Nine Days, Nine Cities, Nine Hotel Rooms
My cab driver turned out to be British (American now) and we were talking about the June 23rd vote on breaking up the British empire, and how immigration without assimilation is invasion. The melting pot vs. diversity argument, which, I think, is an interesting one.
Anyway, it turns out he used to coach the professional soccer team I grew up watching in Minnesota. Small damn world.
But I feel like I've been on the road for four years and I hope that when the Key West Mystery Fest conference kicks in on Friday, I will be conscious enough to enjoy it. I don't know how people take this glamorous life.
Saw Lisa Unger last night in Sarasota. As I got to the front of the line to get my book signed, she looks up and says, "I know you!" I haven't seen her or her husband for maybe twenty years when she was newly published and I was not (and before I was struck down by illness). Then when I reminded her that I was the editor of the BLOOD WORK anthology I'm editing in honor of the late Gary Shulze, she yells, "You're Rick!"
So she got me by sight, which is probably even more impressive after all that time had she recognized my name.
Again, small world, and at times a beautiful one.