Kidnap Capital World Tour
Palo Alto, California
A Few Days Later, Sometime in February, 2013
The Road To Hell Is Paved With Good Intentions

Now it's getting really dicey.  I'm back on Terra Firma, and I've just returned from dinner at a real PA spot, Palo Alto Sol. Let's get this straight:  Little Missy has been coming to this quaint Puebla bistro for almost three decades.  But Mark Zuckerberg discovered it!  And he got the place to offer his version of chicken soup (so not Mexican).  Never mind. I am home, and already Stanford has sent out a form, asking my opinion of the trip?  First and foremost, what did I like best?  And way down the list, What can be improved?  Well, for starters, I will be sending Stanford the link to my blog and they can figure it out themselves!  Which they may not as they are linked to the Development Office!
 If you have been following the blog, you know that Stanford pulled some fast ones on us.  And to be fair, they pulled some fast ones on Saudi Arabia!  Saudi Arabia thought they were dealing with a   group of ambassadors from Stanford University, when in fact it was a group of privileged, seasoned travelers, some with no connections to Stanford at all,  just fun loving well-connected people who signed on to go to some "hard to reach places".  And for the record, in case I didn't make myself clear enough, Saudi Arabia sucks.  We went to a Science and Technology Center (OMG), and someone from the royal family was on the stage namedropping poor John Etchemendy, the provost  of Stanford who I have known forever since we were almost kids and my former husband was mentoring him.  That little incident caused me such anguish that I had to retreat to my room at the Riyadh Four Seasons for the next thirty six hours, missing the visit to nowhere in the desert which required a full day and a jet.  Then we got duped into spending time in Cyprus, a real joke, when we were supposed to be in Beirut.  The UK security team could have dropped us off and picked us up if overnighting the jet was an issue. But maybe for them it was an issue!  It was a planning issue, and Stanford blew it. Then there was Dakar!  Probably the most embarrassing stop of all, with all of us privileged ones flagrantly driving out of town with a berserk Senegal police motorcycle unit to a village to look at a Stanford affiliated eduction program.  Oh Christ Almighty, No Way I thought! Just look at the clothes and the gorgeous people and pretend this is a movie!  " I cried it was so moving", some of the women in the group were saying when we returned to the hotel.  "That's what you were supposed to do",  I said.  Then, I got the reputation for being Cynical!  Woe is me!  You can't please everyone. Boohoo!
The staff was great, the people on the trip were great and no one really complained.  The itinerary was dynamo, but hard to completely honor. Would I do this trip again?  That's what Stanford really wants to know.  And who would I recommend this travel program to?  Little Missy is not saying!  A woman has to have some mystery!
Finally, Here is a direct quote (with only the names changed) from the New York Times about the infamous divorcee, Carol, who attached herself to me and would not detach until Andria and Paul rescued me with their constant friendship: Harold and Carol had everything that money could buy. They took exciting vacations, owned several homes and 18 cars, and surrounded themselves with fine art. 
I have changed the names but you get the picture.  Money does not buy happiness! And I did have a good time!  Stanford did not lie about one thing.  It was "The World Less Explored".  Now I have to return to reality.  The mail is piled high with bills to pay, calls to be made, appointments and dates to be kept.  My flight mate on the way home was Sue.  She wears a gold bracelet that her mother gave her when she was young. It is engraved with the one thing I am taking away from the Less Traveled World:
To Thine Own Self Be True
 

Kidnap Capital World Tour Day Twenty
India Catalina
Cartagena, Columbia

Do you know who India Catalina is?  Nonsense, of course you don't unless you are from Columbia.  She is the Pocahontas of Cartagena, a beautiful Indian girl, daughter of a local chieftain, who was kidnapped (get it?) by the wicked Spaniards (and they were they wicked) in the sixteenth century to learn Spanish and work as a translator between the Indians and the Spanish invaders.  The Columbians are proud of their Indian culture.  Cartagena, which previous until now I knew only as the scene of hanky panky between White House Secret Service and prostitutes at my very hotel, the Hotel Santa Clara, is a beautiful and prosperous city.  Modern Cartagena rolls across the Atlantic like Miami--skyscrapers against perfect blue skies on most days and surf less waves.  You can hear the ocean, but it is not a wild or untamed sea.  The Caribbean  lies above the city and the Cartagenians like to say that they are the only Atlantic town that sees a sunset because of this special geography.
We flew into Cartagena from Dakar last evening and I cooled my jets in my room, missing the cocktail party due to sheer exhaustion.  How do these travelers have the stamina to keep going? In my favor, I was one of the very few who did not contract this miserable respiratory ailment which laid most of the group low as it spread like wildfire throughout the jet.  But jumping continents every other day and going from early morning to night seeing top cultural things in every place, hearing amazing lectures and drinking and eating like there is no tomorrow is exhausting. We did not see modern Cartagena. We looked at the old part, the walled city with its "Moorish"influence, the beautiful churches and the colorful streets.  Old Cartagena is gearing up to be a major destination spot, and I must say, I think it is quite fabulous.  It reminds me of Santa Barbara + Carmel + Santa Fe, but with huge buildings in the distance.  We went to a place where the Spaniards held Inquisition procedures.  Our guide was specific: the Colombians did not kill citizens, they only tortured them and extorted money.  For more serious interrogation, unfortunate victims were sent up north to Mexico.  Is this a true story?  I do not know.  The guide acknowledged that kidnappings and extortion have been a Columbian way of life since at least the Spaniards came in.  The gold here is phenomenal, and our guide said that Pre-Columbians used gold in spiritual ways.  For instance, the delicate filigree in the nose rings and earrings were really an ode to the crops (the rows of the crops rendered by rows of filigree gold).  It was those wicked Spanish again who could not believe how much gold this place had,  Here is where India Catalina probably came in handy with her interpreter skills.
Drug problems?  It is much better now, said our guide.  The drug trade takes place near the Peruvian and Venezuelan borders, and that is where the kidnappings take place, so we should not go there.
So--a beautiful vacation destination, beautiful cobbled streets in the old town, a thriving metropolis, some charming neighborhoods, an incredible if just a tad humid climate and gorgeous sea all around, this should be a perfect place.  But it's not!  It's a kidnap capital!  Still!  There were police escorts with us from the moment we arrived.  Our UK security detail was as all over this city as they were in Beirut.  It felt placid and dangerous at the same time.  Beirut never felt placid.  So in effect, Cartagena is a truer kidnap capital. But this is why I came.
I must cut my trip short and and return home tomorrow,  missing Cuba.  My next and probably last post will be a summary of what I have seen, as well as the cast of characters with whom  traveled.  They may at times have been snarky and spoiled, but this group is hardy and strong and I defy most people to try traveling at this clip.  It only worked with a private jet and an advance team as well as an amazing staff.  I will explain the rest as soon as I can.  Will Miles's new picture be a success?  Will Carol the infamous divorcee ever find happiness?  Did Dr. Eric own up to me that he made a mistake in the trauma unit at Stanford hospital two years ago when he told me i could not go to a party because of my head on car wreck?  And there is so much more.  I like kidnap capitals.  They feel scary and corrupt and exciting .

Kidnap Capital World Tour Day Eighteen
WAWA Means West Africa Wins Again

Dakar, Senegal
Now we are in Africa. The runway is rustic, (browned out grass on both sides of the landing strip) and because no one at the airport was there to guide our jet we have had a near miss, maybe a fairly substantial one. Our group is comprised of seasoned travelers, as you might imagine. Four of our group were on the United flight to Hawaii in 1989 when the cargo door burst open, sucking a dozen passengers into the Pacific. That was a serious commercial flight error that I remember well---and yet these four travelers refused to be intimidated. They fly all over the world, both commercially and privately and say to hell with it. So, the real story is that the following morning we take twenty three four wheel drives with police escort and flotilla our way to a village ninety minutes away from Dakar. The village leaders profusely apologizes for not having a more special welcome. A villager had just died, and out of respect for the family, the welcome to us would be more quiet. Stanford is involved in a study about language skills and communication. After all my years at Stanford I could be easily laughing right now, except for the fact that these men, women and children are so engaging and beautiful. The Senegalese must be the most elegant and best dressed people on the planet. I do not say this casually. Thee is no obesity in this place and I did not see one look repeated in the whole day. So much for Armani and Prada. The day look here was we might call evening wear. I can relate to this! The women really dress up in long gowns in brightly patterned textiles in elegant silhouettes which nip directly at the heels of Paris. They often wear matching or coordinated headdresses,and their hair and makeup are immaculate. I immediately find the young woman with whom I most identify. She is about my height, and has a small child at her hip. She is wearing a blue and gold brocade gown with a matching bolero. Saint Laurent was doing this look in the eighties, but I doubt she has ever seen or heard of him. The back of her bolero has a collar and yoke which breaks my heart. The shape of the bolero is the most beautiful I have ever seen, with the exception of the Haute Couture runway, No wonder the Big Time model agents come here to look for talent. And no wonder that these women are the eternal inspirations for couture. The men, like their female counterparts are tall, slender, athletic and graceful. Whether they are wearing long, colorful robes of cotton or sporting a western style casual shirt and trousers, they are crisp and exceptionally handsome. The children are beguiling and not unlike other happy, loved and well fed children.
But the story today is not about fashion. It is about female genital mutilation, and how a man in Senegal has worked since 1997 to stop it. He spoke to us. We were in a circle around him and his translator, a Stanford researcher who has been in Senegal since the eighties, told us that he talked in proverbs, and that transacting him would be difficult. This is some of what she translated: he said that every breath is precious and that the last breath must be respected. So, although he was sorry village could not give us a warmer welcome (I think that he meant with music and dancing) they were very happy to greet us. This man was called a shaman, and he dressed in an all white cotton gown and matching hat. He said he has been to thousands of West African villages since 1997 and that stopping this horrific practice is difficult. The root of female genital mutilation goes back to the ancient Egyptians. It was hard to stop the practice because girls were not accepted into marriage contracts unless they had undergone this horrific procedure, No girl in this village had had the mutilation since 1997, Village women presented a role playing skit about an older auntie who comes to advise her niece about female genital mutilation, its negative impact and about the spreading of AIDS and HIV. Amy Malloy, the Stanford person who hooked up with the village in the eighties spoke to us. Her book, However Long the Night is due to come out at the end of April. Janice, an attractive traveler in our group offers o host New York book signing for her in early May. Amy M alloy also tells her about her research into eye and verbal cues to enhance an infant's early development. How did they ever get by without Amy Malloy? Amy certainly does not know and apparently my group agrees with her. Amy has saved this village! Touch down for Stanford! We are then transported (with the same police escort) to lunch, and are treated to dancing by the neighboring village. Miles the movie star and Dr. Eric get down with the dancing. Their dancing is well meant but boy it is hot and everyone really wants to drink beer and watch the really good dancers, that is to say the village people. "We don't just tell the people what to do we just make suggestions", says Amy Malloy. That is obviously very wise of her. Everyone in my group is swooning over Amy Malloy and the shaman. I am not, but I am not saying anything. I was at Stanford too many years. Female genital mutilation is bad, and talking to babies like adults is good. This is something that most of us can agree upon.
Question---what seventeenth world famous academic was kidnapped and spent twenty three years in Africa being treated like a king before dying in Timbuktu? Ahmad Baba! Look it up, sleepy heads! It is really good story.

Kidnap Capital World Tour Day Sixteen
A Day Tripper in Beirut

I have finally hit pay dirt.  I signed up for a trip which advertised it would go to less traveled places around the world, and the place which most attracted me was Beirut.  The Paris of the Middle East was calling to me and after all these years I was coming.  Well---I received a sketchy letter from Stanford about a month ago hemming and hawing about their UK security team feeling that Beirut might prove too dangerous to overnight the private jet.  That maybe we the travelers would be more comfortable in Cyprus, and MAYBE we could take a ''day trip'' to Beirut.  The money was nonrefundable at this time.  I had already realized that an extra day had been tacked onto Saudi Arabia for us to be paying unpaid goodwill ambassadors from Stanford to The Kingdom (as self-important Saudi Arabia calls itself). Three miserable days in the most repressive,  going downhill fast place in the world, a place I first visited in 1980 when women could drive and did not have to wear long black robes and head coverings.  Now, it is all lip service, and women are in worse shape than three decades ago.  Three days in that hell hole, only to have Beirut relegated to a day trip, with the group shacked up at the very fake Four Seasons in Cyprus (no relation to THE Four Seasons Hotel chain).  Have you ever been to Cyprus?  It is a beautiful place, not unlike California, where the Russians go to vacation and launder money.  The Four Seasons Hotel in Beirut (where we were supposed to stay) overlooks the Mediterranean and is gorgeous.  The city is beautiful, built on hills, with Greek, Phoenician and Roman ruins amid bullet ridden ancient churches and mosques.  Bombed out buildings from the 1975-1991 Civil War stand beside new structures, and every designer you can name has a shop.  The food is good, the people don't suffer fools gladly and children are everywhere, playing in the streets and happy. Happy--the operative word--in spite of all that has gone down in Beirut, these people love their city, and are proud that once again they have rebuilt it.  OK, so we have spent the night drinking and feasting and dancing in Cyprus, trying to shake off Saudi Arabia.  Even Little Missy was hauled onto the dance floor to help with a magic glass trick involving stacking ten wine glasses on top of each other on the head of a man, and then putting a tray of ten filled wine glasses on top of that and then a bottle of wine on top of that.  When the magic tricks are brought out, look for the cover up.
So---we get ourselves into the private jet this morning with two thirds wheezing and sneezing and coughing.  It is bloody awful thinking that you might get sick because nearly everyone else is.  But we land in Beirut.  The weather is amazing and it does feel like a kidnap capital!  Some Germans were just kidnapped three days ago! Armed soldiers are everywhere---and the passport guy is winking at me!  This is my kind of place.  We have a look around. There are some seriously bombed out places.  The Green Zone is the line of demarcation between the Christian and the Muslim neighborhood, where the most recent troubles began.  We go to the National Museum and I take photographs of two ancient mosaics for my son Michael--the Seven Pre-Socratic Philosophers and the Birth of Alexander the Great.  These were dug up in Beirut's back yard, along with all the other antiquities, and were preserved by a very savvy and dedicated museum director during the last civil war, when warring factions were trying to bomb, loot, plunder and destroy the museum and everything in it.  He basically had concrete poured over everything--and he saved a lot of stuff.  We go the the tomb site of the prime minister who was assassinated in 2005.  Serious site with his grave and those of his body guards.  It is maintained by his family who vow to keep it open to the public until the case is solved.  That means until Assad gets kicked out--but wait--that's our perspective, or the American and Friends of America  perspective.  Apparently there are a lot of people who like Assad and want him to stay, despite the fact that he's running Syria into the ground.  We look at old, beautiful churches, mosques, monuments.  The bullet holes are impressive.  I remember a Beirut photographer at couture show for Lebanese born Elie Saab a few seasons back who said to me, "If you don't like the show, do what we do in Beirut.  Shoot someone".  Lunch is chaotic and plentiful in an outdoor restaurant in the old neighborhood that vaguely resembles Paris.  Members of my group are complaining about the disorganization of the meal, but I am thinking that this is exactly what Beirut is all about.  The job gets done, on Beirut time, and if you don't like it, too bad.
For reasons I don't know, we are finally shown the place we were supposed to stay, The Beirut Four Seasons Hotel, and it is so heart stoppingly beautiful, the hotel, the location, the boats and yachts and the Mediterranean and sunshine that everyone is groaning. Luxurious, chaotic, kidnap capital of the world, please stay relatively stable.  I want to return as soon as I can.

Kidnap Capital World Tour Day Thirteen

Little Missy Gets Her Fashion Comeuppance in Riyadh

 

I no longer heart the little black dress.  It will always remind me of my Saudi Arabian black robe.  Instead of dwelling on why I do not heart it here, I will first and foremost tell you that a dear friend is intercepting this and posting it for me as I cannot get to my blog.  It is in Arabic all of a sudden, which is written right to left!  With a script which resembles my own handwriting which is to say illegible--but so elegant!  Is this censorship?  Oh my, I cannot even fathom it.  I will tell you about some of the interesting characters on the trip with me.  First, there is Dr. Eric Weiss and his wife Jackie.  They are the only couple I will name because Eric is the doctor on the trip!  And he has had to work!  So much wheezing and coughing.  Then a waiter walked through a plate glass door in Burma while we were all watching the Super Bowl.  Yes, Stanford managed to get us the Super Bowl in a place that did not have Internet!  We were eating guacamole and chips at six in the morning and going berserk over the game and it was all too much for the waiter and he tried to get away from us!  But he got derailed and really ripped up his leg.  But Dr. Eric, head of Stanford Hospital Emergency Medicine was right on the scene.  Just like he was the day I had my head on car crash and woke up to him looking over at me in the Stanford ER room.  I told him I had a party I had to go to in three days and he told me I wasn't going anywhere.  So I told him I really had to go to this party (Balenciaga at the de Young.)  So Dr. Eric sent a Psychiatric Social Worker over to me because he thought I was crazy!  But the social worker agreed with me!  I should be able to go to my party!  I spent a year getting the 1950 Eisa gown ready for this big night.  I went. Enough of that.  Anyway I thought Dr. Eric would be a Debbie Downer on this trip but he turns out to be fun loving and his wife Jackie writes an official blog for the group.  This is the unofficial blog.  Then there is Miles!  He is a 29 year old movie star who looks like Tom Cruise dreams he could look like.  Miles even gave the commencement speech when he graduated from "a School in the East Coast." Harvard????  Why couldn't he just say so?  Why did he have to call it a School on the East Coast?  Never mind--he is beauty and brains personified and he confided to me that he wants to get married and start a family. Do I look like someone who wants to hear that?  I guess so!  I cannot fail to mention Carol. She is an infamous divorcee from NYC who got a huge settlement after years of public squabbling with her hedge fund husband and now spends her time rock climbing, skiing and crying over the breakup of her relationship with a newspaper writer. I have not heard her say a mean word about anyone but then she only has time to think about herself and her ex-boyfriend.  She has chosen me be her confidante.  It is tough work being on this trip and having to hear all this stuff. So far the only advice I have given her is to wear lipstick and find a therapist. I wrote in my last posting that I would have more thoughts about Burma.  I do.  But I do not think Riyadh is the place to be discussing politics The food and shopping are so good here, who cares about politics? I think I need to pack it in for the night because tomorrow we are getting up early to fly eight hundred miles away from Riyadh to look at horses--Arabian horses.  Imagine that!

Little Missy Went to Her Party (with Hamish Bowles, photographed by Frederic Aranda)

February 2, 2013
Kidnap Capital World Tour Day Nine
Nirvana in Burma

We got into Rangoon this afternoon and the vibe at the airport was Buddhist gentle but decidely
uptight. I thought about Eastern European airports in the seventies.  That kind of uptight.The terrain here is shifting so fast that the people are still trying out figue out if they should call their country Burma or Myanmar.  Even the new flag is strange to our guides.  The Burmese flag used to be white for purity, red for bloodshed in name of Burma and blue for the various regions.  Now it is green, yelliw and red, and the guides can only vouch for the bloodshed.  We drove to Bogyyoke Aung Sun Market, formerly Scott's Market anad still called Scott's.  I found several long strands of large freshwater pearls to pick up as presents.  After checking in at Trader's Hotel, we went to Shwedagon Temple.  Google this temple--it is not to be believed.  In the center courtyard I whispered to a traveler in the group that I simply had to sit with the hundreds of people there and meditate.  It's Stanford, so they got it and left me alone for forty minutes. All around me I could vaguely hear familes chanting, the bells being rung in threes, fives, sevens and nines and I could smell the incence. After Ann came back to get me,  we walked to the stairs where we saw the purple haze in the fading light and thousands of bats flying in unison toward the sky. Later in the evening, Susan and I were having dinner at the hotel,and hundreds and upon hundreds were marching in unison in the street, all holding candles.  Aung San Suu Kyi has started something very powerful.  No one knows where this place is going.  So many more cars are on the streets now.  This city is pulling me in many directions.  I am exhausted and will post next from Saudi Arabia as Internet connectivity is difficult here.  I need to step away and think about Burma.  I am currently on a meditation high, so my thoughts ae not processing at blog speed level.
 


 

Kidnap Capital World Tour Day Eight
Brunei Burnout or The Return of Little Missy

Just in case any of you thought I had any grandiose delusions of channelling the great Margaret Mead, don't worry. Papua New Guinea is becoming mistier to me with each passing hour. I truly do not get Brunei--beautiful beaches, glittering hotel, anything in the world you could ever want to buy, yet what is really going on around here?  The two options for this afternoon were A, look at a mosque or B, look at some monkeys.  Little Missy has returned with a vengeance and decided on option C--a not on the schedule stop at the best hair salon in town.  The women of Brunei have always looked pretty good to me when I have seen them at the couture shows in Paris, and I thought I could talk to their stylists and hear some gossip.  A hotel driver took me to a strip mall where I entered Alan's Inspiration.  And what was Alan's inspiration?  Marilyn Monroe, all over the walls, with a smaller tribute room to Audrey Hepburn.  The Brunei women do not come here, of course.  Cecilia, the best stylist in town goes to them.  No Brunei gossip from the tight lipped Cecilia.  I was massaged and coddled and manicured and coiffed before I couldn't take it any longer.  "So who does come here?' I asked (exasperated, I might add.  I had come here to gossip).  Cecilia's assistant handed me a photo of Cecilia and Hillary Clinton, wearing the same hair style I had just received at Chez Alan. "When was she here?" I asked.  A couple of months ago, the assistant answered. "We have the same hair style!"  I whined.  You have the same kind of hair was the answer.  The State Department is so cheap they don't even let Hillary travel with a stylist? I thought.  Or maybe Hillary doesn't want a stylist?  Oh great, another Margaret Mead or Mother Theresa!  That Hillary better be careful if she wants to run for president.  Looks do matter, and this hair style is not the greatest, not on her or me.  I will not be posting a photo to prove it.  You will just have to take my word for it.  Tomorrow we go to Burma.  I feel like a victim of Stockholm Syndrome, that Stanford and these various countries are conspiring to brainwash me.  But why?  At the airport in Tahiti, an Air France flight was boarding just ahead of us for Paris, and a guy you all know who shall remain nameless started loudly moaning that he would do anything to get out of boarding the Papua New Guinea flight and onto the Air France flight.  What a wimp.