Let's start with the same old "best trip I have yet experienced" routine. In this case, however, I expect you'll find it was unique, in ways one wouldn't have anticipated. You might recall that I was invited to spend New Year 1992 with Bubbles, the Maharajah of Jaipur, and his retinue as their extended New Year festivities progressed from hill cottage to lake palace to ocean shore; further, that my travel agent had arranged a super bargain fare via Warsaw to Delhi on Lot Polish Airlines. Now, let's translate this expectation into reality. Easy enough departure from MIT and Boston 24 December, uneventful first leg. Once at JFK, however, curious events: I follow my agent's always so careful map to the Lot Polish Airways terminal - vacant! Begins an increasingly fretful search - not for a great deal, mind you, just a Lot. Finally found they had relocated recently to space (seeming miles away - so glad I had checked my luggage through to Warsaw[that's what he thinks!]) in the Aer Lingus terminal, where Lot passengers were checked in by Air France personnel (so much simpler when there was an Iron Curtain - the world of Nations is now going through the crisis teenagers experience with their emerging sexuality!).

On now to a really fine overnight flight to Warsaw, arriving at sunrise on Christmass day. Too bad my luggage couldn't share my experience of having a 12-hour layover, with the necessary day lodging arranged by Lot mysteriously having disappeared - I've heard hotels are wary of passengers arriving without any luggage. Fortunately it wasn't necessary for me to emulate the birthday Boy, though the transit area I was offered for the twelve hours would make a stable seem elegant by comparison. An airport employee departing for his honeymoon took pity on me, got me to a hotel, where I had time to freshen up before getting into the Old City for a spectacular Pontifical Mass of Christmass. Nowhere have I found piety to be so palpable: the people didn't kneel at the Elevations, they prostrated themselves - not to deny a certain cavalier juxtaposition of one lifting himself from the stone floor and going out to the cathedral Close for a cigarette break during the Cardinal's interminable sermon - it perhaps didn't seem so long to one who knew what was being said.

Wandered about the old quarter after Mass, back to a mid-afternoon breakfast at the hotel. Called a family in Warsaw whose relative, a visiting scholar at MIT, had given me a suitcase full of gifts for her children: the gifts unfortunately joining my luggage on a trip I was later to learn went from New York to Singapore to Paris and finally on to Delhi (more on that later). Have you noticed, by the way, that it's now 26 hours since I woke up in Boston?

Back on the bus for a sleepy night flight to Delhi: if only the unsupervised child next to me didn't have to answer Nature's incessant calls every few minutes! Finally Delhi is appearing on the screen (on Boeing's new 767, the flight path, distance flown, speed, etc., are constantly displayed on the screen); oops, we're going beyond the city, now back to it, and so on in a circle that continued for three hours. Our explanation was that the ground equipment, installed by the Russians, was not functioning; a fog made landing impossible. Now short of fuel, our pilot decides about noontime to detour to Karachi (in Pakistan: I still ask why there, rather than equidistant Bombay in India?). Oh well, a few hours out and back, no problem. Sure...

Upon touchdown in Karachi (international convention says any plane must be allowed to land at any airport, whether or not the line has landing agreements with the host country - Lot didn't... nothing said, however, about refueling and takeoff rights!) we had a curious greeting party - a covey of Uzi-toting Pakistani civil guards surrounded the plane.

As used as we are to security at airports, this seemed a bit excessive, as we were the only plane at the airport. Turns out the Pakistani authorities had decided to supplement their income by exacting a large "departure tax" from the plane. When the Polish pilot informed them that the plane hadn't cash aboard, the Pakistanis ordered him to the terminal for negotiations - a mile on foot, mind you, as they wouldn't provide him transport. As the negotiations went on to hours, the passengers and crew became rather irritated. At this point, a Brahmin in the tourist cabin and I decided we'd have to bring some order to the chaos. We had the crew announce that no more food nor water were to be used, lest they run out in the course of our delay. As this drama began, I thought to myself, "Oh, good, now I've got something for next year's Advent letter!"

You'll remember that the day before I had been at Mass in Warsaw; still had my clerical clothing on (nothing to change into). The passengers decided I'd be their spokesman with the Pakistanis. First order of business, as there were many infants aboard and we were running out of water and food, was to get them replenished. I had the mothers with infants bring them to the forward door, called down to the Pakistanis, "These infants are without water and food; would you do this to your children?" We were supplied with bread, dried cakes and water.

Now the captain is returning to the plane, reporting that it had been decided the necessary ransom would be taken from the passengers. By now I was ~38 hours without sleep and rather generously supplied with spirits. Fools rush in... I went back to the door, called down to the Pakistanis, "Shoot me now: George Bush will take care of you!" Whether they thought me demented or inspired, my ploy seems to have registered. Next, they started up the gangway, toting their Uzis. Okay, I thought, this is it. Summoning all the drama our relative positions - me at the top of the gangway and they beneath me - could present, and all the magisterium my clerical clothing could convey, I proclaimed, "You cannot come on this plane: we are all citizens of sovereign nations, and [get this!] I will not allow you on my airplane." It worked! They retreated from the gangway and began animated conversation on the tarmac.

Net result: after being the unintended guests of Karachi for five hours, we were allowed to take on fuel and depart for Delhi, arriving there at 8 in the evening. Of course, the plane that was to have flown me down to Jaipur that morning for Boxing Day dinner was long gone; no commercial flight, train, or whatever was available for days. Booked a car; the young driver brought along his brother to drive the return 6-hour trip, as he had to be back for classes the next morning. So here we are, merrily chugging along the way to Jaipur. Suddenly, a cordon of police is blocking the roadway: a magistrate from a neighboring village requires a lift home. As the police began to open the passenger door, the driver of this Dauphine-size car told them, "Mr. David has booked this car; you cannot open that door." Rather, the magistrate (the model for our caricature of the grossly corpulent potentate) wedged into the front seat with the drivers; I spent the duration as a veritable raj in back, munching on my granola bars.

As we neared Jaipur, the driver asked my destination there. When I replied, "Rambagh Palace," he said, "Oh, Mr. David, we can't disturb them now." Note that it's 2 in the morning, now 58 hours since sleep)." I told him to go ahead and knock on the gates. The porter arrived, muttering about being wakened so late; when he learned it was Mr. David from Boston, his tone reversed, he roused staff, and they gave me a long-delayed, cordial welcome.

A bit about palaces in India: with the arrival of democracy in the subcontinent, the maharajahs were stripped of their civil power, but were able to retain their wealth. However, after the current generation, the wealth is reverting to the government. Thus, the major preoccupation now seems to be converting assets to less liquid forms. So the palaces, which the raj's will retain if they can provide upkeep, are being brought into the modern age. Typically they are 1/4 hotel, 1/4 school, 1/4 museum, and the remaining 80 rooms retained for the raj's private use.

I was fortunate throughout most of the trip to be in the company of friends from Boston, one of whom had come out from India as a child. It was he whose family is connected in India and was occasion for my exceptional tour.

The first Sunday after Christmass we went to Mass at All Saints, Jaipur. It was distressing to find the difficulties conservatives are having with the Church back home are mirrored in India. The parish is unable to come up with the $40 per month it would cost them for a full-time priest. The Bishop has given them no support, so they have to rely on random availability of supply clerics. Further, the Bishop had been trying to take half of the property the Church owns, to sell it that more shops might be built - hardly necessary in Jaipur. Happily, through the good offices of my Hindi friend, the government has declared the Church an historic site, thereby preventing the Bishop from getting his hands on it. We're now making efforts to get a Parish here to adopt Jaipur as their sister, as much for moral as for financial support.

Got to see much of Jaipur hidden to me during my visit as a normal tourist fifteen years before: the teas, receptions, and visits with friends and relatives of my Boston friend revealed much of which Guide Michelin is unaware. Particularly fascinating was touring some of the family palaces : everyone is a sister or brother. In fact, once a family servant, forever part of the family. Thus the 50+ people living together might in fact not be related except through a shared history of having served the family.

Next on the itinerary - Udaipur. The flight from Jaipur up to Udaipur was to be typical of our travels throughout India. Upon arrival at the airport, I was advised that there was no reservation for me - even though I had confirmation of the reservation in my hand. What emerged on this and all subsequent flights is that the plane, though only half booked, is reported to the waiting passengers to be full; it's then up to the gaggle of people to find which of the functionaries is taking the Baksheesh to enable boarding of the plane.

Upon arrival in Udaipur, so many guests have arrived for the year-end festivities that I learn there is room neither in the Lake Palace nor in the City Palace: would I be take offense if instead I'm lodged out at the maharajah's Stud Farm/Game Reserve? I steeled myself for roughing it. What appeared after the brief ride out of the crowded city at the Shikarbadi Lodge was hardly rough. With only twenty guests, with hundreds of acres of pristine forest and fields in this most densely populated land, with ever-present yet invisible servants clearly intent on making their guests' stay unforgettable, the Lodge well compensated for its lack of the white marble used throughout the Lake palace and the priceless ornamentation in the City palace. Can't wait to have excuse to return there.

Spent a day visiting the palace of the Maharajah of Samode. So remote and so difficult to access, Samode is almost without tourists. Tour busses cannot navigate the narrow winding roads up through the mountains, and the area seems to have little interest in development of tourism. But what a jewel! The intricately carved and jewel-encrusted walls, the magnificent vistas out every window over chains of mountains, the superbly prepared and served luncheon - all combined to extract a promise from our host that I would be able to spend some time in Samode when next in India. And it wasn't only the palace: the surrounding village, inhabited by the raj's retinue, had apparently not changed in centuries. Though modest, the dwellings of the villagers were spotlessly neat and maintained with obvious pride.

In the village, got an invitation into the atelier of a local artisan. There, he showed us hundreds of his works, unlike any I had seen before. Turns out that his method was to take ancient manuscripts covered with neat calligraphy, cover the manuscripts with a neutral was but leaving a neat border of the calligraphy, then paint over the wash. As full as my home is with artifacts from 24 years of travel, I had to buy five of the paintings, each presenting in astounding detail and vibrant color some chapter of Hindu folklore.

Apart from there being twice the normal crowd and treble the baksheesh-seekers at the airport for the trip up to Bombay on New Year's eve, the flight was delayed for a few hours, resulting in arrival at the President Hotel just at Midnight. The manager had been awaiting our arrival and was relieved to get us lodged so he could go off to his festivities. Perhaps his haste accounts for me being put in a penthouse room, with a spectacular view of the Bay of Bombay. One delight at the President is that it does not cater to tourists, and thus lacks their frenetic noise and business. All the same, at the year-end, even the normally staid and conservative business people lodged there showed an unaccustomed degree of frivolity.

The apogee of the New Year festivities came the next day - an intimate evening with but a few hundred of India's luminaries of commerce, government, the arts, education, and nobility. Anticipating that the soiree would go on forever, went down to the hotel pool, where the restaurant was in barbecue fashion. The food was fine, but particular to this place was the entertainment, an Indian guitarist singing rhythm and blues. His singing was great; when he finished the first number I applauded, then noticed that nobody else did so. The singer, Johnny, approached, told me how grateful he was for the applause, as Indians were apparently too self-conscious to show enthusiasm for his music. Well, with each successive number, more and more of the guests applauded and Johnny's singing became more enthusiastic. Sorry I had to leave for the party, but determined to return for my next uncommitted evening.

As could be anticipated, the big party was spectacular. If, however, I had accepted half the invitations extended me that evening, I'd still be in Bombay. All the same, the period in Bombay was a blur of visits, tourings, shopping (not to mention the hours spend with Lot, trying to locate my errant luggage). My salvation was nightly dinner at Barbecue of my hotel: by the second evening the staff was treating my like part of the family. As the people showed increasing response to Johnny's singing, of course his music got better. One evening, the manager noted that the Barbecue would be closed the next night for staff's night off. Would I consider joining the staff for a picnic? Of course! tourists have such a night: mountains of food expertly prepared by the chef, music provided by Johnny, and an evening of banter and frivolity.

The day before the end of my stay in Bombay, got a call from Lot: my luggage had arrived in Delhi. As it had not yet cleared customs, I'd have to go to Delhi to claim it. No need: they could just hold it in customs for a day, when I'd claim it on the end of my time in India.

The last night, went down to the Barbecue for my departure dinner: a sign at the entrance indicated, "Closed for private party." How could they do this on my last night? Saw the manager, began to express my disappointment to him when he said, "Oh, but Mr. David, the party is for you." Okay, I have some remarkable things happen to me in my travels, but this has to have taken the cake. There were all the staff, determined to make it an unforgettable event for me. At the end of my meal, out come the bartenders with champagne for one and all and the kitchen staff with a big chocolate cake, inscribed "Bon voyage Mr. David." Johnny had even composed a tune for the occasion. That wasn't the end of it, though: off with staff to revelry at their customary venues; back to the President just as my breakfast arrived!

Was prepared for a rather humdrum flight up to Delhi, then a two-hour wait for the Lot flight on to Warsaw. Inflight, however, the stewardess brought me a message the captain had received: Would David Hogarth kindly telephone Mr. Manmohan Prabhakar on arrival in Delhi? Memories of fifteen years before: Kaka and his family had provided me my first meeting with Delhi back then. I had kept in touch with my annual Advent Letters, but with hardly any communication in the opposite direction. Turns out that Kaka had noted my itinerary from last year's missive, checked on the flights with a relative who was an Indian Air employee, learned that my Lot flight would be delayed at least twelve hours. On arrival in Delhi, went for my missing luggage; the Customs agents couldn't handle the complexity of my clearing my luggage after I had registered for my ongoing flight. When I asked what they'd do with the luggage if I didn't clear it, they noted they'd be sending it directly on to Warsaw. Fine!

A Lot employee confirmed that indeed the flight was delayed; as the delay was due to weather, however, Lot would have no responsibility for accommodating the passengers overnight. At the terminal with 250 irritated passengers for 12 hours. Eek! Went out to the tarmac for a cigarette; a car pulled up - there are Kaka and his business partner, having planned to take me out to dinner, then back to Sainik Farm (Kaka's home) for the night. I had fond memories of the Farm, but it had about quadrupled in size with Kaka's success in exporting textiles to the USA. So good to see his younger brother, in memory a schoolboy, but now the proud father of two children.

Well, then, enough fine times, finally departure the next morning on Lot for Warsaw. On arrival there claimed the luggage that had disappeared three weeks before, off to downtown Warsaw. Once there, delighted to open my bags to get some of the essentials I had been without. Wait a minute: something's missing. Having the compulsive habit of keeping an inventory of everything I pack for a trip, checked the bags, found that they had been liberated of cameras, film, and countless items of value. No wonder the bags seemed so much lighter than they had in Boston. I'm still trying to get satisfaction from Lot on this theft, have had to enlist the assistance of Federal agencies in the attempt.

As close as it was to ending, the trip was to bring further surprises: when I called Lot to confirm my ongoing flight in two days, they replied that the flight had been cancelled and I'd have to spend two extra days in Warsaw. Hardly! Cancelled an intended trip down to Cracow so I could deal with Lot: there spent hours convincing a number of functionaries that I would not stay longer in Warsaw and that they were liable for arranging my return to Boston. Success, flew Lot to Zurich the next day, there connecting with a Swissair flight on to Boston.

Now I acknowledge that my travel agent has done wonders for me in the 20 years he's been shipping me around the globe. He can never deliberately plan a trip as eventful as the above, of which I've given you but a bare bones summary. On the other hand, who knows what unplanned event awaits the person who is ready for it?

Hey, this is ridiculous: we're just three weeks into the year, and the letter is already longer than last year's. However, it would be selfish of me to keep details of that incredible voyage to myself. Happily, the year has been essentially without trauma or disaster, and good news can be more succinctly presented than bad, so the remainder should proceed a bit more quickly.

Jessica has finished her studies with MGH Institute of Nursing and is working in the cardiac unit at the hospital. It was a delight to be at her graduation, then with her colleagues and friends to celebrate their completion. A negative result is that she'll be working Christmass day and several days around it. The end of studies has given us a bit more time together - an occasional dinner out or barbecued by her for Father's Day, for example.

Both Jessica and I reveled in the visit of the Tall Ships to Boston in July. In fact, we both found a ruse (unbeknownst to the other) of getting into the massive block party thrown by Boston for all the crews of the ships. A friend, a colleague from seminary who had retired from Navy chaplaincy five years before and was finding retirement in Maine confining, bought a unit in our Co-op in the Spring and was down for the Tall Ships events. Only then did I realize that Carl had found no substitute for the daily routine of work and had become helplessly addicted to alcohol. As we were cruising back in from Boston Harbor after the majestic parade of the 85 ships into the harbor Carl said, "Now I've seen everything." A few days after he got back to Maine, I got a call that he was hospitalized, dying. 59 years old!

At the same time, Jessica and I had our biggest block of share time, not exactly what one would plan. At the time her mother was in Belgium caring for Jessica's grandmother, whose increasing years have resulted in her moving into a nursing home. Jessica phoned me one evening, asked me to come down to her unit, as she had an insufferable stomach ache. When I got there, it was apparent something major was afoot. Off we went to the hospital, where it took six hours for them finally to determine that she had appendicitis. Apparently the risk of an undetected rupturing of the appendix makes it necessary to withhold medication until the diagnosis is final. So we had several hours, Jessica suffering and I feeling quite inadequate, able only to rub her back to try to abate the pain. Finally she got checked into a room at 6 the next morning, was operated on and in recovery by the time I got back to her in the afternoon. Only then did it dawn on me that it was the first time since her birth that she has been hospitalized.

I must say, I quite enjoyed being the doting father, ordering flowers, picking up necessities for her, bringing treats to the hospital, and just being with Jessica. Her recuperation was without event; she was back to her swimming sooner than I would have anticipated. Just as she got out of hospital I got another call: Carl had died. Well, the death of my friend and colleague combined with Jessica's time of absolute dependency upon me alerted or frightened me into the decision not to use alcohol any longer. Would I parallel Carl's disintegration in my retirement? Would I be dysfunctional if Jessica had a future emergency? I don't know; I simply decided I don't want to find out. In fact, stopping a habit of many years' duration was easier than I could have imagined. I can hear you now, "How about cigarettes?" (I'm asking the same question, but come on - one thing at a time.)

This Summer marked the 10th anniversary of our Co-op and my residence there. Though I continue as Clerk and with a few other functions in our home, it has been good to have a whole new board of directors, profiting from the experiences and mistakes of their predecessors. We were a bit concerned when, in the course of a few months, eight units became vacant. However, given the many advantages of cooperative living and the incredible bargain it presents in Boston's continuing outrageous housing market, all the units are being filled before the prior tenants' occupancy ends. Part of the success of our co-op, by comparison with others in Boston, is that me have a great number of relatively small functions being taken care of by many of the members, rather than relegating the work to an external management company or allowing a few members to run everything. Jessica had organized the annual barbecue on the deck: that it went off so wonderfully while she was away recuperating from her operation bears witness to her organizational skills.

Had a second visit from a couple I had met aboard a Windjammer a few years ago. They had explored Boston on their last trip, took my marked map to lead them throughout New England this Fall. Though Windjamming continues to be a favored mode of my Winter trips, I didn't anticipate finding such fast friends aboard a clipper ship in the Caribbean. Shall windjam again, as soon as another ship comes on line.

Remember my note about the parish in India struggling to maintain its witness to the received faith, in the face of hostile opposition by a revisionist hierarchy? Well, my parish here in Boston has not had quite such palpable difficulties with our hierarchy. In fact, our continuing affirmation of the faith of our fathers has brought a spirit to the parish that perhaps wouldn't be so apparent during easier times. With three pot-luck suppers for newcomers added to the round of parish dinners, sherry-hour receptions every Sunday, wine & cheese receptions following festal masses, and continuing assistance in the worship life of the community, I'm getting a great sense of fulfillment out of my diaconal life. Never would have thought that my banquet headwaiting while a student at Brown would find such practical application. Even had opportunity to be Chaplain to a Bishop on his episcopal visitation who had been the rector of the parish into which I was born and who had officiated at my wedding to Claudine.

Some years ago, a parishioner whose son had again run afoul of the law through his involvement in the drug culture asked my counsel. Pointing out that she would be taking a great chance, I suggested she not intervene, letting him reap the harvest from his sowing of such wild oats. Well, she did so and he did so. This Summer he came to Boston to visit her; I was rather apprehensive about meeting him at a luncheon his mother set up. In fact, when he learned that it was I who had helped her mother to let him do his time, he thanked me, indicating that it was indeed the turning point in his life. I wouldn't pretend such a tactic will always work; so happy it did in this instance.

Also this Summer, was invited to the wedding of a young man I had first met at the Jail, introduced by his fellow students at Wentworth. Well, Donny had several subsequent falls, as did his brothers. Now, however, he's living a full and responsible life as a member of our society. Rarely have I had a happier turn at dancing than when I got to trip the not so light fantastic with his mother.

Another continuation of my jail work is expert witnessing on jail suicide cases. This year a southern has been starring, leading to my having three cases there with almost identical circumstances. In each case, none of the jurisdictions had made use of the training in suicide assessment and intervention available to them. In one of the cases, when the state's attorney general was told that I was a suicidologist, he asked what that was and sent one of his people up to Boston to spend a day taking my deposition. As in most cases so far, my major role was to instruct the defendants in the current state of knowledge about suicide behind bars.

The merger of Project Athena into Information Systems at MIT now having been digested, work there continues a pleasure. Hardly, however, has the completion of that process led to monotony: involvement with a group finding ways to recognize the contributions of our colleagues; shepherding my group's United Way campaign; organizing several celebrations and receptions; being introduced to myriad new software and hardware - hardly dull.

Yuo remember the introduction of Iggy S. B. Iguana to my department at MIT last year? This iguana, about a quarter pound when he arrived, has just passed one pound in weight. His personality is developing; both of the neurons in his brain seem to be working. Iggy even got a feature photo in the MIT newspaper; he fits right in!

I do have one beef with software developers: just as the introduction of new manufactured products is being accelerated, so software developers are constantly introducing "new, improved, extended" versions of their products. Never one to be satisfied with the same old, same old, I eagerly explore the improvements, pushing my computer (remember Rufus?) to show more and more of its muscle. I'm now resigned to the fact that we don't buy software: we rent it.

For the first time in several years, my relatively better ordered life has obviated the need for escape for Thanksgiving weekend to rest up for my Winter trip. Thus had a really great time, first with Mum and Dad, my brother Bill and his family (my Godson and nephew Thomas seems to have cloned my sense of humor and puns - we regaled each other to the accompaniment of groans from the others), and then at Jessica's in Boston with Claudine and friends.

You have my apology if this letter has been too long; as I look back over it, removal of anything will steal part of what has contributed to the best year in my memory. In fact, when I was with my travel agent today to get the documents for this Friday's departure, I noted that it is the first time I've got nothing to get away from; rather, this is a pleasure trip par excellence. Not being able to replicate hobnobbing with Maharajahs, I'm off to meet the Wild Man of Borneo, followed by an exploration to find if Shangri-La is an actual place or just the name of my hotel on the Malaysian coast, finally up to Phuket to see how Thai gastronomy blends with Club Med madness.

Thank you for giving me occasion to package the year past. I hope the celebration of Christ's birth renews in you and me a sense of the miracle that God wrought when he invaded our existence and perpetuates in our lives if we permit. My warmest love and good wishes for your New Year are wrapped in this note.