In San Francisco, wrangling investors for Cyan’s C Round of financing; off Friday to Maui for a much-needed mini-vacation; back in NYC Tuesday evening. As ever, erratic postings along the way.

About a year back, I discovered that a flask of rum makes in-flight coke, and in-flight experiences in general, far more pleasant. Which is why, with six flights on my horizon in the next two weeks, I’m particularly displeased to discover TSA’s newest terrorist-thwarting rule:

NO LIQUIDS OR GELS OF ANY KIND CAN BE CARRIED ON THE AIRCRAFT [Ed. note: capitalization theirs.]

The unfortunate sobriety leaves me doubly exposed to my recent and ever-growing flight anxiety, which I previously described thusly:

Having logged enough miles to know first-hand the odds of safely reaching my destination, I should be a calm, collected flier. Instead, I’m increasingly phobic, knowing too well each expected whirr and beep: altitude markers, well-adjusted ailerons, fully-engaged landing gear. During a flight, at least a quarter of my brain is consumed with monitoring such sounds. Was that clang right? And, if not, have the flight attendants huddled in back for last tearful goodbyes?

And now, with bombs apparently ready to take (commercial) flight, at least another quarter of my brain will be spent rationalizing away this second in-air threat.

Bon voyage, indeed.

Though I set out on this week’s road trip with lofty blogging intentions, two problems quickly became clear: First, none of the people we stayed with had wireless internet access. Second, our time was so thoroughly consumed with driving, eating, driving, drinking, driving, buying gas, driving and driving some more that blogging (and, for that matter, sleep) just didn’t seem to fit.

As of this evening, I’m back home safe and in one piece. But I suspect I’ll need a bit more recovery time yet before I can coherently recap any of the trip. Apparently, hitting six states* in five days really wears you out.

* For those following along at home: Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana and Texas.

I head out tomorrow night on a road trip with former roommates Colin and James. Though the dysfunctional dynamic between the three of us is long honed, we’ll also be joined by the dynamic Alicia Van Couvering, which should add a whole new layer to the boiling, barely concealed hatred we’ll all doubtless feel for each other by the end of that much time wedged together in a small car.

We fly in to Atlanta on Friday evening, then head down to Athens, Georgia on Saturday. Sunday is Pensacola, Monday is New Orleans, and Tuesday is Austin. I fly back to New York on Wednesday to wrangle the three-ring circus that is Cyan Pictures these days, though the rest of the crew will continue motoring west, all the way to Los Angeles.

Apparently, we’re also making a film as part of the road trip, based on a short story by one of our Yale classmates, though I’ve still yet to wrap my brain around exactly what that’s going to entail.

But, I’m armed with a laptop and digital camera, and will do my best to chronicle the misadventures as they unfold.

Wish us safe driving, and round up the bail money in advance.

Monday again? Where did the week go?
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Actually, I’ll tell you where it went: to eating, eating, and more eating. I’m now five and a half pounds heavier than when I came out West. Given how much I eat on even non-Thanksgiving weeks, that’s a hell of an ‘accomplishment’.
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Where it also went: to driving. Living in New York, I forget how much time the rest of the world spends in cars.

Still, there’s no better place to sing, to really belt something out, then alone in the driver’s seat, hurtling down the highway at 85 miles an hour.

Similarly, I listen to lyrics much more carefully while driving. I hadn’t previously realized, for example, that Sufjan Stevens’ Casimir Pulaski Day is possibly the most wrenchingly heartbreaking song I’ve ever heard.
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And, somehow connected to that but not really, thank you Kate for the ‘Happy breakupversary!’ text message that totally made my week.
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In between the driving and the eating, I was actually fairly productive. Some good investor meetings, and a chance to lock down our next Cyan / Long Tail hire.

Which reminds me of a quote I came across earlier this week, from management guru Tom Peters:

“Never hire a human being who had a 4.0 in college. If they had a perfect GPA, it means they bought the act and never screwed around. Now a 2.0 is probably not so good. But the ones who had 3.0, yeah! Those are the freaks you want!”
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Also, while I didn’t do any Black Friday shopping, I did take advantage of a sale or two earlier in the week. Most important of which being one that led to the discounted purchase of a black velvet blazer with peaked collars and grey pin-stripes.

Hugh Heffner, step aside.

Off to California, again. I’d start telling people I live bi-coastally if it didn’t make me sound like a total douche-bag.
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And, relatedly, here come a series of posts consisting of random notes I jot down during the trip on the index cards I carry everywhere in my right front pocket.

While such in-the-field notation allows me to pretend there’s something vaguely journalistic about the approach, I’m sadly aware that throwing unconnected tidbits together to make longer-looking post is, indeed, the lowest form of blogging.
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Flying out to San Francisco, I tucked a flask full of 8-year barrel-aged rum into my Timbuk2 messenger bag. It did cause the TSA screener to pause the x-ray conveyor belt, but otherwise passed security without a hitch.

Thank you, JetBlue, for providing the other half of each of my in-flight rum and cokes. Thank you also for giving me an exit-row aisle seat. And, in particular, thank you for seating me next to Callie, a highly attractive (though not particularly intelligent) young blonde; for once, I didn’t mind having my seat-mate fall asleep on my shoulder.
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Also, thank you JetBlue for getting me in to San Jose a full hour early. Seriously, a full hour. How does that work, exactly? The captain had someplace to be later that evening, so he just floored it for the whole five hours?
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And, at the same time, lest you think JetBlue is without flaws:

First, wasn’t there a time when flight attendants (perhaps when they were still called ‘stewardesses’) were attractive?

Second, if JetBlue now boasts a 40-channel lineup, why is there absolutely nothing watch-able on my little back-of-the-seat TV?
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My mother does this thing, when we travel, on the first day and the last day of the trip. “Can you believe we’re in Hawaii?” she’ll ask repeatedly, continuing, “we were just in California this morning.” Which my brother and I usually mock mercilessly.

Still, I sort of understand what she means. Early today, I’m deep in winter, walking barren streets just above freezing; this afternoon, everywhere I look the leaves are still green and I’m sitting in the backyard in a t-shirt.

Works for me.

While Absolut may be Swedish, the local hard liquor is aquavit. Like vodka, it’s distilled from potato or grain, but flavored with herbs such as caraway seed, cumin, fennel and coriander. It burns like turpentine on the way down, then explodes in a subtly flavored bouqeut. The name, derived from the Latin aqua vitae, means ‘water of life’. Which, in short, pretty much sums up my overall view of all vodka’s relatives.

The Swedes also have a number of local beers, most notably Spendrups, a light lager. The city’s formerly strict licensing laws led to a slew of beers with relatively low alcohol content, but the recent easement of such restrictions has birthed new, visually and gustatively identical, brews, which contain up to three times as much alcohol. Makes for great games of liquor roulette.

###

Supposedly, Stockholm’s subway system is copied off of New York City’s – down to the width of the rails and the wiring of the electrical system. Still, the cars and platforms are new, perfectly operational and exceedingly clean; in other words, absolutely nothing like New York’s at all.

###

As I had hoped, there’s a certain type of tall Scandinavian blonde female that abounds here. Unfortunately, there are as many ugly tall Scandinavian blondes as hot ones. What a disappointment.

###

As my brother and I walk one way, a beautiful six-foot-tall Swede walks past in the opposite direction. I turn to my brother and say: “quick, you hop onto my shoulders, and we can go back and hit on her.”

###

Sure, the allegory of Babel might imply it’s a sign of impending doom, but for lazy Americans, the world standardizing on English as lingua franca makes things far, far easier.

Plus, the resulting conversations never fail to thrill me. Earlier today, in the Royal Palace, the exchange between a Swedish guard and a Chinese tourist, about the age and origin of a nearby tapestry, put even the best Laurel and Hardy routine to shame.

###

Finally, Stockholm and Sweden itself: I don’t know why I never noted this before, but it seems this city and country aren’t a real land mass at all, but rather a loosely confederated archipelago of small wooded islands. Twenty-four thousand – 24,000 – small wooded islands. Excuse me?

Despite this lack of solidity, Stockholm is remarkably beautiful – often called the ‘Venice of the North’, it looks to me more like Amsterdam, though with wider, prettier canals, and fewer pot cafes.

Other parts of the city remind me nearly of Toronto or Vancouver – quieter and friendlier than American cities, but a real city nonetheless. A city with a feel and daily flow comfortable enough that I could even imagine escaping here on a more extended basis. No, I’m not expatriating to Stockholm any time soon. But, when I leave tomorrow, head across the Kattegat and down into Copenhagen, Denmark, I’ll be more than a bit sad to leave this little collection of islands behind.

A Fortune 500 CEO once famously quipped, “if you never miss a flight, you’re spending too much time in airports.” Clearly, I am, as I’ve never once missed a plane. This is the influence of my mother, a woman who not only always arrives two hours before any flight, but also arrives as much as a full hour before movies, just to guarantee prime seats.

Thus, after childhoods of her training, my brother and I show up to the nearly deserted American Airlines terminal slightly before midnight on Friday, stroll through check in and security, mosey past rows of closed duty free shops, and pull up to our gate an hour and forty-five minutes before departure.

My perfect plane-catching streak continues.

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Note scrawled down while waiting in boarding area:

Girls with British accents: Yes, please.

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As I’m a terrible, terrible plane sleeper, I try something I’ve never done before: I pop two sleeping pills as I board the JFK to Heathrow flight. My brother does the same, then jokes about the possibility of us passing out from their effects on the walkway just outside the plane’s door. Instead, we make it all the way to our seats before dropping into deep, uninterrupted sleep for nearly the entirety of the six hour flight.

###

We wander around the concourse of Heathrow’s Terminal 1, too groggy to go through with our planned Guinness pint. We also pass on sandwiches at Pret a Manger, a stop suggested by my parents, who discovered the sandwich chain while passing through Heathrow one week prior. I don’t mind skipping it, however, as there’s a branch downstairs from my Manhattan office. Several others of the British stalwarts on the concourse – Thomas Pink, FCUK – have locations within walking distance of my apartment as well. Homogenize the world enough and one place is nearly indistinguishable from any other.

###

The customs line at Sweden’s Arlanda Airport is long but exceedingly blonde and well-mannered. From there, we hop the Arlanda Express Train, and, on the twenty minute ride to the City Center, glimpse Stockholm for the first time.

Looking back through my archives, it seems there’s at least one sort of blogging I can consistently carry on while traveling: writing about the trip itself.

So, over the next week, as I explore Stockholm and Copenhagen with family in tow, I’ll be writing about it here. I’ll aim to post every day or two, and if historical precedent bears, each will likely be a collection of snippets, rather than a single long narrative account.

##

The cast of characters: me; my parents, who have been in Norway for the past week already, and are now en route to Sweden; my younger brother David, who, in turn, has been here with me in NYC for the past week.

The plan of attack: David and I subway to JFK tonight, hop on a 11:30pm British Airways flight to Heathrow, drink Guinness during a three hour layover, then hop back onto a BA flight to Stockholm, arriving at 5:40pm tomorrow.

The mission: for the Sweden leg of the trip – find the Swedish Bikini Team, the Swedish Chef, or, at least, some Swedish fish.