1995 Eivissa & Gran Canaria: A Day with my Dad

Dad, who until several months after the divorce didn't know how to operate a coffee machine, has prepared another wonderful and varied breakfast. Several breads, coffee, orange juice, cheeses, and scrambled eggs. He's got just the perfect classical music on in the background (as he always does) and we spend several hours deep in conversation. We discuss everything from his experience of writing to the current news of family friends. I do the dishes as Dad takes his shower. We head out to see the cold New Jersey countryside.

In the course of our travels we visit the town of Somerville, which I often visited after school; the three miles from home to town was covered by bicycle or on foot, never by car. We drove down Route 22, one stretch of which was once voted the most dangerous street in America (because there are entrances and exits into businesses on both sides of the divided highway). Dad shows me some of his current hangouts, and we wind up at an old favorite of mine, Shiki, a Japanese steak-house. There we meet three Portugese who live nearby. We have a wonderful conversation about Portugal, the wines, the towns, the architecture, and Portugal's dismal job prospects and forbiddingly expensive real-estate market.

On the way back from Shiki we stop by a Barnes & Noble's bookstore, one of the so-called megastores, complete with a café where one can browse through books while deciding what, if anything, to purchase. Dad goes to the customer service desk and asks whether my book is in stock. The store manager replies in the affirmative and bids us to follow him. We hunt the shelves; Dad and I have no idea what the cover looks like. The manager repeatedly mumbles "I know I just saw that here...." Finally we find it. A half-dozen copies of a book with a bright purple cover, showing a television camera.

Turning the book over, the manager sees a photograph of me, and calls over several of the employees. (Being fawned over is a definite advantage in this whole authoring business.) One person bandishes a pen and "Autographed Copy" stickers; I sign the whole bunch. Then Dad and I take two copies and head over to the café to check it out over several espressos.

I like the cover, and the layout, and I'm pleased to see that most of the issues in debate were settled in my favor, including a long chapter about the history of the Internet. Sadly many of the images have been printed much darker than the source images (which you can see elsewhere on these pages). (I've also begun compiling an ERRATA.) The acknowledgements are strangely placed after the table of contents, and one paragraph of it has gone missing. Still, it's a heady experience seeing my words packaged in such an attractive manner.

Dad wants to buy a copy, but I dissuade him. There should be ten copies of the book waiting for me at home; I plan on sending those to people important to me. As we're leaving the publicity director asks whether I'd consider coming to the store, giving a talk, and doing a signing. I tell her I'm flattered, and surely would, except that I'm leaving in 21 hours to travel 4000 km (2500 mi).

Dad has, from time to time, spoken to me about a friend of his called Kristin. She's an art historian and a fantastic cook. We're invited for dinner. As good smells waft about the house I slowly enjoy the artwork hanging on the walls. I'm also enticed by the collection of books shelved all over the house. Dinner is wonderful, served in her artsy kitchen, accompanied by talk of her publishing efforts currently underway. The body and the soul are refreshed.

Smile.

Have you found errors nontrivial or marginal, factual, analytical and illogical, arithmetical, temporal, or even typographical? Please let me know; drop me email. Thanks!

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