I had dinner last night with my evil twin Bryan Barrett (we were born four days and 12 miles apart). He delivered a desk my father had given me, and brought some books for my birthday present: a Life of Wellington, a John Roberts Maddox Roman mystery set in the time of Catalina, and the latest Lindsay Davis Roman mystery. He also tried to talk me into going to a mystery convention in Alaska in February. What a nut. The thing is, I wouldn't go to a mystery convention unless it was cheap, and in my backyard. And even then it would depend on who the Guest of Honor was. I barely like sf conventions, and I know most of the people at them.
Which doesn't stop me from being secretly jealous of everyone going to this year's Worldcon in Melbourne, Australia. I'm still getting calls for tickets from those who suddenly realized it was practically around the corner. I did at least ten tickets for con attendees, and every time I worked on their reservations I wondered why I hadn't set aside time to go myself. I had such a marvelous experience when I went in 1987. I spent nine weeks wandering between Sydney, Melbourne, and Perth, and I'm still extremely fond of the people I met like Gina, and Daryl, and Lucy, and Julian, and Ali, and Barb, and dozens of others. Everyone was funny, and gregarious, and unbelievably nice to me. I kept meaning to go back, but there was never enough time, or money, or there was some new place to see that took precedence.
And so a dozen years have slipped by. In that time, two of my favorite people from Melbourne, Roger Weddall and Andrew Brown, have died. Time is speeding up, and people are falling by the wayside. I am beginning to feel not just neglectful, but a sense of urgency.
What I should do is make a new list of places, not that I've never been to, but where I have friends whom I haven't seen in one year, two years, five years, ten years. Then, when I'm plotting out the next year's vacation plans I could see just how long it's been since I shared a laugh with Gina, or a glass of wine with Perry, and I'd remember that photos of a glamorous destination can't begin to compare with the pleasure of seeing old friends.
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