Last Week I Went on a Trip

Every so often Harold and I go down to the Mississippi Gulf Coast to see his family. We did it again last week. You'll be happy to know that we didn't encounter the tornadoes and golf ball sized hailstones that Jim Cantore and his ilk were warning us about. Instead we had pretty good weather and a lovely visit with my in-laws and stepchildren, or two lovely visits, counting our stop-off in Birmingham. I took a number of pictures, and maybe I'll inflict them on you later. What I wanted to talk about today was how we left the interstate in Tennessee to go and see Cade's Cove again.

The Great Smokies National Park is only a little bit out of the way if you're traveling northward on Interstate 81. Years have passed since the last time I was in Cade's Cove, the showplace of the Smokies, but I could still taste the whole-grain stone-ground country corn meal they sold in the store there. I wanted some. Maybe even a tee-shirt or a patch. To get to the store you have to do the whole eleven-mile loop, but we were willing to spend all kinds of time. We were on vacation.

The weather was mild and spring-like, if overcast. The dogwoods were in bloom.  It would have been nice to get out and hike one of the trails, but we were tired.

I managed to score a five-pound bag of cornmeal at the shop in the visitor's center, just as I remembered. They even gave me a catalog so that we won't ever have to do the eleven-mile crawl to get more cornmeal.  The speed limit was 20 mph when the traffic was actually moving.

By the time we started back from the visitor's center Harold was beginning to find the drive tiresome. Cars were stopped dead in the middle of the road, blocking traffic, so that people could stand around in a circle photographing the wildlife. This is what I should have been taking pictures of: the people taking pictures of bears. Signs were posted everywhere reminding folks not to feed the deer or bears, or to approach them any closer than fifty yards. Nobody paid the smallest attention. I should have got a picture of the woman who climbed into some stranger's Jeep so that she could get closer to a bear. Instead I'll have to let you see her in your mind, corpulent, slightly sweaty, wild with enthusiasm, waving her camera and clambering over the backseat of the Jeep.

"You'd think they never saw wildlife before," Harold said. Then we discussed whether either of us had, in fact, ever seen a bear in the wild. The mere suggestion of bears was usually enough to send me fleeing in terror. Still, we were safely inside the car.

Then suddenly I caught the fever. I thought, a bear! There it is! and went to take a picture of it, just like everyone else, only from inside the car. (I'm not a complete fool.) About that time the line of cars began to move. So my bear picture is kind of blurry.

© 2015 Kate Gallison

Grand Theft Roof

Now that Harold and I have returned home to our modest little house in Lambertville and our two dogs, Psycho and Killer, I feel able to freely share with you the fact that we spent last week on vacation in Savannah.

It was glorious there, hot and sunny. We walked all over the tourist district, sat in the shady squares, ate in the coolest restaurants. I would have sent pictures to Facebook if I hadn't heard about a local burglar who checks Facebook to see who isn't home and then backs up a truck. He may be out of jail by now. I did want to show you my favorite thing in Savannah, though, and that's a public fountain designed for kids to run around in when the weather is hot.

I could watch them all day, and listen to their screams of delight. Happy kids are so much fun. We should have a fountain like this in Lambertville.

Nobody bothered the house while we were gone, I'm delighted to report, due partly to the constant surveillance of my son, Charles. And the dogs, of course. They're pretty mean. Fortunately our modest little house does not have copper downspouts. Over the past few months people have been creeping around town stealing the copper downspouts from various churches and nice buildings. And not just here. It's happening all over.

There's an abandoned bank building in Trenton—How abandoned is it? Let's just say it's empty and unguarded—whose roof is being stolen piece by piece because it's copper. Here are some pictures, taken by Mark Dunlap of the Motor Vehicle Commission, whose office window looks down on the roof.  The story was written up in the Times of Trenton by Nicole Mulvaney.

They say the inside of the building has been similarly gutted. Trenton police have more urgent business to attend to, and the Governor won't sign any laws requiring scrap metal dealers to report what they buy—manhole covers, you know, street signs, brass plaques honoring veterans, people's downspouts and roofs, useless stuff like that—or record the license numbers of those who bring them things. Too much paperwork for them, he says. It stifles business.

© 2014 Kate Gallison

Dodging the Bad Guys in Arabia (Or, Setting the Setting)

A Tale of Life and Death in Yemen . . .

Today I am delighted to welcome a longtime colleague, a veteran member of The Author's Guild, member of Mystery Writers of America and the Romance Writers of America. In addition to using her considerable acumen in the world of finance, the life-or-death problems her characters endure in her suspense novels come straight from this author's own life-threatening experiences in her world travel. She is also a master in the field of short fiction. CRY FROM THE EMPTY QUARTER, a pre-published thrilling novel set in Yemen, showcases the real dangers American travelers face in many spots featured in today's TV news and the international newspapers. Please welcome Barbara Bent to Crime Writer's Chronicle!

Thelma Jacqueline Straw

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My international intrigue novel, CRY FROM THE EMPTY QUARTER, is based on a real trip to Yemen—always fraught with danger—which I took several years ago.

As my friends know, I’ve done a lot of traveling with a particular emphasis on the Middle East and North Africa—Yemen, Egypt, Tunisia, Morocco. My forays into these exotic countries always leave an impression on my imagination that surfaces in my suspense novels.

As part of a Canadian tour group of about sixteen experienced travelers, I explored Yemen in a caravan of Toyota Land Cruisers, each with its own armed driver. From day one, we were told to stay together—never be separated from the rest of the group, because, at that time, warring tribes would kidnap tourists to negotiate with the government. Men were more at risk than women. So even in the midst of chaotic outdoor markets we were always all aware of the location of the rest of the group.

The mandate to stay together was constantly emphasized. In fact, on day two as our caravan wove through a narrow road between two cliffs, I could see men on the top signaling with mirrors to those on the other side. Our local guide in the lead car leaned out of the passenger window from the waist up, and motioned urgently for the rest of the cars to keep up.

In Sa’da, Yemen’s northernmost province, we toured the ruins, had lunch and were just emerging from a gift shop in the center of town, when a gunfight erupted on the street. We quickly sought cover back in the shop.

The situation in Sa’da and its environs on the border of Saudi Arabia was thought to be so dangerous, that we were stopped at an Army road block just outside of town. Our local guide negotiated with a high ranking official for at least an hour, as to whether we could return to our hotel in Sana. Stuck in the sweltering cars alongside a ditch, a young soldier gazed in at us every fifteen minutes or so. When he looked my way, I didn’t know whether to smile or look scared, since his camouflage uniform resembled the skin of a giraffe.

Finally, we got permission to return to Sana, but only if we were accompanied by soldiers driving a flatbed truck with a 50 millimeter howitzer aimed over and around our cars.

Trips into the desert, The Empty Quarter, an expanse of sand almost as large as Texas, required the services of a Bedouin guide who, in his own vehicle would ride ahead to “interpret the sand” and plot a safe course for us.

The morning of our trip, our cars were loaded with provisions—hard boiled eggs, water, pita, a couple of watermelons—before dawn. As the sun rose, we pulled into a gas station and a lanky, white-robed Bedouin, with a mop of dark curly hair and a gap in his front teeth, stepped out of his car sporting a rifle slung over one shoulder.

“Ah, the Bedouino,” our driver said, using the term his last group of Italians had used. The Bedouino surveyed us with a wolfish glare, climbed back into his car and motioned to us to follow with his loose white sleeve blowing in the wind.

Soon after we entered the desert, the Bedouino tore off like a bat out of hell. In the distance I saw a truck and heard numerous gun shots. I was ready to hit the floor of the car. Surely there were enemies ahead. But no. He had missed the qat truck, full of green leaves that the natives chew for a narcotic effect. He was signaling the driver to return so he could buy his daily supply.

With a cheek full of the qat, he sped off again. In an effort to keep up, we jounced and bounced and careened through the sand. It was hot, gritty and flat.

Bathroom breaks were no problem for the men, who simply turned their backs to the crowd, but the women stood in a circle to hide one of their own.

Around noon we came to a Bedouin camp that was set up for modern caravans crossing the desert. They had cold sodas and a large, colorful, open sided tent with long rectangular pillows around the perimeter. The tent was positioned so that the desert breeze cooled the air. It was delightful, despite the fact we were totally exposed to drones or roving bands.

The Bedouino disappeared to “relax” with his girlfriend at the camp while we ate, enjoyed the time out of the bouncing vehicles, bought jewelry and knick knacks from the Bedouin women until it was time to go.

Of course, we got stuck in the sand and while two of the drivers tried to dig out the car, our driver put a tape cassette in the car tape player and to the Arabic strains of a song that sounded like Alvin and the Chipmunks do Arabia, they danced in the sand. A kind of Arabic do si do.

We approached Sana as the light was growing dim. It was a race to reach the safety of the city before dark, and the government had shut the cell phone towers down in order to gain control over some problem or another. So our communication was cut off.

In my novel, CRY FROM THE EMPTY QUARTER, my protagonist, Omar, an Arab American, becomes obsessed with going to Yemen to donate money for a school. He and his wife Sara, also an Arab American, become estranged over this decision, because she feels getting involved with the people in a country as unstable as Yemen, is not something you dabble in.

When he lands in Sana, his allies turn into enemies and he is used as a pawn by his uncle, Mustafa, whose son has killed a boy from another tribe. Omar, unaware of the feud between his father and his uncle, is caught in a trap where he will be handed over to the other tribe in an eye for an eye exchange. In many cases, this exchange is forgotten for a large sum of money.

Omar is forced to call Sara to bring the ransom money and he asks her to bring his friend Ali, whose family is from the same area of Yemen, to accompany her on her rescue mission. Not only is she is angry at Omar’s naiveté, but also, she dislikes Ali. And, it turns out Ali’s family is involved in this tribal feud as well.

When Sara and Ali get there they are instructed to deliver the money, in cash, to destinations that are constantly changing. In the meantime, Omar and his kidnappers are traveling to locations dictated by Mustafa and his minions. Every journey involves a road block, cell phone outage, missed messages, off road travel, bad food, distrust, fist and gun fights and culture clashes.

This harrowing and, at times, terrifying trip made such an impression on me, that it gave me the impetus to use the setting as a major character in my novel.

Because you know, folks, I couldn’t make this stuff up!

Barbara Bent

I Lost my Mind in Savannah

We have been traveling, Harold and I. I didn't tell you I was on the road because that's one of the things I don't feel comfortable revealing on the World Wide Web, like my birthday, or my Social Security number, or the number of my bank account. It just doesn't seem sensible, even though the gun club meets at my house when I'm gone, and my son checks in twice daily to feed and exercise the Rottweilers. You hear stories, is all I'm saying. Bad things happen. So I kept mum. You may have noticed that I had some trouble getting on the internet while I was gone.

We left a couple of Sunday mornings ago with an actual itinerary, more or less: most importantly to see beloved relatives in Florida and Mississippi, but first to spend a night in Savannah. I visited Savannah with my sister and her cat, years ago, and we had such a good time there that I wanted to show Harold the city. So we blasted out of the house and down Route 29 at the crack of dawn. As usual I began to think about the things I was supposed to have brought with me and might have left behind. First thing I recalled was the camera, still hanging on its peg in the closet. Never mind. I had my new smartphone. I would take pictures with that.

Toothbrush? Yes. Sunscreen? You bet. Underwear enough for two weeks. It wasn't until the following day,  as we were crossing the bridge to Savannah, that I remembered the email from Hotels.com confirming the prepaid reservation I'd made at the boutique hotel where my sister and I had stayed. In my mind's eye I could see the reservation confirmation clearly, still sitting in the printer at home. Not, alas, clearly enough to read it.

I don't know what you do when you panic. What I do is forget proper names, as for instance the names of hotels, streets, and acquaintances, and then after that I start on ordinary nouns. "Where is this hotel?" Harold said. "What is the name of it?"

"I can't remember. But I know where it is. It's right down on the street by the river. It's an old cotton warehouse."

"What's the name of the street?"

"I'll know it when I see it," I said.

River Street Inn

For some reason he didn't trust me on this. "I'll just stop at the visitor's bureau. They'll have a map and the names of some likely hotels." Moments later he came out of the visitor's bureau with a handful of brochures and a map of Savannah. "The River Street Inn," he said. "That must be it. An old cotton warehouse."

"No, I don't think so," I said. "It doesn't sound right. Just drive." He began to look uneasy.

On our way to the street down by the river (East Bay Street, in case you ever need to know) we passed a Starbucks and some other things. Then up and down East Bay Street until I saw it, the same hotel where my sister and I and her cat had stayed, the East Bay Inn. An old cotton warehouse, brick, with tall windows and a parking lot around to the side. We parked the car and went in.

We had no reservation there.

I had reserved us a room in some similar hotel by mistake, and paid for it, and now we had no idea where it might be.

The desk clerk was charming, warm, and helpful. "You can use our computer in the lobby, if that will help," she said. I sat down at it and poked the keys. No good. I couldn't figure out what to do at that point. I was now in full panic mode and terrified of going crazy in front of Harold. You know how it is. It's bad to alarm your significant other.

But, wait. What I needed was to get back on my own email on my own laptop. "Let's go to Starbucks," I said. So we stashed the car in a nearby parking garage, took my laptop and retraced our steps to Starbucks, stopping three or four times to ask directions of kindly passers-by. With a good, stiff drink of java under my belt my faculties began to return, and by the time I booted my email client I realized that I didn't even need an internet connection. The email from Hotels.com was right there in front of me on my laptop. "The River Street Inn," I said.

Harold did not say "I told you so," bless his heart. As nice as the East Bay Inn was, the River Street Inn was even nicer, with a view from our room of the boats on the river. They wanted us to park the car in the very garage where we had left it. We went on to have a wonderful time in Savannah. So all's well that ends well.

So far so good. Am I going to do that again? Don't know. I'll just have to take very good notes from now on.

Kate Gallison

Crime Writer in Italy: Week One

Winter dawn from my terrace.

I was AWOL last week.  I spent last Tuesday night and all day Wednesday delayed in Newark and Amsterdam airports waiting for broken planes to be fixed and dealing with missed connections.  But Italy makes that kind of thing up to you, and fast.  A splendid dinner and good wines shooed away the blues lickety split.

Lots more eating and drinking interspersed with visits to splendid monuments and wonderful exhibitions and time alone with the manuscript of my next book are making this sojourn quite happy.

The highlights so far:

CELEBRATING OBAMA IN FIRENZE

On Monday, we invited our Italian friends to an American dinner to celebrate President Obama's second inauguration--mushroom soup, roasted turkey with all the trimmings (including cranberry sauce smuggled in in our luggage).  The dessert in the picture is a double brownie sheetcake topped with whipped cream and berries.  The Italians declared all delicious.  Whew!

A VISIT TO ORVIETO

This wonderful town in Umbria is very easy to reach from Florence by train.  The Duomo, its trophy church, was begun in 1290.  It took over a hundred architects, sculptors, painters, and mosaicists more than three hundred years to complete the masterpiece.  The weather was gloomy and photography of the interior not allowed, so the pictures here (most of them serruptitious) do not do the church justice.

The facade is remarkable for the color and richness of its design.  Lorenzo Maitani made the astonishing low relief sculptures that adorn the pillars.  They portray Genesis, the Jesse Tree, scenes from the New Testament, and the Last Judgment.  

Detail of the facade.  The lion, symbol of the Mark the Evangelist

Michelangelo admired these sculptures and wrote his father a letter about them while he was planning the Sistine Chapel.  When one sees the finger of God bringing Adam to life here, it is easy to imagine him in the lovely piazza of this church pondering these images and conceiving his unforgettable painting of the creation.

The interior is overwhelmingly elegant and powerful.  Take a look:

The town of Orvieto sits high above its surrounding plain.

 It is replete with historic buildings, artisans's shops, and wonderful food and drink.  In the dead of winter, the rain may pelt the visitor from time to time, but there are no throngs of tourists and the restaurants serve authentic Umbrian cuisine (wild boar---YUM!) and one of the best white wines in the world--Orvieto Classico.  Here is photo of the wall I faced while I enjoyed my lunch. 

We continue our travels, using Florence as our base.  Stay tuned for more.

Annamaria Alfieri 

Why Do You Write Crime Novels?

After " Where do you get your ideas?" this is probably the next question readers, audiences, fans, kinfolk, acquaintances, book-store-on-line-shoppers ask you.

The next one, usually with a wink or a knowing nod or smirk, is " How can a nice guy/girl like you write about such weird/scary/awful stuff?"

Just between us friends, I finally pulled out of my checkered past an answer that is more true than some erudite sound bite I'd give to a reporter from the Times, the Washington Post, Vanity Fair or GQ.

I used to travel a lot to bring home the bacon. Back in the day when travel was really fun. You got all dolled up, ate real food, checked your bags free, and revelled in the royal attention from the gorgeous guys and dolls who worked as stewardesses/stewards. Leand back in comfort to watch Cary or Sean or Clark or Ingrid or Marilyn in sexy low-lighting and listened eagerly to every announcement from the pilot's lair.

Once I even went by Greyhound from Chicago to Suffolk, VA., dressed in a pristine white silk suit and heels and silk stockings! Then, when I worked for a Fortune 500 HQ, I flew more than I stayed at home! My digs on the road ranged from Hilton, Starwood, Marriott to Super 8 to Ma and Pa Hick's Cozy Cabins.

Then there were other sides to the equation. More introvert than pushy broad by nature, I learned to operate as an in-your-face-dame, who could dish with the best of them. Stomping in heels to the check-in desk to demand a room closer to the lobby than at the end of a five-mile hike. Plus little perks like working light bulbs, two clean towels, an extra blanket or pillow. AC that breathed air not dust. Coffee machines that boiled the water. You know the drill...

So many of those nights on the road, or super-highway, or urban center, whether on a high-end Hilton bed or a Cozee Motel cot, often with no working TV, I was pressed to get to sleep. Usually I was stuck, alone, exhausted and drained from a hard day's work, running some kind of program or workshop, talking out of both ears and eyes, and the outside world was either a den of iniquity, not fit for a nice female, or the deathly silence of the sticks, where everything closed down with the sunset, and all the locals were in bed or snuggled in their own private compounds. Even the bars closed at dusk.

So, I learned to entertain myself, often falling asleep with the latest mystery book I'd bought at the airport in Chicago, St. Louis, Wilmington, L.A., Dallas, Nashville, Phoenix, Miami – you name it, I probably slept there.

So many nights!

So many books!

Names like John le Carre, Peter Lovesey, Ruth Rendell, P.D. James, Dorothy Sayers, Arthur Haley, David Hagberg, Nelson DeMille, Ellery Queen, John Dickson Carr, Phyllis Whitney, Thomas Chastain, the MacDonalds, John Creasey, Georges Simenon – to name a few – my thousand and one nights. My sleeping aids of choice...

I vowed then to those faceless but oh-so-valuable friends that some day I'd pay back my debt to them. And try to give other travelers what they had given me.

So, here's to you – countless men and women writers – on both sides of the pond, writers of that world of make-believe that is actually more truthful than what we call the real world!

Wherever you are, still on this planet or on the next level...

Bless you all, my dears!

Thelma Jacqueline Straw

Traveling

Annamaria Alfieri is at large somewhere in the Jura. When she finds an internet connection she will send us travelogs and pictures.

Meanwhile, consider buying her book. It's good:

The Jura

My husband David and I are about to leave on a trip that will take us to several interesting places, some of them famous, some relatively unknown. Our first destination is a visit with friends in the Jura Mountains in France.

The Jura are north of the Alps, between the Rhine and Rhone. The range extends into Switzerland and Germany. The French section is part of the Franche-Comté region and is a Mecca for hikers, cyclists, and skiers. Louis XIV conquered the area and made it part of France.

We first visited there considerably after King Louis but still in remote history by today’s standards. Here we are on our previous visit, in July of 1973, two wandering New York hippies, visiting friends who have remained dear to us over a lifetime.

On this upcoming trip we hope to visit the Jura’s Fort de Joux castle, which dates back to the 11th century and to see more of the region’s famous panoramas and have some more of those wild mushrooms that we still remember from all those years ago.

My posts over the next weeks will follow our trail through France and Italy with some history and pictures of the sites we see. Á bientôt!

Annamaria Alfieri

The Thing About Travel

Here are some more pictures of our travels last week to Deer Isle and Bucksport, Maine. When Harold downloaded them from the camera he found them vaguely disappointing. Something was missing. What it was was the clean air, cool and moist, the smell of roses, lupines and sea salt, the smell of clam flats, the call of songbirds, seagulls, crows.

The reason you want to go someplace rather than watching a movie about it, other than to see your friends and relatives, is to get the sounds and smells into your pores. That's the thing about travel. Even if you don't leave your own country, you know you're in a different place.

Brilliant photographers can get that on film. Writers have to try to describe it in words.

Kate Gallison

The Lupines are Blooming on Deer Isle

Last week we visited friends on Deer Isle in Maine. Harold will presently write it up and attach lots of pictures, whereupon you can eyeball his page an be dazzled. Right now, though, I thought I'd sit down and give you a foretaste before we unpacked.

This weekend is the Lupine Festival, in case you're in the neighborhood of Mid-coast Maine. The lupines are a right treat. Spiky and blue, when they aren't white or pink, hey have a nice smell, subtle and spicy. Right now they are blooming all over the island and beyond. People will come pouring onto the island for the Lupine Festival, filling the restaurants, jamming the parking places, hiring seats in airplanes to buzz the local gardens and see the flowers from above. I'm glad not to be on Deer Isle for the festival, though it was good to see the flowers before everybody else and his brother got here. It sounds almost like Lambertville's Shad Festival, an annual event hated and cursed by the locals (but great fun for tourists).

They say the lupines are not native to the island, but were brought in from away, took off, and naturalized themselves. I guess we're all like that. It would be good if we could smell that good and look that pretty.

Kate Gallison

Long Shadows – A Tale of One City

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Today our new comrade in blogdom, thriller writer Thelma Straw, joins the regulars on the Crime Writers' Chronicle. A true woman of mystery, Thelma has been an extremely active member of the Mystery Writers of America, a founding member of the Carnegie Hill Writers, and a member of the Association of Former Intelligence Officers. She has reviewed mystery books for Mystery International and Orchard Press Mysteries. Contact her at tstraw2@verizon.net.

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Barack Obama's disputed words about the June 4, 1967 lines triggered poignant memories.

It was another time. Another war. A tale of one city. . .

From the academic enclave of Sewanee, Tennessee, I headed for Jerusalem. A personal pilgrimage to the holy city.

At JFK the airlines told me the Israelis had closed Jerusalem to outsiders.

London, then Paris, then Rome. All had the same message: Jerusalem was closed. Nailed down to outsiders.

Didn't the American know there was a war on?

In Athens a small window opened. But only as far as Tel Aviv.

The night before the flight I got a taste of war – the Athenian military pomp and swagger. The Greek bloodless coup d'etat from April 21, 1967. The Regime of the Colonels. Boxed in at a concert at the amphitheater by hundreds of highly decorated members of the Greek military junta. The smell of fear and unease was all around me.

The next day I traded the casual outdoor atmosphere of the Athens Hilton pool for the solemn tone of the Tel Aviv Hilton with the mountains of sandbags lining the halls of the hotel.

Daily I hounded the travel desk for any news of a passage to Jerusalem.

No hope. The only way I could get inside the walls of the holy city was to go hidden under a canvas tarp in a cart filled with live produce. No guarantee of safety.

I retreated to the cool water of the Mediterranean and waded into the sea, my purse and all my worldly goods held above my head.

After a week I got word that the first planeload of outsiders had arrived at Ben Gurion Airport, a group of British pilgrims for a ten-day bus tour of The Holy Land. They had one seat left.

For ten glorious days our group stayed at various kibbutzim. We met hospitable Israeli and Arab people in towns and villages, held nightly prayers in inter-faith settings, made new friends.

Finally we reached the Holy City. From the King David Hotel I followed up on introductions from colleagues - the Anglican Archbishop of Jerusalem, contemplative nuns on the Mount of Olives, teachers who worked at schools and missions.

On the last night I ventured out on my own to explore the famous bazaar. The labyrinth in the Old City souks, dazzling, stiflingly hot. A maze of narrow alleyways.

And got lost! No street signs, nothing looked famiiar. I was terrified.

Suddenly a young boy appeared and offered to guide me back to my hotel. But only after I went with him to meet his family.

A trick. I'd read this in books.

But they were real. Welcomed me as if I were a rock star! Wanted to hear all about America!. Served delicious tea and sweet cakes.

As we rode the tour bus back to Ben Gurion the next day I was more aware of friendliness and warmth I'd found on this trip than of sandbags and military force.

Obama brought back the memories – 44 years ago.

So many questions now.

The boy would be over 50 now.

Is he part of the Arab Spring?

Or does he fight for Israel -- or even Libya or Yemen or god knows where?

Did he come to America?

Is he even alive?

Long shadows from a night in the labyrinthine bazaar. . . . .

Thelma Straw

Dickensian God

Following the Equator,
Pudd'nhead Wilson's New Calendar—Mark  Twain

In a cottage in a splendid garden on the side of Nevis Peak, on the first morning of a paradisiacal vacation, my husband David asked, "Who do you think we will see today that we know?" I had awakened with the same question in mind. We had not been on Nevis for thirty-five years. The island is remote and relatively unknown. So why you might well wonder would we, two run-of-the-mill New Yorkers, expect to find people we knew, especially since we were staying in a private house and were going to spend our days walking in the rain forest and having lunches at a tiny hotel where we might see twenty other guests at the VERY most. The only reasonable assumption would be that we and all whom we encountered would remain incognito. But considering our travel history, we knew incredible coincidences could happen.

Monkey Rock Cottage

Beginning with our first trip together, and over more than three decades of marriage, we have consistently and amazingly run into friends, or friends of friends, in the unlikeliest of places. On Trip One, we met David's colleague's college roommate in the garden of the Ristorante Sibilla in Tivoli, outside Rome. On another trip, David literally bumped into a friend in Malpensa Airport. In a crowd of half a million at an antiwar demonstration on the Mall in Washington, we found ourselves picnicking next to friends we had not seen in three years.

Garden of the Ristorante Sibilla in Tivoli

The tendency may be genetic, and in fact seems to be intensifying in the next generation. At age seventeen, our daughter met a high school classmate in the fifth floor corridor of the Mandarin Hotel in Hong Kong. Last year, at a yoga retreat on a remote beach in Costa Rica, two hours by car from the nearest airport, she met two women, strangers until then, who turned out to be the wife and daughter of a Neapolitan cousin of mine.

Rain Forest Trail

How, I wonder could I ever make such events plausible if I wanted to put them in a novel? Let's imagine a scene. An American couple on vacation on a remote tropical island have had a premonition of meeting someone they know.
Walking through a rain forest on their way to lunch at a small, secluded hotel, they lose their way and stop at a beautiful house to ask directions. The lady of the house graciously helps them and tells them how lovely the hotel is, that it has all the charm of the sugar plantation it once was despite the recent renovations.

Brice Marden

"The new partners have kept everything in the best of taste," she tells them. "They are the American painter Brice Marden and his wife."

Golden Rock Hotel

The couple exclaim, "Brice and Helen! They were our next-door neighbors in Greenwich Village years ago." The New York couple walk on for a short distance and find their old neighbors as soon as they enter the hotel grounds.

Watercolour of Mr Micawber 

from David Copperfield by 'Kyd'

Some writers can make this sort of coincidence work in fiction. I believed it when David Copperfield just happened upon Mr. Micawber again many years after their first acquaintance. I, on the other hand, wouldn't have the nerve to try such a thing in a novel.

My own actual experiences are often stranger than fiction. If there is a higher power guiding my steps, I think he must be the ghost of Charles Dickens.

—Annamaria Alfieri

Charles Dickens looks like God to me!