There were a few people returning home from Athens on my flight back to Boston. They were easy to spot: tan, exhausted, and carrying representations of those ridiculous mascots ("a genetic experiment gone horribly, ghastly wrong").

It often does when I travel. It went like this:

I walked into a bar . . . No, no, I should back up a bit.

I like to walk. Walking is, I think, the best way to get to know any space, urban or rural. When I travel I usually walk for about an hour before dinner to learn the city, to think about the day behind and the day yet to come, to rehearse my presentations, to reflect on what I've learned.

I went for an exceptionally long walk about Bonn, about two hours. I finally returned to the neighborhood of my hotel and, hot and thirsty, went into a bar I'd passed much earlier and thought looked inviting. I hauled out the one crucial phrase necessary for any travel in Germany, "Bier, bitte".

"Kein bier." No beer.

That couldn't be right. I checked my hearing, made sure that I was paying attention in the right language, made sure that this was in fact Germany. No mistake. Incredulous, "Kein bier?"

"Kein alkohol."

Right. I had walked into what I can only hope is the only non-alcoholic bar in Germany. I walked away - and never looked back.

Kathryn Schulz raises a host of questions about mood and medication in Japan - and in the world - and wisely doesn't try too hard to answer them firmly. Thought-provoking.

" 'Melancholia, sensitivity, fragility -- these are not negative things in a Japanese context,' Tooru Takahashi, a psychiatrist who worked for Japan's National Institute of Mental Health for 30 years, explained. 'It never occurred to us that we should try to remove them, because it never occurred to us that they were bad.' . . . Koji Nakagawa, GlaxoSmithKline's product manager in Japan for Paxil: 'People didn't know they were suffering from a disease. We felt it was important to reach out to them.' . . . [T]he medicalization of depression makes it difficult to believe in any treatment but medicine. Rather than expanding options for care for those who suffer, the globalization of psychopharmacology may ultimately sow a monocrop of ideas about health and sickness. "

Whenever I am in my hotel room I turn on the Olympics. The Games are very different on German television from how they appear on US networks. For one thing, some sports are taken more seriously in Germany (badminton, cycling pursuit, team handball). For another, I can't quite follow the commentary - but having the sound on is still more interesting than muting it.

Judo is one of those sports that has been on much more than it would be in the US. In fact, it seems to be on every time I turn on the set. Firday, when I returned to my room, there was judo. Just as I was thinking to myself, "my god, not judo again! this is the most boring . . ." the women's 78kg gold medal match got interesting.

Maki Tsukada of Japan faced off against Dayma Beltran from Cuba. Beltran took Tsukada down hard, but couldn't quite get the Japanese woman's shoulders to touch the canvas. Beltran changed her point of leverage in an attempt to roll Tsukada onto her back, but Tsukada was immovable. Then Beltran readjusted her grip - and Tsukada rolled her right over and into a hold that won the match.

I gaped at the screen. Did I really see what I just saw? An athlete beaten, an inch away from a silver medal, and in a split second Tsukada turned a position of defeat into the starting point of victory. It was awesome. I was stunned. What had happened to me? I was moved by a judo match!

Over the past few days I had watched enough judo to acquire the beginnings of comprehension. I had begun to "see" some of what makes judo special, I could actually see the brilliant golden flash in that moment.

A "disaster" is a crisis that overwhelms people's capacities to manage or cope. That's a definition from professional international disaster response. It's been ringing in my head for the past two days as I've watched and read reports on Hurricane Charley.

I watched footage of the National Guard, mobilized to assist and rescue, footage of the firemen and police and EMTs. I saw pictures of first aid stations, emergency shelters, and tables piled high with food. I heard the word "insurance" invoked time and again.

From the New York Times:

" 'We're here in obviously a residential neighborhood where people's lives have been destroyed,' Mr. Bush told reporters accompanying him. He said that many have started to worry about insurance claims, which the 'state is organized to handle.

'The key is just to make sure that they expedite the services which are available as quickly as possible,' he said. 'The government is set up to respond very quickly. And we are.' "

There is a heaven on this earth and it is Gillette Stadium¹. Last night, before the first Patriots pre-season game, I had dinner with the Krafts. No kidding.

At a charity auction for the American Repertory Theater a friend of mine bid on and won tickets to the game - with extras. He invited three buddies to go with him to attend a pre-game buffet with the Lombardi trophies and then take a walk on the field. Sheer joy!

The buffet, we were told, usually attracts between three and four dozen people, though for pre-season games the number is often less. Because of the threatened rain (which waited to begin falling until the 1st quarter) we four were the only people there. Bob Kraft, greatest of sports team owners, ringmaster of one circle in my internal circus, came in, grabbed some sushi, and chatted with us. "Mr Kraft, you have given me - us - hours and hours of enjoyment. Thank you!" Jonathan Kraft came in, grabbed some sushi, and spent about a half-hour telling us which young players to watch and just shooting the breeze. Myra Kraft joined us for a spell and we chatted about sponsoring the arts in Boston. Bob came back for more sushi and we talked about food.

We were led through the bowels of the stadium, through the empty players' dining room, to the field. We high-fived Pat Patriot. We passed the cheerleaders coming out of their dressing room, gamefaces grimly set². Every employee smiled and said "hi". It felt like a small town.

We walked out into a glorious summer sunset and onto a field of dreams. Brady and Davey were tossing a ball back and forth, soft tosses, but tight spirals every time. Ty Law led the secondary on a slow lap around the field to a rolling cheer. Corey Dillon, "a beast!" our handler proudly proclaimed, stretched by himself.

We were stopped by the players' entrance to the field to allow the rest of the team to come out, encouraged by Romeo Crennel (who has lost a fair amount of weight), shouting and pounding his hands together. Patrick Pass danced by us, bobbing his head, shuffling his feet, and pistoning his hands - and then he danced back to us with a huge grin before darting off to join the rest of the running backs.

David Givens is not six feet - not even close. J.J. Stokes, by contrast, is huge - 6'4" might not be generous enough. Tedy Bruschi never stopped smiling - or moving. Roosevelt Colvin ran well. Josh Miller's jersey has both names because no one knows who he is yet (they will; a 48 yard average is nothing to sneeze at; he also handshakes the rest of the punt coverage team after a good punt). Brady is the most relaxed person I have ever seen. I could go on and on and on.

After the pre-game warm-ups and ceremonies we hustled up to our seats: club section (first deck), two rows back, fifty yard line. We sat back, got drenched, and watched some football.

Heaven.

. . .

¹ Football is one of my preferred forms of entertainment. Do I need to elaborate? I think not.

² Seriously, the cheerleaders were in mid-season form. They had their choreography down, none of the missed timing or missed assignments that characterized the players. Our section got up a nice head of steam shouting at the Eagles after every flag (thirteen penalties accepted, but at least twenty flags thrown for Eagle miscues), "hire the choreographer!" Hey, we thought it was funny.

Professional to the bone, the cheerleaders never put on their rain gear. No matter how hard the rain came down, they danced through every stoppage of play. We were wondering how their conditioning was, would they start to flag in the third or fourth quarters? Nope. They hauled out the longer, more vigorous routines in the second half just to show us they could. Professional.

I once knew a beautiful woman.

When I was just out of high school I worked in a hardware store in Harvard Square. Every couple of weeks, the door would open and the store would be filled with Julia Child's booming, unmistakeable voice. I swear the glass rattled.

"Lightbulbs! My oven light went out! I need a replacement! Can you imagine me cooking in the dark!"

And then she would laugh. I swear things fell off the shelves.

The old timers would mutter under their breath and scuttle toward the back room or to the second floor, leaving her to one of the younger staff. She was too loud, too big, too in love with life. I never hesitated when she came in, "Ms Child! What can I help you with today?"

"Mousetraps!" she roared, sharing it with the store. "I need mousetraps! Don't tell anyone! What would people think if they knew I needed mousetraps!"

And then she laughed to fill the whole world. And so did I.

The writer has many reasons for not writing, some of them good, some not. Those reasons are irrelevant to the reader¹. The writer has many excuses he uses with himself, some good, most of them not. Those excuses are pointless with the reader. Choices are made: to write or not, to read or not.

I enjoy writing and I am amused and gratified that some people actually read. I also enjoy not writing, but then can derive no amusement or gratification from this set of exercises. So, what do you know, there is an incentive.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

We visited my parents and hers, sailed, played with the dog, played with my niece and nephew (6 and 8) and with her nephew (right between 1 and 2).

We bought antiques, though I daresay that I didn't really enter into the spirit of the thing. Mrs Martial went antiquing with my mother one day and then the next she took me directly to the items that interested her and asked for a thumbs up or down. The total time between heaving my recumbent bulk from the chair on the porch to the moment I eased back into it was about an hour. The ice cubes in my lemonade hadn't yet melted completely. And we only spent $150.

I read one novel (Perfect Circle by Sean Stewart; "good!") - and I read it in one sitting. I read one book of history (Courtesans and Fishcakes by James Davidson; "good!"). I read the newspaper front to back every morning and didn't think about it again.

I listened to Mark Lanegan's new record Bubblegum several times. Rock 'n roll fans, do yourself some good and sit down with it.

What did I do on my summer vacation? Absolutely nothing.

. . .

¹ But not, I know, irrelevant to my friends out there. Cheers!