The international education clan gathered last week in Nice-on-the-Med to talk about teaching, testing and technology. Indeed, the conference program ran to 297 pages and nearly cost me a few Euros in excess luggage fees on the way home.
Also on the agenda was the delicate subject of what happens now that the bottom has fallen out of the world economy? International schools in their various configurations are no less susceptible to a downturn than the many multinational companies whose children need a good education.
From Rio to Rome and Moscow to Manila, teachers and administrators are holding their breath. In other words ~ will Nice be as nice this time next year?
Down along the Promenade des Anglais, life goes on. Here the English took to spending the winter next to the blue Mediterranean starting back in the mid-18th century. Today, the young and old, the fat and thin, the bicyclists and baby strollers, the naked and covered walk, sun or bathe
The French sense of joie de vivre is everywhere including the ubiquitious outdoor cafes, fresh off the vine Beaujolais nouveau and delectable foods. The infamous French attitude to work was also evident. Très bien timing, I'd say. Air France was on strike over the weekend, the national rail system was down on Monday and Tuesday, teachers and medical technicians were off on Wednesday and French Telecom shut down on Thursday and Friday. No access to the internet. Hence, I couldn’t post this entry until today.
Never mind, Nice is still heaven.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Friday, November 7, 2008
RIP: Old Green Friend
In addition to voting this week and getting ready for a lengthy trip, I had to retire my silent companion ~ the 21” travel-mate suitcase that has been by my side since Day 1.
The immediate cause of death was a faulty spring that pushes and pulls the sliding handle. This is the travel equivalent of a heart attack because without the handle in the “out” position, you are carrying that sucker across the terminal floor like a chubby child that should be walking.
My wife says I bought the case 15 years ago (how does she remember such trivia?). I would guess a dozen but certainly “Old Green” has been faithfully by my side these past five years in my current job. Vague I’m not on this – at least 150 school visits, conferences, meetings and nearly 1,000,000 travel miles. That’s respect if you ask me.
Old Green has been as far east as Kazakhstan (twice no less), south to Santiago, Chile and quietly-without-a-fuss-thank-you back and forth to Europe like a cat casually crossing the street. There is a coffee stain from some long forgotten café and another one from a Bloody Mary that I spilt at London Gatwick. The reddish scar on the front of the bag is the indelible security sticker from Warsaw airport.
Old Green has been variously a footrest (A-), an impromptu writing desk (C+) and pillow (D-). Someone mistakenly took the bag from the airport in Toronto but quickly returned it after seeing the shabby condition.
Old Green suffered the trauma last spring of a crazed sniffer dog attack at Bogota’s El Dorado airport. [At the time I selflessly thought better the bag than me]. So ferocious was this assault that the wheels were removed and the handle casing poked repeatedly by a long, thin screwdriver. Alas, no drugs, only dirty clothing. That was the beginning of the end, I think.
In checking the pockets one last time, I found two oversized paperclips, one Dutch guilder and an unused Turkish Airways baggage tag. Memories in funny places.
The immediate cause of death was a faulty spring that pushes and pulls the sliding handle. This is the travel equivalent of a heart attack because without the handle in the “out” position, you are carrying that sucker across the terminal floor like a chubby child that should be walking.
My wife says I bought the case 15 years ago (how does she remember such trivia?). I would guess a dozen but certainly “Old Green” has been faithfully by my side these past five years in my current job. Vague I’m not on this – at least 150 school visits, conferences, meetings and nearly 1,000,000 travel miles. That’s respect if you ask me.
Old Green has been as far east as Kazakhstan (twice no less), south to Santiago, Chile and quietly-without-a-fuss-thank-you back and forth to Europe like a cat casually crossing the street. There is a coffee stain from some long forgotten café and another one from a Bloody Mary that I spilt at London Gatwick. The reddish scar on the front of the bag is the indelible security sticker from Warsaw airport.
Old Green has been variously a footrest (A-), an impromptu writing desk (C+) and pillow (D-). Someone mistakenly took the bag from the airport in Toronto but quickly returned it after seeing the shabby condition.
Old Green suffered the trauma last spring of a crazed sniffer dog attack at Bogota’s El Dorado airport. [At the time I selflessly thought better the bag than me]. So ferocious was this assault that the wheels were removed and the handle casing poked repeatedly by a long, thin screwdriver. Alas, no drugs, only dirty clothing. That was the beginning of the end, I think.
In checking the pockets one last time, I found two oversized paperclips, one Dutch guilder and an unused Turkish Airways baggage tag. Memories in funny places.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Hawaii: the road beyond Hana
If you are going all the way to Hawaii you might as well see a couple of islands.
So there we were ~ having hardly caught our breath from the Volcanoes National Park on the Big Island ~ moving on to the Gauguinesque scenes on beautiful Maui ~ dazzling Maui ~ gorgeous Maui ~ we want to go again soon Maui.
Maui is so lovely that old surf-boards come here to dry out and seek their final rest ~ as this picture taken “up country” shows. Charles Lindbergh, the famous aviator is buried at the far end of the island.
In Maui you either drive up ~ toward the sky ~ or down ~ toward the sea. Urged on by travel guides, we drove the Road to Hana ~ eyes half closed with fear. The town of Hana, an intersection with a general store, is only about 50 miles from the airport but the journey takes about four hours, as the road is very winding, very narrow and passes over 60 bridges, 40 or so of which are only one-lane passages.
The road beyond Hana takes you to Lindbergh’s grave site ~ sort of. Here the road is legally closed (as the big sticker on my rental car contract pointed out) but there is no warning or barrier. We just drove on and on and on in ignorance. This is real white knuckle stuff. Mountains on one side - beach and surf on the other. The signage should have given it away: dangerous road, no shoulder, livestock crossing, falling rocks, waves ashore, washout ahead, wild pigs and return here. The only ones missing were: pray now and imminent death.
We did turn back (although locals say you can drive the whole island) and finally found Lindbergh’s lovely grave site under a huge banyan tree in a quiet church yard overlooking the vast, blue Pacific. It was worth the drive.
So there we were ~ having hardly caught our breath from the Volcanoes National Park on the Big Island ~ moving on to the Gauguinesque scenes on beautiful Maui ~ dazzling Maui ~ gorgeous Maui ~ we want to go again soon Maui.
Maui is so lovely that old surf-boards come here to dry out and seek their final rest ~ as this picture taken “up country” shows. Charles Lindbergh, the famous aviator is buried at the far end of the island.
In Maui you either drive up ~ toward the sky ~ or down ~ toward the sea. Urged on by travel guides, we drove the Road to Hana ~ eyes half closed with fear. The town of Hana, an intersection with a general store, is only about 50 miles from the airport but the journey takes about four hours, as the road is very winding, very narrow and passes over 60 bridges, 40 or so of which are only one-lane passages.
The road beyond Hana takes you to Lindbergh’s grave site ~ sort of. Here the road is legally closed (as the big sticker on my rental car contract pointed out) but there is no warning or barrier. We just drove on and on and on in ignorance. This is real white knuckle stuff. Mountains on one side - beach and surf on the other. The signage should have given it away: dangerous road, no shoulder, livestock crossing, falling rocks, waves ashore, washout ahead, wild pigs and return here. The only ones missing were: pray now and imminent death.
We did turn back (although locals say you can drive the whole island) and finally found Lindbergh’s lovely grave site under a huge banyan tree in a quiet church yard overlooking the vast, blue Pacific. It was worth the drive.
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