such
a part of their
family that...
well, once, when
I hitchhiked
into St. Louis
around 2 a.m. I
just snuck into
their guest room
and fell asleep.
In the morning I
found most of
them standing
around the bed,
looking at me,
smiling, and it
was okay...I
think. Anyway,
this morning, at
a party at my
mom's house in
DC, Marilee and
her husband
David and their
son Scott and
Scott's
sweetheart
Lauren (I hope I
got your name
right, Lauren)
were among the
visitors who'd
come to meet
Tony. David and
Marilee asked if
their was
anything I was
hoping to send
Tony home with,
anything that we
needed. I told
them that Tony's
wife Rita would
be delighted by
a new pair of
hiking boots
(she leads treks
with Tony at
times) and that
a couple of
their kids were
interested in
running shoes
from America.
David said to
buy them -- he
said to make
sure to get good
ones --and send
him the bill.
Blow me away any
day, David,
Marilee.
But
I'm getting a
bit ahead of
myself.
We
were in New York
City 48 hours
ago. We spent
the morning of
July 2 getting a
quick tour of
the Us Magazine
offices from my
niece, Amy; then
going over to
Random House
where for half
an hour or more
Anika
Strietfield --
the charming and
delightful
kid/editor (I
think she's 25)
of the paperback
edition of Take
Me With You --
listened to me
babble, and to
Tony
occasionally
correct my
version of the
stories I was
telling; and
then to Grand
Central Station
to meet my
friend Janet
Jensen, who was
a reporter
colleague of
mine 25 years
ago at the
Sandpoint Daily
Bee, in
Sandpoint,
Idaho.
It
was a
spectacular day
in NYC -- a rare
70-degree July
day with blue
skies -- an SF
day! We rode the
subway to the
Staten Island
Ferry, past the
Statue of
Liberty, and
back. After an
all-you-can-eat
Chinese buffet
-- Tony's
favorite-- we
headed in the
taxi back
through the
Midtown Tunnel.
Tony and I were
discussing our
impending visit
to the
Philippine
Embassy in
Washington when
I made an
unconscious,
illegal lane
change in the
middle of the
Midtown Tunnel
and immediately
there were red
lights flashing
in the rear
view. I pulled
the cab over as
soon as we
cleared the
tunnel -- as
instructed via
the police-car
loudspeaker. The
police officer
demanded my
license and
registration and
gave funny looks
to the cab.
"I'm
sorry about that
lane change. I
wasn't thinking.
I'm from San
Francisco,
California, and
if you've got it
in you to give
an out-of-towner
a break, I'd
really
appreciate
that."
He
took my papers,
stepped back,
spoke into his
walkie-talkie:
"Richie,
could ya come
ova to lane 2.
Got something
for ya."
While
Richie was on
his way, the
police officer
asked me: "Ya
really drive
this ting all da
way from
California?"
I
handed him a
newspaper
article. And
when Richie
arrived I gave
one to Richie.
Richie and the
first officer
spread them on
the trunk of the
car and I
watched them
reading them in
the rear-view
mirror. They
brought them
around to Tony's
window and held
them up in front
of their eyes to
compare the
photographs in
the article with
the faces in the
passenger seat
and behind the
wheel. When they
said they were
going to give us
a break, and
after they'd
marveled at the
nearly $18,000
on the meter, I
asked if I could
take their
video.
Richie
said it was,
unfortunately,
against
regulations. The
other officer (I
didn't get his
name) said,
"The heck
wid dat. You
could take moy
video."
Unfortunately
the video camera
didn't work at
that particular
moment (I do,
however, have
about 20 hours
of absolutely
priceless video
-- but I wish
I'd had those
two of New
York's finest in
the collection).
Back
to George's, and
while I napped
Tony showed
George the
"correct"
way to prepare
rice. We packed.
We drove through
that spotless
New York
afternoon toward
DC, arriving
around midnight.
Along the way
the invitation
to the Embassy
hung over us
like a cloud.
Tony really
would have
rather not had
it there.
We
arrived at my
Mom's home
around midnight.
My sister Nancy
and her daughter
Ashley had flown
in from Denver
(we saw them
there just a few
days earlier)
and now we all
fought for beds
in the house.
Tony got the
booby prize, the
worst mattress
apparently, and
now to go with
his sleep
deprivation he
has a tweaked
back muscle. He
steadfastly
refuses
nighttime muscle
relaxants or the
other sleep aids
that have kept
me from dropping
like a bomb on
this trip.
Gamely,
bad back and
all, Tony
staggered
through a visit
with me to the
DC Mall, the
Vietnam
Veterans'
Memorial, and
the Lincoln
Memorial. Then a
great tandoori
chicken lunch in
Belle View, VA.
On the way back
to Mom's house
we talked by
phone one last
time to the
press secretary
at the embassy,
Patricia Paez,
who did her best
to assure Tony
that it would
all be very
cool, very
casual, very low
key, and, yes,
no damned TV. We
showered at
Mom's. I have
never been so
much myself as I
have been on
this trip. I
wore Teva
sandals, a green
polo shirt, and
tan L.L. Bean
jeans. I might
have been going
for a cab shift,
and indeed I was
going IN a cab
-- with my cab
driver's badge
pinned to my
shirt. Tony wore
his cowboy hat.
At
6:30 we pulled
through the
gates of the
embassy at 1601
Massachusetts --
half a mile from
the White House
on Embassy Row.
My mom, my
sister and
Ashley, my
brother Scott
and his wife
Chris and their
8-year-old
Katie, me, and
the star of the
evening -- Tony.
We were
immediately
besieged by
reporters and
love and food
and laughter and
disbelief and
people wanting
to see the meter
on the cab and
the odometer and
a Washington, DC
cab driver --
"They call
me Big
Josh" --
pulled into the
driveway just to
see what was up
and although
we'd been told
that the event
would last an
hour, and
"hour and a
half
maximum" we
didn't even
really get hot
until about an
hour and a half
into it when
Tony got up on
the stage by
himself -- after
handling with
grace and good
humor and tact
and interest and
respect every
single reporter
(from every
important
Filipino
newspaper or
magazine) and
every diplomat
and every one of
my family
members and
every one of the
several DC
locals who had
immigrated from
the mountain
region of Luzon
and had made
their way to the
reception -- and
after those
Filipinos had
started a
traditional
dance with gongs
and had coaxed
Tony and then me
to join
in...well,
that's when Tony
(with my brother
Scott at the
video camera)
shooed us all
off the stage
and showed us
what a real
Ifugao dance is
like. For about
two minutes.
This brother
stole the show,
made the night,
broke the hearts
of everyone in
attendance. We
were still as
ice, quiet as
ants...one of
those things you
just can't
believe you're
seeing -- like
Cirque du Soleil!
The
ambassador,
Ariel Abadilla,
and his entire
staff went out
of their way to
make us all
absolutely
comfortable.
Later on the way
home, Tony,
emotional, told
me that when
he'd asked the
ambassador how
he, Tony, should
address him,
Ariel said,
"Please do
not call me ‘Ambassador,’
please do not
call me ‘sir,’
please call me
by my
name." And
we did. We might
have just called
him ‘Brother,’
because that's
how we were
treated.
It
was a much more
raucous ride
home than the
ride in had
been. My mother
said it was the
highlight of her
life.
Tony
and I sat on the
pavement of the
driveway in
front of Mom's
house talking on
the cell phone
for an hour and
fifteen minutes
to Rita, to a
reporter for the
Philippine News,
and to
Fortune/Asia. I
think Tony has
forgiven me for
dragging his ass
to the embassy.
This
morning 50
people showed up
at 9:30 at my
mother's house.
Mr. Thomas
Pickering -- the
number two man
in the State
Department
throughout the
Clinton
administration,
and without whom
Tony's visa
would never have
happened --
strolled up from
down the street.
We chatted like
old pals. Me,
Tony, Mr.
Pickering.
Former US
ambassador to
the UN, to
Israel, Russia,
Jordan, India,
Canada (the
Canadian
Broadcasting
Corporation
called this
afternoon for an
interview [click
here
to listen to
Brad's
seven-minute CBC interview, in
RealAudio] and
remembered Mr.
Pickering quite
fondly, as has
everyone I've
ever mentioned
his name to) and
two other
countries that
elude me now.
I'm just
speechless. Tony
has to be
reeling also.
This
unbelievable
story is
starting to seem
like simple
reality to us --
but when we tell
it to others we
see their jaws
loosening and it
comes home to
us.
As
I've traveled
across the
country visiting
friends of mine,
it has occurred
to me that if I
were to show up
in my normal
life we would
talk with each
other about our
problems. I have
heard no one's
problems on this
trip. They have
all just been
delighted to
hear about our
adventure, have
all been eager
to help, have
all been their
very best
selves, have all
seemed relieved
to have
something so out
of the ordinary
drop into