departed.

A BAe-146 with PSA's trademark smile on the nose.

An hour later we flew back into SFO, and infuriated executives from US Air who were in California for the plane's retirement, ordered the smile removed from the plane's nose before it pushed back from the gate.  Once again, smiling former P.S.A. employees came out onto the ramp and took dozens of pictures before the smile was removed.

We flew down to Orange County and then back up to San Francisco; where we did the same dance all over again.  Former P.S.A employees, as they were doing at all the smaller stations that saw the 146 on her final day of service, came out to take pictures and give her a happy send-off.  A couple of mechanics again came over to the nose, placed some tape on the front to make the outline of the trademark smile, and then spray painted another smile on the nose, right over the one that had been removed in SFO an hour earlier.  The employees and passengers, all of whom preferred the old P.S.A. over the new US Air, loved it.

We took off for SFO once again and the US Air executives in suits and ties came out to meet our plane with frowns and long faces.  Apparently, each 146 on this final day that took off faceless from SFO or LAX returned with a fresh painted smile on the nose:  P.S.A. style.  The straight-laced, humorless suits from corporate in the East Coast were getting hotter and hotter.  They kept ordering the smiles to be removed, only to watch another 146 fly back into SFO or LAX with a new smile.

We did one last Burbank turn, one more painted smile on the nose and many pictures and waves, and then I walked off the plane in San Francisco for my final time.  I can't say I was going to miss the airplane itself.  It was cramped, ugly and mechanically unreliable.  The trips were long and tough to work.  But the pilots and flight attendants who worked the plane were typically young and fun, and the trips never left the Pacific time zone.

I didn't realize it at the time, but it was the end of an era.  The clueless, arrogant US Air executives from the East Coast, who were the first to boast they knew how to run an airline better anyone in California, would close all three crew bases in the largest state in the country, and discontinue every old P.S.A. route within a couple of years.  It was the first day of the good ol' days.

Where do old planes go when they are retired?  They wind up in airplane "graveyards" in the desert, mostly.  Arizona, Nevada and, like the BAe-146's, the Mojave desert in Southern California.  Where they all sit silently and wait.  For those of us old enough to remember the good old days to come back and catch their smile.

US Air's fleet of BAe-146's in the Mojave Desert.