tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158642842024-03-21T16:14:39.191+01:00Peter May LiveWriter of international thrillers, screenwriter and TV producer.peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.comBlogger133125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-60068866141530924702010-12-13T13:04:00.002+01:002010-12-13T13:08:46.729+01:00New BlogPlease note that this blog has now been transferred to a new, more colourful site at <a href="http://maypeter.wordpress.com/">http://maypeter.wordpress.com/</a> <br /><br />Follow the link for all my latest news and thoughts...peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-86290251989388013862010-07-27T20:47:00.002+02:002010-07-27T20:53:12.384+02:00Extraordinary People (of the worst kind)<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I don't usually involve myself in political comment. But I am moved by incredulity to condemn, without qualification, the actions of the overgrown schoolboys who currently run the UK, in withdrawing funding from the British Film Council - effectively bringing about it's demise, along with the demise of the British film industry itself. In concert with wielding the axe on the Health Protection Agency (vital to tracing the sources of infectious diseases - I am publishing a book, shortly, on the subject), these morons demonstrate at every turn their unsuitability to govern.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2010/jul/26/uk-film-council-axed">Here is an interesting article on the subject of the importance of the British Film Council</a></p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-90805608198171015812010-06-09T22:19:00.000+02:002010-06-09T22:55:45.524+02:00Of Mice and MenI am moved by momentous events to write an extra-curricular blog.<br /><br />After having successfully (well, almost) negotiated two months of events throughout the US, and a hectic French schedule in Lyon, we ended up yesterday in the delightful Romanesque Mediterranean town of Frejus for an event at the Librairie Charlemagne - a prestigious local bookstore. <br /><br />We were met by the delightful Valerie Mouton, a former radio journalist who was going to host the event, and lunched in a local restaurant before visiting the oldest cathedral in Europe.<br /><br />When we turned up for the event itself yesterday evening, the bookstore owner hurried out to let us into the store's private parking area, just off the main street. To do this he had to lower a two-foot high, nine-inch diameter post sunk into the sidewalk. This was a highly sophisticated process that involved jumping up and down on it until it stayed down.<br /><br />With traffic piling up behind me I waited patiently until it was down, and I was waved forward. Unfortunately, as I passed over it, the damned thing suddenly took it into its head to rise up again. There was a terrible crashing and grinding, and I jammed on the brakes, effectively to find my car impaled from below on the pillar. No way to get it off.<br /><br />And I had an audience awaiting me in the store!<br /><br />Mindful of the fact that I had a meeting with my French publisher two hours away at Arles at 9am the following morning, plus twelve hours of driving over the next two days to get me to the book festival at Le Havre, I abandoned my poor, impaled Renault Scenic, to do my duty in the store.<br /><br />As I spoke of research and inspiration, a mechanic arrived to raise my car up on two jacks, while simultaneously inserting a third between the pillar and the underside of the vehicle to force the pillar down. It took him an hour-and-a-half to free it. My concentration was less than perfect - a little like my French!<br /><br />Now I cannot take to the road this morning without having the car checked for damage and safety. Even assuming all is ok, I will be several hours late for my appointment at Arles, and the leisurely overnight I had anticipated at home to break the two day drive that lies ahead, will be reduced to a handful of hours.<br /><br />If there is a problem with the car, God knows how it will go...<br /><br />In the words of a famous Scot: The best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft agley.<br /><br />A certain Anglo-Saxon word of mediaeval origin comes to mind!peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-44798440910035917082010-05-28T09:25:00.001+02:002010-05-28T09:25:55.660+02:00Homeward Bound<p>A little over two months ago I was sitting on a bench on the platform of the railway station ten minutes from my home in south-west France. It was cold, it was wet, it was still winter. I was excited, stressed, depressed, all at the same time.<br /><br />I was waiting for a train that would take me to Paris, and from there to the United States, where ahead of me lay two months of touring, talks and travel, to promote three new books which had come out at the start of the year.<br /><br />I was daunted. And, to be honest, if I could have turned around there and then, and gone straight back home, nothing would have made me happier.<br /><br />A song kept going around and around in my head.<br /><br />I’m sitting in a railway station got a ticket for my destination...<br />... And every stop is neatly planned for a laundry and a one-night stand...<br /><br />Homeward bound, I wish I was... homeward bound...<br /><br />Ok, so I amended the lyrics a little, but you get the point.<br /><br />Two months on, here I am sitting at Gate B41 at Dulles International Airport in Washington DC. I have given more than 20 talks at events in bookstores and libraries all over the country, culminating at Borders at Bailey’s Crossroads just outside of DC, and the LaPrade Library in Richmond Virginia.<br /><br />I find it hard to believe that it was eight weeks ago that I flew into Minneapolis, jumped into a rental car, and drove immediately to Uncle Edgar’s bookstore to sign the piles of books that Jeff Hatfield had waiting for me. Since when I have lost my coat and found it, lost my cellphone and (miraculously) found it, lost my voice and found it, and lost my heart to a dog called Odin. I also lost my way in the dark of southern California, and almost got shot. In the end I very nearly lost my sanity - and I’m still looking for it.<br /><br />But here I am, finally... homeward bound. And I have that song going around and around in my head again. As they call my flight...</p><br />peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-5008365734627460142010-05-24T16:32:00.004+02:002010-05-24T16:44:53.829+02:00Powerfully Close<p>Okay, so where was I? Oh, yes, Connecticut. So where the hell am I now? Damned if I know!<br /><br />Wait, let me take a peek out of the window. Draw back the curtains just a touch. Ohhhhh, yes. I remember now. I’m in Oxford. No, not Oxford, England. Oxford, Maryland. On Chesapeake Bay. Just about 40 miles from the White House in Washington DC.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizQxMOlto9jvLOo5vp4AajGzbHUuzgix4gLN18IOiU_S79MQtzmYyGCasGfL3dGUTON-fjw8HwBUFBQaIbf2SUanro05gQFTMoiIDDY0tqsIUdJcvs2J-BPBbA_decOBwUaEME7Q/s1600/79Oxford.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizQxMOlto9jvLOo5vp4AajGzbHUuzgix4gLN18IOiU_S79MQtzmYyGCasGfL3dGUTON-fjw8HwBUFBQaIbf2SUanro05gQFTMoiIDDY0tqsIUdJcvs2J-BPBbA_decOBwUaEME7Q/s320/79Oxford.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474844958654030082" /></a><br />The British (or, “you”, as someone put it to us yesterday) sailed into Chesapeake Bay just over 200 years ago on a fateful expedition to set Washington alight, igniting the war that would wrest North America from colonial hands and establish the United States.<br /><br />But this quaint backwater, with it’s English overtones (and undertones), could hardly present a more different face of modern-day America. The Oxford Inn, where we are staying, is like an old-fashioned hotel in the Scottish Highlands - from its squeaky floorboards, to its village pub filled with local worthies spilling beer and stories.<br /><br />Just down the road is the Scottish Highland Creamery, which produces amazing ice-cream from traditional Italian recipes. The owner is, of course, a Scot. From Edinburgh.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigpuGtOt8ZUDoUSRCgD0i-oDikp5YsnCl28GrD5CdGXseV9DbUwGzyLEUa6BrUnQ7G35wnABx7PfQC1DIBff86qTEHTTge7AgWqPYm7yV8cc4G9P7U5WkTa7BohDSrporXa1kb6Q/s1600/80Oxford2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigpuGtOt8ZUDoUSRCgD0i-oDikp5YsnCl28GrD5CdGXseV9DbUwGzyLEUa6BrUnQ7G35wnABx7PfQC1DIBff86qTEHTTge7AgWqPYm7yV8cc4G9P7U5WkTa7BohDSrporXa1kb6Q/s320/80Oxford2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474845229969089570" /></a><br />There are hundreds of miles of coastline following ragged inlets in and out of bays and creeks. The roads are all inland, long driveways leading off into trees on either side towards hidden houses which face on to the water, each with its own private jetty, and a curious veil of anonymity. People who live here are, for the most part, either very rich, or very private.<br /><br />As someone said in the bar last night, about forty percent of the population is probably on the witness protection scheme.<br /><br />But it is also an artistic community, with writers, artists and poets settling in large numbers in search of inspiration and peace.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8iICMLtBjPIkVlosWSphPjjLp2b83okuGOtmYyXR6Op82E8AFwBXjhF-lUeNQzO_1uszuRVQqjVo4LCi-M2aL-GNqeHZii9B6UmRgiFFSkNLkMm0qDnBhE_PM_PvTWDMAglxpIw/s1600/81Kathy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 312px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8iICMLtBjPIkVlosWSphPjjLp2b83okuGOtmYyXR6Op82E8AFwBXjhF-lUeNQzO_1uszuRVQqjVo4LCi-M2aL-GNqeHZii9B6UmRgiFFSkNLkMm0qDnBhE_PM_PvTWDMAglxpIw/s320/81Kathy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474845537372621922" /></a><br />Among them is Kathy Harig, who recently moved her delightful mystery bookstore down here from Baltimore. Which was where, yesterday, I chatted with customers and signed books, on a damp, quiet Sunday.<br /><br />Seven days ago we were in upstate New York, since when I have driven nearly 1200 miles, stopping in Connecticut, New York City, and Pittsburgh, PA. There, on Saturday morning, I gave a talk to a full-house at the Mystery Lovers Bookshop in Oakmont.<br /><br />Owners, Mary-Alice and Richard, had laid on breakfast for their regular customers, who filled all the available table space, nibbling muffins and sipping coffee as I talked about my books. We had a lively and fun session, culminating in the signing of many books. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu7wxIM-xq1dLTTwrdrhOOFHTDnh3ouYOObM8ZDyEL9Rkxz4_LtCIqWU0OVvcFuCk1xS7YG1tbdRHV_Cg2q17hp-qLl8ElbP9G0yrnFWZPKGFU47kxM2A2DEnVyGnvDSEsybWjJw/s1600/78OakmontSigning.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 221px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu7wxIM-xq1dLTTwrdrhOOFHTDnh3ouYOObM8ZDyEL9Rkxz4_LtCIqWU0OVvcFuCk1xS7YG1tbdRHV_Cg2q17hp-qLl8ElbP9G0yrnFWZPKGFU47kxM2A2DEnVyGnvDSEsybWjJw/s320/78OakmontSigning.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474845921073655970" /></a><br />We left at midday, to pick up a take-away pizza, and get on the road for the six-hour drive south-east to Chesapeake.<br /><br />I have to confess to a serious dose of fatigue. I feel (and probably look) as if I have aged ten years on this trip. Careful dieting and serious exercise will be necessary preparation in the weeks ahead of ever doing this again. But right now, for the purposes of recovery, all I want is to sleep - in my own bed!<br /><br />But wait. Again. It’s not over. Today is a “day off”. A chance for some relaxing tourism, to take some fresh air and seafood. Then tomorrow it’s off to DC, an event at Borders at Bailey’s Crossroads, and an overnight at the home of our friend Barbara Busch. Before moving on to Richmond, Virginia, for a speaking engagement at the LaPrade library.<br /><br />Then, and I hardly dare to believe it, we climb aboard an airplane at Dulles Airport and fly home to Paris.<br /><br />But for now, that is a thought that I will push to the back of my mind. The game is not over till the fat lady sings.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJAYQw5Qm_hzdELfXGlVzJs1D1LkoJzr19RWuX-rqzBfeTQj_hunEcdQXnn3MVP_he5ELQfRtOaeHZBtjdcfvspl-H0dvzghr0hXe6YU1vXf25UZs8p1s17SkPG3YheeGuO2ytnQ/s1600/whitehouse.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJAYQw5Qm_hzdELfXGlVzJs1D1LkoJzr19RWuX-rqzBfeTQj_hunEcdQXnn3MVP_he5ELQfRtOaeHZBtjdcfvspl-H0dvzghr0hXe6YU1vXf25UZs8p1s17SkPG3YheeGuO2ytnQ/s320/whitehouse.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474847426447947458" /></a><br />Tonight, I will go to bed again, knowing that the President of the United States is slipping between the sheets less than an hour’s drive away. Tomorrow night I get a little nearer. For Barbara lives less than five miles from the White House. And that’s probably as close to the most powerful man in the world as I’m ever likely to get.</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-41671606038206851482010-05-21T01:58:00.007+02:002010-05-21T02:08:29.761+02:00Connections in Connecticut<p>Dr. Richard Ward is one of the most pre-eminent experts on crime and international terrorism in the United States.<br /><br />And it was thanks to Dick that I received my introduction to the Chinese police when I started writing my China Thrillers series in 1997, since when he has been a constant source of research and inspiration for all my books.<br /><br />He has also become a great friend. And it is with Dick and his wife, Michelle, that we are staying these three days in Connecticut. It is my first trip to New England, towns and villages with quaint English names nestling amongst rolling countryside of spring green natural forest.<br /><br />They live just outside of New Haven, the home of Yale University. Dick is Dean of the Henry C. Lee College of Criminal Justice and Forensic Sciences, a part of the University of New Haven. He moved there two years ago from Sam Houston State University, where he was Dean of the College of Criminal Justice for ten years.<br /><br />During that time he set up a terrorism monitoring organisation, where data gleaned from open sources is analysed by specially designed software to find hidden links between terrorists, terror groups, and organised crime. The data is collected and entered by criminal justice students, both domestic and foreign, at five different locations around the US.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.isvg.org/">The group is known as ISVG - the Institute for the Study of Violent Groups - and has its own website.</a><br /><br />I took advantage of my time here to sit in on some of their briefings, and talk to the guys who are running the show. Fascinating stuff!<br /><br />A local journalist thought so, too, and showed up for a briefing while we were there. On the table in the briefing room, was a CV of the Times Square bomber, which the guys at ISVG had put together for him. Not realising it was for him, he proceeded to spend the next fifteen minutes surreptitiously sliding the CV in amongst his own papers so that he could slip quietly away with it when he left.<br /><br />Oh how we laughed when he was gone. He figured he had pulled off some kind of journalistic coup, when really he was just stealing from himself. <br /><br />A further source of amusement came when he briefly left the room with his photographer to take pics of the kids entering up data at computers in the facility. We were all startled by the sudden ringing of a cellphone in the pocket of his jacket which was hanging over the back of a chair - the theme from Mission Impossible (a comment on his own self-image, perhaps?). We half expected the cellphone to self-destruct after five seconds.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGTldpOxNUoFDWtr3jxycycFClQYY_6OG2xvqnI6VCKQqPNRRo4GvWZfhPGZHAE5W808dqoPl0b-MKl2yTdYwoL-42W2RSHlUkQgOFxdU2OTVzyxHtya7cvjhvF365W5STO6lFzw/s1600/72DickInterview.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGTldpOxNUoFDWtr3jxycycFClQYY_6OG2xvqnI6VCKQqPNRRo4GvWZfhPGZHAE5W808dqoPl0b-MKl2yTdYwoL-42W2RSHlUkQgOFxdU2OTVzyxHtya7cvjhvF365W5STO6lFzw/s320/72DickInterview.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473506920362436274" /></a><br />Dick also does an hour-long weekly radio show which broadcasts to around 400,000 people, so we spent the next hour in the studio, where he recorded an interview with me for the show.<br /><br />That was Tuesday, an unseasonally cold and wet day.<br /><br />Wednesday we took the train to New York City to sign books at the Mysterious Bookshop at Tribeca in lower Manhattan. Afterwards, La Patronne and I met up with Susie for lunch. The weather was still cool, but improving.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfqxHzooMGAf7Tl4Euwemhf8Qq_0GVjVwRN0cYIIToH4iYjyv_qmc01kfQsjuOQ60_LVDLZgpnz99Pv3VvBD1GuE-Tlxm9ju4lGs8yKpD_NWfa6Fm3V0GQsraJC2dGtXFlLI_8Pg/s1600/73GrandCentral.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfqxHzooMGAf7Tl4Euwemhf8Qq_0GVjVwRN0cYIIToH4iYjyv_qmc01kfQsjuOQ60_LVDLZgpnz99Pv3VvBD1GuE-Tlxm9ju4lGs8yKpD_NWfa6Fm3V0GQsraJC2dGtXFlLI_8Pg/s320/73GrandCentral.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473507398657429954" /></a><br />Thursday was beautiful, with temperatures soaring to 28C, and Dick and Michelle drove us up the coast to the beautiful historical town of Mystic on the Mystic River, where majestic talls ships are berthed in a sheltered harbour overlooked by the original boatyards and chandlers, banks and immigration offices that lined the dock.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKvXvXsXt9LXn86yO7d7lEtah6abkEGHEUZ3wljtrPvpLLO0oqwOLuvhPVGU8RPyprzzEBN1hqSrOx39B0X9f-iyPe4vLy7IGNu4jOEp1MxtKUazNKaxnivqUcQ2NRxhQ_nelztw/s1600/75MysticStreet.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKvXvXsXt9LXn86yO7d7lEtah6abkEGHEUZ3wljtrPvpLLO0oqwOLuvhPVGU8RPyprzzEBN1hqSrOx39B0X9f-iyPe4vLy7IGNu4jOEp1MxtKUazNKaxnivqUcQ2NRxhQ_nelztw/s320/75MysticStreet.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473507920989871346" /></a><br />Tomorrow, it’s an early start and a long drive south and west to the city of Pittsburgh where I will give a breakfast talk on Saturday at the Mystery Lovers’ Bookshop, under the heading of “Coffee and Crime”.<br /><br />At the same time, Dick will board an airplane and fly to Afghanistan.<br /><br />I think I prefer my itinerary.</p><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqDbSelZ0Hykkp-_UGIxJRlXI_4Z7kOyInChrvUu_M6_xnLqTuLf7jBPTTqJigESBZt23CniSO385kDH5FpGRpbhnZ-zvSoyuiAEsX0ZRLXUUJ6BFnDyYtOX8BH0nH7iJ0fkKdzw/s1600/76Dick&Michelle.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqDbSelZ0Hykkp-_UGIxJRlXI_4Z7kOyInChrvUu_M6_xnLqTuLf7jBPTTqJigESBZt23CniSO385kDH5FpGRpbhnZ-zvSoyuiAEsX0ZRLXUUJ6BFnDyYtOX8BH0nH7iJ0fkKdzw/s400/76Dick&Michelle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473508253564392466" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Dick and Michelle go overboard in Mystic</span>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-46037790246326436322010-05-19T01:13:00.008+02:002010-05-21T00:34:51.039+02:00When Fates Conspire<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKFj_scRx1RvKHMfDIDMqV3NctNiMEfLF3c2wlk7K26zME8qcGlpx-8facIkEBDRSMpxqvoKTh67sKHktqEcoT5jQjzceTHvoNKzUFB-evxMYoOflUqmI1A8l9lKeA5RwHEkwERA/s1600/68Susand&Jim.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKFj_scRx1RvKHMfDIDMqV3NctNiMEfLF3c2wlk7K26zME8qcGlpx-8facIkEBDRSMpxqvoKTh67sKHktqEcoT5jQjzceTHvoNKzUFB-evxMYoOflUqmI1A8l9lKeA5RwHEkwERA/s400/68Susand&Jim.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473476169595090194" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Memories of nice people in Scottsdale - Susan and Jim, who took us to the hottest Mexican in town - literally.</span><br /><br /><p>Sometimes it seems (and I am not one of life’s conspiracy theorists) that fate simply conspires against you. And when life is stressful it does everything it can to make it more so.<br /><br />So there we were. Three-thirty in the morning, standing outside the house in Scottsdale, Arizona, due to check-in for our flight at 4am. And the taxi we have ordered is late.<br /><br />Not just any old taxi. It was a car from Arizona Executive transportation services, ordered and agreed during an exchange of several e-mails. Price nailed, time double-checked.<br /><br />By ten to four, there was still no sign of it. Just the hot wind blowing off the desert in the dark. I searched through the yellow pages and called a Yellow Cab. The driver said he would be with us in twenty minutes - and the airport would be another twenty-minute drive away after that.<br /><br />We waited and waited.<br /><br />Until finally, the cab arrived, with still no sign of the car from Arizona Executive transportation. Of course, I had already phoned them... and got a recorded ad. for their “services”. No one at the other end of the phone.<br /><br />As we slipped into the back seat of the cab, and hung on for dear life while the driver hurtled, bumped, and swerved his way along the freeway to Phoenix Sky Harbor airport, I vowed that I would advise the world never to order a car from AE transport services - AE clearly being an acronym for Absolute Eejits.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimVwzpcAC60Q2IlKYDvObhNrsReKmFO172dTEE0iQdRvoh4Rzd2Cx7I_E8cimXf7GypLJzdRQM5HHRGFTX14xaVawfBrPgJU4ooww3qWUC8KVR7o59YbvCeupbeSjY4dFptfcODg/s1600/img2888234.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimVwzpcAC60Q2IlKYDvObhNrsReKmFO172dTEE0iQdRvoh4Rzd2Cx7I_E8cimXf7GypLJzdRQM5HHRGFTX14xaVawfBrPgJU4ooww3qWUC8KVR7o59YbvCeupbeSjY4dFptfcODg/s400/img2888234.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473483831064031746" /></a><br /><br /><br />So we arrive late for check-in, scramble through security, walk what seems like two miles to the gate, trailing computers and iPads, when I suddenly remember I have to upload my blog for Type M for Murder. I have two minutes to spare. But fortunately there is free wifi in the airport. Perched on the edge of a seat I log in and upload the blog, which I had written the night before, and make a dash for the plane.<br /><br />Only to be stopped in my tracks by the announcement that carry-on bags are going to be arbitrarily checked into the hold. Strict limits are being applied. I am carrying two laptops, my iPad, all my electrical equipment, money, passport etc, in three bags. No way will it all be allowed on.<br /><br />As if I wasn’t stressed enough. I was not going to let my computing power out of my hands. So I secreted one bag beneath my coat, and endeavoured to hide another on the farthest side from the check-in girl. Sweat and heart rate increase as I get closer.<br /><br />She takes my ticket, looks suspiciously at the one immediately visible bag and... lets me through. <br /><br />When I finally get into my seat, I should have been sighing with relief and relaxing for the rest of the flight. But no. I can’t get my feet under the seat in front. The guy sitting beside me is all elbows. I seem to be twisted in the seat and can’t get comfortable.<br /><br />It was just going to be one of those days.<br /><br />Three hours to Chicago, the clock going forward two. A two-and-a-half hour wait at O’Hare Airport, then another hour’s flight to Rochester, New York - and another hour moved forward.<br /><br />There we meet up again with Susie and pick up a rental car. First of all the boot (trunk) is so small we can’t get all the bags in. Then the automatic gear gets stuck in low as we try to navigate out of the airport. I make two tours of the damned place before returning to the Hertz garage and demanding another car - which they provide, eventually, with a bad grace.<br /><br />Finally we get to our hotel, only thirteen hours after dragging ourselves out of bed at 3am, and losing three hours on our day.<br /><br />Of course, we were there for a family wedding - the marriage of La Patronne’s niece, Suzi, to Joel. So it was quick wash, then head off for the rehearsal dinner in a church hall somewhere. A loooong day.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqobmLvi9XjzSeQykRQszjodC_fDWMPf2bcJaJGv7CocsB6j8XCMik5A9tNDVfw_U2t3bwKlbzl00MVWIRr1D9DFOowt75s9yX2NHsuv7KfxnzM8vmrIqWJ3SLZeCNDNZxNhWcA/s1600/69WeddingLimo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 325px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqobmLvi9XjzSeQykRQszjodC_fDWMPf2bcJaJGv7CocsB6j8XCMik5A9tNDVfw_U2t3bwKlbzl00MVWIRr1D9DFOowt75s9yX2NHsuv7KfxnzM8vmrIqWJ3SLZeCNDNZxNhWcA/s400/69WeddingLimo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473478939097492946" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">This was not the limo that failed to take us to the airport - it was the bride and groom's ride to the wedding!</span><br /><br />On Saturday I slipped into my pre-ordered kilt to discover that I must have lost weight. Only my belt (purchased for the purpose at the Grand Canyon) holds it up.<br /><br />I won’t go into details of the wedding, suffice to say that all went well. Suzi and Joel finished the day husband and wife, and we all fell wearily into bed around midnight, only to be wakened three hours later by a fire alarm.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPfCzDd1zqw_FJNzvK_FILPZIYuZ-__wu06vml7KtuVQUl8Q5VvQltYcwXVBuw3wje2Mq9VvPXIecUyDcmO-wb14xX8SOTR1T8NOxjsh3GenBi8-vYKyeKgZWwYe3YxVoNPOtPdA/s1600/70SusieLaPatronne.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPfCzDd1zqw_FJNzvK_FILPZIYuZ-__wu06vml7KtuVQUl8Q5VvQltYcwXVBuw3wje2Mq9VvPXIecUyDcmO-wb14xX8SOTR1T8NOxjsh3GenBi8-vYKyeKgZWwYe3YxVoNPOtPdA/s400/70SusieLaPatronne.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473481907631138386" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Susie and La Patronne do their imitation of Married to the Mob at the wedding.</span><br /><br /><br />The whole damned room reverberated to the sound of it, and a soporific female voice urging us to leave all behind and flee from the hotel by the nearest exit. Needless to say, I wasn’t going to be parted from my computers, even by fire. So, laden with bags, I toiled down four flights of stairs, half-dressed, to stumble out into the car park. There the entire population of the hotel shivered for the next forty minutes until the fire service determined that there was a “mechanical issue”, and that it had been a false alarm.<br /><br />Having been wakened from a sound slumber, I found it impossible to get back to sleep, and the whole of Sunday was spent in a haze of fatigue - an early morning drive to take Susie to the airport, a wedding brunch at 10am, coffee by the canal at Fairport, sun streaming through the window to encourage increasingly heavy eyelids to close, and a late burger to settle a growling stomach.<br /><br />Then up at 5, and on the road, south and east, through Massachusetts to Connecticut and the home of friends Dick and Michel Ward, where there is one day to draw breath before heading by train for New York City.<br /><br />Tomorrow.<br /><br />And tomorrow.<br /><br />And tomorrow....</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-38327870534684097592010-05-11T22:06:00.006+02:002010-05-11T23:29:45.851+02:00Nae Rest For the Wicked<p>And still the sun shines. Relentlessly.<br /><br />But at least it is cooling down at night, and we can keep windows open and fly screens in and breathe fresh chilled air, rather than the canned AC type.<br /><br />Arizona is an amazing state. Eighty percent of it is owned by the federal government or given over to Indian reservations, leaving just 20 percent for private development - and this is the sixth largest state in the US!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC3zJPRFQewy84gw8z7nqyltmZoVAKBCwsXpdbT6lrg_Wbs5UVFpL_HxBf-iK2aLn3cKk0nv6Q3iaO_YexrXvpK3JcaU4jXPL_6FZtxCil8h6mclj3VYrhoQZSsigXR8p1J8EJMg/s1600/63Arizona.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC3zJPRFQewy84gw8z7nqyltmZoVAKBCwsXpdbT6lrg_Wbs5UVFpL_HxBf-iK2aLn3cKk0nv6Q3iaO_YexrXvpK3JcaU4jXPL_6FZtxCil8h6mclj3VYrhoQZSsigXR8p1J8EJMg/s320/63Arizona.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470110064309652562" /></a><br />Two thirds of the state’s population of over 6.5 million, live in the greater Phoenix area. So vast tracts of this state are simply empty. Desert, mountain, high plains, pine forests. The Grand Canyon. It has a stark beauty. Brutal heat in the low desert, ice cold winds and winter snow o n the upper elevations.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHPaxZAkhTJ0AG5uOD-uoX90lbBFX_hoXWLouIjw6Icy3HtGbrk1PGEeoUvf6-Z-rcJc1wNFGBc2NxiGbPGQ4BstnRk6U4JALpUAZ3NZflrRHBuMdXj8vcrEHCEiQNeM0YNZEH3A/s1600/67Phoenix.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHPaxZAkhTJ0AG5uOD-uoX90lbBFX_hoXWLouIjw6Icy3HtGbrk1PGEeoUvf6-Z-rcJc1wNFGBc2NxiGbPGQ4BstnRk6U4JALpUAZ3NZflrRHBuMdXj8vcrEHCEiQNeM0YNZEH3A/s320/67Phoenix.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470110318272984738" /></a><br />Phoenix itself just goes on forever. Since space is not a problem here, no one builds up. They build out. In places you can drive 125 miles to get from one side of Phoenix to the other.<br /><br />Last Thursday I had an event at the Velma Teague Library in Glendale, on the outskirts of town - it was quite a drive. The library is run by the incomparable Lesa Holstine, who took assiduous notes during my talk and reproduced them faithfully on her <a href="http://lesasbookcritiques.blogspot.com/2010/05/peter-may-for-authors-teague.html">blog</a> the following day - along with a terrific review of “Freeze Frame”.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxHVRxshAizYekrlymPYh9VftckqZQmHJl6ayIlCE20RjRsfwhl0SFgrT7HJTjecv4MzlgD2Yiuds24fZRqOlM4gDwfCSi6jMfl2rY2ugAKjzoqMY-dkJw4fd4GS2hSNCdypXrTg/s1600/64PeterandLesa.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 270px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxHVRxshAizYekrlymPYh9VftckqZQmHJl6ayIlCE20RjRsfwhl0SFgrT7HJTjecv4MzlgD2Yiuds24fZRqOlM4gDwfCSi6jMfl2rY2ugAKjzoqMY-dkJw4fd4GS2hSNCdypXrTg/s320/64PeterandLesa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470110963836023714" /></a><br />Then on Friday we briefly exchanged the heat of the desert for the humidity of Houston in Texas. After a two-and-a-half hour flight, we landed in temperatures of 35C and 85 percent humidity. A hotel on the edge of the freeway, within striking distance of the Bush International Airport, was home for the next two days. Such is the glamorous life of the writer.<br /><br />As compensation, we found a great Indian restaurant in a strip mall not far away - it is the only cuisine we really miss in France. We ate there on both Friday and Saturday nights, making up for a long period of abstinence.<br /><br />The book event, at Murder by the Book, drew a good crowd on the Saturday afternoon. Many books were bought, and many more signed. And then on Sunday it was an escape from the humidity, back to the dry heat of the desert.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFIY7NbKUB1Z6hKP4cCCqZecr6gCGNPmksU6ufienw9FlU8yCxIWGLz0BBQ7aC8RARjYrx9SN7VwkzlHjz1i4VWNJKyV1smvqeKipAYpQV0KnWRFMA51N220Gg9FeZKQhv_ulnAQ/s1600/65MurderByTheBook.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFIY7NbKUB1Z6hKP4cCCqZecr6gCGNPmksU6ufienw9FlU8yCxIWGLz0BBQ7aC8RARjYrx9SN7VwkzlHjz1i4VWNJKyV1smvqeKipAYpQV0KnWRFMA51N220Gg9FeZKQhv_ulnAQ/s320/65MurderByTheBook.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470123293627638498" /></a><br />The trip was punctuated by my failure to meet my obligation to provide a Friday blog entry for <a href="http://typem4murder.blogspot.com/">Type M for Murder</a>, exacerbated by the failure of my invited Sunday guest blogger to respond. So in the early hours of Sunday morning, I sat with my iPad on my lap in my hotel room, writing an entry for immediate upload. Thank God for technology.<br /><br />Back in Scottsdale, it was back to work. Monday saw me break the back of the story for my follow-up to “The Blackhouse” - the second in the trilogy set on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland. It has been playing elusively around the outer fringes of my mind for some time. But following an hour-long telephone interview with a former “inmate” of an Edinburgh orphanage, combined with some detailed research into “bog bodies”, things finally started falling into place.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiIkjHyPCaVyqFsR2k209TqWPkW-NR6Xwy7uEqapIarvl24UhsTuUceABOOi4sdscoYwpIOKYIdg79ieo_spMv3J4PCyu90NqV89J7hQ5td22U8_GEjR4xK00c9GS8jnnj2oxlMg/s1600/66CortezRoad.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiIkjHyPCaVyqFsR2k209TqWPkW-NR6Xwy7uEqapIarvl24UhsTuUceABOOi4sdscoYwpIOKYIdg79ieo_spMv3J4PCyu90NqV89J7hQ5td22U8_GEjR4xK00c9GS8jnnj2oxlMg/s320/66CortezRoad.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5470127693568283282" /></a><br />Today we had a four-way Skype conference with the French film producers who have bought the rights to “The Killing Room”. We were discussing the first draft long synopsis of the script treatment, and detailed notes will follow in the next two days. A revised version must be produced within the next two weeks. Which will be fun... given that we go back on the road on Friday, and don’t stop till we fly back to Paris from Washington DC in sixteen days’ time.<br /><br />Then they want a meeting in Paris at the beginning of June. No problem. I only have to fit it in to a schedule that includes three days of promotional events in Lyon, followed by another at Fréjus on the Med., then Le Havre on the English Channel. Not to mention a visitor from Scotland for a week, followed by a research trip to the Hebrides, a promotional weekend in Corsica, and a trip to Hong Kong! I guess I must be the walking, talking incarnation of wickedness.<br /><br />Anyway. First things first. It’s goodbye to Arizona Friday morning, and hello New York state Friday night. Followed by a family wedding on Saturday.<br /><br />Ah, well, time to hitch my kilt up around my oxters and get on with it.</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-45216402121130776582010-05-03T19:16:00.002+02:002010-05-03T19:30:11.136+02:00A Crack in the Earth<p>This was a long and adventurous weekend. <br /><br />I had an event at the Well Red Coyote bookstore in Sedona, Arizona, on Saturday afternoon, and we left on Thursday to go up and stay overnight with friends, who had offered to take us to the Grand Canyon on Friday.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDrS1lM7-RXrSsyMENFD_ywCiWqo-7USxLB-OGshavXZO7VuCLUPhj0O9mAkUJwy4FAgCG-fZ1jMcWzFojKTRJVLKww5DmGLoHQzh4MgGJMeU5KUjzNBGUi3lsdty_oOhmvuA3w/s1600/62Lons3.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDrS1lM7-RXrSsyMENFD_ywCiWqo-7USxLB-OGshavXZO7VuCLUPhj0O9mAkUJwy4FAgCG-fZ1jMcWzFojKTRJVLKww5DmGLoHQzh4MgGJMeU5KUjzNBGUi3lsdty_oOhmvuA3w/s320/62Lons3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467094464944381298" /></a><br />Sedona is about two hours' drive north of Phoenix - a long climb up to around 4500 feet. We went from 30C in Scottsdale to just above freezing in Sedona, and as we drove up Oak Creek Canyon with our hosts, Pat and Jim, to eat in an incredible log cabin hunting lodge tucked away beneath towering pines and sheer cliffs, there was still snow on the ground from the winter. It hardly seemed possible after the heat of the desert.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSAac9lLVSgGN5g6ceMPVrUrrqvbKIxXxQsYWhPkz09V_OqBSKwd5iZvohQlg0xSdpPFVDqnIXMQdGjUrWUS91S3dE2NqCSqgeINV_Vzvrn1zz5EVqbJHBi-tO1Aho-nD8W78hsg/s1600/55Sedona1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSAac9lLVSgGN5g6ceMPVrUrrqvbKIxXxQsYWhPkz09V_OqBSKwd5iZvohQlg0xSdpPFVDqnIXMQdGjUrWUS91S3dE2NqCSqgeINV_Vzvrn1zz5EVqbJHBi-tO1Aho-nD8W78hsg/s320/55Sedona1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467094703704372290" /></a><br />Pat and Jim came to one of our writing courses in France eight years ago. They recently moved up to Sedona from Phoenix to build their dream home amongst the spectacular red rocks that rise up out of the plains. And it is almost like a dream being here, with views from every picture window on to stunning scenes of blood red primeval rock formations soaring all around.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4qWMUUKrc67ZjtEsX7diy4qEDR5RA7jDAc0kVhBsDNb1n8TGTa_AwxgaXWPQSVkpJDKv26dN3TF5lEfgnxqvtLG_rHWj8EwOGAyIysoYTw8DZ-2S_ztRf22XkIUsceq5KeoiVg/s1600/56Sedona2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4qWMUUKrc67ZjtEsX7diy4qEDR5RA7jDAc0kVhBsDNb1n8TGTa_AwxgaXWPQSVkpJDKv26dN3TF5lEfgnxqvtLG_rHWj8EwOGAyIysoYTw8DZ-2S_ztRf22XkIUsceq5KeoiVg/s320/56Sedona2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467094914858434178" /></a><br />The lodge where we ate - Garland's Oak Creek Lodge - was accessed by a perilous crossing of Oak Creek itself, at a ford which is sometime lost beneath torrents of white water snow melt. Inside we were greeted by a roaring log fire in a huge open hearth, and a set menu featuring the most fabulous lamb - the best meal we have had in the United States, bar none.<br /><br />Friday was a long, slow ascent up to 7000 feet, through the university town of Flagstaff, to the vast high plains of northern Arizona. Here the oxygen had thinned, making breathing more difficult, and the temperature had plunged almost to freezing. It is an extraordinary landscape up there. Endless scrub plains and stunted trees, distant mountains and volcanoes, and clear, luminous air in the bright sunshine.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2B7uiutQrSRimoW0dMdPL00skuSJM80DWiPuqws_Fg0OeeQxGP0DcSY-n_P81sQmYQYTBeEDblflH_Biip2DzNsEKr4_QNvWbQMg5mqKRD6A6w8q7j0S0Jg8Ilf8GcWOfdf-5A/s1600/59GrandCanyon.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2B7uiutQrSRimoW0dMdPL00skuSJM80DWiPuqws_Fg0OeeQxGP0DcSY-n_P81sQmYQYTBeEDblflH_Biip2DzNsEKr4_QNvWbQMg5mqKRD6A6w8q7j0S0Jg8Ilf8GcWOfdf-5A/s320/59GrandCanyon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467095173768168962" /></a><br />And then suddenly... this vast hole in the ground. As if the earth had cracked open. You’ve seen pictures of the Grand Canyon. You expect it to be spectacular. But nothing quite prepares you for the scale of it. And you can only imagine how it took away the breath of those early pioneers, crossing this endless plain to emerge from the trees quite unexpectedly on its southern lip. I have taken some pictures, as you can see. But nothing you can catch within the frame of a camera does it justice. Not even being there. It so dwarfs humanity, that even as you stand on the rim and gaze a mile down to the Colorado River below, or fifteen miles across to the north rim, it seems... unreal.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDvt_KXyW3OUTbD3Fry_4NbpIAO4ueV4QaY2348lAs5iQqFT-Swu4xTHKrtAQEVf2Sqpf-I0TDdnX-rehZYXU3028ik_C7CUasdQ08hXhGRY1mYwAnALAyWh7dyhweS0EiFkdUIA/s1600/57Pat&Jim.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDvt_KXyW3OUTbD3Fry_4NbpIAO4ueV4QaY2348lAs5iQqFT-Swu4xTHKrtAQEVf2Sqpf-I0TDdnX-rehZYXU3028ik_C7CUasdQ08hXhGRY1mYwAnALAyWh7dyhweS0EiFkdUIA/s320/57Pat&Jim.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467096046931150082" /></a><br />Then it was back to Sedona - itself almost a miniature Grand Canyon, coloured red. But here, people live among the rocks, putting down roots, and anchoring themselves to a geological history that goes right back to the beginnings of time. Another extraordinary place.<br /><br />A little further up the canyon, Pat and Jim have a log cabin in the woods, tucked away among the pines, and surrounded by cliffs and mountains. They took us on a tour of it, and offered it as a retreat for the writing of the next book. Incredibly generous. And who knows, maybe I will take them up on it. No danger of unwelcome interruptions up there. And so no excuse not the write!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpIGGENuSwAe4ytvSmBxp3cUKmrta5LlySHx4hpCM0QhvkAyKoY7w6zmfuI8d3bdo0zOg13onvYXJ2cUDOAXiNqPjph_SpDDhvkLEsJe_CvNGQeu2TRiMAysSfSFUsm5CPa-iPZA/s1600/58LaPatronne.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpIGGENuSwAe4ytvSmBxp3cUKmrta5LlySHx4hpCM0QhvkAyKoY7w6zmfuI8d3bdo0zOg13onvYXJ2cUDOAXiNqPjph_SpDDhvkLEsJe_CvNGQeu2TRiMAysSfSFUsm5CPa-iPZA/s320/58LaPatronne.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467096745023939714" /></a><br />My book event at the Well Red Coyote was the following afternoon. The bookstore is owned by fellow writer, Kris Neri, and her husband Joe. I had met Kris before, when we shared a panel at Left Coast Crime in Denver, Colorado. Unfortunately, Kris was unable to be there, but I was made very welcome by Joe, and we held a one-hour workshop on the subject of taking the skills learned from screenwriting into the writing of the novel.<br /><br />(I have to confess to making a faux pas after the event. Joe asked me to sign an ARC copy of one of my books, and dedicate it to Kris and Joe. Perhaps it was the large Margarita and two glasses of wine at lunch, but I misheard him and thought he said “Chris and Jill”. Duh! Replaying the moment later, I realised my mistake and wrote to apologise, excusing myself by suggesting that I was either deaf or insane, and probably both, and wondering if he knew a Chris and Jill he could give the book to. Joe wrote back saying: “Chris, no problem. Jill.”)<br /><br />Anyhoo... after the tasting (for the first time) of some (excellent) Arizona wines (bet you didn’t know they made any) at a local vineyard, we set off on the road back to Phoenix, and spent one-and-a-half hours sitting in a traffic jam on Interstate 17 because of roadworks!<br /><br />Only to have to get up early the next day to get ready for a Sunday event at a Phoenix restaurant, preparations for which included taking Odin (remember the wire-haired fox terrier that went with the house swap?) to “doggy daycare”.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj38FomT-6lV-q_Fhl-Hh5pC9utwJlKObPpMH7KwvVKPdfM9knUwN5Tbfn-3DmRWK8X4jlZu2-aDQG86tUhvR3_4TRhUU6odaz4_yZyoa_w8g6pPYxS1I4cxC0z3HaT5Y03UM3JIw/s1600/60Lons1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj38FomT-6lV-q_Fhl-Hh5pC9utwJlKObPpMH7KwvVKPdfM9knUwN5Tbfn-3DmRWK8X4jlZu2-aDQG86tUhvR3_4TRhUU6odaz4_yZyoa_w8g6pPYxS1I4cxC0z3HaT5Y03UM3JIw/s320/60Lons1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467097034355895122" /></a><br />The event consisted of sitting in the dappled shade of the outside terrace at Lon’s at The Hermosa, an exclusive restaurant on the outskirts of Scottsdale, where the good people of the city gather on Sunday mornings for a rather exclusive brunch. A large pile of my books was displayed on a long table, and I sat talking to the customers as they arrived, and signing the books they bought.<br /><br />A very pleasant way to spend your Sunday, especially when the restaurant laid on an excellent brunch for us at the end of it (even although it was well into the afternoon by then).<br /><br />Then to more mundane things - grocery shopping at Safeways - before retrieving an excited Odin from his daycare adventures.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6JQPW2yjVqY_C7nXc188Sq7M78PGPuLgmyusgCg7nQ6ULw0tbQXQ2V6Te-cWiyU8vWylaM2dYaNWyazpMrt-QYfna3XJVij0C_8RyT-5FM_Elz5QB63fIeNN8ufU2eqaDY2ZiZQ/s1600/61Lons2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6JQPW2yjVqY_C7nXc188Sq7M78PGPuLgmyusgCg7nQ6ULw0tbQXQ2V6Te-cWiyU8vWylaM2dYaNWyazpMrt-QYfna3XJVij0C_8RyT-5FM_Elz5QB63fIeNN8ufU2eqaDY2ZiZQ/s320/61Lons2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467097248669681602" /></a><br />And now, with the diary cleared, at least for a few days, it is time for me to buckle down and do some deep thinking about the second book in the new trilogy. I have a research book to read, a phone call to make, and the internet to scour for relevant info. But most of all I have to dig way down into my imagination - almost as deep down as the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon - to find the inspiration to match the first book, “The Blackhouse”, which still feels to me like the best thing I have ever written.<br /><br />How do you top that?</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-89535817244692532492010-04-27T01:24:00.003+02:002010-04-27T01:29:10.410+02:00Vaulting the Horse<p>It’s been an interesting few days of mental acrobatics - tour events, book revision, and now the structuring of a screenplay.<br /><br />This morning began with editor’s notes on the manuscript of my latest Enzo book - following a reverse route from France to Arizona, instead of the other way round.<br /><br />Thank God for good editors. And Barbara certainly is one. She offered valuable insights into the book, and made some telling suggestions which will only improve it. So my homework awaits me as soon as I return to France.<br /><br />Then, in between builders setting off smoke alarms, gardeners nearly letting the dog out, and a jack-hammer pounding ceaselessly through the wall, La Patronne and I began work on the screenplay.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNu2JfK7XRfZQgVS961j7P59O1XyzmbheHhtezzxBXvYkAgovr4k1Bz0L-LUrItAY-ovv33Bnc9Hu0j8dP8DrK0ZgfY78tKHe8E2V13GxEgnXiG6-zcI5xwXoo93bqe8oa-Z9NyA/s1600/52KillingRoom.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNu2JfK7XRfZQgVS961j7P59O1XyzmbheHhtezzxBXvYkAgovr4k1Bz0L-LUrItAY-ovv33Bnc9Hu0j8dP8DrK0ZgfY78tKHe8E2V13GxEgnXiG6-zcI5xwXoo93bqe8oa-Z9NyA/s320/52KillingRoom.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464591493710135074" /></a><br />The process had begun with La Patronne identifying and annotating every story development in the book, which is to be the basis for the screenplay. These were then assembled in a piece of software called Final Draft, and printed out. In the meantime, I had been burying my head in detailed Hong Kong research, finding new locations, seeking out new contacts.<br /><br />I read through the Final Draft printout over breakfast, after digesting Barbara’s notes on the book, and then we cut up the printed sheets to lay out on the dining table - 114 story movements.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3YpiEEj9ro_i_ao8UOVc1Zu4uUDjlRbGFro26EVy8UGf5OGYFsRHCkJ8Fep9_CAtpaa4K2xT9e9yvAWz3ZKVyldxS2G_zPmvx5752IsUhUXhJHvrhabzAejZ12U3d1k0525UzA/s1600/53TableScenes1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3YpiEEj9ro_i_ao8UOVc1Zu4uUDjlRbGFro26EVy8UGf5OGYFsRHCkJ8Fep9_CAtpaa4K2xT9e9yvAWz3ZKVyldxS2G_zPmvx5752IsUhUXhJHvrhabzAejZ12U3d1k0525UzA/s320/53TableScenes1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464591670744218738" /></a><br />What followed were eight brainstorming hours spent re-locating the story in Hong Kong, turning the original tale almost completely on its head, throwing away a substantial amount of story material from the book, and winding up with a running order that, hopefully, is fast-paced and dramatic.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3BbbHeRl_aNK2Y115hzatEb8HbCrJjKKaET0qNAIld-pNEHCt8KqCt4olAASvAcUTcc4HsQUDxC1JYZ1znrC5ajh6w5eEPcosJGTCYZQdS8Xyu3wwxHCweP0NY6n4xCdSHwGixQ/s1600/54TableScenes2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3BbbHeRl_aNK2Y115hzatEb8HbCrJjKKaET0qNAIld-pNEHCt8KqCt4olAASvAcUTcc4HsQUDxC1JYZ1znrC5ajh6w5eEPcosJGTCYZQdS8Xyu3wwxHCweP0NY6n4xCdSHwGixQ/s320/54TableScenes2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464591875627287938" /></a><br />The next step is to reassemble the new structure in the computer, before I sit down to write a dramatic synopsis of the whole, which will go to the producers for discussion.<br /><br />Just an average sort of day in sunny Scottsdale!</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-19349614471095770512010-04-25T18:34:00.002+02:002010-04-25T18:35:48.043+02:00Caption Competition<p>I’m sorry, I can’t wait.<br /><br />Following my daughter Carol’s comment on yesterday’s blog about the photograph of her husband, Chris, with a witch on his shoulder...<br /><br />... I just had to share it with you!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuqla_d90m0BCaot0JgbsImxwmBpwhw8HvJ_i5YoSmSGmxt8rfs4eOAdfcBPmUrFSZrO6_UEpAtLfn_6SNGrv332lQhP7Tno7uudid8TQRoy8JrowuCgPOhOnbFHbu22yvQMG4Pw/s1600/51ChrisNwitch.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 327px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuqla_d90m0BCaot0JgbsImxwmBpwhw8HvJ_i5YoSmSGmxt8rfs4eOAdfcBPmUrFSZrO6_UEpAtLfn_6SNGrv332lQhP7Tno7uudid8TQRoy8JrowuCgPOhOnbFHbu22yvQMG4Pw/s400/51ChrisNwitch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464114598654409778" /></a><br />I simply couldn’t resist taking it. The miniature witch on his shoulder whispering in his ear. The poster on the wall behind him, the red-faced blues singer leaning at exactly the same angle, his hands in the same pose as if he, too, were holding a camera (his lobster face was exactly the same colour as Chris’s after a day in the sun).<br /><br />Now, here’s a thought. Anyone got any bright suggestions for what the witch might be whispering in his ear?<br /><br />A prize for the best caption! (I’ll figure out later what that will be.)</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-35733932751390575562010-04-25T04:01:00.002+02:002010-04-25T04:10:36.288+02:00Bad News/Good News<p>The bad news is, I thought I was in the shade!<br /><br />We had lunch on the terrace at P.F. Chang’s, on the corner of Scottsdale and Camelback, under the shade of a huge awning stretched overhead. Only, now it seems that the shade was illusory. It was some loose-weave fabric that still let the sun through. And now I have a big, red face (as well as a horse on my head - see the pic).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfh6K2q5nTSYMsjGaU9Bv4mchs1iQIDBzms8eFovSlhjdsqetJLuEHM2jV9QN2htY-IzGBSf8kI3yTetSti6kdKhx_eHzi1Ne74-7Rz0-LYw26GRKpAzw2-qcE2-EZW5Aiktf7iQ/s1600/50HorseOnHead.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 202px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfh6K2q5nTSYMsjGaU9Bv4mchs1iQIDBzms8eFovSlhjdsqetJLuEHM2jV9QN2htY-IzGBSf8kI3yTetSti6kdKhx_eHzi1Ne74-7Rz0-LYw26GRKpAzw2-qcE2-EZW5Aiktf7iQ/s320/50HorseOnHead.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463890471914207170" /></a><br />Grrr! <br /><br />Lashings of après sun ce soir, and barrier cream every morning from now on.<br /><br />The good news is, that the fourth Enzo novel, “Freeze Frame”, after receiving starred reviews in Publisher’s Weekly and the Library Journal, got a great review in the New York Times. You can see it <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/25/books/review/Crime-t.html?emc=eta1">here</a>.<br /><br />I got word of it, bizarrely enough, from my own study in France. My US publishers, Rob Rosenwald and Barbara Peters, have swapped houses with us - staying at our home in France, while we stay at theirs here in Arizona.<br /><br />Rob called us on Skype this morning with the news (I knew it was my study, because I recognised the water stain on the ceiling). And Barbara revealed that she was 130 pages into the manuscript of my new Enzo book. What was strange about that was that she was reading it in the room where it was written! I wonder of how many books she could say that?<br /><br />Stranger still... next week, she and Rob go to eat at the restaurant of France’s top chef, Michel Bras, who very kindly allowed me to spend three days in his kitchen to research my book. It is a story set in the world of French haute cuisine, and I used his kitchen as the basis for the kitchen of the murdered chef. So Barbara will have the chance to “taste” it first-hand.<br /><br />She certainly won’t be disappointed by the food.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxK1RleWYPmv-I-fPOiwGwSw1oNBEnN0m8XyuKzJDHDfJpPAwIdx6_atu40a23lNfwFa4mMtqSHuE6DwEgJESk302fDPAnx_IpVJW3r7UWJievS2tFr8PF_2b33Q_eNXHRom3iaw/s1600/49PPP.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 163px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxK1RleWYPmv-I-fPOiwGwSw1oNBEnN0m8XyuKzJDHDfJpPAwIdx6_atu40a23lNfwFa4mMtqSHuE6DwEgJESk302fDPAnx_IpVJW3r7UWJievS2tFr8PF_2b33Q_eNXHRom3iaw/s320/49PPP.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463890980301930578" /></a><br />Later in the day, after getting burned at P.F. Chang’s, I went to meet readers and talk about my book at the Poisoned Pen Bookstore. A good and lively crowd turned up, and we passed an enjoyable hour, before I tackled the signing of the piles of books that awaited me.<br /><br />I met, in the flesh for the first time, one of my fellow bloggers on Type M for Murder - Donis Casey. Sadly we didn’t get much time to talk, but I hope that next time we will.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNttPMBis93EFmPXQbaz6YOtD1OH8Vk6hGOvwOapQzODNhI94rqzPR-6HyXCmno_8E5uiZSc5VUOKVhas_a8bOzoKdd6kWbOJlOFiIbrUNYMu-bJANNzpii-ZkBho3D-60DKNYmQ/s1600/Odin.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 288px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNttPMBis93EFmPXQbaz6YOtD1OH8Vk6hGOvwOapQzODNhI94rqzPR-6HyXCmno_8E5uiZSc5VUOKVhas_a8bOzoKdd6kWbOJlOFiIbrUNYMu-bJANNzpii-ZkBho3D-60DKNYmQ/s320/Odin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463891406921540802" /></a><br />Then it was off to retrieve Odin from “doggy day care” (remember Odin - he’s the wire-haired fox terrier who takes me for walks every day), before returning through the early evening heat to search for moisturisers and other soothing lotions (not to mention alcohol).<br /><br />I guess I was lulled into a false sense of security. It has been cool here for the last couple of days. We even - God forbid - had some desert rain! But temperatures have soared again today, so I will cower in the shade all this week (except, of course, when Odin forces me to go out for walks).</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-22365304455670577182010-04-20T18:36:00.003+02:002010-04-20T18:57:22.026+02:00Desert Bloom<p>It was a week ago today that we left the Pacific coast and headed east into the desert.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpkoVjsdZK57XHKxoRa8hB8FeNM4q-kfOvKiDu-OlrR03aSpdIKrdN_f9YWOgEdJQEI_0h7rQzgavJsshLXn3QXENU-SgGANiu2k7edkFk7lRw2ZyJntaiJUlBGVvZi1wxpOkDdA/s1600/42Windmills.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpkoVjsdZK57XHKxoRa8hB8FeNM4q-kfOvKiDu-OlrR03aSpdIKrdN_f9YWOgEdJQEI_0h7rQzgavJsshLXn3QXENU-SgGANiu2k7edkFk7lRw2ZyJntaiJUlBGVvZi1wxpOkDdA/s200/42Windmills.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462260413893207986" /></a><br />It is a dramatic drive through some of the most scorched and arid wastes on the planet. But we were fortunate. It is spring, and the desert was in bloom - albeit temporarily. Carpets of yellow, and green and pink covered this normally barren landscape. Until, as we wound our way towards the valley that cuts a swathe through the Santa Rosa and San Jacinto mountain ranges, we found ourselves driving through a forest of windmills.<br /><br />Not the Don Quixote sort. Those tall, elegant, white wind turbines, whose blades turn with deceptive languor in the winds that scour their way between the mountains. Thousands of them. Filling the eyes, like a mirage, vanishing into the fibrillating distance.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYS7gVufWTcMT3cRVLnHRguBOMCm7-5olrMmYK8V8fHgY3-xEenCno-vdAm7e0M9950v9e0e9D89X8zm4lIK5aS1PKqoQ5DlFZBVowQ6VEi_0nP6ovLoTjwOYYImwI1NeuQt5LyA/s1600/43Monachino1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYS7gVufWTcMT3cRVLnHRguBOMCm7-5olrMmYK8V8fHgY3-xEenCno-vdAm7e0M9950v9e0e9D89X8zm4lIK5aS1PKqoQ5DlFZBVowQ6VEi_0nP6ovLoTjwOYYImwI1NeuQt5LyA/s200/43Monachino1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462260730974994114" /></a><br />We stopped overnight at the home of friends Mike and Barbara Monachino, at Rancho Mirage, a settlement of gated communities somewhere between Palm Springs and Indian Wells. This was an area of extraordinary beauty. A veritable oasis. Rich in blooming flowers and fragrant blossoms, fed from the waters of an underground lake. In the distance, the San Jacinto mountains burn red in the sunset, and in the morning glow gold, cut with deep-veined blue shadows.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgErt27uG9K2D_1kE3g_FS_oeMeYZbFWtI8-L4NMM6Q18iZYeqkXJbaYE8xRg2ABVxvrdPzqnU-ZWSyPLwNOAbX0j5WPz3LYp5SflTINhE_UxMl-qh_nRx3zIxvcKp67F_4sHuEww/s1600/44Monachino2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgErt27uG9K2D_1kE3g_FS_oeMeYZbFWtI8-L4NMM6Q18iZYeqkXJbaYE8xRg2ABVxvrdPzqnU-ZWSyPLwNOAbX0j5WPz3LYp5SflTINhE_UxMl-qh_nRx3zIxvcKp67F_4sHuEww/s200/44Monachino2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462260928986141074" /></a><br />And then on again in the morning, leaving California behind, and entering the parched plains of Arizona, the horizon broken only by those bizarrely shaped mountains that used to pepper every cowboy movie. Laid down in strata at the very creation of the earth itself , then fashioned by time and wind. There is something quite primal about this landscape.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8FL_O7oXG4Sm3Dtch-qsTbFiuM_Pa-g9HeL1db_E7iJxJ8fzzwi3eUmLC8Y1SxGI7uqkNdKW-ScnggEEImI3rgkpIlicinz8r4R0FMkdBjl2CRMrHvQ33REeUHEYWCVb_nGIjA/s1600/46Scottsdale2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW8FL_O7oXG4Sm3Dtch-qsTbFiuM_Pa-g9HeL1db_E7iJxJ8fzzwi3eUmLC8Y1SxGI7uqkNdKW-ScnggEEImI3rgkpIlicinz8r4R0FMkdBjl2CRMrHvQ33REeUHEYWCVb_nGIjA/s200/46Scottsdale2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462261234884169154" /></a><br />At last, almost incongruously, we reach the vast, sprawling conurbation of Phoenix laid out in the desert valley, and our home for the next month in the adjoining city of Scottsdale. This is the home of my American publishers, who have taken a route much further east, across the Atlantic to France, to live in our house during our absence.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkkcdfEHs2yNRH0HDmuM_6tF59zQl2_uFfOukzYjCM6EyPoJ-1Gk7Ctuwir-3LXvgS6TwVRt__cW0ChQietNZM2Cw1FgYLk2FmRM311B4MSenAOn9sQA3xxGGaHgQbV1BbRa7XDQ/s1600/47Peter&Oden.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkkcdfEHs2yNRH0HDmuM_6tF59zQl2_uFfOukzYjCM6EyPoJ-1Gk7Ctuwir-3LXvgS6TwVRt__cW0ChQietNZM2Cw1FgYLk2FmRM311B4MSenAOn9sQA3xxGGaHgQbV1BbRa7XDQ/s200/47Peter&Oden.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462261452672518210" /></a><br />Their house comes with a pool, unlimited sunshine, and a dog called Odin. Odin, a lively, intelligent, wire-haired fox terrier, greeted us with initial suspicion. But, as you will see from the photos, he and I quickly bonded, and he takes me out walking for at least an hour every day - which I am sure is good exercise for him, too.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPlk6l6mC3uihrwLWRd2F_BRDe-NxlMZA6iw9v7YzzgNtcr8yqV7xawvx0yaxVSTaewBmLXUri5e_m743CX_IEf5j0b1dv_BLPP_UqJjBbUGrC1TIi87kBtebMMgalNCavr4SJug/s1600/48Peter&Oden2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPlk6l6mC3uihrwLWRd2F_BRDe-NxlMZA6iw9v7YzzgNtcr8yqV7xawvx0yaxVSTaewBmLXUri5e_m743CX_IEf5j0b1dv_BLPP_UqJjBbUGrC1TIi87kBtebMMgalNCavr4SJug/s200/48Peter&Oden2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462262147711757874" /></a><br />And, so, settled now in this desert oasis, we said our goodbyes to Susie, who headed back to Northern California, and we set up computers to get down to work. For although there may be a pause in the tour, there is no pause in the work schedule. A book to revise, another to research, and a screenplay to write.<br /><br />Oh, well...</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-3576772195665274072010-04-13T20:45:00.002+02:002010-04-13T20:48:03.126+02:00New Moon Rising<p>The first phase is over<br /><br />It was two weeks ago today that we flew to Minneapolis from Paris. It feels like a lifetime. I have completed eleven events, the last of them last night in San Diego at the Mysterious Galaxy Bookstore.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4fufe3akQ7TQiKkjNVmeYxOh1QcNTkMAxA8ApRpAUsTcben6fiKgTo3pJwvPNzQMngLyvhh9vJRXEkjF83AHhhBpv9XdaYZh08eSiFtSKDLVzLorXLOkyJ_Ti0Jxwqjujm46vjw/s1600/40Galaxy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4fufe3akQ7TQiKkjNVmeYxOh1QcNTkMAxA8ApRpAUsTcben6fiKgTo3pJwvPNzQMngLyvhh9vJRXEkjF83AHhhBpv9XdaYZh08eSiFtSKDLVzLorXLOkyJ_Ti0Jxwqjujm46vjw/s320/40Galaxy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459695425178641682" /></a><br />There, I shared the platform with local author Michele Scott, who was celebrating her birthday as well as “A Toast to Murder”, the sixth in her Nikki Sands Wine Lovers’ Mystery series. There was a lively crowd, and we had a fascinating discussion about the merits or otherwise of changing technology in the book world - e-books, print-on-demand, etc.<br /><br />Earlier La Patronne, Susie, and I had dinner with Dr. Steve Campman and his family in a nearby Italian restaurant called The Godfather. It was so dark inside I thought I’d left my sunglasses on. Maybe they don’t want us to see the food, I thought. But actually it was good. And a pleasure to see the Campmans again.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH7BgPRABkSeayLPetszSObZScv3KCgfeT2SxVgC7j0nTL3XkY7A9zDKxjQaY-ICbsPCX2GY_PMwbneIV1aiLJ8_VwefYGOo2iYRbRA9UbHXXPb8KzLOqt4CpAnPjAKCU6zUouPA/s1600/41Campman.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH7BgPRABkSeayLPetszSObZScv3KCgfeT2SxVgC7j0nTL3XkY7A9zDKxjQaY-ICbsPCX2GY_PMwbneIV1aiLJ8_VwefYGOo2iYRbRA9UbHXXPb8KzLOqt4CpAnPjAKCU6zUouPA/s320/41Campman.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459695660765252962" /></a><br />Steve is the Medical Examiner in San Diego, and has advised me on the pathology in my books for the last thirteen years. Since our first contact in 1997, when he faxed 40 pages of autopsy material across the Atlantic believing it was three dollars for the lot instead of three dollars a page (!!), we have become firm friends.<br /><br />(I have come to a secret arrangement with Steve’s daughter, Danielle, to supply me with a photograph of him wearing his prescription autopsy glasses which, apparently, turn him into a facsimile of Mr. Magoo. I will keep you posted.)<br /><br />Breathing a huge sigh of relief, we head off today into the desert to overnight with friends Mike and Barbara Monachino, before setting off tomorrow for Scottsdale, Arizona, where we can put down roots for the next four weeks and get back to controlled eating and sleeping.<br /><br />I can’t wait!</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-18590541610477207382010-04-12T19:45:00.002+02:002010-04-12T19:57:50.131+02:00Wickedly Resting<p>It’s kinda fatal to stop. You lose your momentum. You let fatigue creep in, and you lose the will to go on.<br /><br />That’s a little what this weekend has been like.<br /><br />Friday was a coming down day after the long drive on Thursday, and the adventure in the dark finding our condo. Sadly, Newport Beach seemed to have reserved its worst weather of the year for our short stay here. It was cloudy, dull, even chilly.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqg_QQsu4vb9yYb5K0TRfvJB2PwSVzJg_OyZxo7t1dHswm_sxiKeM_oF6M75GY5RZRy2y2oogzfgePaaVbG7oiFhSd6clXzIOrSzLtA0IH_YtPo_lkVYIM7ryAMBVFm4eR_nQYpg/s1600/36CrabCooker.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqg_QQsu4vb9yYb5K0TRfvJB2PwSVzJg_OyZxo7t1dHswm_sxiKeM_oF6M75GY5RZRy2y2oogzfgePaaVbG7oiFhSd6clXzIOrSzLtA0IH_YtPo_lkVYIM7ryAMBVFm4eR_nQYpg/s200/36CrabCooker.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459308990315948866" /></a><br />Lunch at my favourite seafood restaurant, The Crab Cooker, was first item on the agenda. It is always like stepping back into the 50s, a little piece of vintage Americana preserved in aspic. Plastic cutlery, wine out of plastic cups. Simple, unpretentious shrimp and scallops and salmon and crab cakes. <br /><br />I love it!<br /><br />A wonderful, cobweb-clearing cycle along the boardwalk, watching the Easter hordes on the beach, was just what the doctor ordered. Then it was on to the home of old friends, Rob and Linda - Susie’s former neighbours from the house at Dolphin Terrace, which featured in my standalone thriller, “Virtually Dead”.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAtzgTMlBsYUtA4tdWh3oGZdvlRTk1stmP3KXi_hpFNA9Mfl8gVmZpZLXoF8feQ4bvfpD-RE7zA-sSydW4Bseg2leZzunj9o1NtXcwok3R4HwFCaYBL0oyW4P-OTwY_jQ2VWhsfQ/s1600/37RobLinda.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 177px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAtzgTMlBsYUtA4tdWh3oGZdvlRTk1stmP3KXi_hpFNA9Mfl8gVmZpZLXoF8feQ4bvfpD-RE7zA-sSydW4Bseg2leZzunj9o1NtXcwok3R4HwFCaYBL0oyW4P-OTwY_jQ2VWhsfQ/s200/37RobLinda.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459309277284170370" /></a><br />It was their last weekend in their rented apartment before moving into their new home at the exclusive One Ford Road development near Fashion Island. We had aperitifs and appetisers before heading out to a nearby Italian restaurant for dinner. We saw them again, just two days later, as they took possession of their new home (which we christened with champagne) - a fabulous three-bedroomed villa with courtyards and decks, and a three-car garage in a street that looked like a set straight out of a movie.<br /><br />Saturday was tough. I had to wind myself up again for another two events. The first was a one-and-a-half hour drive to the city of Thousand Oaks, just north of Los Angeles, to be greeted Alan Chisholm, owner of the Mysteries to Die For bookstore, and a group of regulars who had come to hear me speak.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK6S80WoT9J3nAJg6rbn3rEstPfBxOSMNXHSGJwafMCPVYrQnCArHB1Pdao0zFo_HywChmm-SjoDVI0iDL_Bgh11np3pQW5rtbbZaZHiFHy-jrJWgp0-FhcVHVTov1xge6KB3EDA/s1600/34ThousandOaks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK6S80WoT9J3nAJg6rbn3rEstPfBxOSMNXHSGJwafMCPVYrQnCArHB1Pdao0zFo_HywChmm-SjoDVI0iDL_Bgh11np3pQW5rtbbZaZHiFHy-jrJWgp0-FhcVHVTov1xge6KB3EDA/s400/34ThousandOaks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459310426781981842" /></a><br />After allowing myself to relax for a day it was hard to get myself going again. But once I started it was fine, and I ended the event by signing huge piles of books.<br /><br />Lunch at Chilli’s, then on the road again to Los Angeles, and the Los Angeles Mystery Bookstore at Westwood. Although I was there just for a stock signing, I got into conversation with some die-hard fans. Tim arrived with a huge pile of my books to sign, and to my astonishment was able to quote passages from various novels I had written over the years.<br /><br />Another fan who showed up was called 50 Winx - her Second Life name. A university librarian, she is a stalwart of the group, Librarians of Second Life, and had actually attended one of my inworld presentations. So I signed the book from Flick Faulds.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUh3XqfnjSf0q07uSot9DW4MnBszElRihmqnHzKOgkHr8FihFTP8MMeVTXuo2TZqYIUPod0UntswWDQkZ6lF_mgPQVj6fnLrSyfTkP5jeJAKQIgOiVfGMdT8gQR8P9ddcqAPF-Ug/s1600/35Westwood.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 171px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUh3XqfnjSf0q07uSot9DW4MnBszElRihmqnHzKOgkHr8FihFTP8MMeVTXuo2TZqYIUPod0UntswWDQkZ6lF_mgPQVj6fnLrSyfTkP5jeJAKQIgOiVfGMdT8gQR8P9ddcqAPF-Ug/s200/35Westwood.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459310777676646754" /></a><br />Bookstore owner, Bobby McCue, had me sign several piles of China Thrillers, Enzo Files, and Virtually Deads, before we set off again along Wilshire Boulevard in search of the home of our old French neighbours who live in Beverly Hills. A mis-turn led us on to Walden Drive, to be confronted by an extraordinary Hansel and Gretel house on the junction of the street. Turns out it was built for a movie in the 1920s, and has been used as a real home in several different locations since. It was in the process of being prepared for yet another move, and is known universally in the neighborhood as The Witch’s House.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNfpU5cDZ5sk_vw7gIDZgsSr90_09mlY-Jt-WL6f2FQkFEqU4611bpl9QkWMGQj_-NPMg2pgqaPKN_7DBANUvsZSgSqkhViYcrW0trcygdwe74Xkr_P689UfGVl6M15Uf6KC7pbQ/s1600/32witcheshouse.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 131px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNfpU5cDZ5sk_vw7gIDZgsSr90_09mlY-Jt-WL6f2FQkFEqU4611bpl9QkWMGQj_-NPMg2pgqaPKN_7DBANUvsZSgSqkhViYcrW0trcygdwe74Xkr_P689UfGVl6M15Uf6KC7pbQ/s200/32witcheshouse.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459311026867806514" /></a><br />John and Bettie Jensen live on Benedict Canyon Drive, and we met up with them there before heading off to a little French bistro off Sunset Boulevard, with daughter Elizabeth, who had so kindly provided a bed for us in Minneapolis. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinDXGtRxWXCDXqfgjnHc8IcIggkua8wf-Wd-wM8xh4RoqhY9i_cmcitC6VK2Tq46BtBj51RHlsb4KOVyTtrGzkC6hLVgU9N5vOCJMc1d-5PkFlOSGD57qQA1DRXikZjnWbyQKGRg/s1600/39JensenDinner.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinDXGtRxWXCDXqfgjnHc8IcIggkua8wf-Wd-wM8xh4RoqhY9i_cmcitC6VK2Tq46BtBj51RHlsb4KOVyTtrGzkC6hLVgU9N5vOCJMc1d-5PkFlOSGD57qQA1DRXikZjnWbyQKGRg/s200/39JensenDinner.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459311294169885362" /></a><br />Then the long drive back in the dark to Newport Beach, and the best and longest sleep of the tour so far.<br /><br />Sunday, I never really got out of first gear. The weather was grim. Drizzly dull, the ocean leaden. We ate at Chimayo’s at Huntington Beach, and later feasted on a take-out Chinese meal from P.F. Chang’s that night while watching a movie on the giant TV in the condo.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-N5TOuEsGWGmSx1l09xBiQkgjWQU9VRlaSx7jgrRfRlQkFRxrPgJF-JVmNBXXfbMcVoh8UHF9Vqi7vhtxaDFn_HrEfqD-n-6DRcxzNG3wXL2jeeiplkE0NDskBTOXhgItcgX4g/s1600/38LesGirls.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-N5TOuEsGWGmSx1l09xBiQkgjWQU9VRlaSx7jgrRfRlQkFRxrPgJF-JVmNBXXfbMcVoh8UHF9Vqi7vhtxaDFn_HrEfqD-n-6DRcxzNG3wXL2jeeiplkE0NDskBTOXhgItcgX4g/s400/38LesGirls.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459311581352648466" /></a><br />Today I am having to rev myself up again, write the blog, and prepare for the drive south to San Diego, and an event at the Mysterious Galaxy Bookstore. Before that we will eat with my good friend and pathology adviser Steve Campman, who is the Medical Examiner in the city. I’m really looking forward to that.<br /><br />Then tomorrow, everything must be packed up again and stowed in the car for the drive east, stopping first at Palm Desert, before heading for Phoenix, Arizona, on Wednesday, and an appointment with a radio journalist from Austria who wants me to do a live interview from within Second Life.<br /><br />No rest for the wicked!</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-85863170348821273162010-04-10T02:08:00.003+02:002010-04-10T02:11:55.939+02:00They shoot prowlers, don't they?<p>An hour earlier we had driven over The Grapevine as darkness fell. Behind us, dusk was settling over the breadbasket of California and a dusty seven-hour drive had left us tired and hungry. Ahead of us, the lights of Los Angeles had spread out like a fireflies’ convention along 40 miles of Pacific coastline.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhop5i6tj0gsI02D7vZPseN2iGCuuNrT7bao4m_UJJC2PridHqFdVAqs-aj5Ktc-e-b7zSTnPSwbI2c2JrodrZWzGflz0fQusLD6eeFQyAKy2N18CyXpIGr7eb77e9C-t7lc7pt5w/s1600/31LosAngeles.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 181px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhop5i6tj0gsI02D7vZPseN2iGCuuNrT7bao4m_UJJC2PridHqFdVAqs-aj5Ktc-e-b7zSTnPSwbI2c2JrodrZWzGflz0fQusLD6eeFQyAKy2N18CyXpIGr7eb77e9C-t7lc7pt5w/s320/31LosAngeles.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458294550259317090" /></a><br />But that was then. Now it was fully dark, and we had just arrived in Newport Beach, our southern California stopover for the next four days. We had an address and a door entry code for a second floor condo and garage.<br /><br />Betty (of GPS fame), had delivered us to the appropriate address, but try as we may, we couldn’t find a house with the right number on it. There were streetlights on the other side of the road, but our side was pooled in darkness.<br /><br />I got out of the car and found myself prowling up dark alleyways, tapping the entry code into every door I could find. No luck. And all the time I could hear La Patronne calling from somewhere in the darkness in a loud stage whisper: Be careful! They have guns here!! They shoot prowlers!!!<br /><br />Stomachs were growling. It was after ten, nine hours since we had eaten. And I had a pressing call of nature.<br /><br />Finally, I found myself in a gloomy parking area behind what I thought might be the property, and fumbled my way along a narrow alleyway between pressing walls of clapboard siding. I tried one door. Then another. There were no lights and no sign of life anywhere. I came to the third, and last door, with an increasing sense of desperation (for more than one reason). And... BINGO! It unlocked.<br /><br />Mad dash for the bathroom.<br /><br />Then a chance to take in our surroundings. The apartment was a brand new conversion, with a TV like a cinema screen. A huuuge kitchen. Comfortable leather sofas. An internet connection. The ocean just two blocks away, and bikes in the garage (it was the following morning before I discovered how to get into it).<br /><br />La Patronne, Susie, and I wearily unloaded our luggage, then spent the next half hour cruising the town for a pizza joint that was open. We finally settled for a stale-tasting offering from Pizza Hut, washed it over with several glasses of red wine, and fell into a deep sleep.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpLQHyWX94vvtdz-Q24NP30ncwNsby3qyowo5iLTkHzAqOyjCFPW3rk7L9Go_I7RdurGWGnr9V-HeYwZJnzLBT_09a14doDgoeIqZswQ75W6FX7v4WaCj-EEoC2nPmFZn46Ld2Jw/s1600/31NewportBeach.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpLQHyWX94vvtdz-Q24NP30ncwNsby3qyowo5iLTkHzAqOyjCFPW3rk7L9Go_I7RdurGWGnr9V-HeYwZJnzLBT_09a14doDgoeIqZswQ75W6FX7v4WaCj-EEoC2nPmFZn46Ld2Jw/s320/31NewportBeach.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458294740108062562" /></a><br />Today is my first real day off since the tour began. Washed, showered, feeling almost human again, and about to set off on one of the bikes in search of the ocean. I need to feel the sand between my toes, and the cold waters of the Pacific lapping around my ankles.</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-53127697244520355972010-04-08T22:24:00.002+02:002010-04-08T22:27:09.819+02:00Breathless<p>The same soothing tones that might be employed to induce calm in the event of nuclear holocaust, issued from the front of the car.<br /><br />A soft, breathy, female voice with hints of both English and American accents. We call her Betty. She is, in fact, the voice of our TomTom GPS system, who incongruously calls the freeway a “modorway”.<br /><br />Last night, she guided us up through the hills above the San Francisco Bay area to a high point above the town of Berkeley. We climbed, and climbed, then rounded a corner to have our collective breath immediately removed.<br /><br />For there, laid out below us in all its early evening glory, was THE bay. The entire city of San Francisco, the Golden Gate bridge. The most stunning panorama I think I have ever seen. I might have stopped to take a photo, but it would never have done it justice. Your imagination will do a better job, though even that will never come close to the reality.<br /><br />In any event, Betty wasn’t allowing us to linger. “Turn right. Then you have reached your destination.”<br /><br />Our destination was the home of Janet Rudolph, book reviewer and editor of the magazine, Mystery Readers International. She traditionally holds “at-home” events in her house, with a regular group of attendees, and visiting authors from all over the world.<br /><br />We made our way through a fairytale garden populated by peacocks, to be greeted by Janet herself, an attractive, energetic lady with a fantastic head of thick, curly hair. Others had already arrived. Some I knew - Bill and Toby - whom I had met at Left Coast Crime in Seattle in 2007. Some were new to me, but greeted me warmly with that wonderful, open, Californian hospitality.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5O8WEO1w76KOlZlPShG9NVVqeeI5ARg-P4LahoQNrzotFW38x7Vv5kkIRlz3Z2MXbsvAC_j4ATN9dbxLxc2BJ3XEz7kRn3KxzgNpNCUhlcqnJoHEeiu0HhNFtN4SUDXMR7yDdUw/s1600/29JanetRudolph.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5O8WEO1w76KOlZlPShG9NVVqeeI5ARg-P4LahoQNrzotFW38x7Vv5kkIRlz3Z2MXbsvAC_j4ATN9dbxLxc2BJ3XEz7kRn3KxzgNpNCUhlcqnJoHEeiu0HhNFtN4SUDXMR7yDdUw/s320/29JanetRudolph.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457865558491266978" /></a><br />We drank wine, nibbled cheese, then sat in a circle to discuss my books, writing in general, research, publishing, genres. We talked for almost two hours, at the end of which I signed the books which everyone had brought. I had brought some copies of The Firemaker, the first in the China series, a taster for the rest.<br /><br />An elderly British couple, Stuart and Sheila, originally from Northern Ireland, are neighbours of Janet. Sheila came to me at the end of the evening and gave me a copy of The Firemaker to sign. She leaned forward and whispered confidentially, “You know, I’ve been coming to these events for years now. But this is the first book I’ve ever bought.”<br /><br />A delightful end to a splendid evening, topped off by the gift of a bottle of wine whose label was the cover of my latest Enzo book, “Freeze Frame” - the work of Janet’s husband, Frank.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTc10hpiuHdHFW-_qfo_XB6WrgqOLHBp0J7JSUI8oaBnPfN6fg7qRASii3m70KRnM7OmdVbQOS14NcQaviMrAJMwdwlnqwxa-yVUl_Jo3X3fJFnreV1VCAIczc-jFF-ZhLSfrEHw/s1600/30Wine.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 177px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTc10hpiuHdHFW-_qfo_XB6WrgqOLHBp0J7JSUI8oaBnPfN6fg7qRASii3m70KRnM7OmdVbQOS14NcQaviMrAJMwdwlnqwxa-yVUl_Jo3X3fJFnreV1VCAIczc-jFF-ZhLSfrEHw/s320/30Wine.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457865734692673298" /></a><br />We headed out into the dark and turned the car back up the hill, Betty still breathing seductively from the windscreen. The lights of the Bay Area opened out like a firmament below us. But again Betty would not let us linger. “At the end of the road turn right. Then take the modorway.”<br /><br />• I can finally announce, since we signed the contracts this morning, that the movie rights to “The Killing Room”, one of my China Thrillers, have been bought by a French production company. La Patronne and I have been commissioned to write the screenplay, which we will work on during our stay in Arizona. The story will be re-set in Hong Kong, and Margaret will become French. Vive La France!</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-23610246184070918912010-04-08T00:58:00.002+02:002010-04-08T01:00:11.751+02:00A Californian Corollary<p>Thought this would make an interesting little corollary to our wet Sunday in Sacramento. Susie’s sister, Kathy, and her husband John, had been hoping to celebrate our arrival with a barbecue, and time spent in the garden.<br /><br />Sadly, the weather precluded that possibility. But poor old John was still sent out into the garden to cook the meat - it’s man’s work, you know! But being a fellow of fine temperament, he took to his task with the relish for which he is renowned - as illustrated below...</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEttIha1Mu23y7-tv1XvuM1VDmGrNjR9o4q1bIvAvQ6Ktbyl45kcDDi3KvrpPZJAgM7jWyrurGHvY22fsCmc6GYzSNmemroM-ExFal8x5QZxpYP-IrFIUEtbbuVcurYzf9Y4wTfg/s1600/28John.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEttIha1Mu23y7-tv1XvuM1VDmGrNjR9o4q1bIvAvQ6Ktbyl45kcDDi3KvrpPZJAgM7jWyrurGHvY22fsCmc6GYzSNmemroM-ExFal8x5QZxpYP-IrFIUEtbbuVcurYzf9Y4wTfg/s400/28John.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457534078698424690" /></a>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-66802873413595453242010-04-07T21:09:00.005+02:002010-04-07T21:30:56.929+02:00Flowers in our Hair<p>Where to begin? <br /><br />Well, I can start by telling you that I am writing this on my iPad. Yay! Picked it up on Saturday night at Susie’s in Sacramento, where I had asked Apple to send my pre-order.<br /><br />I won’t bore you with it except to say that it is AMAZING!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlJdfW6d3p2s_4qPKSdSlvjLyddAGLpt5hAIUACrVV7PkJWwUdM0Q7P3INaGVKzfHDxk0oaXXd2-5Qp1NUz1b7VpQT423chldk-XtOQBMs7OXnqNlvEa5NohVmga4QbtPNMNxYMw/s1600/article-0-080E80B3000005DC-379_468x342.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlJdfW6d3p2s_4qPKSdSlvjLyddAGLpt5hAIUACrVV7PkJWwUdM0Q7P3INaGVKzfHDxk0oaXXd2-5Qp1NUz1b7VpQT423chldk-XtOQBMs7OXnqNlvEa5NohVmga4QbtPNMNxYMw/s320/article-0-080E80B3000005DC-379_468x342.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457475776269269186" /></a><br />It was cool in Sacramento, and wet, when we flew in from Seattle on Saturday night. But that was nothing compared to the rain that crashed down on us on Sunday. Like a tropical downpour. <br /><br />We splashed along the freeway to Davis, and lunch with our old friends Sharon and Hibbard, then back to Sacramento for dinner with Susie’s sister, Kathy, and her family. By the time we got back to Susie’s that night, inches had fallen, and thunder and lightning were crashing all around us.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHizIpuwRH4s9TjCsobNnxCnKx-tQMIo1wmVkaZt7YTqYCUWl7tLX8LnD9Kv7ve3GOsSvzsBgVcMbc6DDl557QOjImHDJ9n0Tw3mRnLY4CvkYnftTKbO2hCCRorxIhGFv4oD1r3A/s1600/20Callison.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHizIpuwRH4s9TjCsobNnxCnKx-tQMIo1wmVkaZt7YTqYCUWl7tLX8LnD9Kv7ve3GOsSvzsBgVcMbc6DDl557QOjImHDJ9n0Tw3mRnLY4CvkYnftTKbO2hCCRorxIhGFv4oD1r3A/s200/20Callison.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457476191437200706" /></a><br />Then, lo and behold, Monday brought painfully clear blue skies and sunshine, and an interview on the Jeffrey Callison show on Sacramento Capital Radio. Jeffrey is an ex-pat Scot with a mid-Atlantic accent, who has been entertaining Sacramento listeners with his daily chat show for years now. It was my third appearance on his show, and you can listen to it <a href="http://www.capradio.org/programs/insight/default.aspx?showid=7683&programid=10">here</a> (scroll forward - I was in the final segment of the show).<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH14fpeQBdfD5Xi_khCaoIURESW1F9gn8en8RsXBGKFhWSlLChxp3ODTDddNgumjNlirl7BnR6Fn_cEGWxkKsJn_LWmUIqhLpn8JaoSTIESoMlNyCmWPAYfowlkfVi_u1g_TBX-w/s1600/21SanFrancisco.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH14fpeQBdfD5Xi_khCaoIURESW1F9gn8en8RsXBGKFhWSlLChxp3ODTDddNgumjNlirl7BnR6Fn_cEGWxkKsJn_LWmUIqhLpn8JaoSTIESoMlNyCmWPAYfowlkfVi_u1g_TBX-w/s320/21SanFrancisco.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457476532334354754" /></a><br />Then it was into the car and a two-hour drive south to San Francisco. It was my third visit to the city, and the first time I have seen it in sunshine. It is an extraordinary place - white houses built across the steeply pitched slopes of hills that push up out of the bay, clustering around the skyscrapers of downtown. The view of it from the bridge as you approach from the north is stunning. And on Monday, with the sun coruscating away across still, burnished waters to the misted silhouette of the Golden Gate Bridge, it was quite breathtaking.<br /><br />We drove, then, through the city’s gay area, The Castro, where men stroll hand in hand, finally arriving at Noe Valley, the home of Susie’s daughter, Shannon, and her husband, Tim - just in time to help Tim demolish the entrance to his home to get a new refrigerator through the front door. Proceedings were directed by Susie’s 2-year-old-granddaughter, Madeleine, whom we then took for a walk up and down the city hills, puffing and gasping for breath while she continued to direct our progress - from her pushchair!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ1g5xIN8sCKQ56cmciT5y_aYUrJx6IVeSbYNKibptYNj3lOrbqHeDjZoT5FnpsCvxeVveVrOcs23Cj72X_MFAZ1SfN_1Jz82N2YN1xeIUR25t_NUr_f99s0W73DNqOfw8o7XJTQ/s1600/22JanMad.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ1g5xIN8sCKQ56cmciT5y_aYUrJx6IVeSbYNKibptYNj3lOrbqHeDjZoT5FnpsCvxeVveVrOcs23Cj72X_MFAZ1SfN_1Jz82N2YN1xeIUR25t_NUr_f99s0W73DNqOfw8o7XJTQ/s320/22JanMad.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457477110507469202" /></a><br />Then on, finally, to the evening event at the San Francisco Mystery Bookstore, before grabbing a bite to eat, and driving back through the dark to Sacramento - barely awake as the lights of downtown San Francisco rose up all around us, before dipping away as we crossed the bridge and into the night.<br /><br />Tuesday was a day of catching up on shopping for all those essential little things you need on a long trip - computer cables, iPad apps... oh, yes, and some toothpaste and stuff! Before Eric the Viking descended on us with his new Volvo to sweep us south again, past San Francisco, still basking in sunshine, to the smaller Bay Area city of San Mateo, and the incomparable Ed Kaufman’s M is for Murder bookstore. There I met up with long time fans Milene Rawlinson and Dennis Sitcler, delivered my talk on Virtually Dead, The Runner, and Freeze Frame, before signing well over a hundred books and staggering off for a late dinner in a nearby Italian.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVkuk_Pcxl-TtwY43rcdR7d_xNffXdK5oiiJMqOLQBhY4_4AIL1zC9m8mKNuv_n3ZM1TEa7EughoTVi886tTuXoLHXE-QypiXHy9A0NZU3XGeZQdxAvNyqVYxVDL7_1XH74rckdA/s1600/25Milene.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 145px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVkuk_Pcxl-TtwY43rcdR7d_xNffXdK5oiiJMqOLQBhY4_4AIL1zC9m8mKNuv_n3ZM1TEa7EughoTVi886tTuXoLHXE-QypiXHy9A0NZU3XGeZQdxAvNyqVYxVDL7_1XH74rckdA/s200/25Milene.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457477822606287442" /></a><br />The lights of San Francisco seemed like a dream seen through nearly shut eyes as they drifted past once more on the drive home. <br /><br />Tonight another drive south, not quite so far this time. Stopping at Berkeley for an at-home evening at the house of book critic and editor of Mystery Readers International, Janet Rudolph.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif3Y-gdi4lmzIIl5XY-1JM-4-c1aCjyD2UFS1Gd-7xNJjksDHmUmlVbVeyQ_JcCu6sN_ll11YT0w7pdUGtW3TlfR0kfPf4f16BiDEF7WEgv1k2pqkpLyPFF9VKldyRNwkOmAkWGw/s1600/26SanFranNight.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif3Y-gdi4lmzIIl5XY-1JM-4-c1aCjyD2UFS1Gd-7xNJjksDHmUmlVbVeyQ_JcCu6sN_ll11YT0w7pdUGtW3TlfR0kfPf4f16BiDEF7WEgv1k2pqkpLyPFF9VKldyRNwkOmAkWGw/s320/26SanFranNight.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457478215884271186" /></a><br />I seem permanently tired, but never able to sleep at the right times. Maybe I’ll get the chance to catch a few winks during the 8-hour drive south on Thursday to Newport Beach - as long as I’m not behind the wheel at the time!peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-27174748099679824352010-04-04T02:25:00.002+02:002010-04-04T02:29:34.439+02:00Hello Goodbye<p>Saturday afternoon. Just over a week since leaving home. Already it feels like a lifetime.<br /><br />Sitting in Sea-Tac Airport, Seattle, waiting for a flight to Sacramento. We arrived in the rain and we are leaving in the rain. After the dry, clear sunshine of Denver, we flew in yesterday to gale force winds and ice-edged rain driving in off the Pacific.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijplYZFLj8-xWO2jjOJvh0zyEqVVmyPyQ8YM62WbrAjpVoWKssg6rPw12VZvI7YHD-O0g6Nf4C4jXBERZzhxQ8HuNHxGf7-piAO2XTgPRVkJw5UHR6chcp1Ifw1HVHnnhIpbIkzw/s1600/18Seattle.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijplYZFLj8-xWO2jjOJvh0zyEqVVmyPyQ8YM62WbrAjpVoWKssg6rPw12VZvI7YHD-O0g6Nf4C4jXBERZzhxQ8HuNHxGf7-piAO2XTgPRVkJw5UHR6chcp1Ifw1HVHnnhIpbIkzw/s320/18Seattle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456072283097328802" /></a><br />This town, so like Glasgow - the light, the rain, the seven hills - was alive with fancy-dress kids attending a Japanese anime convention, lending already spaced brains an even more surreal perspective on the world.<br /><br />Having dropped our bags off at the Renaissance Hotel, we fought against the wind and the rain, mid-afternoon, to the Pike Street fish market where we found my favourite chowder joint - a tiny café squeezed into a corner of the market, where they serve the most wonderful chowders. Sadly they were out of my favourite smoked salmon, and I had to do with southern chicken and corn instead. Large cups of thick, warming, comforting soup.<br /><br />Neither La Patronne nor I could face another restaurant last night, so while at the market we found a great cheese stall, bought a selection of nice cheeses, some herb crackers, then went in search of a screw-top bottle of wine - can’t carry a corkscrew with us on our flights.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeQ3OvYeGrpNCHM_sdNC9U7mRfr43h4wCKq4h22YVm4luvd04zKOxkCRFray95a4LunhJ13jrJnkmMgfgpwgS37qZHBnep_EqMCFZB9LmUrjisgvnRZlXCkuJJM_Cie_yiSHNymQ/s1600/17Fishy.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 258px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeQ3OvYeGrpNCHM_sdNC9U7mRfr43h4wCKq4h22YVm4luvd04zKOxkCRFray95a4LunhJ13jrJnkmMgfgpwgS37qZHBnep_EqMCFZB9LmUrjisgvnRZlXCkuJJM_Cie_yiSHNymQ/s320/17Fishy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456072489263036002" /></a><br />So it was cheese and wine in the room before collapsing amongst the pillows of the king-sized bed for an early, early night.<br /><br />Of course, I was awake at 5.30am, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and with a morning to kill before my signing event at the Seattle Mystery Bookshop. I found a US channel showing the Man U/Chelsea game, which passed a couple of hours before breakfast, then another battle with the elements and the hills to find the bookstore, just off Pioneer Square.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_u1vkqCx_fNSgIkybCgdxjGam0u-Xw6xXcgO5G4qufCifdQ-2aWwnWWcXlf80sdfEHm5kTnWdvr6aszXG7dM8xArD8n2QoZMsGUs_cxP0B_zgfUzrSgF1i7lismS35EdCqpa9Q/s1600/19SeattleSigning.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 217px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_u1vkqCx_fNSgIkybCgdxjGam0u-Xw6xXcgO5G4qufCifdQ-2aWwnWWcXlf80sdfEHm5kTnWdvr6aszXG7dM8xArD8n2QoZMsGUs_cxP0B_zgfUzrSgF1i7lismS35EdCqpa9Q/s320/19SeattleSigning.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456072681364506642" /></a><br />Warmly welcomed as always by Bill and Fran, I signed stock for the shop, and books for customers - one of whom had dropped in looking specifically for a book set in Paris, to get the atmosphere of the city before heading off for a spring holiday. He bought “Extraordinary People” (now renamed “Dry Bones), and I recommended that he make a tour of the catacombs, which he would read about in the book. Before I left I made my own contribution to the bookstore’s blog, which you can read <a href="http://seattlemysteryblog.typepad.com/">here</a>.<br /><br />Then we ate in an Italian restaurant, and spent the afternoon feeling sick, and responding to excited e-mails from Susie in Sacramento who was getting orgasmic over an iPad delivery.<br /><br />The airport has suddenly come alive with people in open sandals and shorts, and winter white skin. God knows where they’ve come from, or where they’re going. It’s the holidays!! Aaaargh!!!<br /><br />Happy Easter.</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-82449811977517794792010-04-02T14:56:00.002+02:002010-04-02T15:00:57.324+02:00Rocky Rugs<p>It was a dramatic sky. Bruised black over the plains. Almost white over the Rockies where snow and hail swept down across the mountains. A washed-out yellow in the west where the sun was sinking and breaking through, turning the mountain ranges into paper cut-out silhouettes.<br /><br />In the far distance I saw the Flat Irons - brooding and dark above the university town of Boulder, where I had gone on every one of my previous tours. But the book store where I had given my talks, High Crimes, had been forced to close its doors - a sign of the economic times.<br /><br />But its owner, <a href="http://www.highcrimesbooks.com/">Cynthia Nye</a>, ever resourceful, had swapped bricks and mortar for the internet, from where she is now selling direct to her clients. And making it work.<br /><br />Tonight we were heading north of Boulder to the town of Longmont, and a rug store where Cynthia now holds her author visits. She had told me that some authors turned their noses up at this event these days, since she no longer had four walls and shelves lined with books. Which made me all the more determined to do my talk for her.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGTPaTbxUKbHIB_oDrA53YwH51QN6tMZ7_ukNu5NaJdYGoYywp-my3Da2dw2OsABEZYGCe9nhvbNSj-GW8kpdNgYGDmiMZVMNelzLPorRHAtzRPhbaM82iPIUWERNc5_t0otskHA/s1600/15RugStore.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGTPaTbxUKbHIB_oDrA53YwH51QN6tMZ7_ukNu5NaJdYGoYywp-my3Da2dw2OsABEZYGCe9nhvbNSj-GW8kpdNgYGDmiMZVMNelzLPorRHAtzRPhbaM82iPIUWERNc5_t0otskHA/s320/15RugStore.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455523948177662162" /></a><br />And what a venue she has chosen for her author encounters. An amazing emporium of oriental and navajo rugs - not unsurprisingly called <a href="http://www.orientalandnavajorugs.com">The Oriental and Navajo Rug Company</a>. Most of the rugs are hand made. The walls hang with them. The floors are soft with them. They lie in piles feet deep. There is artwork, crafted jewellery, and a small water fountain that brings the restful tinkle of flowing water and keeps the chi moving in a good way.<br /><br />It is a wonderful, open, and colourful space for these events, and I took great pleasure in talking to the good folk of Longmont and Boulder who had braved the ever-changing elements to come and meet me and buy my books. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWsvEvigZdkZCzjPKv7i0HSxNveOoOrxqp7njlc4LZ4KFTleq2-TWJJlPRfH-jRP0-5EKoLp7VUoaAMlD96OC0FqmxK5rYkxvurvecgOOSecYC-GwgqqVidMFaxh6J9WCNb4Ni0w/s1600/16Longmont.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWsvEvigZdkZCzjPKv7i0HSxNveOoOrxqp7njlc4LZ4KFTleq2-TWJJlPRfH-jRP0-5EKoLp7VUoaAMlD96OC0FqmxK5rYkxvurvecgOOSecYC-GwgqqVidMFaxh6J9WCNb4Ni0w/s320/16Longmont.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455524220593914594" /></a><br />After the talk I got into conversation with one lady whose son lives in Olympia, Washington. I had noticed on the internet that my books were frequently among the top ten bestsellers in that town’s mystery bookstore, Whodunnit. This lady’s son had gone into the store and asked for a recommendation for a book to buy for his mother. The book they recommended turned out to be “The Firemaker”, the first of the China series.<br /><br />As it happened, this was not a genre which had interested her in the past. She read mainly historical novels. However, something about “The Firemaker” had caught her, and she arrived at my talk with all six of the series for me to sign.<br /><br />I signed Cynthia’s stock for her, sipping on a glass of soft red wine, and then a copy of “Virtually Dead” for the owner of the rug gallery, Patrick, who had been seduced by my tales of sleuthing in Second Life.<br /><br />A word to those authors who have declined appearances at the gallery. Shame on you! Everyone who sells our work deserves our support. And I have to tell you that this is one of the best and most unique venues on any author tour.<br /><br />So, then, it was back on the road. Through the dark to Denver, a glass of wine, a nibble of cheese, and bed. And today? Another airport, another airplane, another town. This time, Seattle. The forecast is for rain. Why does that make me think of Glasgow?</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-70284729996207110292010-04-01T23:09:00.004+02:002010-04-01T23:25:36.603+02:00Sick of Heights<p>Where was I? Oh... yeah. Denver. Colorado. An hour forward, an hour back? Dunno. Who cares.<br /><br />To the jetlag I can now add altitude sickness. Been spaced out all morning, breathless after my breakfast walk to Starbucks in this mile-high city, and the first caramel machiato of the tour.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1tL7NQbxpqAC8-pnOpTl8QN4GBgUdA7DOUEGyv2Tglid6qtDGnXpox_aOWB9JfFTnSbB0cTpo9dFZPzAC_LXAtnLbvXhvfEmBGQBZbw4VrkLYp-BtVDhdTXwqb3WJQA0ux_yNOQ/s1600/9aSpiceShop.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 282px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1tL7NQbxpqAC8-pnOpTl8QN4GBgUdA7DOUEGyv2Tglid6qtDGnXpox_aOWB9JfFTnSbB0cTpo9dFZPzAC_LXAtnLbvXhvfEmBGQBZbw4VrkLYp-BtVDhdTXwqb3WJQA0ux_yNOQ/s320/9aSpiceShop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455279620972541778" /></a><br />Strange. I’ve been here a few times, but never been this affected before. I picked up, though, when we went with our Denver hosts and good friends, Charles and Marilyn, to the city's downtown spice store. Wow! Never seen so many spices under one roof. The smell as you walk through the door would knock you over (in a nice way), or in this case, pick you up, as it did to me.<br /><br />I felt even better after a buffalo burger on a bed of mixed greens, smothered in caramelised onions, with a side helping of sweet potato fries. A bottle of dark lager helped, too.<br /><br />And now to the writing of the blog. Then (hopefully) an afternoon nap, before heading north - an hour-and-a-half’s drive - to a speaking event at a place called Longmont, north-east of Boulder.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiFOVyVzJ28R8wEQIdZTvd973TyoEKeQlE2WDMjjfyiLH7G4-Bb1_rVt3uazfmu_8HO0FsTYM9Riz2TTGjvFLWU1bW72JYIWqtk4GIg96SueJBgO_OH3gAYY2Qz3ZlKWAaqythEw/s1600/9TheCake.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiFOVyVzJ28R8wEQIdZTvd973TyoEKeQlE2WDMjjfyiLH7G4-Bb1_rVt3uazfmu_8HO0FsTYM9Riz2TTGjvFLWU1bW72JYIWqtk4GIg96SueJBgO_OH3gAYY2Qz3ZlKWAaqythEw/s320/9TheCake.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455279909336506466" /></a><br />So... last night? Well, having flown into Denver from Minneapolis just a few hours earlier, we headed off to yesterday’s event at a bookstore called Murder by the Book. A good turnout of readers in an intimate atmosphere. And, as always, a wonderful cake. It’s a tradition that the bookstore has a cake made with the author’s latest book cover reproduced in icing. I wondered what they would do, since I had three books out this time.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0vONBmgwr983wRonKm-zYYvPxdrTHFxKqakTwPepFZmAbx3mwUobd2jtHmyCZ0Zi0fBufiN0QGhWPqhxQr9QqiJvWNF-yxrQxH34QApjfO29YvX12pMtpc3aU8EPZnNXhgw6N4Q/s1600/10EatingTheCake.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 251px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0vONBmgwr983wRonKm-zYYvPxdrTHFxKqakTwPepFZmAbx3mwUobd2jtHmyCZ0Zi0fBufiN0QGhWPqhxQr9QqiJvWNF-yxrQxH34QApjfO29YvX12pMtpc3aU8EPZnNXhgw6N4Q/s320/10EatingTheCake.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455280292619583042" /></a><br />Well... see for yourselves! Three covers on one cake. And it tasted great, too!!<br /><br />Charles then whisked us back to his condo, where he had whipped up an amazing Indian meal, complete with authentic Thali plates<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36y__3W9qm3r_I4L0gkgnRczy8qR5pT_4CoFNUNur7I-D5C_iUsz6YppY01NfGSCUE0Z2_jE7Aa2IeDDsO_Bf4ut35gBDQuEcR6I_-79KqL-Ha4acxk_vio3iyZ-lGkiMQqHbTA/s1600/12TheCurry.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 294px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg36y__3W9qm3r_I4L0gkgnRczy8qR5pT_4CoFNUNur7I-D5C_iUsz6YppY01NfGSCUE0Z2_jE7Aa2IeDDsO_Bf4ut35gBDQuEcR6I_-79KqL-Ha4acxk_vio3iyZ-lGkiMQqHbTA/s400/12TheCurry.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455282873070412818" /></a><br />After the meal, sated, knackered, and all wined out, I lay back in a leather recliner and... fell asleep. Well, it was waaaay past my bedtime!</p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYuzPdhx885yYEK-YW1MW_4sOcrvhfj2EtXv75wQkfb98ZGsC4NInoraEnv28tdUnRGDg2KKHl8O4XHQZ4OHwrRU3xcsD1Z4WZbL1pDuTSPVpjrNxTz7YY5SKe0X1nmMR-rSHNlA/s1600/14ApresSnooze.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 298px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYuzPdhx885yYEK-YW1MW_4sOcrvhfj2EtXv75wQkfb98ZGsC4NInoraEnv28tdUnRGDg2KKHl8O4XHQZ4OHwrRU3xcsD1Z4WZbL1pDuTSPVpjrNxTz7YY5SKe0X1nmMR-rSHNlA/s400/14ApresSnooze.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455281506859561394" /></a>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-23964138832923238392010-03-31T13:18:00.002+02:002010-03-31T21:13:18.236+02:00Lost in Space<p>I am floating somewhere lost in space. Jetlag plus. <br /><br />Monday morning, Paris, 6am, struggling through the cold and dark to drag our cases aboard a tram that would take us to the RER rail line that would, in turn, take us to Charles de Gaulle Airport. I can remember thinking... oh, the glamour of it all!<br /><br />A nine-hour flight on a cramped little Delta plane dumped us in an unseasonally warm and sunny Minneapolis at 1pm local time (it’s the first March since records began, that there has been zero snowfall here), and it was straight on to a rental car, and a battle with the sat-nav, to find our way to Uncle Edgar’s Mystery bookstore where mystery connoisseur, Jeff Hatfield, was waiting with a pile of some eighty books for me to sign.<br /><br />As I began the first tendonitis-torturing signing session of the tour, an unexpected visitor dropped by the shop - Ina, the cousin of my Dutch neighbour in France. The world just keeps on shrinking. She and La Patronne went for a coffee while I signed and asked Jeff for some reading recommendations.<br /><br />These were his tips - hot off the press: “Frag Box”, by Richard A. Thompson; “The Bricklayer”, by Noah Boyd; and “The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Apple”, by Alan Bradley.<br /><br />It was then on to the home of Elizabeth and Tom Carr with whom we were staying overnight. Elizabeth is the daughter of our old neighbours from France, and our frequent host in this Minnesotan city.<br /><br />By now it was around midnight, Paris time, and I was beginning to wilt. Much coffee was required to keep me on my feet till it was time to head to Once Upon a Crime, the bookstore where I was to give my talk. The store is owned by Pat and Gary, an amazing couple whose tiny, chaotic, book-filled shop is a must on the itinerary of any self-respecting crime writer on a US tour.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtEwXqTU5NAIhtwTyxE09lU8x9OPFIo0PtnZeipgWK7zmO5mWbuSzfFZZexkgB5XlG4uyG9-U2h9nn5OusQFmum3wiEwRuTZuSJG7j_SmxebP4L5nnX6yBMApK3WWSgkEQYvjYHQ/s1600/6MinniTalk.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtEwXqTU5NAIhtwTyxE09lU8x9OPFIo0PtnZeipgWK7zmO5mWbuSzfFZZexkgB5XlG4uyG9-U2h9nn5OusQFmum3wiEwRuTZuSJG7j_SmxebP4L5nnX6yBMApK3WWSgkEQYvjYHQ/s320/6MinniTalk.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454876982348196162" /></a><br />It was the first stop on my first US tour five years ago, when only a handful of people turned up. After all, who the hell had ever heard of Peter May? Five years on, and the place was packed Standing room only, and I delivered the first of more than twenty talks that I will give on this tour - setting the shape and form of the others to come. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUixtgc2jKHcvyKvX1eViEobQt-qbvoOsZlEmz0fsEcGM89ROt39uDGn-HiNjXX24GM6Cj6IHGjBsaLOsOSXywDjIF2Y98z7VohiiE10eCTlDHGi0pclcpZBbbnXfS5NDjQ6j30g/s1600/7MinniAudience.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUixtgc2jKHcvyKvX1eViEobQt-qbvoOsZlEmz0fsEcGM89ROt39uDGn-HiNjXX24GM6Cj6IHGjBsaLOsOSXywDjIF2Y98z7VohiiE10eCTlDHGi0pclcpZBbbnXfS5NDjQ6j30g/s320/7MinniAudience.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454877339816207042" /></a><br />By the time I was finished my talk, and the signing, it was 3am, Paris time, and a bunch of us set off in the dark to find a little restaurant called The Corner Table. Among the group was my old friend, Carl Brookins - a stalwart of the Minnesota Crime Wave group of writers who tour the country promoting their work. He and his wife Jean are veteran sailors, and have done battle with oceans, seas, and lakes in most parts of the world. Carl writes a highly successful and entertaining series of sailing mysteries, the latest of which is <a href="http://www.carlbrookins.com/">“Devils Island”</a>.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_4bYz3TyQYI3D93r39IirfBj4LC5KkpoJ-yI4Ebg8Iw3UItqNq76YFlP-3l5HawM64QyG9IG3_4sAigZ4T7vf6nSU_KqzON_29rXlRJQwAxzUs9RPwR-5H2VvTF56Bp5x2_uT1w/s1600/8CornerTable.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_4bYz3TyQYI3D93r39IirfBj4LC5KkpoJ-yI4Ebg8Iw3UItqNq76YFlP-3l5HawM64QyG9IG3_4sAigZ4T7vf6nSU_KqzON_29rXlRJQwAxzUs9RPwR-5H2VvTF56Bp5x2_uT1w/s320/8CornerTable.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454877639751394674" /></a><br />Some food, some wine, and finally I felt myself tipping over the precipice. It really was time for bed.<br /><br />I slipped wearily between the sheets almost exactly 24 hours after struggling on to that tram in wet and windy Paris, and tumbled into the clutches of a deeply embracing sleep. But only for six dream-filled hours, before waking at 5am (local) to dig out my laptop and write this blog.<br /><br />An hour from now we will set off for the airport, and an early flight to Denver, Colorado, where it will all begin again.<br /><br />Will someone please <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5BTzNX5OMN4">stop this train</a>?</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-35924280845782035012010-03-29T22:48:00.002+02:002010-03-29T23:11:36.462+02:00We Have Lift-off<p>It’s over. Three crazy, interesting, hard grafting, wine-drinking, face-stuffing days in Paris. A Salon du Livre hit by the financial crisis. Numbers down. People spending less on books.<br /><br />But still the invitations keep coming - to more salons. I turned one down - Paris in June - because it clashes with one I am going to at Le Havre. Yet another, in July, is sorely tempting - an invitation to Corsica. A three day weekend salon which begins as the ferry leaves Marseilles on the Thursday night.<br /><br />A Chinese bookseller from Brest - who is really from Shanghai - in France on a ten year visa, begged for my help to get her a holiday visa to Scotland. A dental surgeon, who is an underwater photographer in his spare time, wanted me to contribute to a high-gloss international publication on the environment. I asked if he would be interested in giving me a root treatment.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGFlaR8e0vFc3sPVZQtAKbiHA0YK9cQdSgLhOioQsb-9zsNN_nhEa0zSPgzv9if-Qwwy_EsdqMaTQUUlpVFj9hP5SpSsnwQSxcJKBXCkMkZHdaEQNqi118lX2ZueSAdmfpiG2vDQ/s1600/2Houseboat.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGFlaR8e0vFc3sPVZQtAKbiHA0YK9cQdSgLhOioQsb-9zsNN_nhEa0zSPgzv9if-Qwwy_EsdqMaTQUUlpVFj9hP5SpSsnwQSxcJKBXCkMkZHdaEQNqi118lX2ZueSAdmfpiG2vDQ/s320/2Houseboat.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454163609720266290" /></a><br />Sunday was lunch on a houseboat on the Seine, the home of the English editor of a series of books being published in English by a French publisher (does this make any sense?). La Patronne and I each wrote a book (well, actually long short stories) for the series, which comes out in June. The series is called Paper Planes, and the stories - all between 12,000 and 15,000 words in length - use a Latin-rooted vocabulary to allow French learners of English to read comfortably.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY3X4QXWl2RmH5HyClkDdOXaOdICYjTDVczbunQgMsuTcuyW0Vu5Qw43MyxCwqK8MLXMPBrf6q8jCAPZfNmcysmP9iLFZHm1FFkofSdx5Cn_a1CExSBqWfdkf5LTnVPOYZPH2Ctg/s1600/3PeterInterview.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY3X4QXWl2RmH5HyClkDdOXaOdICYjTDVczbunQgMsuTcuyW0Vu5Qw43MyxCwqK8MLXMPBrf6q8jCAPZfNmcysmP9iLFZHm1FFkofSdx5Cn_a1CExSBqWfdkf5LTnVPOYZPH2Ctg/s320/3PeterInterview.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454164018377240482" /></a><br />I chose to write a story using the characters from my China series, Li and Margaret. It is called “The Ghost Marriage”. And La Patronne wrote one called “Distant Echo”, about a psychotherapist and a life-changing accident.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5wYn8-H7eq28S_m0YCfh6P8lPr2FKHqPXTUkf9mQQx9IeB9GioTOgrDVHVXvvMv6fiXWyq5ssF91O1zMGhZCZ0SXZG0LWHkr2RJwlfZivpjnTe3bStW-8pr6ptF97lAOEjfmdFw/s1600/4JaniceInterview.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5wYn8-H7eq28S_m0YCfh6P8lPr2FKHqPXTUkf9mQQx9IeB9GioTOgrDVHVXvvMv6fiXWyq5ssF91O1zMGhZCZ0SXZG0LWHkr2RJwlfZivpjnTe3bStW-8pr6ptF97lAOEjfmdFw/s320/4JaniceInterview.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454165101965460162" /></a><br />For the launch, the publisher, Editions Didier (part of Hachette), wanted to film interviews with us to put up on the website. So after lunch with editor, Rupert Morgan, and his wife Karine (I hope I spelled that right), on board their incredible houseboat, we took turns to sit in the salon and record our interviews. A faintly surreal diversion in another otherwise constant flow of non book-buying salon-goers.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUXSvgabmHfRH5IU6AnB-QO2EYUVjJG82PHTVX72cqxyH85YvR4ryUG7H4_ZOBZyY9Ek4p4Uw93zdksfgBDhXXDmAKd-x8rKS2PwquEhWbcW0GAoC1TNkp77b44Nw2ZJcQJqscEQ/s1600/5Rupert&Karine.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUXSvgabmHfRH5IU6AnB-QO2EYUVjJG82PHTVX72cqxyH85YvR4ryUG7H4_ZOBZyY9Ek4p4Uw93zdksfgBDhXXDmAKd-x8rKS2PwquEhWbcW0GAoC1TNkp77b44Nw2ZJcQJqscEQ/s320/5Rupert&Karine.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454166107028650786" /></a><br />Then to dinner that night, just spitting distance from the Senat, with friends Ariane and Gilbert, Jean-Pierre and Jacqueline, and Jean-Pierre (a different one) and Janine (neighbours from St. Michel), followed by a long hike back across the city in the small hours of the morning.<br /><br />Later that same morning, Monday, after an early rise, we raced across Paris to the giant FNAC computer store to buy me a new laptop bag - the one I had packed to take with me fell apart on the train. And then back to the Salon for lunch and a drowsy afternoon induced by a glass or three of rose.<br /><br />And before a farewell dinner with my French publisher, a fun hour spent with Fred Bellaiche, who is going to produce a movie of one of my China Thrillers - The Killing Room (but more of that later). He loaded us with movies to watch on the plane and during the tour, while we storyline and write the screenplay - French movies, Hong Kong movies, Italian movies, Korean movies. <br /><br />But in the end, all creative talk gave way to a much more serious topic - football!<br /><br />Life is interesting. For the moment, But I am not so sure I will feel the same as I drag myself out of bed at 6am tomorrow for the trauchle out to the airport and the first flight of the great transatlantic adventure.<br /><br />Next stop, Minneapolis. See you there!</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15864284.post-73090897797332079662010-03-28T10:29:00.002+02:002010-03-28T10:35:46.533+02:00On the Road Again<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKNm-kEnZcO3fg9blrqY89Aqqp1z6aIF_a5gxt7U8vMjA0vM5N0nAYDgkJXr1xdB3yAgROwOg1v_ivQDQq3BOoUvPyP0wCs5l4rQI5eH5_AaGQQK7lq_ixjQwKsQEIglKwEOm6w/s1600/1Paris.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 208px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilKNm-kEnZcO3fg9blrqY89Aqqp1z6aIF_a5gxt7U8vMjA0vM5N0nAYDgkJXr1xdB3yAgROwOg1v_ivQDQq3BOoUvPyP0wCs5l4rQI5eH5_AaGQQK7lq_ixjQwKsQEIglKwEOm6w/s320/1Paris.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453600144558838194" /></a><br /><p>Paris, on a cold morning in late March. The first day on a two month journey that will take me all over the United States before returning me to this city at the end of May, older (certainly), wiser (maybe), and warmer (hopefully).<br /><br />Just over 24 hours ago I sat in a train station in south-west France, watching the rain sweep down across the tracks, the first grey light of dawn breaking in a leaden sky. My first stop on an uncertain adventure.<br /><br />I hate leaving home. And this time was no different. Depressed, cold, butterflies in conflict in my tummy, I saw the lights of the approaching train and thought: It begins. And I knew that once on the road nothing else would matter. The tour would be my life. Home could wait.<br /><br />The words of an old Paul Simon song from the sixties popped up unexpectedly in my head:<br /><br />I'm sitting in the railway station. Got a ticket to my destination. On a tour of one-night stands my suitcase and (a book) in hand. And ev'ry stop is neatly planned for a poet and a one-man band. Homeward bound, I wish I was, Homeward bound.<br /><br />But four hours on the train revising the manuscript of the fifth Enzo book, and a reunion with old friends at the Salon du Livre in Paris soon banished the blues.<br /><br />I’m on the road again.</p>peter_mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04292592267792529859noreply@blogger.com3