Excerpt: The Journal

Dubai
I now sit at a Starbucks adjacent to the Palace hotel. In front of me is a reflecting pool showing the Arabic looking shops across the way. Behind the shops, the Burj Tower looms impressively, thrusting its glistening spike into a light blue sky. The temperature is warm, but, in a long sleeve shirt, I am not yet sweating.
It's a day off – the first day of the weekend in Dubai. The Emirates are not quite as oil-soaked as Saudi and so compromise a little with the Western weekend. I depart tomorrow.
I have been remiss in my journaling and regret that. There are so many interesting, amusing, and thought-provoking things that happen while traveling and they quickly fade from memory. Even if remembered, the luster and immediacy drops with time.
In Turkey, the drive to the airport was a thrill. The taxi was a bit shabby; but the driver was movie star handsome – a cross between a young Al Pacino and a youthful Marlon Brando. His ambience as a driver was that of John as a teenager. He slouched in the seat, seemingly indifferent to his surroundings, rolling the steering wheel through turns with one hand, while mildly glancing at his surroundings.
It seems that he too felt that he was playing in a movie and that laws of physics were toys to be played with, not facts to fear. He drove with no seatbelt and offered none to his quivering passenger in the back. He constantly raced the engine and tapped on the brakes, steering with nonchalance past and between the cars, buses, and pedestrians that filled the crowded streets, reaching speeds marginally safe on an open freeway. It reminded me of the time I drove a go-kart in Finland, except that the obstacles contained real people and massive blocks of steel and concrete – not rubber designed to rebound a small vehicle safely back onto the track.
To our left on the Sea of Marmara was an armada of ships, large and small, spread out as if waiting to storm Normandy beach, but instead aligning to pierce the Bosporus Straits. Through the open window, a mixture of exhaust and sea intermingled and tossed my hair.
As we hammered along the highway, I thought how much fun this would be to write about – if I lived. But, a week has passed and the memory and thrill has faded and my fingers struggle across the keyboard.
We arrived at the airport in half the time the hotel had estimated. I shook Marlin Pacino's hand and gave him a double tip as my heart slowed to a normal pace.
Greece

Friday, June 13, 2008, Athens

I had dinner alone tonight.

We finished the coating trial at Corinth Pipe Works in mid afternoon, and
after lunch in a small fishing-village restaurant cooled by the breeze from
the sea, we drove back to Athens and dropped Martin at the airport. Ion and
I stalled in traffic for a long while on the way to the hotel and had the
chance to get acquainted. It was seven by the time we arrived there and
eight-thirty before I ventured out for dinner.

The restaurant was a short distance from the hotel and half way up a long
flight of concrete stairs. A large patio separated the stairs from the
restaurant entrance. I took a table for two at one end of the patio. A table
across the aisle held two men and a woman, speaking Greek. Half way to the
other side was a table of six occasionally lapsing into English, so some
were visitors, but the accents were not native borne English. It must have
been a common language.

I sat, and a waiter came to spread a thin paper cover over the table cloth,
smoothing it as if it was the finest of silk. I ordered in English – a half
liter of the house red, a plate of olives, a Greek salad, and toasted bread.
He nodded and departed.

The wine soon arrived – a cold carafe, moisture glistening and running down
the side. The glass was a Gunsmoke-vintage shot glass. I took a sip. This
was not a wine that you poured into a glass, swirled and took a sip before
holding it up to the light to observe the legs. There was no hint of
blackberry, or licorice, or oak, or any subtle nuance. It was a solid, mild
and pleasant-on-the-tongue sip of rose colored loveliness that had a
slightly astringent after taste. It was not a strong wine – I soon
discovered that I had to take a bite of toast, and wait for several moments
between bites of dinner and a taste of wine, if I wanted to experience the
flavor at all.

The olives were black and velvety on the inner cheek and spiky on the nose
as I carefully separated the pit from the slightly acid flavor. The salad
was a mixture of solid chunks of fleshy tomato, thin carved pieces of
cucumber and onion with slices of green pepper flavored with olive oil and
vinegar. It was covered with a slab of feta cheese, smooth on the teeth and
strong on the palette. It was the main reason for the toast before the wine.

Far above the street, the light drained from the sky visible between the new
grape leaves covering the patio. Street noises, filtered up the narrow alley
way – motorcycles purring though the gears, cars braking. It was only half
way through dinner that I realized that the temperature was so perfect that
I was not aware of it.

The patio soon filled. Three young-middle aged women took the center table
and lit up cigarettes that quickly sullied the air. A couple took the table
next to me and talked in quiet voices, cutlery clinking on dishes and
gurgled sounds of wine pouring. The waiter cleared the table and presented
the bill.

Night arrived and the lights hanging from the grape arbor were subtle but
alive. I didn't want to leave.

But I did.