It was the little beach that I found so endearing. A tiny, sandy half-circle was most of what was visible of ancient Cenchreae. However, it took only a little imagination to see Paul coming ashore here.

One of the joys of our church trip to Greece was putting biblical names and bits of geography together. Here we were on the day after our exploration of Athens—where Paul's message fell on seemingly deaf ears—now tracing his next steps. If he had sailed from Athens to Corinth, this was his landing place. If he had taken the highway, he still at some point came ashore here because this community was special to him.

No, there is no extant letter to the Church in Cenchreae, but tradition says Paul composed the lengthy letter to the Romans while he lived among the Christians of this seaport. Why? Because, he put that letter into the hands of Phoebe, a deacon of the church in Cenchreae, and asked the Romans to receive both her and what she bore.

I have obviously spent much time thinking about Paul these days. One of his endearing traits is his love of his hometown, Tarsus, "an important city" as he describes it. However, once he left it for further studies in Jerusalem did he ever really live there again? Acts 11:25 seems to indicate that he went back after his conversion while he waited for some word as to what would happen next, but this could not have been an extended stay.

In so many ways Paul was the first of the moderns, we rootless people who agree with Thomas Wolfe that you can't go home again. (When we do go back, it isn't the same. I hate to walk down the street where I grew up and see strangers sitting on "my" front porch—even after these many years.)

Paul found a way around this by being at home everywhere. With only his letters for guidance, we can see a man who could love the highway town of Philippi, would spend months in the wildly international port of Corinth, would preach in sophisticated Athens, and would find his way to the heart of the empire, Rome itself, and not be a stranger.

Packing my guide book to Greece and a map of Athens in preparation for a trip that will be occurring as you read this, I am carried back in time to when Paul was making his own preparations to visit that same city.

By the time the Apostle of the Gentiles set out for Athens, most of its glory was already past. The buildings on the Acropolis were 400 years old when Paul first glimpsed them and the great age of Greek theatre was long past. Direct democracy, something we Americans have yet to taste, had been instituted 500 years before.

Paul came into a city now under the power of Rome, walked around it and marveled at the multiplicity of deities honored within the timeless walls of Athens. He made his way to the Areopagos and preached a marvelously well-planned sermon on the unknown god respected by the Athenians and which he cleverly told them he had come to announce.

On March 22 a minute of silence was ordered across Sri Lanka as the science-fiction author Arthur C. Clarke was buried in the capital city. He had told friends he wanted as an epitaph:

"Here lies Arthur Clarke. He never grew up but didn't stop growing."

I do not know whether those words will actually appear on his tombstone, but they gave me pause for thought. Here was a man who asked for no political pomp or religious rites, but his final words speak volumes to me about the human spirit and about my own Christian faith.

Having just emerged, both bruised and squashed, from my regular morning ride on the L train, I am forced to ask: "What are we all carrying?" Have you noticed?

I had found myself next to a man who needed two precious spaces on an already overcrowded car, one for himself and one for the very fat backpack he was wearing. As I headed down the Union Station platform to the R train I was roundly whacked by a woman who was squeezing between me and a permanent girder and who failed to allow sufficient passage for both herself and the huge shoulder bag she was toting.

I had already passed a kindergarten-sized child with a Barbie backpack that hung down to her knees. How many cookies was she bringing for lunch or was she just an adult in training?

I alternate between laughing and rage. The English teacher in me never dies, and I would love to go around with a huge can of "Wite-Out" (a brand misspelling) and fix up the spelling and punctuation on the signs in public places.

My prime complaint is with "Caesar" in the "Caesar Salad." I refuse to eat in restaurants that are serving such variations as "Ceasar," "Cessar," or even "Ceassear Sallad." (Yes, I've seen that!) I check the window menus before entering. If they can't spell, can they cook?

I went so far as to suggest to a diner owner that he had it wrong, but he replied that the fellow who did the signs was "hard to work with." When he had complained about "Texas Weeners" they had been turned into "Texas Winers." I saw that he had a point.

It was inevitable.  A new world of "babytronics" is opening so that technology's children might enter the magical world inhabited by their text-messaging, palm-piloting parents.

The NY Times of 2/28 had a page of intriguing products such as the "Always Clear Pacifier." When baby hurls it to the ground it falls backward, on its handle, which activates a plastic shield that snaps closed over the nipple, keeping everything clean. What happened to the simple clip to baby's shirt that Kip the pacifier off the floor?

Or how about a "Baby Care Timer" which is a sort of digital personal assistant to help parents keep track of how long it has been since baby fell asleep, was fed, had a diaper change... It seems to be enormously popular since 25,000 units have already been sold.

On a remote, subtropical island in the South Chine Sea there exists a species of wildcat that has been in existence there for 200,000 years, but whose continued well-being is now threatened by the tourists who come to see it.

This wildcat was only discovered in 1967. Many of the experts have never seen a living one. With an average of three per year ending up as roadkill and close to half a million tourists descending annually on an island with one paved road, the future well-being of the cat depends upon some kind of balance being struck.

Having just read a column of hints on how to work smarter, I was struck by those that were aimed against interruptions. One is obvious, but not always possible. It is: close the door. That might work if you have a door. But in the open workspace environment of so many offices, it is not very realistic. We have all seen those "over the cubicle" commercials that are funny on screen, but very distracting in reality.

The second suggestion is to limit e-mail interruptions by creating an automatic response that says you will reply to e-mail messages only at certain times of the day. Eminently sensible, if e-mail interruptions clog your day and your work situation makes limiting responses possible. The telephone remains an insistent voice, so it is often necessary and satisfying to let voice mail be the first responder. Or is that only delaying the inevitable?