June 2010 Archives

            A friend said the latest adventure read like a musical and I suppose it does really. We're in Oklahoma City and I quite expect to step outside the hotel and to find myself caught up in a chorus line of people singing about cowboys and farmers and snapping their braces as they jig about to the strains of a man playing a fiddle. Actually it's not a bit like that but I still feel as if I'm about to learn about poor Jud being dead or the corn being as high as an elephant's eye.

            We voted an eternity ago in the public library in Fowey where I am due to return to normality in a few days talking about crime-writing over a pasty lunch and we were in Miami when the new coalition government was announced. The Sara Ferguson debacle took place while we were somewhere in Georgia and everyone wanted to know what really happened. I hadn't much more of a clue than those who asked though I couldn't help feeling that "investigative journalism" had come to a pretty pass when it consisted simply of dressing up as a sheikh and conning some poor simple girl who happened to marry a prince. "Investigative journalism" used to mean what it said, he says, sounding grumpy and ancient.

            Anyway we voted and flew round volcanic ash to Miami where Leo (my son-in-law) met us. We were only a couple of hours late unlike the next day when flights were delayed by some fifteen hours. Anyway Coconut Grove/Coral Gables was a treat. Emma and Leo, Leonel and Daniel, live in a  large, cool (in every sense) house and the few days we were with them flew past. We went to Joe's Stone Crab place downtown and had a wonderful seafood meal served by a mildly grumpy old French waiter; I went and chatted to Leo Jr. and his classmates for half an hour one day - "Hi Guys - Let me know how you are and if you have any more questions"; had supper with Carter Parsley who had been in charge of flags and anthems at the Atlanta Olympics and was an an old friend of Penny's from Hong Kong; and generally chilled out and caught up.

            All too soon Leo drove us to the Amtrak Station and we got on the train for Savannah. The station is miles from the city centre and everyone looked rather shocked when we said we were making the journey in such an impossible, old-fashioned, slow and dangerous way. Actually it was enchanting, spacious, friendly and dignified by a nice dining car where we had breakfast and lunch. The only drawback was that the Savannah Station had also been moved to the town outskirts. 

            We loved Savannah almost without reservation.

            After a few days on our own Frank Rizzla picked us up and drove us to his huge and comfortable house in mid-town We had already clocked him at an exhibition of silver because much of the exhibition seemed to be his! Frank was charming and hospitable and that evening drove us to the Chatham Club where we had dinner with Bob and Frankie Vinyard and their friend Chloe. The "event" (my drone) was held on Sunday afternoon in a hall next to the Episcopal Church which we attended that morning with the Vinyards. It was followed by an informal reception to which members contributed plates. A well-informed and enthusiastic audience, I thought. Well I would, wouldn't I? Frank hosted a small "brunch" at the Oglethorpe Club beforehand. Apart from the Vinyards the only other person there was the sister of one of the main characters in the book about Savannah by a New York journalist and about which we sensed a slightly mixed reaction.

            From Savannah we went to Atlanta, handed on by one branch of the English Speaking Union like a relay baton, illegal immigrants or something.Pace our new host was much younger than most ESU officials, (46), and put us up in his smart modern town house. On our first night they gave a very enjoyable drinks party for us with a lot of interesting people many of whom turned up at the black tie dinner the following night. This was fine though Penny put up a mild black for asking NOT to be seated next to me. I spoke from a rostrum with a lapel mike. Not everyone wore a tux which seemed to be a source of some confusion. The club was smart and the atmosphere formal but friendly.

We sat next to a fascinating German couple and one guest, present at both functions, knew an alarming amount about Neville Shute.

            From Atlanta we were driven to Chattanooga where  Chet, the branch President was an old acquaintance of Penny from Hong Kong days. Dale Harrison met us half way and deposited us in our room at the Chatanooga Cho Choo Hotel (a former carriage) before taking us off to a jolly and convivial lunch at a local seafood place. That evening the three of us had a BBQ dinner at Chet's with Chet and his girl friend.Next day Chet showed us around and took us to a sandwich lunch. I spoke after supper - uniquely on crime fiction - in the Roosevelt Room at the hotel. Next day Chet drove us to the university at Sewannee where we had a brief tour before being handed on to Donna from the Nashville Centre.

            In some ways this was the most impressive branch: numerous, well organized and enthusiastic. We stayed with Joan who was enchanting and of serious Scottish descent. Dinner was a black tie event with a good crowd many of whom we had already met at a pretty swagger cocktail party before a concert by the Nashville Symphony with Bartok's Bluebeard illuminated by glass by Dale Chihuley, the artist from Seattle about whom we should have known much more than we did (nothing!)

            From Nashville we flew to Birmingham Alabama where we stayed with an unexpectedly simpatico couple Bert and Elizabeth Nettles. She came from Canada and had worked forMichael Ignatieff, leader of the Federal Liberal Party and possibly Canada's next Premier, whom I had known when we were both employed by the Observer. I spoke that evening as well and this dinner too was at an amazingly smart country club with an echt-immaculate golf course outside the French windows. From Birmingham we took the Greyhound bus - again against most native advice - up to our last port of call, Memphis. We paused briefly at Elvis Presley's birthplace, Tupelo, and were unsurprised to learn that his parents were keen to escape.

            In Memphis we stayed in a condominium owned by our hostess and we did all the trippery things such as the Peabody Hotel and resident ducks, B.B. King's place in Beale Street and Graceland where Elvis lived and which is now the most visited house in the States after the White House. My speech in Memphis was in a private house with, basically, too many in the audience and a hand-held mike which I hate. I also found it difficult to speak to an audience, some of which was behind me and staring at the back of my head. I got through it OK and thank-you Debbie for taking care of the acoustics and being within earshot in case of disasters. As it happened there weren't any and we managed OK but I found it slightly disconcerting to be constantly worried about such peripherals as whether or not I could be heard and whether my flies were undone. (They weren't!) It passed off OK but I wasn't as relaxed as I'd have liked.     

            Next day we celebrated a significant birthday for Penny with a ritual mint julep at the Peabody Hotel and a BBQ supper at the Rendezvous where a local doctor came up saying he had been at the ESU the previous night. And so in three hops, via Little Rock and Dallas to Oklahoma City where the corn is as high as the elephant's eye and so on. It took all day thanks to such "British" disasters as a failure to alert the ground staff of a change in schedule and a nail through a tire in Arkansas. We longed for the slow pleasures of the Greyhound or Amtrak.

            Meanwhile the laptop continues to bring news of home and I have been sending out royal letters to potential helpers on the next big book. Penny has been blogging and writing postcards and it is now early morning in Oklahoma and we are about to enplane for the last stop on this magical mystery tour: Chicago. This time next month I hope to be at Lord's for England v Australia at cricket. There are some things that the English still do quite well. In theory anyway. Meanwhile, however, the musical continues and if I seem a bit like a transatlantic version of Jennifer writing her diary I apologise. Sanity and a straight bat await!