It's a small world (be careful what you blog!)

Last night, after work I walked to Mt. Eden (a tree-lined suburb named after one of those many volcanic hills surrounding Auckland) to the Time Out Bookstore for an evening with C.K. (Karl) Stead (a NZ author who I've previously mentioned- see posting March 4) and Elizabeth Caffin, the ex-director of Auckland University Press. They were there to discuss his newest book, “Book Self; The Reader as Writer and the Writer as Critic.”

With a few minutes to spare, I arrived at the bookstore. Time Out is unassuming, neat inside and fantastic for browsing. It’s quite tiny and cosy with about one of each title in stock, laid out in a logical fashion, which suits my mathematical and orderly (aka OCD) mind.

I wasn’t sure where the reading was to be held, but I saw a woman disappear in the corner of the room, so I followed. After ascending a creaky, wooden staircase with a metal pipe railing, I emerged into what felt like someone's living room. The brick-walled room was lined with paintings, maroon leather smoking couches, and a few modern, black, wood-slatted benches. Complimentary drinks, fresh fruit and veggies were served up by three of the bookstore staff. I felt like I'd been dropped into an alternate universe.

The space quickly became full, with about 20-25 people (occupancy was limited). I felt lucky to be among the few.

I was chatting with a woman, Nadine, a dark-haired, petite mother of three originally from South Africa who’s been recently working on her poetry, when Karl Stead and Elizabeth Caffin arrived and mingled among the attendees. The format was a conversation between the two of them. Topics ranged from religion to travel, leftists to music, confidence to caning.

Following the stimulating conversation and questions, I decided I’d like to have a book signed after all. I’d been wavering about it because it seemed like a groupie sort of thing to do. I mentioned it to Nadine and she said, “I’d like one too.”

After a second glass of wine, we headed up front to have our books signed. “You go first,” she said, making room for me for me to pass by.

I walked up and blabbed to Karl in my usual way, joking, “I’ll take your book back to America when I go- and you’re right, your stuff doesn’t get over there as well.” I was talking Saraspeak, which is a little on the fast side, trying to get everything out in ten seconds flat. I mentioned that I’d picked up his book of poems in the Parnell library and told a few people how much I’d enjoyed them and then went to his lecture at the University.

His looked up at me quizzically.“Which book was it that you read?”
I said, “The Red Tram.”
Then from him, “Did you write a blog about it?”
“Yes.”
“I read it. Someone saw it and forwarded it to me. Thank you.”

I don’t remember what else was said after that. I was so shocked that he’d read my blog! I couldn’t believe it. What a strange world.

Following the thrill of the book signing, we went downstairs to pay for our new reads and I asked for directions to Stokes Street, where I’d planned to pick up the bus home. At first, no one knew where the street was. Finally a grey haired woman came along and said she was going that way and would walk with me. At that time, Nadine said to the woman, “It’s okay, she’s actually riding home with me.” We walked to the car and drove away.