30 Stockton
I wait for the 30 Stockton.
I miss my sister. I wish she were standing on this street corner with me right now. In a non-working girl sort of way, of course.
I'm headed downtown for lunch with two old high school friends. “Old” is an incorrect way to label Lou and Anh—they’ve both retained their youthful enthusiasm. Anh especially. When she laughs, it’s like diamonds twinkling in sunlight.
A young Italian woman comes up to me and asks how much the bus fare is and where to pay it. She’s with, presumably, her mother and sister. They all have that dark, mysterious Mediterranean look to them, with inky hair that clings to their shoulders.
The bus arrives. I take a seat in the middle.
A car stops next to us. The passenger in the back seat uses a fingernail to scrape at the lamination coating the rear window.
An older woman climbs gingerly on board the bus. The driver greets her warmly, asking her how her wrist is healing. She grimaces and says it’s coming along.
Around me, conversation hums, lively but subdued. Two tourists discuss whether they should get off the bus at Ghirardelli Square, or if they should go to North Beach to have pizza first. A little Chinese boy makes animated gestures as he tells his mother a story in their own language. It’s obvious he’s telling her about a magical pirate ship that sails in the night sky.
I think about lunch. Indian food. Will it be good? It’s hard to find decent Indian food this side of London.
A bus passes in the opposite direction. A man sits alone in the back. He wears a dark suit and crisp white dress shirt. The orange tie around his neck looks like a noose, and he stares out the window like he’s headed for the gallows.
Maybe gallows come to mind because of the Hung Ling Co. storefront and the row of pink roasted ducks dangling by their necks in the window. They look like persecuted prisoners of culinary war. Perhaps I need to liberate one and take it home.
The bus stops. It’s Market Street, and I stand to join the herd filling out the back door. I resist the urge to moo.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, I inhale the city air. It’s a good day.
The Kid
I'm somewhat of a lingerie expert (modestly speaking). So when my friend's thirteen-year-old daughter needed new bras, I was the obvious choice to take along (barring the fact that I hate shopping). Really, he has a deep fear of going to retail establishments with his daughter, who has the stamina of a Sherpa when it comes to buying clothes, and he needed a security blanket (me).
But we'll examine his phobias another day. Today is all about the kid.
After hours of Victoria's Secret hell¹, we went back to their place for dinner and movie. It was a little after 11pm when my friend began wrangling the kid to go to bed. At some point during the wrangling, there was a chase (of course) and the kid hit her leg on a piece of furniture.
I took transcripts of the ensuing conversation.
My friend: See. This is what happens when you fool around. Now go to bed.
The kid: I can't go to bed! I'm seriously wounded.
Him: You aren't wounded.
Her: Yes, I am. Look, you can see bone.
Me: (looking closer but only seeing a tiny patch of thinly scraped skin)
Him: (unimpressed) There's not even any blood.
Her: Because I'm bleeding on the inside!
Me: (stifling my laughter after my friend gives me a dark look)
Her: Now my leg will be deformed, and then no man will ever date me. I'll end up being a fat old lonely cat lady!
Him: You're skinny.
Her: Then I'll be a skinny old cat lady. And I hate cats!
Me: (snickering, but behind my hand)
Him: (shooting me another dark look before turning to his daughter) It's bed time. Now.
There was a minor scuffle involving a child-proof gate, and then some viewing of SNL skits on YouTube, before bed time actually happened.
But what I'm wondering is if I need to hang out with kids more², because they say the greatest things. Maybe that's where my muse is, sitting on some playground, soaking in the creativity. Hmm...
¹ It actually wasn't that bad. I didn't feel the need to start karate-chopping the mannequins or anything. Plus, I like the kid. Her dad's fairly entertaining too.
² In a non-creepy way, of course.
Old Friends
My twenty year high school reunion is around the corner.
Max regaled me with his tales of his recent love life, and as I sat there pondering his woes, he asked, "Are you working right now?"
"I'm always working," I replied. "Are you worried you'll end up in a book?"
He shook his head. "I'm looking forward to it."
Bold man.
The thing about a high school reunion is that it always makes you think about the past—that and people you haven't seen in ages come out of the woodwork.
In fact, I'm in Los Angeles visiting one of these woodwork people. Max and I were good friends in high school. We hung out, and his parents used to even sneak us into this Latin club in San Francisco where we used to lambada (the forbidden dance).
It's been twenty years since I've seen Max. He's the same, and he's different. He still plays soccer and he's still into Duran Duran. His laugh is less carefree, but his smile is still radiates from his heart. He still collects things, the most notable (in my book) being signed soccer jerseys (he has 200) from players he's met (including Beckham* and Ronaldo**).
There is one strange thing. In his home, he has all these fixtures that you'd find in an airport bathroom. Like soap dispensers, and the kind of faucet where you wave your hand in front of the sensor to get water. What's that about? I haven't asked him yet. I'm wondering if I should just continue to theorize, because the real answer will probably disappoint me with its simplicity, right?
Am I going to the reunion? I'm leaning toward no. The people I would have wanted to see again aren't going (with the exception of Max). But who knows?
* Note to Julie: I tried to wrangle a meeting with Beck and Posh but their social schedule and mine didn't mesh. Sorry.
** Note to my sister: I see you wrinkling your nose because you don't like Cristiano Ronaldo. But—dude—you can't deny he's good. Also, I tried to steal Ballack's jersey but Max caught me.
The Magic Kingdom
I'm so freakin' tired. You have no idea. My eyes are gritty and my voice is raspy like I've smoked two packs a day since birth.
Translation: the 30th Annual RWA Conference was a smashing success.
The reality of attending a conference with 2000 romance writers will probably overwhelm you—or make you spasm. I don't want to be responsible for that, so I'm not going to go into much detail. However, I can give you some highlights.
- The Magic Kingdom. I'm very disappointed to say I didn't meet Mickey. Where was he? On vacation? I expected to find him lounging by the pool (which is the only reason I hung out there—really). The Swan and Dolphin resort was a good venue (the staff was awesome). I do have to say, though, that the dolphin statues were very weird, looking less like dolphins and more like drugged-out fish.
- Booksignings! My publisher booksigning rocked. For most of an hour and a half, I had a crazy line of people waiting to grab a copy of my books, including advanced copies of Tempted by Fate, which comes out in December. The Literacy signing was also fantastic. Thanks, everyone who stopped by to pick up a book or just to say hi.
- On being a Grand Central author... It's quite lovely, actually. Each conference, the GCP team takes it's authors to a swank dinner. This year I sat with Roxanne St. Claire and Kristen Painter. They tried to get me into trouble. They almost succeeded, but I had a flash of my editor watching me dance on the bar top, her mouth agape, and I decided I'd continue to be the good girl I really am. Maybe next year.
- Hanging with my homies. The great thing about the conference is that I get to see old friends and make great new ones. This year, I hung out with Allison Brennan, Marilyn Brant, Laura Moore, and Heather Graham to name a few.
- Outlet stores—sigh. Julie made me go shopping. Okay, we had a deal, and my end of the bargain was that I'd take her to the Coach outlet. I shopped for five hours. It's a record. I think I deserve a merit badge.
I have pictures, but due to technical difficulties you aren't getting them. It's a real bummer, because you know how awesome I am with the photos. Oh well. Maybe I'll tweet them. Keep an eye out.
If you didn't go and have questions, ask me. I'll give you answers—within reason. Because what happens at RWA...
Taking Care of Business
Do you know how many blog posts I've written in the past week? A whole heck of a lot. I've been asked to guest blog during the month of July, and I'm cranking out the posts to turn in. Don't worry—I'll post details when I know the whens and wheres of the event.
You know where I'm going with this, don't you? Can you blame me? I've written so many blogs, I don't have it in me to write this one. But as tempted as I am to post a Gone Fishing graphic and flake out, I can't bring myself to let you down. That's love. Except it's the vague and shallow kind of love that only merits random miscellanea (see below).
So long, Madrid.
I'm back in San Francisco, and I feel pretty good about it. Yes, I miss Madrid—and New York, for that matter. But there's something refreshing about having the ocean and the fog again. It's good to be back.
I'd rather clean the toilet.
A few days ago, I got the proofs for my next book, TEMPTED BY FATE. Don't tell my editor this, but proofs are my least favorite part of the publishing process. (Translation: it's utter torture.)
Picture this: you get a copy of your book, formatted for printing. Your job is to go through and make sure the pages are set properly and that everything is in order (no typos, that all the copyedits were inputted, etc). Sound easy? It is. But it's freaking tedious, especially after you've already read the book several times in the previous few weeks.
A blast from the past.
I'm getting together with my best friend from high school today, and I'm beyond excited. It's been twenty years since I've seen her. Life tore us asunder. (Insert dramatic sob here.) But several weeks ago while I was in Madrid she emailed me, and we're seeing each other for lunch. I have no expectations, but I know it'll be lovely regardless of the outcome.
Vamos Argentina!
Argentina is advancing to the next round of the World Cup. They play Germany on Saturday, a game which may cause a rift between me and my sister. She has a crush on one of the German players but—dude—the Argentinians are way hotter. Especially the goalie. And Messi is a futbol god. There really shouldn't be any question of who to root for.
Disney World, here I come.
At the end of July, I'm headed to Orlando for the RWA National conference. Why should you care? Because I'll be signing books at the RWA literacy event on July 28th (I think). Stop by Disney World's Dolphin and Swan Resort if you're in the area, say hi, and buy a book for a good cause.
Sneakiness.
Did you notice how I just slipped a little bit of World Cuppiness into this post? I'm sly that way.
Speaking of posting...
I haven't written a craft post in forever. Anyone want one? And what would you want? Character stuff? Plotting? A discussion on scene? Pacing? Dialogue? Let me know if you've got things you want to discuss.
Adventuring
Yesterday morning I woke up and decided I needed adventure. So I got dressed, walked to the panadería to get a sandwich for the road, and then headed to the train station. Next stop: Segovia.
When I came to Spain, I thought I'd check out Granada, maybe Malaga and Toledo, but Segovia wasn't on my radar. But then I mentioned visiting Toledo to one of my new (Spanish) friends, and she said (somewhat wistfully), "I quite enjoy Segovia."
So there you go. And there I went. Lucky for you, I took pictures, so it'll almost be like you went along with me—only you didn't have to slather sunblock all over yourself.
The aqueduct. For those of you unfamiliar with Roman innovation, it's a fancy bridge that transported water. Segovia is in the background.
The cathedral. It was the biggest cathedral I've ever been in—I'm pretty sure. Things I noted about the interior: it was at least thirty degrees cooler than outside; there were more than a dozen small chapels circling the main nave; and it was all freakin' big.
I got whistled at by a construction worker inside the cathedral. WTH? That's just wrong, or sacrilegious, or something. Maybe he thought he was in tight enough with the Big Guy that he could get away with lascivious thoughts in a holy place.
Me, outside the cathedral. Aren't I cute, despite my lack of makeup? I love those earrings too. My sunglasses make me look like an insect-superhero though.
Approaching Alcázar, the big-ass castle in Segovia. If you were here for a history lesson, I'd tell you it was an Arab fort back in the 12th century, and a Roman one way before then (or so one infers), until it became a favorite place for royalty to chill.
But you're not here for a history lesson, so I'll tell you that there was a lot white fluffy stuff floating in the air. Pollen, anyone? And the moat was empty—I was minorly disappointed by that, but the suits of armor they had standing all over the place made up for it a little.
For two euros extra, you could climb up 152 steps to the top of Juan II's tower (hidden behind the trees). And to think I was paying eighty bucks a month to go to the gym to use the StairMaster.
The restaurant where I had my two hour lunch. Although the sign is false advertisement, because my fork was never lonely. It was always accompanied with at least a knife and sometimes a spoon.
New friends! I was sitting at the bus kiosk, waiting to go back to the train station, when this blonde accosted me. It turned out they were awesome, and fun, and from New York. So we met up for tapas and drinks later that night in Madrid. Craziness ensued, as it does when I'm involved. Sorry—can't give you details, because what happens in Spain stays in Spain. Let's just say it involved peanuts, Mui Mui slippers, and a very cute Argentinian guy.
Stay tuned for my next adventure, which may or may not include flamenco dancing and pigs. See you next week.
Tinkerbell
"I did something that's going to make you think I'm crazy," my friend Dawn confessed as she filled a kettle with water.
Turning a kitchen chair around, I sat facing her. "More crazy than I already think you are?"
"Yes." She opened the cupboard and took down a tin of tea. "Tinkerbell wasn't feeling well, so I called a pet psychic."
I stifled my grin before it got out of hand. Tinkerbell the cat slinked into the kitchen, giving me a superior look as she swished her tail in my general direction.
Dawn glanced back at me, obviously waiting for one of my witty remarks. "You aren't going to say anything?"
"Truthfully, I'm stunned into speechlessness."
"It's not as crazy as it sounds though," she said, dropping tea bags into mugs and pouring hot water on top. "I would have spent more at a vet, and they would have given her medication instead of offering a solution."
"And the pet psychic told you what was wrong with her?"
"She had an irritable bowel. I changed her food and gave her some herbs and now she's as good as new." Dawn turned around and paused. Then she admitted, "I asked the psychic about Tinkerbell's mental health as well."
I bit my lip. When I was sure I could look appropriately serious, I said, "How is Tinkerbell's mental health?"
"Great." My friend set a mug in front of me and joined me at the table. "The psychic said Tinkerbell loves us very much. She's very happy in the new apartment. Also, she sees herself as dainty and feminine."
I looked at the large gray furball sauntering across the kitchen. "Really?"
"I know, she's kind of big now, but when she was little we used to tell her how cute and petite she was. But that's not the strange part."
"Do I want to know what the strange part is?"
She leaned across the table. "You know how Tinkerbell sits in front of the fireplace and talks into the grate? She's actually talking to fairies. And you know her favorite mouse toy? It's magical, which is why she places it in front of the fireplace. She's offering it to the fairies as a gift."
A hint of a smile escaped my control.
"I know. It sounds insane, doesn't it?" Dawn grinned too. "I meant to ask what the deal with Tinkerbell's tail is but I forgot."
We both looked at the cat. At that moment, she started chasing and batting at her tail in a way that made her look possessed.
I shrugged. "Maybe there's a fairy riding it and she's trying to knock it off."
Dawn looked at Tinkerbell with new consideration. "You know, that's a really good theory."
Last Tango in Buenos Aires
It's my last week in Buenos Aires. I just had my last tango lesson, and I'm making the final rounds saying au revoir to my friends.
I've had people ask me if I'm sad to leave. Oddly, I'm not. I'm excited. Don't get me wrong—words can't describe what the months I've spent here have meant to me. But it's time to move on to the next adventure. I'm looking forward to the future. There's more travel involved, and just a little bit of intrigue. You'll have to stay tuned for the details.
Sneaky of me, isn't it? But it's not like you're surprised.
But first, I'm returning to San Francisco. The main reason: I'm speaking at the San Francisco Writers Conference. To say I'm looking forward to the gig would be an understatement. I attended last year's conference as a speaker and it rocked.
The conference goers are a mix of fiction writers of various genres as well as nonfiction. The speakers are diverse and interesting, and it draws a number of big name editors and agents, who are totally accessible the entire weekend. For example, last year, I met Donald Maass, who, contrary to what I'd believed, isn't seven feet tall with lightning bolts shooting from his eyes.
My favorite part of the conference: the cocktail parties. Okay—the cocktail parties are my favorite part of any conference. I can't help it. I love to schmooze, especially martini in hand. Yes, recess was my favorite subject in school too.
The conference itself is sold out this year, but there's a pre-conference day of workshops if you're in the area and interested. If you're there, find me and say "Yo." I'll be the jet-lagged one who keeps slipping into Spanish.