DAY FIVE

Two years ago, we were here on vacation in Newport Beach. We wanted to rent bikes and cycle north along the boardwalk all the way to Long Beach. They said it would cost 25 dollars a day. But they were selling old rental bikes for 50 dollars each. So we bought a couple.

I've lost count of the number of days and hours we've spent on those bikes, cycling around Corona del Mar, pumping up and down the boardwalk, lunching at Huntingdon Beach, and fighting our way back against the tug of the wind.

This is the third year we've had use out of them. What kind of a bargain buy was that?!!

Enough of a bargain, I figured, to treat ourselves today to lunch at the Crab Cooker.

It takes about forty minutes to get there on the bikes. Down the hill, over the bridge to Balboa Island. Weave through all the back alleys to the ferry, then cross to the peninsula. And then along the boardwalk.

The Crab Cooker is a relic from a bygone era, when this was the beach retreat of Hollywood stars. And it probably hasn't changed much since then. The waitresses all look like they've been working there since Day One, and wear funny little short, black skirts and white socks. It's not particularly sophisticated, but it's just like stepping back in time. The food is served off paper plates, with plastic cups and cutlery, but it is wonderful.

On the way back we stopped off at Martha's - the bookstore on Balboa Island which will be selling my books at the private launch party this coming weekend. It's a quaint little store tucked away down an alley off Marine Avenue, packed with books piled up on every available space. The two charming ladies who run it, Stephanie and Kathy, weren't there, but the lady who was, recognised my accent, and I was offered a choice of peach tea, coffee, or chardonnay. But that wasn't just special treatment for me. It's a choice offered every customer who comes through the door.

Just along the road is what seems like the only concession to the twenty-first century - the Starbucks where I go every morning for my caramel macchiato.

This is a quaint and curious corner of California which, in spite of all the new build, probably hasn't changed much since its heyday. Strict building regulations have seen to that. Property prices are astronomical. There is a story doing the rounds about how Nicholas Cage fell in love with a house on one of the tiny islands that pepper the bay. He knocked on the door and persuaded the owners to pack up and go with an offer of 25 million in their hands.

The story might be apocryphal, but you could believe it. Just along the coast there was a house for sale last year for more than 70 million dollars. And Cage certainly does have a house in the bay.

The one thing of which I can be absolutely certain, is that I won't be buying a house here!

DAY FOUR

A woman with the largest breasts on the smallest body came strutting past, thrusting her silicone assets ahead of her, cleaving a path through the fetid air of the gymansium. Her hair was a dyed uniform black. Her face had a shiny, fixed smile. It would be hard to say she was attractive. But she was compulsive viewing.

And she was not alone. The gym was filled with women in search of immortality. And pot-bellied men paying lip service to fitness, reclining in cushioned apparatus, reading newspapers and magazines, while bronzed stick legs pumped pedals, in apparently disconnected sycnhronisation with the rest of them.

These were the beautiful people of Orange County sweating their way through the first hour of the day, hoping to spend their remaining waking hours drawing looks of admiration and approval. And there was me, amongst them, fighting off the advancing years, trying to maintain the momentum of the last few months. Sweating off the jetlag.

Susie had taken me to her local gymnasium and acquired for me a two-week free trial membership. The staff were friendly, courteous and extraordinarily helpful. And even remembered my name an hour later when I retired, puce-faced, from the fray.

I love California. And today was the classic Southern Californian day. The sun was shining brilliantly in the clearest of blue skies, the breeze blowing in off the ocean to stir the foliage of tall swaying palm trees. People wore shorts and shades and smiled, and said Hi, how are you today? And I thought of home, where the temperature dips well below zero each night, and folk are swaddled in dark winter jackets and hats and scarves, and will not find their smiles again till the first Spring sunshine melts the frost on the wall. And I knew where I would rather be right now.

Just chilling in the sunshine, working on the new book, and preparing for the campaign trail across America - and I'm not talking about the Primaries (though Super Tuesday will form the basis of tonight's entertainment). I'm talking about the more than 20 events that loom ahead, from San Diego in the far south-west, to Rochester in the frozen north-east, when I have to stand up day after day in front of audiences large and small and sell myself and my books.

Here's the schedule: PETER MAY'S US TOUR 2008

The things a writer has to do to make a living!

PS: While I'm treading blog water until the start of the tour, I'm going to write a piece about how I approach the storylining and structure of my books. Look out for it!

DAY TWO
(or is it three?)

Well, here we are in sunny California, watching the wind whip through the palm trees, the rain hammering against the window. The ocean isn't even visible, and it's only a couple of hundred metres away.

Twelve hours in an aeroplane with the guy across the aisle releasing noxious fumes into the atmosphere at regular intervals. And if he wasn't trying to gas us from one end, he was snoring like a demented yak from the other.

And all to arrive in a rainstorm!

Fortunately I had my computer, and a socket in the armrest, so I was able to bury my head in my storyline for a few hours. That was after sleeping off an exhausting dinner with champagne, red wine and cognac. I'd had the hangover and got over it by the time we were over Greenland, and settled down to work as the winter wastes of the frozen Canadian north drifted slowly by beneath us.

It wasn't actually raining when we arrived - an hour late, delayed in Paris because they had to de-ice the plane. So the shock awaiting us wasn't immediately a weather one. We had been expecting to be picked up at LAX by Susie, our friend from Newport Beach with whom we are staying for the next couple of weeks.

Instead we were gobsmacked to be met by my smiling beau frere - La Patronne's brother. Who only happens to live in upstate New York, around 3000 miles away. Grinning from ear to ear, he said, "Just happened to be passing."

In fact he had booked a last minute flight to spend an extended weekend with us in California - an escape from the winter snow and ice in the north-east. Only to spend his one full day with us today in the rain!

Today was, however, Super Bowl Sunday, and we were invited to a Super Bowl party by Susie's neighbours, Rob and Linda. They have panoramic windows that look out over Balboa Island, and the ocean beyond. Spectacular. And by the end of the game, the sky had cleared enough to provide a magnificent watery widescreen sunset.

Sunset from Rob and Linda's house

Earlier we had indulged in our first Californian meal of fabulous seafood washed down with salt-rimmed margaritas. And at the party we were treated to Mexican chili, and corn bread, and chilled white wine.

The Super Bowl didn't mean much to me. It's the only game I've ever seen that can last half an hour with only two minutes to go! Apparently people only watch for the ads. Never mind, the company was good, and so was the food, even if I could barely keep my eyes open. Mid-afternoon here, the middle of the night back home.

And here I am now, nearly 11pm and wide awake. I feel a sleepless night coming on. Damned jetlag.

Where are those little pills...?

DAY ONE:

Okay. Here we go. On the road again. Day One, and it was grey, wet, cold and miserable as we closed the shutters and set off on the first leg of our World Tour of the US, 2008. Seven whole weeks ahead of us. Nearly twenty cities. Two books to promote. The new EnzoFiles tome, "The Critic", and the third of the China books, "The Killing Room".

Why the hell did I ever want to be a writer?

I watched rain-streaked France flash past the window of our carriage at the head of the train as we headed north towards Paris. Premiere Classe (no accents, cos Blogger.com turns them into mince).

In front of us was a grumpy bastard whom La Patronne had forced out of our seats. Well... you know... these are reservation-only trains. He was in our seats. Spread out across both of them. He wasn't pleased when asked to shift.

What is it with people that they can't sit in the damned seats they're reserved for? Seat anarchy on SNCF. It's a national pastime. Grrrr. A good start (not). He humphed and grumphed all the way to Paris. And the woman in the seat in front of him coughed and sneezed for four hours. It was all I could do to stop La Patronne storming up the aisle and spraying her with disinfectant.

I focused instead on my laptop, and the new book. Made a good start (yesss). 2000 words in the can, and a constructive opening to the story breakdown. It is set in a virtual world - in which I have spent much of the last few months. In there the sun always shines. So it was a reality check to see the rain streaming down the windows and feel the cold eating its way into my bones.

Paris was grim. Miles of grafitti as the train approached Austerlitz. Railways lines always make their way through the most decayed tracts of a city. Paris is no different. And a miserable, yellow-grey February light didn't help.

Neither did our taxi driver. Scariest airport run in twenty years!

He was watching a film as he weaved his way at speed through the traffic choking the autoroute north to Charles de Gaulle. A DVD-powered screen on his dash. An old Alan Ladd film set in the time of King Arthur and the Round Table. I watched the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror as they dipped back and forth to the screen.

Brings a whole new meaning to the word "movie"?

In the distance I saw Montmartre, the Sacre Coeur thrusting up through the mist and rain, before we left the Peripherique, and the airport emerged from the rain.

And so now, here we are, in a hotel within spitting distance of the terminal. A 300 euro a night room, acquired somehow by La Patronne for a mere 99. No sooner had we checked in than I descended to the hotel gymnasium to catch up on the workout I had missed this morning. I've been going daily for two months now. Watching my diet, trying to get myself in shape for the tour.

Lost a stone. Which is fourteen pounds for the uninitiated. Or just over 6 kilos, if you live anywhere in the civilised world. La Patronne has managed half as much again.

She was almost tempted into the hotel swimming pool until she read the blurb. A disposable swimming costume was available. One use only. And we had crazy images of exploding swimming suits. "Your mission, should you accept it, is to swim in our pool. Your swimming costume will self-destruct in five lengths."

Hummmm. could be messy!

Oh, well. Up early tomorrow. On a plane by ten. In LA by one (local time). Into the arms of our very own darling Susie.

Can't wait!

THE SHILLELAH RAP

Ever been whacked with a shillelah? No, me neither.

But I've been bludegeoned by a polished vine root. And made to drink copious amounts of chilled white wine from a giant glass. And encouraged to swear an oath of loyalty to an alcoholic beverage.

And all in the space of about fifteen minutes!

For the uninitiated, this was called an intronisation. Yes, I was intronised. And if you think that sounds painful, read on.

It all took place in the presence of a little-known brotherhood whose twenty-five members wear red and black robes and triangular hats. And it all unravelled this weekend in a tiny village on the south bank of the River Tarn, just a bridge span away from the town of Gaillac in south-west France. Oh, and there were a couple of hundred other people looking on (including La Patronne, and Le Beau Frere who had travelled from the States for the occasion).

In the packed lecture theatre of an agricultural training centre in the Midi-Pyrenean village of Brens, twenty-one chosen ones - myself included - were called down to the stage one by one by the be-robed members of the Order of the Divine Bottle, to be made Chevaliers of the Order. In nearly sixty years, only three thousand people worldwide have been selected for this honour.

Why me? Because my latest book, THE CRITIC, is set in the vineyards of Gaillac, and when I take the book on tour around the US next February, I will be offering Gaillac wines to my readers to taste.

And the purpose of the Ordre de la Dive Bouteille? To foster and promote the wines of Gaillac - a little-known wine producing area which has been making wonderful vintages since the days of the Romans.

So what happened? Well, we were called down to the stage in groups of seven, and made to stand there while our individual sponsors - all members of the Order - delivered two-minute eulogies. And how did they time the speeches?

I watched in awe as an elderly man is flowing red robes knelt at a triangular symbol etched into the floor of the the stage and set a small pot of water boiling over a candle. Some bizarre ritual owing its evolution to centuries of tradition? Well, no. He was boiling an egg. And when it was cooked, time was up.

The wonders of technology!!

My sponsor, or "parrain", was a lovely lady called Francoise Proust - no relation to Marcel, I was assured. After making me blush for two minutes, myself and my fellow chevaliers to be, had to sing a song and recite an oath of allegiance, before being presented with ENORMOUS engraved wine glasses which were filled with copious amounts of chilled white Gaillac wine which we had to drain before the song was finished.

You'll be surprised to hear that I managed to drain mine. Without dropping the glass or dribbling down my chin. Well, not much, anyway.

We had maroon aprons wrapped around us . And since I had my kilt on, bare legs poking out from below the apron made iit look like I might have been naked beneath it. Brass amphoras dangling from red, blue, and white ribbons were then draped around our necks, and the Grand Chancelier of the Order, the distinguished winemaker, Jacques Auques, whacked us on each shoulder with his shillelah - sorry, his polished vine root.

And that was it. We were now Chevaliers of the Order. Members of an elite and unique group of wine lovers whose particular predilection is for the vintages of Gaillac. All that remained was for us to sign the Golden Book - the Livre d'Or - and receive our certificates.

And thence to the gala dinner.

Now, dinners are dinners. And I only mention it because there were two very unusual aspects to this particular repas.

But, before I tell you what they were, just let me run through the menu - and, more importantly, the wine list!!!

Following an aperitif, we were served foie gras cooked in a terrine and served with fig confiture and salad.

Then came the fish course. Perch, caught locally, and poached in a wonderful cream and garlic sauce.

Naturally, our palates were then cleansed by a "trou normande", comprising an iced grape marc.

The meat course consisted of venison steaks served with a blueberry sauce, artichoke hearts and an exquisite vegetable gratin.

Then to the cheese - brought to the gathering by a "confrerie" of cheesemakers come to witness our graduation to the order. It was a ve-ery mature brie from Melun served with a wine confiture.

And finally a lighter than light cake - described as "le d'Artagnan" - presented in a display of fireworks.

But it was the wine.... what can I say? We were served a Gaillac primeur, followed by a sweet white with the foie gras. A dry white Gaillac with the fish, then two different reds with the meat and the cheese. Then finally a Gaillac effervescent - a champagne-type wine (actually they were making wine like this in Gaillac a hundred years before Dom Perignon stole the idea).

What made it all really unique was the presentation of the menu. It was engraved on the reverse side of individual 37cl bottles of Gaillac red provided as part of each place setting. A wonderful memento of the evening - even if the bottles are now all empty!!

But, really, the piece de resistance was the bread.

I have to say, I have never seen anything quite like it. A miniature round loaf at each place, engraved with the legend, 2007.

Was this a sell-by date, I wondered? Or maybe they were just letting us know that these weren't last year's left-overs. Of course, it may just have been notification that this was a very good year - for bread. A fine vintage.

I don't know - not being a connoisseur of bread. But it tasted good. So I ate it. And now, in the famous words of an old friend, "S'gone."

LE PRIX INTRAMUROS

Thursday, October 18:
We gathered around the table in the foyer of the salon where the book festival would be held over the next three days. Myself and five other writers. We had all been shortlisted for the most unusual literary prize in France - the Prix Intramuros. Literally, the prize within the walls. A prize decided by real life prisoners, serving real life prison terms. The book which had won me this place was "Snakehead", the fourth in my China Thrillers series.

There should have been a seventh writer among us. But sadly, the poor man broke his leg while riding (or should I say falling off) one of the new free-to-ride bikes in Paris - "les velos libres".

The seven shortlisted books had been chosen from a long list of forty, before being farmed out to juries of prisoners in penitentiaries all over the north-west of France. The prisoners had all read and discussed the books and voted for their favourite, even before we arrived. But before the prize would be announced, we had to visit the participating penitentiaries and talk to the prisoners. About our books, literature, writing in general.

I should have been accompanied by the guy with the broken leg during a day-long trip to visit a remand jail in Angouleme, and a longer term prison near Bordeaux, but was dispatched along with my chauffeur to deal with it on my own. The other writers headed off to other prisons in the region.

The maison d'arret in Angouleme was a grim, stone-built, nineteenth century prison. Many of the prisoners kept there had not yet been convicted. Some were awaiting trial, others sentencing. Some of them had been held without either for up to two years. A group of fifteen to twenty men trooped into the room where we were to discuss the books. They all shook my hand and sat in chairs in a solemn circle, and three women from the social services department kicked off the debate.

It was slow to start, but I think the guys realised pretty quickly that I wasn't some intellectual come down from his ivory tower to hold forth. I was just an ordinary guy who wrote stories meant to entertain - and was doing his best to speak good French. So they warmed to me, and we ended up having a very lively discussion about the process of writing, of books in general, and of mine in particular.

Two hours later, the ladies from social services drew the session to a close, and I breathed a sigh of relief. One hundred and twenty minutes of French, responding to questions, getting involved in debate, had left my head spinning. I signed copies of my books, and looked forward to escaping the grim claustrophobia of life behind bars. At least I got to leave. I felt desperately sorry for those who had to stay behind - warm, intelligent and articulate men of all ages. What in God's name were they doing in this place?

Then, to my shock, I discovered, that my sentence was not quite over. They were taking me to the "quartier femmes" - the women's wing of the prison - to go through the whole process again with a group of female prisoners.

Beyond a blue-painted barred gate, I was led down a short corridor past the doors of their cells. There are only fifteen women in the whole prison. A room at the end of the corridor provides their sole opportunity for recreation and companionship. It was there that we met, after they were released one by one from their cells. Several of them were very young. Barely more than teenagers. Others were old hands. Tired, drink-puffed faces. They were less focused than the men. More likely to go off at tangents. But we did connect. Escpecially when I told them stories of bizarre Chinese cuisine - deep-fried whole scorpions, dog and cat, ants, hundred-year-old eggs.

And then, when I left, they stood patiently by the doors to their cells to be locked up again in tiny, cold, stone spaces. I found the experience deeply depressing. We have only one life, and for whatever reason these poor souls were wasting theirs.

Out into the sunshine. Free to breath the cool, fresh air, feel the sunshine on my skin. Free to live.

And then an hour's drive south. Almost to Bordeaux, and the prison at Bedenac. A former US military base, this prison comprised a very high wall built all around a huge open space. Inside, once past security, I saw scattered buildings built amid abandoned spaces. There were construction and logging workshops. Cell blocks. An administration block. I ate with the prison guards - cooked for by a inmate, and served by yet another prisoner. It was good grub.

At the far side of the compound was an old US army block which contained a music room and the prison library. It was there that I met a dozen or so men - most of them in their late sixties or early seventies. I was given the warmest of receptions. These were nice, well-read, lucid-speaking men serving long sentences. They ran a well-stocked library and loved to read. After all, what else is there to do with all that time.

Security here was quite different. The men carry the keys to their own cells and lock themselves in at night. We sat around a long table and drank coffee and talked for two hours. They were interested and interesting, and I learned that three of them were to be given special dispensation to attend the book fair at Cognac the next day. Free, and trusted to return. They were looking forward to it in the way that a parched man craves a glass of water, but were already dreading their return.

I enjoyed our conversation. It was lively and intelligent. And afterwards I signed their books and shook their hands, and took the long road north in the dying light, back to Cognac, and the gala dinner to be held in the Chateau Otard - the birthplace of Francois Premier - where the winner of the prize would be announced.

To be honest, I had no expectation of winning. There were several well-known French authors on the shortlist, and it seemed to me unlikely that a foreigner would carry off the prize.

You can imagine my astonishment, then, when they announced my name, and I had to leave my table, applause ringing around the vaulted chambers, to receive my plaque and my 200 dollar bottle of Cognac. "Snakehead", or "Cadavres chinois a Houston" as it is published in France, had been selected by the juries of prisoners - some of whom I had met, and others whom I never would. And I felt a special pride in that. Because these were no professional critics, peddling personal preferences or literary snobbery. These were real readers. Men and women with little else to do with their time but read. And escape through reading. And they had chosen my book. And for me that was worth a hundred critics' prizes.

I felt privileged, too, to have met at least some of them. Who knows what had led them to their prison predicament, or why. But I couldn't help thinking that but for fate they might have been you or I.

TREADING WORDS

They say there's no rest for the wicked. In which case, I must be awfully bad.

I just finished writing Book Three in the EnzoFiles series. I started storylining it on July 9th, after three months of research and development which took me to the French Mediterranean, the North of Spain, a small town in the hills of Provence, Strasbourg, and Cahors!

I should mention that somewhere in the middle of all the writing I had to go to Lorient in Brittany for a promotional event at the Festival Interceltique, which this year featured Scotland. So I was guest of honour at the Bistro Litteraire, where I was interrogated for an hour in front of an audience by two delightful "animateurs" as they call them here in France - Maette Chantrel and Rachid Oujdi.

I was there for four days, with lots of time off. So I used one of those days to make a research trip for a forthcoming EnzoFiles book which will be set entirely on a Breton island. I spent the whole Sunday on the Isle de Groix, which is the second biggest of the Breton islands. Apart from the trees, it made me think of the Scottish Hebrides. A rugged coastline, crap roads, and little whitewashed cottages with steeply pitched slate roofs.

La Patronne et moi hired an open-topped jeep and travelled the island from top to bottom, loosening teeth and spinal joints in the process. GREAT location! We had a fabulous seafood lunch on the terrasse of a harbour restaurant, before finding a beach shaped like a concave crescent and falling asleep in the sun. Bi-ig mistake! Blue-white Scottish people transformed into cooked red lobsters.

I should also mention that while in Lorient, I became a legend in my own back garden. Sound strange? It really was. A local arts organisation here in France, Artzimut, wanted to take a tour of people around my village to meet the local artists - a painter called Christian, a couple of musicians called Chris and Fleur, and myself, the writer. When they discovered I was going to be in Brittany when they did the tour, they rigged up a computer communication deal, via iChat. They set up a big screen and a sound system in my back garden, all connected to an online computer. I went online at my hotel in Brittany, and came up on the big screen. I could see and hear them. They could see and hear me. The idea was that they would ask me questions about my books and I would respond.


Well, the organiser spoke to me about ten minutes beforehand to tell me I would have to do the Q & A twice. Why? I asked. He said they'd had to split the people into two groups, because there were too many for a single session. How many? I asked. Three hundred, he told me. THREE HUNDRED! I couldn't believe it. Three hundred people were going to trek up from the woods behind my house and through my back garden. When finally I connected with them, I asked if they wouldn't mind cutting the grass while they were there. Unfortunately there were no volunteers. I saw my neighbour, Georges, on screen, and when I spoke to him, he jumped. Georges is nearly 80, and couldn't understand how the TV screen could be talking to him. Altogether a pretty bizarre experience.

Anyway, once back from Lorient, it was back to work. The daily grind. Up at 6am, 3000 words a day. Until the last of them tripped off my fingertips and on to the computer screen at the beginning of this week.

BLOOD. That's the working title. A good title, I think. Apposite. Because the story really is about blood, in every sense.

So next week I start the revisions, which will take me into October, and the promotional month from hell. I have four major promotional events in France in October. The second EnzoFiles book comes out in the States in November, published by Poisoned Pen Press, along with the paperback of EXTRAORDINARY PEOPLE. The new one's called THE CRITIC, and La Patronne has already started planning the US promotional tour for it in February/March 2008. Of course we'll also be promoting THE KILLING ROOM which is published by St. Martin's Press in February.

But since THE CRITIC is about the murder of a wine critic in the vineyards of south-west France, the emphasis of the tour is going to be on wine. A sort of Book Tasting tour. We've been in negotiation with several American wine importers about bringing some Gaillac wines into the States to allow readers at my events to taste the wines I write about in the book. But, of course, nothing is simple, so I'm hoping that's all going to work out.

The first event has already been plumbed in at Houston, Texas, for late February. An event hosted by the Alliance Francaise, books provided by Murder by the Book, and wine provided by Specs. A bi-ig crowd is expected. There should be ten or twelve similar events around the States, as well as smaller signing events at the usual bookstores. And, of course, it's straight back from there to four days at the Paris book fair.

And then another book to write!

See what I mean about wicked?

The most bizarre moment of the next few months awaits me at Cognac in October. There is a huge festival of crime books held there every year, called Polar & Co. There are various prizes given out at the festival, and this year I have been nominated for one of them. It is called the Prix Intramuros - literally, the prize between the walls. There are seven nominees. We have to turn up at the festival a day early to meet each other during a dinner in a chateau. The following day we will be driven to the local prison in Poitou Charentes, where we will each spend the day being interrogated by panels of prisoners. At the end of the day, it is the prisoners who will decide the winner of the prize, and the award will be made that night.

I have to confess to being a little nervous about wearing my kilt in prison!

However, spending a day in jail was just about the furthest thing from my mind last week when I drove into my local town to go the bank. I'd forgotten it was market day, and the town was taken over by stalls and marketeers. I had to park on the edge of town and walk in. As I was crossing the main street near the bank, a blue gendarmes' van pulled up in the middle of the road. All the traffic behind it ground to a halt. The gendarme in the passenger seat rolled down his window, pointed at me, and then crooked his finger to indicate that I should approach.

I went to the van with great trepidation, wondering what the hell I had done. He looked at me and said, "Monsieur Peter May?" I just about fell over. How did he know my name? 'Yes,' I confessed reluctantly.

His face broke into a wreath of smiles. "I lo-ove your books,' he said. "I'm really pleased to meet you." And he pumped my hand and told me he'd read all four which had been translated so far into French. He wanted to know when the next one would be out, and would I sign it for him.

I couldn't believe it. He just wanted to talk. Meanwhile the traffic was tailing back all the way through the town. But nobody was going to honk a horn at the cops. Finally he shook my hand again and off they went. I walked on to the bank in a daze, ignoring the motorists glowering at me from their cars.

Was this, I wondered, fame at last?

Well, fame in my own lunch hour, anyway!

US TOUR 2007, DAY FIFTY-NINE:

It's over!

Fifty-nine days, more than twenty cities, tens of thousands of miles, and Peter May's World Tour of America Part II is finally at an end.

Now I can afford to lift my eyes to the finish line, and let my legs buckle just a little. Last night was our last in a strange bed. Tonight we board an airplane at JFK in New York and fly to Paris. Tomorrow night we shall sleep in our own bed for the first time in over two months.

Yesterday was a hectic last day in New York City. Signings at three bookstores at opposite ends of Manhattan - in Greenwich Village, Tribeca and the Upper East Side. That followed lunch with Ruth Cavin, my editor at St. Martin's Press, at a charming Spanish restaurant in 22nd street called Bolo. Ruth is the doyenne of New York editors. She is eighty-eight years old and still going strong. She is a delightful lady, sharp and observant, with dark, twinkling eyes.

St. Martin's Press, one of the biggest publishing houses in the States, is based in the nearby Flatiron building - so-called because it is built in the gushet (or triangle) between converging roads.

We walked from there, La Patronne et moi, down into Greenwich Village, then ventured further into the labyrinthine network of subway tunnels that so characterises transport in this huge city, navigating our way south, then north and east, for a meeting with my agent, Emma Sweeney, before the final booksigning of the tour at the Black Orchid.

Then Korean barbecue in Little Korea, and a smiling Korean waitress. When we asked for two vodka tonics and a couple of glasses of red wine, she tipped her head to one side and said, "Oh, you like to drink!"

Actually, I think we earned it.

Nothing more to be done. Nothing more to be said.

It's over!

US TOUR 2007, DAY FIFTY-EIGHT:

Incredibly, Spring has now followed us to New York. Outside our hotel window, the Empire State Building towers overhead in brilliant sunshine.

We flew in yesterday from Pittsburgh, and from the clearest of blue skies had a fabulous view of Manhattan, tall buildings sprouting from a narrow strip of island that looks like it is anchored to the mainland by the bridges that span the waters to east and west.

The Statue of Liberty stood on her rock off the southern tip of this most densely populated of cities, and made me think of home - it was the French who gifted this powerful symbol of freedom to the Americans.

This is the final stop on our extraordinary two month adventure which has taken us from Seattle to San Diego, from Phoenix to Vegas, from Houston to Denver, from Minneapolis to Pittsburgh.

On Sunday we drove through the heart of Pittsburgh, following downloaded instructions from the internet, to the small town of Oakmont on the city's southern fringes. There, a gathering of fans had "Afternoon Tea with Peter May" at the Mystery Lovers' Bookshop. In fact we all sat around chatting, and I talked for the last time about where I had found my inspiration for both the China and French series.

La Patronne and I were pleased to see the store's owner, Mary Alice, looking so well after her recent illness, and delighted to hear that she and her husband, Richard, are hoping to come to France this fall.

Then it was back to our hotel with carry-out barbecue ribs and a bottle of wine,

And now to, NYC, where last night we met our American friend from France, artist Ellen Shire. Several paintings from Ellen's spectacular summer 2006 exhibition at Castelnau, near Bretenoux, are currently hanging in our house in France. Ellen had problems of storage for the winter, and having large, empty walls available, we offered our services as temporary keepers of the art - until the next exhibition or, even better, sale. It will be hard to let them go, come the time.

We had a great curry at the Indus Valley Indian restaurant on the upper west side with Ellen and her brother Peter - another artist. We negotiated our way there and back via the New York subway, our first attempt to navigate the island's subterranean transport system. And, well, the only thing we got wrong was swiping our cards too slowly - guess we're not up to speed yet.

So today is packed with signings and appointments. Three drop-by signings, lunch with my publisher, and a meeting with my agent. And tonight we'll spend our last night in a bed that is not our own. The draw of home is now nearly irresistible. Two months is a long time to be away.

A wave of fatigue washes over me when I realised that, well, we're going to have to do it all again next winter. And, of course, there is no rest for the wicked in between. A Paris radio station wants to do an interview with me on Thursday morning as I transit between airport and train station en-route for home. The following weekend I will be back in Paris for the salon du livre, folowed by a rencontre at a Paris bookstore. Then the weekend after that, it's the salon du livre at Limoges...

When will I ever find the time to write!

US TOUR 2007, DAY FIFTY-SIX:

From a cold, but brilliantly sunny Sunday morning in Pittsburgh, a tall cup of Caribou coffee in my hand, I'm looking back over the last couple of days.

For all our fears of heading north and east and back into winter, the weather has really been with us. Spring has followed reluctantly in our wake to Denver, Minneapolis, and now Pittsburgh. It's warming up everywhere, and looking at the weather back home in Puymule, I see that it is sunny and warm, with temperatures getting up to 19 or 20 degrees centigrade this week.

Let's hope that winter has issued its last icy exhalation.

The sun just never stopped shining in Minneapolis, and the several feet of snow dumped by the previous week's blizzard was melting to send rivers of water running down the streets. Which was treacherous at night, when temperatures plunged to freezing and water turned to ice.

But it was in brilliant sunshine that we went with Elizabeth and Tom to the Minneapolis Institute of Arts to revisit our hippy pasts in an exhibition called San Francisco Psychedelic - a photographic record of the bands and vocalists who populated the Haight-Ashbury era in the late sixties: Big Brother and the Holding Company; Country Joe and the Fish; Grateful Dead; Janis Joplin; Jefferson Airplane; and many others.

These were great pics that really captured an age, and a generation many of whom are now dead. And, God, did they all look so young! I suppose we all were, then. And thought we would change the world.

Guess we got that one wrong!!

I signed huge piles of books at Uncle Ed's mystery bookstore around the corner, and preached the gospel acording to St. Peter (that's me, in case there was any doubt), at Once Upon a Crime, signing more piles of books in the process.

Then it was off for a meal at the Rainbow Chinese restaurant with Tom, Elizabeth and Sophie, followed by fabulous late night ice-cream at Sebastian Joe's ice cream parlour.

The sun was still shining as we headed out early Saturday morning to the airport for our flight to Chicago, and connecting flight to Pittsburgh. A wet day there cleared up for our arrival, and as we drove out of the airport in our rental car, the sun made a brief appearance before dipping beyond the horizon.

We then spent a frustrating hour cruising a huge, sprawling and poorly lit mall near our hotel in search of a meal. All the restaurants were full, with waiting times of up to an hour. We ended up in a cut-price supermarket buying smoked salmon, tortilla chips and dips, and then cruising for another half hour to find a wine store. We finally returned to our hotel room to sip on Spanish wine, stuff our faces, and slip off into a sleep that would, in a few hours time, be cut short by Daylight Savings.

In those last moments, before I drifted off, I recalled a conversation we'd had in the car on the way to the airport that morning with Tom and Elizabeth. For some reason we had got to talking about sore backs, and I mentioned that I had first injured mine twenty-five years ago.

"How did you do it?" Elizabeth asked.

"I was heaving sacks," I told her.

She turned, wide-eyed with shock. "What?"

"Heaving sacks," I repeated.

I saw her exhale with relief, then she burst out laughing. "It's your Scottish accent," she told me. "I thought you said you were having sex!"

I should have been so lucky!


The Carr family...


With Sophie and La Patronne...