Zugunruhe: Helping great people get [good] things done: Zoog.un.roo.ee

Southern Crossings

I’ve been traveling for the past seven days. My mom was homesick--ready for the company of her sisters and the taste of southern food. I hadn’t been home in a long time so I agreed to accompany her as her chauffeur.

I drove to my hometown and started making phone calls. I saw people I hadn’t seen in years and years. I went to see the lady who used to take care of me when I was six years old--she took one look at me and said, “Girl, you favor yourself!” One conversation with a woman I went to high school with touched off a reunion with a friend I hadn’t seen in 30 years. People tell me I don’t look older and I’ve decided to forgive them all for lying to me like that.

To be honest, I’ve been in culture shock. People call me sugar whether we’ve met or not except for my younger cousins who call me “Miss Tara” and ma’am. Boys (and I do mean boys) flirt with me shamelessly. It’s not about me, of course, this is just what southern boys do. They’re good at it and they enjoy it. Me, too. When my friend told me about her daughter’s coming out party, I had to remind myself that she meant it was an introduction into high society, not that her daughter was a lesbian. One person proudly told me that his son was going to college at Oxford--Oxford, Mississippi, that is--at Ole Miss. Everywhere I go, people are dressed in camo. Not for hunting, but at the mall. I saw a girl in a sequined camo tank top with hunter orange short-shorts and pink flip flops the other day. She blended in nicely with all the other girls who were similarly attired.

When I got here, people asked me where I was from. They said I talked funny. When I get back to Oregon, I’ll get the same question--no telling how long it’ll be before I stop using y’all as an all purpose form of address. As in, “Where do y’all want to go eat?” or “What are y’all fixin’ to do?” The moment I knew I was really in the swing of things was when the following sentence came out of my mouth: “Y’all people are crazy down here.” This in response to a very large, jacked up 4-wheel drive pick up that came barreling around a curve on my side of the road. I slammed on the brakes but he smiled at me so charmingly that I immediately forgot what I was mad about. Did I mention that I’ve enjoyed all these southern boys?

I’d been away so long that I’ve committed many a faux pas. I’d forgotten how to peel crawfish and after being reminded how, I declined to suck the heads. Ordering ice tea was more complicated than I remembered--the waitresses look at my reprovingly and say, “Down here, we have sweet and un-sweet. Which do you want?” I’ve had enough sweet tea to float a houseboat and give me “sugar diabetes.”

Truthfully, though, I’ve had so much fun since I’ve been here that I’ve gained seven pounds and started calling everyone I meet “baby.” I was a nominal vegetarian when I got here. That had to go out the window as soon as I arrived. It’s because down here, every meal revolves around meat. The days begin with a big breakfast. All my aunts fix me bacon and eggs and while we’re drinking our coffee, lunch is being planned. Except they don’t call it lunch--it’s dinner. At dinner, we start talking about supper. Every meal includes dessert, coffee, and lots of conversation. People tell us their funniest stories and we all laugh so hard that tears roll down our faces.

They say you can’t go home again. And I guess that’s true. I don’t want to live down here. The fixation on bassfishing and lack of wireless access would get to me after a while. But a visit now and then is just fine. Now, if y’all excuse me, I have to decide where I’m going to dinner and think about what we’re having for supper--ok, baby?

Where to find great service in Kansas City, Missouri

A group of Duct Tape coaches-all the new ones--gathered in Kansas City, Missouri last week. We traveled from all over the country to learn yet more about Duct Tape Marketing from John Jatsch. I had a great time, met some fabulous people, and came home with my brain bulging with new information and tons of great ideas and inspiration. Another thing the trip did for me was to make me even more aware of the rarity of truly good service.

Most business owners will say that their companies deliver good service. However, what I’ve come to realize is that service is a lot like clothing sizes. If you a compare today’s clothing sizes to those of years past, you’ll find that being a ladies size six these days is more like being a size ten was fifteen years ago. Today’s good service seems to be more or less equivalent to yesteryear’s fair or so-so. It’s just not all that good.

The difference between good and great service got thrown into especially high relief after I devoured Zingerman’s Guide to Giving Great Service by Ari Weinzweig on the flight home. Ari Weinzweig is one of the founding partners of Zingerman’s Deli  in Ann Arbor, Michigan. What once was a tiny delicatessen, is now a celebrated family of businesses that hauls in over $25 million… a year. Yeah, baby, this is small business gone big time. But Zingerman’s is famous for remembering that each one of those $25 million dollars represents a purchase by a person. A real human being. That means that Zingerman’s has a commitment to customer service that just won’t quit.

Take, for instance, how Zingerman’s handles customer complaints. When a customer has a complaint, no matter how large or small, there’s a form that a Zingerman’s employee fills out. They call it their Code Red (to see it, go to this link). The idea is to document, simply and accurately, what happened and what was done about it. The idea is to make the situation right--whatever that takes. What does making it right mean? It might mean having an order replaced free of charge. It might mean an apology from one of the partners.

The folks at Zingerman’s aren’t stupid or pie in the sky about their commitment to great service. On the flip side of their Code Red form, the responsible employee must calculate the cost of the incident in time and dollars. Think about that. An busboy can learn what an error costs the business he works for. If you’ve hired employees that are good of heart, that has to have an effect.

The bottom line is not that Zingerman’s gives the best service anywhere. Frankly, I’ve never been there so I can’t say. But here’s what I do know for sure: any business that has the willingness to put customer service first--really, truly, demonstrably--will stand out from their competition. Having been in umpteen restaurants and other businesses over the past five days, I can tell you that genuinely good service is a real rarity and when it does occur, I remember it.

For Kansas City, here’s a lot of love and best wishes to

• Starker’s: from the greeting at the door by the young man who handles valet parking to the wait staff and everyone in between--friendly, warm, and pleasant--with a killer wine selection and a lovely view. The food was outstanding.
• The Kansas City Marriott: I arrived worn out and unprepared. Todd at the front desk was totally on top of everything and helped me get oriented in a flash.
  
• The Holiday Inn at the Plaza: friendliest staff on the planet.
  
• Eden Alley: vegetarian paradise in the basement of the Unity Temple on the Plaza.
• Last but not least, thanks to you, John Jantsch for your hospitality. Thanks for letting us be part of your incredible organization. You didn’t have to buy us all that fabulous meal at Brio and let us bring our spouses, but you did. Thanks! You rock, dude.

Newark is the Armpit of the Universe

No offense to those who live in Newark, New Jersey, but it’s not my favorite travel destination. No matter how you approach it--by air, land, or sea--it’s crowded, dirty, and just plain grumpy. OK, not just grumpy--rude--in a get-the-fuck-outta-my-face sort of way.

We drove up from Cape May, with a side trip to Marge’s Diner in Cape May Courthouse (simply wonderful chicken salad and the requisite, loud, eighties hits), paid endless tolls and kissed goodbye at Terminal C. Doug drove away and I marched in to the roiling mass of humanity otherwise known as Newark International. With my usual trepidation, I approached the handy kiosk and inserted my frequent flier card. I am never sure about these little automated boarding pass printers. I don’t quite trust them to recognize me and put me on the right flight to the desired destination, especially when I’m flying Continental, an airline that seems to bring out the very worst in my travel karma. Several menu choices later, I was told that my reservation could not be “retrieved.” Any semblance of serenity I’d had during my zen-like days of birdwatching evaporated. I gritted my teeth. I cursed. Then I stomped over to the line of passengers at the check-in.

“Any bags to check?” inquired the agent who was directing traffic to the gate agents. “No,” I replied. “Then why did you stand in line?” she asked helpfully as only someone in Newark can, pointing me toward a open slot. I choked back an explicative and went to the agent’s desk. There I was pointed to another kiosk, identical to the first one, to check myself in. Insert card. Type in confirmation number. Rejected. Again.

Finally, the gate agent registered my existence. “Give me your driver’s license,” he said, without preamble. He typed. He grimaced. He returned my license. “Your flight is tomorrow.” Huh? “And today’s flight is over-sold. I can’t even put you on standby. Next!” Great. Just great.

I scurried out of the way and punched in Douglas’ cell number. No answer. I dialed again. Still no answer. About the third or fourth time I dialed, I caught on that his cell phone was probably in his backpack. In the trunk of the car. Great. Just great.

I wandered aimlessly for a few minutes. I found a place to sit and ten seconds later, got up and walked some more. Finally, I wandered outside where there were a few benches and only a couple of smokers. I sat down in the sunshine and took a deep breath. I got out of my head and back into the present moment. A woman walked over and started tossing crumbs to a drab, female House Sparrow. The woman smiled and said, “I love these little birds.” I smiled back and took in the warmth of the sun, the touch of the breeze, the odd irony of watching someone feed crumbs to a tiny bird in the midst of a chaotic, adrenaline-soaked airport. This is a gift, I thought. And that’s how I ended up on a white-knuckle, death-defying airport shuttle ride through northern New Jersey, landing the arms of my husband, who greeted me as if we’d been parted for weeks instead of only a few hours. A gift, indeed.

The Sacrament of the Present Moment

Early last Monday morning, I stood in a grassy field near Cape May, New Jersey, and spotted a Mississippi Kite soaring overhead. And then another. And another. Altogether there were eight of them, elegantly attired in pale gray with darker tails and wings, a hint of rusty red adorning their wing tips. These birds were nearing the end of a long migratory flight that may have begun as far south as Bolivia or Argentina.

In Panama, I’ve watched literally thousands of kites catching rides on rising columns of air called thermals. The birds soar slowly round and round as the thermal lifts them up like an invisible elevator. These gatherings of migrating birds are called kettles, perhaps because the motion of the birds is suggestive of the roiling motion of boiling water or rising steam. In any event, when the thermal plays out its energy high above the earth, the kites exit the rising column of air and glide slowly back toward the ground, moving in the direction of their migration--north or south, depending on the season--to find another thermal and repeat the process. Kites, and all hawks for that matter, migrate in this lazy dance of circling, rising, and gliding. By necessity, they migrate over land because thermals don’t form over bodies of water. Thus, as I watched these eight kites gliding over Cape May, New Jersey, I knew they’d been soaring over the Isthmus of Panama only a few days ago.

Mississippi Kites are insect-eaters and perform some amazing maneuvers to capture flying bugs. I watched a kite catching dragonflies on a hot summer day in Louisiana once. The dragonflies, themselves aerial predators, were darting over a cotton field in the sweltering July heat. The kite would dart and dive with them, capturing the insects in its talons. When the kite caught a dragonfly, it would delicately reach down with its beak to pluck the meal from its foot. Imagine trying to catch gnats while running full speed across a football field and you have a good idea of the dexterity the kite must possess to carry out the exercise. I was so fully present that memory of the withering heat, pink cotton blossoms, sunlight dancing off the wings of the dragonflies, and the precise movements of the kite are deeply engraved in my memory still, nearly twenty years after the fact.

There are other memories of kites, too. A pair nested near my parent’s home in Monroe, Louisiana, every summer for many years. Spring arrivals were documented and celebrated by my mom and dad. The kites favored one tree as their preferred perching spot because it was taller than the rest and sported a bare, dead branch at its apex. The kites used this spot for all manner of activities: hawking for insects, copulating, and parking their youngsters while the parents ferried food to their hungry, begging maws.

As I watched those eight kites floating over the New Jersey countryside, I recalled all these memories of kites and wondered how many miles they’d flown. These birds must have passed many cities and towns. Did anyone else ever notice them? It’s quite possible that only a handful of people in all the world registered their presence, recognized their species, noted their existence. It seemed a sacred moment to me, as if the veil was pulled back from the altar to reveal the Holy of Holies.

The hours we spent birding at Cape May were all like that. Moments graced with a crystalline clarity, a rare stillness. I marveled, as I always do, at my husband Doug’s ability to hear and identify birds. Even the faintest song, twitter, or chirp catches his attention and is immediately recognized. Where I hear only wind or the endless chatter of my mind, Doug is fully, completely, totally present. As I witnessed his joyous inventory of warblers, catbirds, and every other feathered creature within hearing or seeing, it dawned on me that this might be the source of his preternatural patience and calm.

Yes, even after fifteen years of coupledom, my husband still amazes me. He has the patience of Job (and I know I’ve tried it many times). While I extol the virtues of being mindful and fully present, and struggle to meditate, my dearly beloved walks field and forest consumed with meditative bliss. For two whole days, I followed him like a devotee trailing her guru as he cataloged and counted hundreds of birds. After 100+ species, and several hundred miles, it was time for me to go home. Or so I thought.

To be continued…

Please Store Your Assumptions Before Boarding the Aircraft

Travel is a bit of a mixed bag. Of course, it is lovely to go somewhere new with someone you adore and spend time doing something different. On the other hand, flights can be long and flat out boring. And then there’s the row mate lottery. Airplanes are stuffed with people, often grumpy, who sneeze, cough, and carry on in various and somewhat offensive ways. So it was with trepidation that I boarded our flight from Portland, Oregon, to Newark, New Jersey, and realized that my row mate in the window seat had a obviously unhappy traveling companion: a bug-eyed, frantic Chihuahua.

The tiny, very hirsute white dog was quite clearly and very vocally hysterical. Little dogs, like dolphins and small children, can produce sounds that are so high pitched as to be suitable for use as interrogation tools. This little dog added an incredibly high speed scratching noise to his whining. It sounded as if a dentist’s drill had been stashed under the seat in front of us. Oh boy, I thought, this is going to be a really long flight.

The dog’s owner, Michael, was suitably embarrassed and apologetic. It turned out that he was doing a favor for friends while simultaneously being a loving father. He’d come to Portland expressly to get Guapo, the handsome little would-be Houdini, and take him back to Manhattan. The friends, he explained, had small children and could no longer keep Guapo. Michael’s daughter wanted a pet. So here Michael was, with a horrified expression on his face, trying shush his frantic little canine carry-on.

We took off and things got worse. Guapo gnawed his way out of the carrier and stuck his head out. Without further ado, the three of  us--Michael, my husband, and me--went to work. Michael held the dog, Douglas grabbed Michael’s backpack from the overhead, and I dug around to find the dog’s leash inside the backpack. Now freed from his holding cell, Guapo looked very much like the harried travelers you see at every airport. His eyes bulged expressively, his tongue lolled out, and he panted to beat the band. Oh, and one other little detail. He was shedding copiously quantities of long white hair.

Michael had some doggy valium with him. He pulled out a tiny pink crumb of a pill and fumbled with a bag of treats. “I’m not sure how to get him to take it,” he said. I looked Guapo over. He seemed like a sweet, somewhat overwhelmed, little dog. I took the pill from Michael and in one swift move, popped it down Guapo’s throat. The surprised look on Michael’s face was simply priceless. “That was authoritative,” he said.

Guapo started to relax almost immediately. For the remainder of the flight (which passed very quickly for me), Michael and I took turns holding the dog. Despite his medication, Guapo stayed true to his tightly-wound nature. He refused to sleep. His eyes would slowly drift shut and then he’d pop them right back open again, determined to be vigilant for the whole flight. By the time we got to Newark, Guapo was sobering up and Michael and I had enjoyed a really nice conversation. We exchanged business cards, took a picture, and parted. I’m still picking white dog hair off my clothes.

Michael says that this experience restored his faith in humanity (see his May 22 blog post, here). What the incident did for me was to serve as a reminder, once again, to be present in the now moment of my experience. I make a lot of assumptions--I guess we all do--and I often decide how an experience will be for me before I actually have the experience. I could not have anticipated that I’d spend a few hours providing comfort to someone’s pet and enjoying great conversation but if I had been asked I would have readily agreed that yes, I’d love to do that.

Sometimes, I get too caught up in thinking. I get stuck in my head. I guess what that means is I need to get out more. Sounds like an invitation to travel, doesn’t it? Look for me at PDX. I’m the one wearing the white dog hair jacket.

Jet Lag

I've got jet lag. I know I only crossed a couple of time zones, so I guess this means I'm a wuss. According to the Travel Insider, I'm supposed to get lots of light during the day, keep the bedroom really dark at night, and take melatonin at bedtime.

While I'm out sitting in the sun, I thought you might enjoy this 360 shot of sunset over the Panamanian rainforest. You'll hear some birds in background (I apologize for the wind noise). The rhythmic call you hear first is a Chestnut-mandibled Toucan. The plaintive whistling later on is a Great Tinamou. Tinamous are large, ground-dwelling birds who sing only at dusk. Enjoy!