It's been a year...

We had been exploring in York, England, for a few days and stopped in Cambridge on the way back to London. After our obligatory afternoon tea on the River Cam, we headed back to our friends’ home on the bank of the Thames. We’d been there a week and, although the jet-lag was over for us, the car ride made everyone ready for a nap, except me. The radio is always on in their home and I had to listen twice when I heard “Michael Jackson has died.” His much anticipated comeback tour was to begin in London on July 8 so his name was all over the news from the time we arrived.

Michael Jackson’s death was to this generation as Elvis Presley’s was to a generation earlier. Whether you liked his music (and I did) or not, he was an icon of the times. His persona was bigger than life. He had come from being a child star with his brothers to the ultimate pop star in front of our eyes over two decades. Even when things got very weird for him in the latter years, he stayed close to his fans and became quite a philanthropist.

One of Michael’s lasting tributes is the viral effects of the dance from his Thriller video that have permeated our society. Not since John Travolta’s famous disco moves in Saturday Night Fever has choreography moved the public the way Thriller did. It’s one of the all-time You Tube successes from subways and train stations to schools and living rooms. It is the number one music video of all time, according to MTV. I love the version that comes out of nowhere in the Jennifer Garner movie “13 Going On 30”. The movie is pretty sappy otherwise but that scene is a scream!

Michael’s music was all over BBC radio and television that night and we listened and reminisced to it right through my favorite dinner of Julia’s famous cottage pie, which just writing it makes my mouth water. His music is happy. It makes you feel good. It makes you want to dance…and we did, regardless of what the sight of me dancing does for you.

The next morning, we took a nice walk with our friends to the Two Rivers Mall near their home. I stopped in at the Boots Pharmacy and picked up all the London papers to add to my ever-growing souvenir collection. There was even a special section on “How to do the moonwalk.” People were trying it in all the open spaces at the Mall. It reminded me that Michael Jackson was an amazing entertainer. He made us smile. He made us move. He did what entertainers are supposed to do. He moved his audiences.

Throughout the period after his death and then the memorial service and burial, what struck me most was that the weirdness associated with him in recent years was not the topic. It was Michael Jackson’s talent and music and influence and philanthropy that took the front seat. That’s pretty special for an entertainer. It’s pretty special for any public figure.

I can’t do a playlist on my iPod without one Michael Jackson number just to get my feet moving and to put a smile on my face. Even one year later, Michael Jackson lives!

From my friend in South Africa

For twenty years, I have been travelling to South Africa. There have been many changes during that time and almost all for the better. The country is one of my most favorite places in the world. As we watch the World Cup open our eyes to an exciting and beautiful South Africa, I revisit the times that I have tried to explain why we, especially in America, don't fully or clearly understand the ways of that country. Now that I think of it, we are not particularly good at understanding or even trying to understand the ways of other countries. Regardless, a South African friend sent me the following "Open Letter To Foreign Media" this week and it makes my point very effectively. WAKA WAKA! (This Time for Africa!)

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by Peter Davies 09/06/2010 09:09

Dear World Cup visitors,
Now that you are safely in our country you are no doubt happily realising you are not in a war zone. This may be in stark contrast to what you have been bracing yourself for should you have listened to Uli Hoeness or are an avid reader of English tabloids, which as we all know are only good for wrapping fish ‘n chips and advancing the careers of large-chested teens on page three.
As you emerge blinking from your luxury hotel room into our big blue winter skies, you will surely realise you are far more likely to be killed by kindness than by a stray bullet. Remember that most of the media reports you have read, which have informed your views on South Africa, will have been penned by your colleagues. And you know what journos are like, what with their earnest two thousand word opuses on the op-ed pages designed to fix this country’s ills in a heartbeat. Based on exhaustive research over a three-day visit.
Funnily enough, we are well aware of the challenges we face as a nation and you will find that 95% of the population is singing from the same song-sheet in order to ensure we can live up to our own exacting expectations.
We are also here to look after you and show you a good time. Prepare to have your preconceived notions well and truly shattered.
For instance, you will find precious few rhinos loitering on street corners, we don’t know a guy in Cairo named Dave just because we live in Johannesburg, and our stadiums are magnificent, world-class works of art.
Which is obviously news to the Sky TV sports anchor who this week remarked that Soccer City looked ‘ a bit of a mess’. She didn’t realize the gaps in the calabash exterior are to allow in natural light and for illumination at night, and not the result of vandalism or negligence.
The fact that England, the nation which safely delivered Wembley Stadium two years past its due date, is prepared to offer us South Africans advice on stadium-readiness should not be surprising. The steadiest stream of World Cup misinformation has emanated from our mates the Brits over the past couple of years.
If it’s not man-eating snakes lurking in Rooney’s closet at the team’s (allegedly half-built) Royal Bafokeng training base, then it’s machete-wielding gangs roaming the suburbs in search of tattooed, overweight Dagenham dole-queuers to ransack and leave gurgling on the pavement.
In fact what you are entering is the world’s most fascinating country, in my opinion. I’m pretty sure you will find that it functions far more smoothly, is heaps more friendly and offers plenty more diversions than you could possibly have imagined.
In addition to which, the population actually acts like human beings, and not like they are being controlled by sinister forces from above which turns them into bureaucratically-manipulated robots.
Plus we have world’s most beautiful women. The best weather. Eight channels of SuperSport. Food and wine from the gods themselves. Wildlife galore. (Love the Dutch team’s bus slogan: “Don’t fear the Big 5; fear the Orange 11”).
Having said all that, Jo’burg is undoubtedly one of the world’s most dangerous cities. Just ask those Taiwanese tourists who got out of their hire car to take close-up snaps of tawny beasts at the Lion Park a few years back. Actually, ask what’s left of them. And did you know the chances of being felled by cardiac arrest from devouring a mountain of meat at one of our world class restaurants has been statistically proven to be 33.3% higher in Jozi than in any other major urban centre not built upon a significant waterway? It’s true. I swear. I read it in a British tabloid.
Having recently spent two years comfortably cocooned in small town America, I’m only too aware of how little much of the outside world knows about this country. The American channel I used to work for has a massive battalion of employees descending on World Cup country. It has also apparently issued a recommendation to its staff to stay in their hotels when not working.
Given that said corporation is headquartered in a small town which many say is “best viewed through the rear-view mirror”, I find the recommendation, if it’s true, to be utterly astounding. In fact I don’t believe it is true. Contrary to the global stereotype, the best Americans are some of the sharpest people in the world. The fact they have bought most tickets in this World Cup proves the point.
Of course I have only lived in Johannesburg, city of terror and dread, virtually all my life, so don’t have the in-depth knowledge of say, an English broadsheet journalist who has been in the country for the weekend, but nevertheless I will share some of my observations gleaned over the years.
Any foreign tourist or media representative who is worried about his safety in South Africa should have a word with the Lions rugby fans from last year, or the Barmy Army cricket supporters (lilywhite hecklers by day, slurring, lager-fuelled lobsters by night). They managed just fine, just like the hundreds of thousands of fans who have streamed into the country over the past fifteen years for various World Cups, Super 14 matches, TriNations tests and other international events. Negligible crime incidents involving said fans over said period of time.
Trivia question: which country has hosted the most global sporting events over the past decade and a half? You don’t need me to answer that, do you?
In addition. Don’t fret when you see a gaggle of freelance salesmen converge on your car at the traffic lights (or robots as we like to call them) festooned with products. You are not about to be hijacked. Here in Mzansi (nickname for SA) we do a lot of our purchasing at robots. Here you can stock up on flags, coat hangers, batteries, roses for the wife you forgot to kiss goodbye this morning and a whole host of useful merchandise.
Similarly, that guy who runs up as you park the rental car outside the pub intends no malice. He’s your car guard. Give him a buck or two and your vehicle will be safe while you refuel for hours on our cheap, splendid beer. Unless someone breaks into it, of course.
We drive on the left in this country. Exercise caution when crossing the road at a jog-trot with 15 kilograms of camera gear on your back. Exercise common sense full stop. Nothing more. Nothing less. If you want to leave wads of cash in your hotel room like our Colombian friends, don’t be surprised if it grows wings.
Bottomline. Get out there and breathe in great lusty lungfuls of this amazing nation. Tuck into our world-class food and wines. Disprove the adage that white men can’t dance at our throbbing, vibrant night-clubs. Learn to say hello in all eleven official languages. Watch at least one game in a township. You will not be robbed and shot. You will be welcomed like a lost family member and looked after as if you are royalty. Ask those Bulls rugby fans who journeyed to Soweto recently.
With a dollop of the right attitude, this country will change your life.
It’s Africa’s time. Vacate your hotel room. Join the party.
Waka waka eh eh.

"No Futbol!"...YES, WORLD CUP!!

Albissola Marina is a nice little seaside town on the Italian Riviera. We had hoped to reach Nice before nightfall but after a long, hot July day on the autostrada, where your foot constantly cramps up from pushing down on the gas pedal trying to keep up with the traffic, we were ready for a break and there was Albissola Marina. A delightful pensione, just a block from the beach, had a very nice room for us. We checked in quickly, took a beach stroll and then a nap before dinner. When we came downstairs, the reception room/bar was empty. We called out but no answer. It was a short walk to an inviting restaurant with a screened-in porch for dining. After a considerable wait, a young woman came out and begrudgingly took our order. There were no other diners and no sight of any traffic on the sidewalk or the street outside. Strange, we thought, but maybe this was another one of those European “siesta” times that we hadn’t experienced.

The meal was excellent and so was the pitcher of house wine that always seems to match the food perfectly. The young woman warmed up a bit as the evening went on but she was still a little grumpy. I finally put the sign language aside and, after a brief look at my phrase book, in my best pidgin Italian, I said, “Where are the people?”. This got no response at all. Then I asked, “Is there something wrong here?”. Two words came back, “No Calcio!”. “Calcio?,” I said. “Futbol…No Futbol!” she responded as she walked to the screen door and pointed down the street. I still didn’t get it. So we paid the bill and started walking down the empty street in the direction she had pointed. It was dark by then but it was still a very weird feeling as we walked along. A block and a half away, we heard a muffled cheer…then another…and another. In a very large house with a big front porch, we found virtually everyone who lived in Albissola Marina. The 21-inch, black & white television was sitting precariously on the top of a bookcase. THE soccer match was on television and the whole town was watching. Young and old, they all were squinting to catch every move as Milan played Amsterdam in something called the European Cup that was leading up to the World Cup in West Germany the next year.

This was my first real encounter with the power of soccer around the world. It’s football everywhere else and what we play on the gridiron is American Football. From my stuttering Italian conversation with some of the local revelers in the big house, I found that this was the only television in that part of town, that “calcio” is the Italian word for soccer and that the young woman from the restaurant had said “No Futbol!” because she was lamenting being the one left behind to work while the rest of her family came to watch the match. (Milan lost, by the way.) Soccer is indeed the world’s game.

Flash forward to today. We’re lucky here in Seattle to be a soccer town. Many of us know the game, follow it closely and even play, as long as our bodies hold together. The Sounders FC have become the darlings of professional soccer in this country and no youth or school soccer programs come close to those we have homegrown here. In my travels, I have been fortunate to see soccer being played in every corner of the world. For almost twenty years, I have been travelling to South Africa and I have made many wonderful friends there. This is their moment and South Africans are feeling the pride and jubilation. Sport is bringing us another world-changing spectacle. We saw it in Beijing with the Chinese…and then in Vancouver for the Canadians. My friends from the veld are well-connected in sports circles and they have brought me into the loop with the local organizers of these games. I’m “skyping” my opinions on a regular basis and still hope to be there before this momentous month is over.

The African continent and South Africa in particular has always been a mystical and spiritual place for me. As the players of Bufana Bufana, the South African team, came down the ramp into the stadium this morning and took the hands of school children, you could sense the emotion. Seeing our good friend, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, who has grown so close to Seattle and its people, cheering in the stands with that beautiful smile of his was truly heart-warming. Sadly missing was the heart of South Africa, 91-year-old Nelson Mandela, also a great friend to our community. In spite of a personal tragedy in his family, his message to the country came through loud and clear…these games must go on.

So put on your rally scarf. Grab your vuvuzela (we used to call them stadium horns but vuvuzela is so much more fun to say.). Get ready to toot and cheer because these games are happening…now! I told my good friend in the UK this morning that he’d better start practicing his Ugly American cheers because there will be no holds barred when the USA and England play tomorrow. British Petroleum be damned!!! It’s World Cup Fever…catch it!

June 6...a day to remember

The season began with Bobby Kennedy announcing his candidacy for President of the United States. Unfortunately that was the high mark of the Spring of 1968. Just over two weeks later, Martin Luther King was assassinated in Memphis; next came more than a month of the worst urban riots this country has ever seen; a month after that Bobby Kennedy was murdered in Los Angeles when he all but wrapped up the Democratic nomination; and then the country fell into a long demoralizing protest over the war in Vietnam that went on for years.

Spring is supposed to be a rebirth and a rejuvenation. Bobby Kennedy’s run for President was just such a breath of fresh air. We were ready for a change and it was clear that Bobby could deliver.

My first encounter with him had come earlier in my Capitol Hill internship as part of something called the White House Seminars. I was on the steering committee and each week during the spring and summer months, all the interns would gather to hear from various members of the amazing cadre of advisors that had been assembled by President Kennedy during his all-too-short term. Bobby was on the list as Attorney General and that initial engagement was electric. He was a whirling dervish. He was everywhere and hardly drew a breath while he was connecting with everyone in the room. There was a glimmer of recognition when we shook hands as he remembered his involvement in bringing my father and our family to Washington, DC, but that’s another story for another time.

Now Bobby Kennedy was going to be President. We just knew it. From my office in the Rayburn House Office Building, I had frequently connected with his staffers and, as I got to know them, it was an easy decision to join the Capitol Hill Supporters for RFK. The group was informal because we couldn’t be seen as political in our government positions. We met in nearby pubs and apartments while we were reviewing campaign strategies and speeches. Our opinions, along with many others, were constantly being sought on a host of relevant issues including the war.

Not five years earlier, his brother Jack had been assassinated in an earth-shaking event that changed our country immeasurably. Bobby constantly reminded us that a mere 8 years before, he was a campaign manager and, therefore, knew and appreciated all the work we were doing to help him get elected. Working on his campaign made it easier to cope with the volatility of the times. It definitely kept us moving in the right direction. Even when the orders came to report for military service, my father’s life-long commitment to the Army seemed in perfect concert with the fact that Bobby and his brothers had all served as well. You don’t have to want war to feel compelled to protect your freedoms. I never questioned it.

Just before Bobby headed to the west coast in May for the Oregon and California primaries, he stopped by the Capitol Hill apartment where we were meeting. He was there for half an hour. He read parts of speeches on civil rights, poverty and the war that he wanted feedback on. We had heard his words before but now the messages were very finely tuned. To the group, he said, “I’m a little concerned about Senator McCarthy in Oregon (note: McCarthy upset Bobby there) but Cesar Chavez and California will put us over the top.” He shook hands with each of us as he left with thanks for our efforts. “I’m told your father is doing a great job at the Pentagon,” he said to me. The rush of pride had to be noticeable. And then, he was gone.

Certain dates become landmarks in our history. “Black Thursday” when the stock market crashed on October 29, 1929, was indelible to my grandparents; The attack on Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941; D-Day, June 6, 1944, when allied troops, including my father, landed in Normandy; of course, September 11, 2001; all dates ingrained in our learning. We celebrate the birthdays of some our great leaders but lately I’ve noticed that the dates when our leaders have been struck down are beginning to blur. Abraham Lincoln was shot on April 14, 1865, Good Friday, and died on April 15 (OK, I looked that one up!); JFK was killed on Friday, November 22, 1963…even this date has dulled in the minds of the current generation; Martin Luther King was gunned down on Thursday, April 4, 1968, and I’ve written about that day and those immediately after; and a serious attempt on the life of President Reagan occurred on Monday, March 30, 1981 as I was on my way to a client meeting in Austin, Texas, when we heard the news on the new upstart cable television network called CNN.

Tuesday, June 4, 1968, was a run-of-the-mill day on Capitol Hill. I did some research and writing on two education bills that were being presented for committee review. Lunch was at the Rayburn Building cafeteria for some of its famous bean soup. The Capitol Hill group met briefly at the end of the day for a quick rally before we all headed home to watch the primary results come in from California. Nothing was really instant then. There wasn’t even much instant reporting because live coverage was very limited. Although there were voting machines, it felt like every ballot was being counted by hand, maybe literally one hand, and it took forever. It was after 2am eastern time on Wednesday, June 5, that Bobby Kennedy was declared the winner in California. Bleary-eyed, I watched him give his victory speech on my little black & white television just before 3am. All I could think about was Bobby becoming President. Things would be right in the world again.

I left the TV on while I got ready for bed. Suddenly there was a commotion, screams and shouts of “Bobby’s been shot!” It was frightening. I woke up my parents and the vigil began. I think we really knew he would not recover but we held on to that slender thread of hope throughout the entire day. Reports came periodically and we would try to work in between but our minds couldn’t function clearly. The office was a tomb. No one could leave the conference room where there was a television and radio. We all drove home in silence and it wasn’t until the early morning hours on Thursday, June 6, when word came that he had died.

Such emotional times those were. Bobby’s funeral would be in New York while I was driving to the Midwest to attend college graduation ceremonies. I came right back to DC feeling the need not to miss a moment of the requiem. A week later, I went to the gravesite at Arlington Cemetery. Near his brother, in the green grass, was a simple white cross and marker. It seemed so right. I shot a couple of pictures (one above) because the crowds were gone. It was an intense moment. It was hard during those times to keep mustering the strength to feel good about our country. But we had to try.

So you can place Thursday, June 6,1968, on the list of dates to remember from our times. We lost ground in our quest for peace and equality on that day but the example had been set. We just have to keep trying.