In early March, I learned that my science fiction novel Collaborators had been named as a
Finalist for the Lambda Literary Award. Much celebration ensued. (Feel free to
do so yourselves at this point – a little celebration is good for everyone.
Ready to go on? Okay!) Once the initial giddy high had subsided somewhat, the Big
Question arose: whether to go to New York City to attend the awards ceremony.
Many reasons to do so presented themselves.
OMG how could I NOT? topped
the list, followed by how many friends and relations I could visit and how long
it had been since I’d had a face to face confab with my agent and my New York
publisher. The reasons not to go began with I
won’t win (I was right) and devolved into how can I possibly afford it? and my loathing for travel across
time zones, the hideousness of the resulting jet lag, and that I always get
sick when I do. I kid you not. The reason I didn’t run for a second term as
SFWA Secretary was that I’d come down with bronchitis whenever I traveled
beyond the West Coast. In the end, the reason that clinched my decision was the
pterodactyl exhibit at the Museum of Natural History. I adore living in the
redwoods, but museums are not exactly plentiful and anything paleontological generates
a noticeable surge in endorphins.
Airline tickets, check. Phone calls to relatives, check. Place
to stay in Manhattan with dear college friend, check! Dates with publisher, agent, and local friends, you bet.
Although I typically live and work in old comfy jeans and T-shirts, I had the
perfect dress to wear to the ceremony itself – a flowing silk caftan, tie-dyed
in brilliant rainbow colors, a discovery from the UNICEF store in Pasadena in
the early 1970s (silk endures – it’s worth the investment). As for the rest of
the events – ack! I am so not a
person who enjoys shopping (see above wardrobe). My neighbor surprised me with
a late birthday gift, three colorful tops, all with pretty details at the
neckline.
I loaded up the first-generation Kindle bestowed upon me by
my early-tech-adopter daughter with Book View Café offerings, packed clothes
and gifts and netbook, and hied myself hence to the airport. About the only
good thing I can say about airports is that I am usually paranoid enough to
arrive really early because you never know what problems may arise with
security. The gods laugh at this, and cause me to be randomly selected for
express passage or whatever it’s called. I didn’t even have to take off my
shoes. The result was that I had plenty of time to write while awaiting my
flight/s, this being the best way to screen out the sights and sounds of the
airport. I still cannot understand why the seats in the waiting areas are
designed to create back problems even in people with healthy spines, but they
are. Maybe the interior designers are in the pay of chiropractors’
associations. I arrived in New York City with seven additional pages on my
work-in-progress and figured that no matter what else happened, the trip was a
success.
I had already determined that, regardless of my usual
thrifty habits, I was going to take a taxi from the airport. I knew I’d arrive
tired, hungry, time-disoriented, lugging a big suitcase, and unfamiliar with
the public transit system. What I didn’t realize was that I was in for not only
a comfortable, convenient ride, but a delightful conversation with a Bangladesh
immigrant who swapped stories with me about our kids (his were still in college
and when they graduate, he’s going back home, or so he says). I arrived at my
destination convinced that New York is populated by interesting, friendly
people. Of course, that’s no excuse for being unobservant or careless about
one’s surroundings, but it’s a pretty good attitude to have.
I thought I had planned a long enough trip so that I’d have
some time for relaxation, but I greatly underestimated the speed with which my
schedule filled up. I tried, I really tried, to space out my commitments.
Remember the bit about the gods laughing? So, for example, on my first full day
in the city, I had a date to join my half-brother and his partner for dinner.
This involved a morning of finding the nearest Metro station, obtaining a Metro
card and map, checking route and determining that the quickest route way by
bus, finding my way back to my friend’s apartment, etc. Public transportation
in New York was an eye-opener for this resident of rural Central Coast
California. You can get places,
places that you actually want or need to go. Buses and subway trains come
frequently. As opposed to our valley, where there is one, count ’it one, bus line that runs once an hour
during the day and not at all late at night.
I had an interesting experience, rather in the same vein as
my Bangladeshi-with-kids, while waiting for the bus. (Oh, and before I forget –
it rained. In June. How is this even possible?)
There was a little shelter with a bench big enough for three people. One space
left. I sat down. An elderly woman using arm crutches approached. I got up and
offered her my place. Yeah, I’m gray-haired and a bit gimpy, but I can stand
perfectly well. Then the cool thing happened. The other two people offered me
their seats. Go figure.
My college friend is a sociologist who coordinates research
teams in the Sahel (studying the impact of community health care workers) and
was also hosting a colleague from Burkina Faso. After they’d finished writing
their grant proposal, he wanted to do a little sight-seeing. It seemed a shame
to come all that way just to be penned up in an office. He very much wanted to
see the 911 memorial and the Statue of Liberty. So I came along. The memorial
was eloquent in its simplicity but crowded with tourists. We found out we’d
come to the wrong place for the boat that goes around Manhattan Island, so we
took the (free) ferry to Staten Island (and back) and got to see the Statue of
Liberty and Ellis Island in passing. My father and uncle passed through Ellis
Island in 1922.
All of this meant that I didn’t connect with my
distant-cousin until late in the afternoon, and then in the evening, for a
visit to the photography exhibit by her friend Paul Margolis on The Hidden Ellis Island. He’d
been able to photograph the unrestored area – quarantine wards, maternity wards,
the like – in 2002. Gorgeous, haunting images. I’ll wait right here while you
take a peek. Done? Okay!
Monday, the day of the ceremony, arrived all too soon.
Gabrielle Harbowy, who had edited Collaborators,
had come to New York, so we met up (after one of the two times I got lost on
the subway and had to take a taxi to get to where she was) and went in. Suffice
it to say, it was far more glamorous than I’m used to, but I knew very few
people there. Which was totally okay. It
was an amazing thrill to see the cover of my book on the screen behind the
stage. I didn’t win, but I knew that, so I wasn’t disappointed.
The rest of the week unfolded with no reduction in
intensity, visits with New York publisher and agent went splendidly, and I did
get to see the
pterodactyl exhibit (oh my!) My friend, a couple of her friends, and I then
decamped for New Hampshire, where I spent the first day sleeping.
Then back home where, alas and predictably, I wended my way
through jetlag by turning into a screaming harpy for two days, dealt with
various crises, and came down with bronchitis. Why did I think this
trip-across-time-zones would be any different? As glad as I am to have gone, I
am even gladder to be home. Pterodactyls have their place, but mine is in the
redwoods.
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