New York can be cold in November.
The food in New York is so good.
I had Cambodian food with my friend Ellen the first night and we had mochi for dessert. Just being with Ellen is wonderful because she has a way of making one feel great.
The second day I was at sales conference in the woods. I saw deer and wild turkey.
The third day I went to meetings and bookstores. I met Paula Dietz who runs The Hudson Review.
The fourth night I had delicious fish at Rin Thai.
I flew American to Miami, surely the worst of the domestic Airlines. Virgin America is the best, a cool comfortable cabin. Jet Blue is next, with their cheery chips, they make you feel like air travel is like skating across a pond. Then, I’ll go with Delta where you have the in flight movies and the food. I really would fly any of those three with almost equal pleasure.
Then Southwest with their peanuts. Spirit they just keep hitting you with fees. You know they want to charge you for the bathroom but so far haven’t dared. But it feels like shopping at Target the day before Christmas. A truly desperate situation.
Finally American. One of the old airlines. Amenities unknown to them. The whole flight feels more like being in detention. You are cramped and hungry. Overhead they have the television that you are usually shown in elevators and hospitals. In our case, it was golf.
The Miami Book Festival is hopping. It is a great book festival.
All this travel when I should be writing. I do my best to be in the thrill of it. I will get to the writing.
Miami is surreal. A preacher filling the park with people, surrounded by cops. In the harbor, more yachts than I could count, huge power boats, fishing boats, clubs, dancing, a conga line, a singer belting out “I will survive,” a crowd of people getting ready to go out on cruises. I found some Cuban food with plantains. And candy. Miami feels like a city that’s more party than anything else. The lurid blue red of police lights, a huge shadow of a dancer against the Inter Continental, the dark wind blowing across the harbor full of filthy water. All that glow and the voice of God ringing out in English and Spanish. I stopped for a moment to listen and a man said to me, “Are you looking for God, because I’m here. My name is Jesus. Didn’t you know Jesus came from Mexico?”
“I heard that,” I said.
Home Monday and then Thanksgiving week. I’m ready to make pies.