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For over ten years, I’ve had the following quote pinned above my working computer, because having found it gave me one of those moments of “Somebody gets it.”

“I have an idea that some men are born out of their due place. Accident has cast them amid strangers in their birthplace, and the leafy lanes they have known from childhood or the populous streets in which they have played, remain but a place of passage. they may spend their whole lives aliens among their kindred and remain aloof among the only scenes they have ever known. Perhaps it is this sense of strangeness that sends men far and wide in the search for something permanent, to which they may attach themselves. Perhaps some deep-rooted atavism urges the wanderer back to lands which his ancestors left in the dim beginnings of history. Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels that he belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar to him from his birth. Here at last he finds rest.”

— from The Moon and Sixpence by W. Somerset Maugham 1919

This visit to Portugal was easier than others in the past, partly because I realized — or rather felt, at a deep level — that I could never have stayed and lived there all these years.  I don’t know if this feeling is true, mind you.  I know I’d be a different person if I had. But the feeling is strong and unavoidable that I COULDN’T, that my odd corners would never fit in that round hole. This removes my feeling of guilt from having effectively abandoned the family on that end which, as mom and dad grow older, in turn makes it hard for me to render any help and assistance. (It would be different if I were a millionaire, but I’m not.)

It’s probably more so — the feeling I can’t fit in — in that it’s not a big difference. If I were a startlingly different appearance — say tentacles or pink polka dots — from the people there, or if I stuck out in some obvious, visible way, it would be easier, because I’d account for that and THEN fit in.

It’s more that my way of “being in the world” is too different in small, annoying ways.  People rub me wrong or judge me wrongly and I, assuredly, also do so.

Perhaps it is nothing more than the result of having grown up mostly inside my head and in books, though I think that was rather the consequence of feeling out of place than the origin.

That quote above came to my mind a lot while I was in Portugal this time.

And because of that, at odd times, I found myself thinking of ways I felt welcome or relieved in the US that never worked in Portugal.

One of them, which I’ve mentioned here before, is the respect for private property that allows us to have unfenced yards and outdoor decorations.  That was both weird and enthralling before I figured out the differences.

But another, superficially just as silly but in reality as important was this: my high school in the US was festooned with funny, self-mocking signs.  The hall with math, physics and computers, for instance, had a hand-lettered sign entitling it “Nerd Alley.”

In Portugal — at least at the time — such a thing would not only be unbelievable, it would be incomprehensible, frowned upon and fought.

You see, from about the time I was old enough to go out alone, Mom complained I didn’t “hold myself up in my own dignity.”  Since I was 12, this was incomprehensible, since I had NO dignity (and a twisty sense of humor.)

What mom meant was my inherited class, as a daughter of an educated middle-class family who was attending school beyond fourth grade, unlike the daughters of laborers, who had been sent into the mills at ten.

This was supposed to be a source of pride, which I upheld.  I was supposed to internalize a sort of “do you know who I am?” which communicated itself to people who met me the first time.

I never did, partly because of those fine accomplishments, most weren’t even mine, except by chance. Surely I didn’t choose who birthed me nor how educated my ancestors were.

I never managed it, either, even when the accomplishments — such as entering college — were my own.

Mom was right, btw, for that place, that culture.  Looking at it through an almost total stranger’s eyes, when I went back this time, I saw that if you don’t hold yourself up as being important, having a reason to be important, people there will walk all over you.  If you’re not the “daughter of something” you’re no one and to be exploited and ignored.  I just never got it, and was enough my own, solitary person, it didn’t seem to affect me much.

But I see now why the self-deprecating humor in high school; the lame jokes teachers and people in authority made about themselves were a relief.  It felt more natural than holding myself up in false pride like armor. Armor is heavy and unwieldy.

It also, in terms of culture, prevents advancement. Part of what we dealt with, in hell-journey through Spain was the fact that every single bureaucrat, janitor, information booth lady, even the security guards/police of which Spain has a lot in surplus to requirements, was “holding him/herself up in their dignity.”  Which meant not bending enough to try to understand what two people going through, who spoke no Spanish but only English and Portuguese might be asking or wanted.

It is also, I think, responsible for why Portugal remains largely stagnant while any Portuguese immigrant abroad seems to have a head start on excelling in their field (Yes, weirdly, I did too. The odds against even being published in the bad old days were overwhelming. And most literary careers last 3 books, not 30 something.  And I’m not done yet.  And in indie, maybe monetary success will come, too.)

You see in Portugal being seen to work excessively or at something dirty, or having enough humility to start again if a career goes bang would be demeaning. It would rob you of your dignity and leave you open to predation or at least social opprobrium. Some people still do it, but they’re rare and exceedingly strong-willed.  Meanwhile the country, as a whole, lurches about with no innovation, no enterprise worth the name.

And from my glimpses of Spain, it might be worse there.

I understand why people think these things are genetic, but seriously, culture is enough to explain it. It’s just that very few people go behind the gears of the culture and see the little things that sabotage it. Or how difficult it can be to change, because those evil little mines in the culture field also protect the individual in the way the culture is, right now.

To me, as an American, it’s simply a relief to be able to laugh at myself and refuse the assumed dignity that can’t be dented.

Which is a good thing, since I’m basically starting again.  Once more into the breach…

At least I’m doing it from home, and not a strange environment I don’t fully understand.

Americans are, in a way, above our own dignity. We don’t need to hold ourselves in false pride because as sovereigns of our land, we’re all as important as may be.

And the result is that we can work, get our hands dirty, and even laugh at ourselves, with no fear.

It’s a good (and fortuitous) thing.

 

Book Promo

*Note these are books sent to us by readers/frequenters of this blog.  Our bringing them to your attention does not imply that we’ve read them and/or endorse them, unless we specifically say so.  As with all such purchases, we recommend you download a sample and make sure it’s to your taste.  If you wish to send us books for next week’s promo, please email to bookpimping at outlook dot com.  One book per author per week. Amazon links only.-SAH*

 

FROM LARRY CORREIA AND KACEY EZELL (I have a story in this. It’s a prequel to the Space Magic novel that, yes, will be coming out soon.): Noir Fatale

NEW SCIENCE FICTION, URBAN FANTASY, AND MYSTERY STORIES WITH A NOIR THEME FROM BEST-SELLING AUTHORS LAURELL K. HAMILTON delivering an Anita Blake series story, LARRY CORREIA, penning a Grimnoir series adventure, an original Honor Harrington series tale from DAVID WEBER, AND MORE.

The silky note of a saxophone. The echoes of a woman’s high heels down a deserted asphalt street. Steam rising from city vents to cloud the street-lit air. A man with a gun. A dame with a problem . . .

NOIR.

From the pulpy pages of Black Mask Magazine in the 1920s and 30s, through the film noir era of the 1940s, to today, noir fiction has lured many a reader and movie-goer away from the light and into the dark underbelly of society. Names such as Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, and James M. Cain; titles like The Big Sleep, The Maltese Falcon, The Postman Always Rings Twice . . . these have inhabited our collective consciousness for decades. Humanity, it seems, loves the dark. And within the dark, one figure stands out: that of the femme fatale.

Here then, Noir Fatale an anthology containing the full spectrum of noir fiction, each incorporating the compelling femme fatale character archetype. From straightforward hardboiled detective story to dark urban fantasy to the dirty secrets of futuristic science fiction—all with a hard, gritty feel.

As Raymond Chandler said, “Down these mean streets, a man must walk who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid.” Because, as these stories prove, doing the right thing doesn’t necessarily mean you get the big bucks or the girl. But you do the right thing anyway.

FROM BLAKE SMITH:  Lyddie Hartington: Galaxy Sleuth (Hartington Series Book 3)

Facing poverty after a childhood among the wealthy and powerful, Lyddie Hartington decamps to Ceres, a newly colonized planet on the edges of the galaxy. Armed only with a change of clothes, a letter of introduction to the directors of the Andromeda Company, and a blaster, she is determined to make her fortune.

But Ceres is nothing like Orion-14, and before she knows it, Lyddie is witness to a murder- a murder that goes to the heart of the Andromeda Company and puts her life in danger. With the help of her new friend, an entirely too handsome captain of the Galaxy Watch, she must discover the murderer and solve the mystery of her family’s downfall.

If she can survive long enough to do it.

 

FROM LEROY NICHOLS AND SUSAN YOUNG:  The Philadelphia Experiment: A Square Root of Time Novel.

A madman with a lust for power. Strange refugees from distant lands. Hackers. Collusion. Russian entanglements and divided loyalties. The multiverse may have shattered, but George Washington is discovering that America’s problems haven’t changed all that much—they’ve just gotten bigger.

It’s a bad time to be president. Something terrible happened to time and space; now, dreams and nightmares are as tangible as the ground beneath Washington’s feet, and the world is full of impossibilities made reality. Ordinary men like George can find themselves rubbing shoulders with someone out of legend, like Merlin, or watching as the super-powered hero known as Alien flies through the sky above the streets of Philadelphia. As Washington and his fellow Founders labor to create an America that can truly be a beacon of safety and liberty in this strange new world, dark undercurrents threaten to topple the young republic before it is fully formed. Not everyone is pleased with the idea of liberty for all, and some will stop at nothing to keep it from happening.

Before the Day of Lights and Music, Moonbeam was all too happy to live and let live; the trouble is, this new reality won’t cooperate. Between the strange new mental powers everyone has acquired, the herds of dinosaurs and other terrifying wildlife roaming the land, and random things popping into existence from time to time, staying alive isn’t as easy as it used to be. Desperate to reach civilization, he and his feisty traveling companion, Eren, seem to stumble from one strange and deadly situation to the next. And there’s no guarantee the city won’t prove to be just as deadly for the pair of accidental adventurers

FROM PETE BYER:  Executive Target

President James Whitcomb is in his third year in the White House. Whitcomb had been a Marine helicopter pilot who was shot down in Iraq. After leaving the service, he attended law school and joined a Wall Street law firm. He wrote two best seller books and then decided to run for president when President Trump unexpectedly announced that he would not seek a second term. Whitcomb threw his hat in the ring and won the Republican primary. He then defeated his Democratic opponent in the general election.

Denis Lenihan was Whitcomb’s chief of staff and best friend. He recently determined that Whitcomb should begin his reelection campaign by making a series of “road shows” across the country. Whitcomb would be able to escape the artificial bubble the media placed around him in Washington and speak directly to friendly crowds in the heartland, spreading the good news about the successes of the Whitcomb administration’s policies and programs.

Whitcomb seconded his chief of staff’s idea. His only condition was that Phoenix be one of the road show stops. Lenihan did not bother to argue.

Jake Rosen was making plans of his own. Through various sources at his disposal, he had obtained information about Whitcomb which, if true, would enable Rosen to control the occupant of the White House. Rosen saw this as an opportunity to remake America, to pull it out of the dark, bottomless pit into which it had fallen with the election of Donald Trump. Rosen put in place a “shadow” campaign, to follow Whitcomb across the country, waiting for that one slip up, that one misstep that Rosen could use to as a virtual chokehold on Whitcomb to lead him around, to control him, to make him do what Rosen and like-minded people knew what was best for America.

FROM NITAY ARBEL:  Operation Flash: Episode 1: Knight’s Gambit Accepted

On March 21, 1943, one man came within a hairbreadth of blowing up nearly the entire Nazi leadership.

In timeline DE1943RG, he succeeded.

Then the conspirators discovered that killing Hitler and his chief henchmen was the *easy* part.

Vignettes by Luke, Mary Catelli and ‘Nother Mike

o what’s a vignette? You might know them as flash fiction, or even just sketches. We will provide a prompt each Sunday that you can use directly (including it in your work) or just as an inspiration. You, in turn, will write about 50 words (yes, we are going for short shorts! Not even a Drabble 100 words, just half that!). Then post it! For an additional challenge, you can aim to make it exactly 50 words, if you like.

We recommend that if you have an original vignette, you post that as a new reply. If you are commenting on someone’s vignette, then post that as a reply to the vignette. Comments — this is writing practice, so comments should be aimed at helping someone be a better writer, not at crushing them. And since these are likely to be drafts, don’t jump up and down too hard on typos and grammar.

If you have questions, feel free to ask.

Your writing prompt this week is: crook.

Years ago, when Eric Flint asked me to come down to Liberty con to meet him, in order to discuss a book, I told him I didn’t like cons (true) and that it was a strain (also true.)  He told me it was a very small con and billed itself as the world’s largest Southern family reunion.

I went.  And I met Uncle Timmy, the organizer and founder of Liberty con.

You can tell someone’s personality by what they build. It amuses me to visit old palaces in Portugal and see that they’re increasingly more ornate and labyrinthine, like madness set in stone, tile and paint.

Liberty con was neither ornate or labyrinthine.  It felt like coming home.  And Uncle Timmy was at the center of it.

I think he became family the first time I met him.  I could talk to him about my worries for the boys, or the screwed up mess my career was (and continues to be) and not feel any of the fears I felt when talking to anyone else — even fans — in the field.  He was sensible, he was kind, and above all he was trustworthy.

The next year, I brought Dan and the boys, and they felt the same way I did, and every year we looked forward to going back to our extended family at Liberty con. When uncle Timmy retired from running the con and handed it to his daughter, the spirit remained the same, and I always looked forward to getting hugs from him at the con, and to claiming a corner and a few minutes of his time to catch him up on how the boys were doing and what my hopes and worries were.  He was always a warm and reassuring “elder relative.”

This year, after a series of re-sets, I was invited to be guest of honor at Liberty Con, and part of what made that special for me is that he would be the fan guest of honor.  I figured we’d have time to hang out and talk.  Yes, I know, he wasn’t doing well, and even last year there was some doubt he’d live till the con.  But I had hopes.  Just one more time.

It didn’t work that way. Worse, he died while I was away from home, almost unable to access the net.  And since then I’ve not been awake enough to write about it.

So, now I am.

The last time I saw Jerry Pournelle, at Liberty con, we were standing outside the ChooChoo building and Jerry told me about the first Liberty con (at least I think it was the first) at which he was guest of honor and how uncle Timmy had made a go of it, even though the building had been a mess and the whole thing — like most beginning cons — of doubtful wisdom.  He told me that most importantly he’d had fun that first Liberty con.  And he figured the fans did too.  Which is why he — and they — kept coming back: to have fun and share our enthusiasm for the genre we all loved.

This simple truth might seem obvious. Why have cons — or why write in — a genre you don’t love.  But as we all know, the Missionaries of Prescribed Meaning have invaded our fun places and tried to make us wear pants and behave like good widgets. I will never cease regretting that they managed to inflict pain on Uncle Timmy over made up nonsense and despicable, unproven accusations.

Yes, they do it to all of us. But some people should be respected by the entire field.  And a man who gave a considerable portion of his life to fandom and to making fandom fun and healthy is one of those.

It doesn’t matter, though. All those troubles and nonsense will pass, as they all do.  The old “The dogs bark, but the caravan passes” applies.  These dogs are toothless and worn out, and their yapping is more patently meaningless every year.

I try, at least in my own way, to memorialize those of our people whom I knew and who pass.  Because we weirdos who like our strange little genre are tribe at a deep, ineradicable level.  And who should remember our own but us?

Uncle Timmy will be remembered in our tribe, his memory not dimming but shining clearer and sharper with the years, as someone who built, who created, and who gave refuge and shelter to lostlings like us, in a world that often relishes in kicking our teeth in.  He was father, uncle, friend, counselor, to many of us when we could find no other.

I have in recent years, as I lost more and more friends, revised all my ideas of heaven.  They used to be fairly conventional: a vast space where the deserving are happy in G-d’s presence forever.

As for deserving, I’m sure Himself understands that people are people and loves us.  Mostly because if I can love most people, then He certainly can.  No, I’m not one of those people who thinks every monster goes to heaven. But then most of us aren’t monsters. I’ve come to believe though that Himself doesn’t keep a tally: so many Sundays without worship and ate a rasher of bacon at the wrong time.  I could be wrong, of course. My mind can’t compass the eternal and ineffable. BUT I have trouble believing in the G-d of tallies, and I do believe in an Eternal and Wise Creator.

As for Heaven, I’ve no idea. It is, I suspect, like asking a two year old to imagine being sixty.  Even if I had the vocabulary, I’d lack the concepts. Even if I had a vision, I’d lack the details.

So I have to make do with imaginings.

In my imagining, Uncle Timmy and Jerry are standing in front of a celestial version of the Choo Choo, back when it was dilapidated and desperate for any business and going “What about it? Do you think we can do it.”

I know my imaginings are inadequate. But I’m sure good men don’t simply get destroyed.  I’m sure I’ll see Uncle Timmy again.

And perhaps in an infinite universe there’s a space for an infinite Liberty Con, for our people.  A home and a family to go back to.

I figure by the time I get there, the convention will be in full swing.

 

 

I woke up feeling human. That’s not a magic spell, either, it’s just 11:30 hours of sleep.  You see, this was QUITE the most arduous course to Portugal we’ve ever done.

It’s not unusual for us to travel for 18 to 20 hours, but this one was 35 hours, counting, granted the one night in Madrid, which would have worked fine if the hotel were in the terminal we left from and we hadn’t spent three hours looking for it, then gone back early in case there were more confusions.  So in those 35 hours, I had eight hours of sleep, save for a few minutes leaning on Dan on the flight from NYC to Denver, interrupted because the much-the-worse-for-the… not wear passenger on the window seat leaned over and poured wine over my behind and seat.

Yesterday I couldn’t sleep past about 5:30 am and it was iffy sleep since two cats who shall be named — Greebo and Havelock — kept headbutting us and crying for pets.  I have told them that someone will be along to pull their cat cards shortly and that they’re supposed to ignore us for a week. They cried some more.

So last night I passed out at 8:30 pm, after stumbling around for 15 hours in a fog.  And I woke at my normal time, just before the alarm goes at 7 am.  And I feel human.

Now the human I feel like has a sore throat but my nose is not as clogged as it was, and I plan to gargle with mouth wash shortly.  I will not say the fact that all THREE of our planes had a lot of passengers from China worries me, but it worries me.  And for the idiots following along to find issues: not because the passengers are Asian. Asian-American passengers would cause no alarm.  But it was obvious these passengers were Chinese from China (the airlines boasted of continuing the flight of Chinese airlines; they spoke no English whatsoever; their personal distance was zero (I had to shove my elbow into a lady who, while standing in the isle had been practically sitting in my lap for the better part of half an hour and who did not understand “excuse me.”)) and China has not the only (South and Central America and parts of Europe are as bad) but the highest concentration of people sharing living space (as in same house) with farm animals.  This increases greatly the chance that zoonotic diseases will make the cross over, which is why we get things like bird flu.  So, if the sore throat doesn’t subside by tomorrow, I shall invoke the doc in the box. For now, I’m going with “It’s probably just dryness.”

I’m just very glad to no longer be running through airports, particularly foreign airports with inexplicable rules and an attitude that the customer is always wrong, probably a terrorist and definitely a peon.

I know if I stop complaining about the TSA you guys will come over and examine the basement for pods.  And this is a problem since #1 son and lovely daughter in law are living in the basement apartment for the next year (and they’d tell me if there were pods.)

Also I have no intention of stopping complaining, simply because I think for the disruption they cause, they are stunningly ineffective.

And yet, they treat people more as human beings than the equivalent in any other country I’ve ever flown through since 9/11.

We were talking about it with friends yesterday and the conclusion is more or less universal.  And sure, there is a factor of culture.  Germans do come across as though they’re going to shoot you at any minute, but they’re fast, efficient, and don’t add petty malice for no reason.  British are probably the closest to the US, at least to the extent there will always be an England.  (But I haven’t flown through there since 9/11.)

But the others — as a friend put it — all have a tendency to take the weird authoritarian things the US engages in now and then and make it exponentially worse, with gratuitous authoritarianism and strange class stuff thrown in.

So why don’t we get as bad even when we start it? Why is this yet another case of “When America gets a cold the rest of the world gets the flu?”

I’d like to say it’s because we’re a nation set apart and blessed by G-d.  I’d like to believe it too. Sometimes I even do.

But.

We’re just a nation, getting increasingly diluted with other cultures that we make no effort to assimilate.

However, a conversation with my brother came to mind.  It was the last meal we had in Portugal, Tuesday lunch.  Somehow motorcycle helmets came up.  And my brother explained to my parents that Americans have weird hangups and fought tooth and nail laws on mandatory helmet use and seat belt use, despite the obvious benefits of both.

At which point I explained that (It’s not true that “F*ck you, no” became my catchphrase this trip, but it’s also not a total lie) “F*ck you, no. I don’t care how beneficial it is, what right does the government have to mandate things EVEN IF THEY ARE GOOD FOR YOU.”

At which point everyone but my husband stared at me in sheer incomprehension.

Which, ladies and gentlemen, cats and dogs, and blue creatures from alpha centauri, is why we must — MUST — hold the line on these things, and go back to that amazing document our constitution.

There is no reason under the sun that the government should have the power to tell us what to do or wear “for your own good.” Oh, semi-socialized medicine? Glad you reminded me, because that has no business under the constitutional mandate given to the government of the US. That fig leaf of interstate commerce is obviously tattered and transparent.

We must remember we the people are the sovereign ruler of these our lands, this our people.  We. Not the experts. Not those in charge. Not the best people. WE. The sovereign people in their sovereign land.

Anyone who thinks otherwise should, by rights, either look for some other place to live, or consider becoming simply a permanent resident. Because Americans, they ain’t.

Our Constitution, our founding principles are NOT a magic spell. They must be held and defended.

But tattered and torn, and observed almost only in the default as they are, they’re still incomprehensible to anyone not American. And the only thing that keeps us from becoming another petty Kakistocracy.

Lift the lamp of freedom high, my friends. The residual light from it is the only light in many places in the world. And that’s why the cockroaches fear it.

I’m back. I’m even awake.  Actually woke up very early ,around 6 am and couldn’t sleep again.

It’s just that my mind hasn’t RETURNED yet, so I’ve been unpacking and stuff.

Tomorrow should be better.

Meanwhile, why can’t GPS choose a language for instructions but do the streets in the native language of the country you’re visiting?

While in Portugal, our GPS had a British accent. That’s fine.  For a long time our GPS had an Australian accent and the kids called it “Aunt Kate.”

The problem is that it couldn’t pronounce any of the street names.

My favorite butchering of a local street name was Moutinho.  Moutinho is a REALLY old name around the village, dating back to the middle ages, so there are a fair number of streets with names of this family. It’s pronounced Moh tee an [N sound that might not exist in English but it’s the N version of the l in gilhoutine.] oo.

I didn’t expect the GPS to pronounce it perfectly.  Moutinoo or Mootinoo or Mowtinoo would be acceptable.

Except the GPS consistently pronounced it as Mountain Ho. Clearly and distinctly, every single time.  Till Dan and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Madrid’s call letters are MAD.  Ask me how appropriate they are.

The air rooms are less than advertised.  Longer story later.  BUT finding them was an adventure taking three hours, ina  land so solidly confident they are in charge of the world they don’t bother learning even English.  Also where they don’t bother putting up signs to anything, because OF COURSE you KNOW.

By the end of it I was going insane trying not to let the berserker out to play.  We slept maybe all of four hours, before heading back again…

And ending up going through passport control three times and security twice.  No, seriously. Also the gate to the US had its own security, was cordoned off, and they wouldn’t let you mingle once you were in it. It was like something out of a post-apoc. movie.

An interesting passing thought: in the air rooms, at breakfast, everyone, including people you’d think would be sympathetic to the story, were ignoring CNN with a vengeance, as they did an expose on the horrible conditions that “migrant” “children” sleep in.
In other news, I’m waiting finding stories from Rome about how badly the Germanic invaders are being treated by the legions.  What is wrong with CNN’s head, actually?
Also, even my family has tuned CNN out.  Which is interesting.  WHO is watching CNN?

I’m now back in the land where, you might be broke (hey, I am. Stuff coming soon to deal with that) but you don’t get treated like a peon.  Okay, NYC, so they might try, but not that hard. It’s not baked in.  I’ll be home late tonight, and probably compus mentis sometime midday tomorrow.

Overheard at JFK, and I’m sure they were using demons in the sense we use “black dog.”  Only it came from two armored, armed gentlment called something like (I’m severely jetlagged having played planes buses and trains for over 24h)  “Imperial Taskforce” (Something like that.  Some kind of joint state guard/national force, I think.):  “There is only one way to kill those demons.”
My still-immersed-in-MHI mind went there…

 

Not right away, but tomorrow around this time, actually.  It’s just that I have a strong feeling there won’t be time to write a post again before then.

I come back having got nothing written, but trying to convince myself that in a trip of more than 24 hours there will be time to write (we’re overnighting on the first layover. Thank heaven we secured in-airport rooms. I’m too old to sleep as I have, sitting up in a corner of the airport, really.)  And then from there we have 17 hours (with layovers) home.

There might be at that. I’m going to try very hard to do so.

I found out — somehow — a lot of things about myself and how things work here — I guess some stuff is so deeply set that it takes almost 25 years to see clearly.

Anyway, I’m integrating that knowledge and it is not a bad thing.  Perhaps I now understand more about why I had to live.  At least this trip left me no doubts that I HAD to leave.  I can’t imagine continuing to exist here, which is weird.  But I think I was always cross purposes here.

Anyway, part of the reason I didn’t write is that I can’t think of words in English (or Portuguese) while I’m talking in both languages more or less constantly. It’s like a traffic jam in my brain and both languages get the wrong stuff written/said. I also occasionally speak the wrong language to the wrong person.

My bookshelf in my childhood room — never most of my books, anyway — is verry weird.  Some of this stuff is incontrovertibly mine: a lot of Agatha Christie tpbs (That I have a vague memory I never returned to a friend after borrowing around the time she got married and went out of the country, anyway). Pearl S. Buck. Camus from my pertencious phase.  Books I abandonned in various trips.  Like, I have two Orson Scott Cards that I don’t remember reading, but I DO KNOW I went through a Card phase shortly after Robert was born.  I also have a couple of Patricia Wentworths in English, which I have no memory of leaving behind, at least not on purpose.  I have two Raymond Chandlers in Portuguese that I don’t remember ever reading, and one of those bubblegum mysteries I’m fairly sure I brought over, but don’t remember reading or abandoning.

There is some stuff here that is almost certainly my parents’: a lot of devotional books, moslty.

I have clue zero which of us had a Morris West in Portuguese, and it’s entirely possible I read it because someone gave it to me.

Weirdest is to find I had: Men and the world of tomorrow by Pro. A. M. Low, in Portuguese.  I have no memory of it.  I have a book called A Boy From Georgia I also don’t remember reading. No, the other Georgia.  Thank heavens not about Stalin, though. Then there is the book in Spanish with chosen readings in English. I was never at home in Spanish enough to read in it, and I can’t figure out how that even got on my bookshelf.

Not a surprise, but also forgotten and certainly mine because they’re in English, is a series of novels and non-fiction books about the founding of the US. I didn’t remember buying them or reading them. Walter Lord’s Dawn’s Early Light and Nathan Shachner’s Thomas Jefferson look worthy of re-reading, only I’m not taking them back becaus eof the weight.  Perhaps they are on kindle?

All this is amusing because recently a fan asked what of me was uniquely Portuguese and how Portugal had shaped my writing….

And I don’t know.  It amuses me greatly that someone, unawares, would try to piece my influences from this shelf, where my mom seems to shove books she finds around the house and THINKS are mine. Unless I’ve suffered some great break in memory these (Agatha Christie excepted) weren’t even re-reads of mine, but if read all the way through were read once and discarded.

In a way this dovetails — I think — with what happened with Portuguese culture.  I mean, I read it — mostly — I still do, in terms of knowing a street is not exactly safe or that the man wandering aimlessly down this suburban street might be casing the joint.  I simply was never plugged in enough to “get” it at a bone deep level.

Much of what I read (not reflected in this bookcase) was British or — mostly — from the US.  Even in translation, before I learned the language, most of my ideas came from the anglosphere.  There was a rightness about it, a way they fit my brain that made them less work, more effortless.

Then there was the process of acculturation and also of trying to understand how the American public would see my work (I still fail at that, at times, but no more than most writers. For my money a degree in literature did more damage to that than the foreign upbringing.)

If there was some uniquely Portuguese remnant, it disappeared in the avalanche.

There are thing in which I will always be different. One of them is the understanding of what a really deep past means.  This is not only because I grew up in Portugal, though it’s part of it, but because I read a lot of history. I thought about it and thought it would shape mostly historical particularly historical fantasy.  But I don’t think that’s true. I think it shapes my science fiction too, in that it tends not to be as neat, clean and logical as Americans make it, when they project things forward. Because I know most really old cultures are mostly built on their own ruins. Because I know what collapse and rebuild and re-collapse means.  Because…. Because history is complicated and I grew up surrounded by it.

I also wonder if that is why I’m less fascinated with fantasy of the heroic type as most Americans.

Anyway, there are other things I want to write about, one of them being the dog that didn’t bark in the night: For the first time since Reagan’s day, it’s hard to obtain dollars in this country and any dollars that appear are vacuumed off the market. Do they expect the dollar to appreciate more?  Are they afraid of a local collapse?  I don’t know, but it’s curious and not something I’d heard about ANYWHERE.

Also the same weirdness I’d noticed there, which is that as the birthrate falls, and even as population falls, people leave the countryside depopulated and crowd into the big cities.  Which, as my brother put it, “Is exactly the opposite of what Clifford Simak expected in City.”

What can I say? Making predictions is difficult, particularly about the future.  But when something behaves in an aberrant fashion, men and women of curiosity want to poke around and find out why.  Out of what the heck, if nothing else. I think we tend to follow our dogma or what we are sure is what’s coming a lot, instead of following our curiosity. Which of course, is how a lot of people on the left ended up starring in incredibly amusing crying videos election night 2016.

Other things have happened since I left, including the loss of Uncle Timmy, the founder of Liberty con and an all around wonderful man.  We’ve been afraid he was headed that way, of course, but I’d hoped to see him one more time.  I can’t do him justice on this pokey connection and in the middle of packing, so that will wait till I get home.

Because of the protracted travel back (continued fall out of the screw up with Norwegian airlines, which ALSO will get its day in the… not exactly sun) is that we only arrive LATE on the 15th instead of late on the 14th.  Which in turn means that I won’t be fully on till midday on the 16th or so.  Abide in patience.  In two nights I get to sleep in my own bed.  I’m assured the cats are well and the house is as I left it. (Unfortunately no fairies cleaned up in our absence.)

I will be back.  Keep things from collapsing till I am.  I won’t feel quite all right till I’m somewhere I can drive home if all else fails.  And I’ll try to update you then.

 

 

 

Yesterday, because it was the only chance for exercise, and we’re being fed like geese headed to foi gras, we took the morning to go to the beach and walk around a bit.

The beach — praia de Matosinhos, the only name I remembered because we used to go there for a month sometimes two every summer — has come on a bit.

First it’s only 15 minutes or so away.  I always tell everyone we didn’t grow up near the sea and going to the beach was a treat.  This is not precisely true, so much as it’s hard to get there via the ancient medieval network of roads, on buses that belched smoke but moved only a few inches per minute.  It took us two hours, with a change of buses, and we carried picnic baskets, so that we wouldn’t starve on the way.

Anyway, the sea was just the place we bathed, though very cold and known for very big waves, which I was terrified of having been rolled once or twice.

Now it’s all tourists in wet suits and surfing boards.

This is a little a bit like the theme of this trip.  The place I used to go and get drunk with college friends has been cleaned up and smartened up and is now the center of tourism in Porto and very historic, every house a plaque saying it’s from the 14th or the 11th century.  The place I used to go to tea with grandad — the one that’s not a MacDonald’s — is now expensive and we had to stand in line to go there and have tea in style like I used to (I suspect J. K. Rowling flapped her lips about it. It’s a beautiful belle epoque cafe, but nothing explains the line of people from all over the world.)

I live in fear of some day coming back and finding that someone has taken mom’s washing tank, because it’s very important and a rare jewel of washing tank design.

We walked on the beach and wet our feet — it was very weird for two seabirds to move to Colorado — but I kept telling Dan “But it’s just the place we used to sea-bathe.

Brewing somewhere in the back of my head is a story that for full justice should be set in Terry Pratchett’s Lancre, with tourists coming in and removing the gazunders and Nanny Ogg’s pipe because they’re rare examples of blah blah blah.  I’ll have to file serial numbers.

I’m still working on Grant in Portugal, but with us leaving Tuesday, we’re being besieged by visitors come by to either say goodbye, or get to see us while we’re here.

Meanwhile weird insight into young Sarah.  I met a young man (eh, my age) I hadn’t seen since we were both 18. We met at a conference right after I came back from the US from my exchange year.  I have no memory of him, but he remembers me.  I asked why.  He said “Because you came in, and you took charge.”

Eh. I remember myself as mouse timid.  This might not have been true.

Guys I’ve been away a long time, and I want to come home. I got homesick about a day after I landed.

See, I’m actually a homebody. I just want to have my office and my routine and work.  For a wonderful break from routine, I go to Pete’s — about 20 minutes away unless traffic intervenes — for some Greek salad. The only thing that brings me all the way out here is that I have family I can’t see any other way.

But you guys have to rein in those crazy f*ckers out there, or I’m going to stay out here and refuse to go back.  No, forget that, I can’t stay out here. I’d go nuts. I’m going to stay on the plane and refuse to let it land. We’ll just supernaturally circle about NYC forever.

No, seriously, people.  WHAT ARE YOU DOING WHILE I’M overseas?

I’m waiting my turn to shower (well, this WAS built in the late sixties!) and I turn on the net to check the news, and what’s the first thing off the gate?

The Atlantic, wondering if Shakespeare was a woman.

Of all the swinish, half baked, sexist, idiotic–

I haven’t seen anything so stupid since they decided he was Queen Elizabeth or Anne.  No, seriously.  And those were written by half-crazy idiots.

Well, I guess the Atlantic are half crazy idiots, too, but they used to be a real magazine.

Can we please just tranq them or something? Give them nice padded rooms? They’re making the rest of the country look bad.

Of course, I’d settle for locking them in the back room with books of Shakespearean scholarship, which granted since they contain logic (sometimes) might be like locking Superman with kryptonite.

I mean, what the reticulated heck is this?

Stop letting them act crazy just because I came away for a couple of weeks!

The day started with my mom knocking at our door at 6 am because “you were so quiet we thought you’d died.”  While I understand the impulse… they thought we’d died both at once? unlikely.  I think I swore at her, but fortunately she doesn’t understand English, and also I was so sleepy it probably came out as unngggghn.

I have been up about an hour and a half.  Another cold and rainy day to the point I swiped one of mom’s outdoor coats to wear inside.  Agatha Christie says Americans, used to central heating, feel the cold more than Europeans, and she’s not wrong.  It feels wrong to be freezing indoors.

The weather has been drizzly and overcast, which to be fair is normal weather for the North of Portugal. If you wondered at those descriptions of the Napoleonic wars, some of which made it sound like it was a tropical paradise and some of which made it sound like cold and rainy all the time, the answer is “yes.”  In the North it’s cold and rainy and unpleasant until July/August when it’s suddenly very hot, dry, and semi-tropical.

Even so, this year is unusually cool, it seems to me — well, it’s unusually cool at home.   It seems we left under snow the last day of April and will go back to icy rain two weeks into May — which mind you it’s a high in the fifties. It just feels colder because of the rain and the humidity.  Of course, my skin is loving it.

Curiously, looking online some time ago, I found that the region of Maia, thus named by the Romans was initially Maida i.e. “The wet and fertile place.”  As far as early Middle ages, inhabitants called themselves Maidaenses.  I only found this interesting since at least some Indian language calls parks “Maidan” (as it was what the English called it when in India.)

I decided it was a good day to iron, while mom is out shopping, but while I was ironing the electricity went out.  I don’t know if it’s the house or the region, as I can make no sense of their board.  Remember this is the board that was forced on them because it goes down with less use.  For all I know it went down with the ironing board.

One of the things I’ve been noticing here is that all the crazy sh*t Californians dream up is taken like gospel truth is.  I had to fight for table salt, EVEN THOUGH I ALWAYS HAVE LOW BLOOD PRESSURE and actually lose salt (which is how I ended up in the hospital some years ago) and Mom — damn it — knows this, because “Salt will kill you.”

It’s like cargo cult modernity and there’s nothing as “modern” as fracking Cali, so they believe everything that comes out of there as the “new great way to be.”

There is almost nothing low sugar or low carb, but by gum, it’s almost impossible to find a no no-fat yogurt.  This in a country where the ice cream isle is two isles and has stuff never dreamed of in the US.

Guys, we’re going to have to put a silencer on California.  They’re screwing up the rest of the world.

And now I’ll get off line before my computer runs out of charge.