You Found WHAT in Burma?

No, this isn’t Tim Hallinan.  He’d know to say Myanmar and what he’s talking about.

This story starts on the other side of Tim’s planet, in the reception area of a New York City law firm.  I stopped by the other day to say hello to old friends.  Sort of like the moth drawn back to its flame experience, what with my name once appearing on that sign in the photo below.  Now my moniker appears elsewhere, on things such as the item pictured to the right (PREY ON PATMOS, An Aegean Prophecy, coming January 4th from Poisoned Pen Press (U.S.) and Piatkus Books/Little Brown (U.K.)).

Whenever I’m formally hawking my books the most common interview question I’m asked is, “Why did you give up your partnership in a successful law practice to become a writer?”  I do not take that as criticism of the value of my prose, but of my sanity.  Translated, the question means, “Were you out of your &%^# mind to give up that kind of money just to write books [even with increased e-book sales and royalty rates]?”

Lawyer in captivity

My answer is always the same:  Once I realized that I would not live forever the decision was simple.  I walked away to do what I truly loved and always longed to do.  I think most of my colleagues at the law firm understood my thinking for they’re doing today what they want to do, practicing law.  Different strokes, so to speak.

But for those of you out there who still don’t quite get it, perhaps this quick story will explain.

So, a lawyer walks into a law firm...

After an hour or so of exchanging hellos and catching up on eight months of missed gossip, I bumped into a friend leaving one meeting and running out of the office to another.  He and I practiced law together for over forty years.  Let’s call him Roy.

Honore Daumier, The Two Lawyers

We did a quick hug and exchange of information on the kids and grandchildren.  I could tell he was in a hurry—I remember those days in nightmares—but he pulled me into his office and made a speaker phone call to another friend and former partner (let’s call him Steve, and since his wife features in the story let’s call her Virginia).

“Steve, it’s Roy. Jeff’s here.  Tell him that story about your trip.”

“What, no photos?” I said.

“I’ll send you a couple.  One is of three of your fans waving to you.”  Steve always was a bit of a (loveable) wiseass.

Loyal Fans

He and Virginia are adventurous world travelers and I’m certain Steve doesn’t mind sleeping under the stars—as long as there are five of them.  Their journey this time began with a flight into the airport at Sittwe, a coastal town on the Bay of Bengal.  Sittwe is the capital of the western Burmese state of Rakhine.  It is the birthplace of British writer Hector Hugh Monro, better known by his pen name of Saki, and the town is badly in need of a better press agent.  As one travel site puts it, “Only an overnight stop is warranted here…to board a boat for the 50 mile journey up the Kaladan River or to start the day-long drive to remote and little-visited Mrauk U.”

Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn

Having undoubtedly enjoyed Sittwe to no end, Steve and Virginia were off on their five-hour trip up river; an adventure I’m sure of the Bogie and Great Kate The African Queen (1951) variety putting Steve in generally the same state of mind as Captain Charlie Allnut. 

When the couple finally arrived at Mrauk Oo (or Mrauk-U if that helps you figure out how to pronounce m’yawk-oo) they must have been wowed.  How could they not?  It’s an ancient city surrounded by hundreds of significant monuments enshrining relics dating back to Buddha's lifetime.  Mrauk Oo is one of South East Asia’s splendid archeological sites; a glorious place forgotten both by time and the Ritz-Carlton.

Mrauk Oo

But enough about that, let’s get to the important part of Steve’s story.  I’ll let him pick up from here in his own words.

The Setting for the Story

“We were exhausted after the boat trip, standing in the lobby of this charming hotel in the middle of nowhere, trying to find out where—and what—we could eat when this gracious tattooed lady at the desk said, ‘Don’t worry, sir, I will take care of everything.  Please wait over there,’ and she pointed us toward a tiny room. ‘It’s our library.’

“Some library, a couple of bookshelves with maybe sixty books max, no more than a half dozen in English.”  

Yes, folks, I’m sure you can tell what’s coming.

“So there we were in the middle of nowhere, away from all ties to modern civilization, and what did I see staring me in the face but a copy of your book! Murder in Mykonos!” 

Cover of version published in Greece by Aikaterini Lalaouni Editions

I’m still smiling.  The writing life is valued by rewards of a different measure from those of my past, and this utterly unexpected one was priceless.

Thank you Steve and Roy for sharing, and Virginia for the photos.  It meant a lot.  And, yes, I think that hotel deserves five stars on Trip Advisor just for its discerning taste in literature.

PS.  And big congratulations to Leighton on the wonderful review Every Bitter Thing and Chief Inspector Mario Silva receive in tomorrow's New York Times Sunday Book Review!

Jeff — Saturday

Murder à la grecque

Saturday is the day that we reserve for guest authors. Today it's the turn of the estimable Jeffrey Siger.

Jeff was born and raised in Pittsburgh. He practiced law at a major Wall Street law firm before establishing his own New York City law firm and continuing as one of its name partners until giving it all up to write full-time among the people, life, and politics of his beloved Mykonos, his adopted home of twenty-five years.  When he’s not in Greece, his other home is a farm outside New York City.  Murder in Mykonos (Poisoned Pen Press 2009), the first in his Chief Inspector Andreas Kaldis series, was the #1 best selling English-language novel in Greece, and the Greek version of his just published second novel in the series, Assassins of Athens (Poisoned Pen Press, 2010), instantly became one of Greece’s top ten best sellers.

 

Here's Jeff in his own words and pictures:

 

I live within the cradle of European civilization, less than a mile from the birthplace of the god of light, amidst a circle of islands that once hosted the crossroads of trade for the ancient world.  But it’s eons since the birth of Apollo, two and a half millennia beyond its glory days of commerce, and 2000 years since the island heart of this Cycladic chain was obliterated from the face of the earth and its 20,000 residents slaughtered or sold into slavery in retribution for backing the wrong protector. 

Over the ensuing centuries a succession of plunderers, foreign and domestic, made off with its treasures and the small, razed island came to serve as little more than a source of building materials and hunting grounds for surrounding islanders.  In 1872 things began to change. The French School of Archeology started excavations and today it represents the most varied collection of ruins in all of Greece, conveying to visitors a sense of eternal spirituality that no doubt was what made it second only to Delphi in sacred importance to the ancients.

But that’s Delos.  I don’t live there.  No one does.  No one is allowed to, or for that matter to be born or die there.  The Athenians decided in 425 BC to purify Apollo’s birthplace, and removed all graves to the nearby island of Rhenia.  I don’t live there either, only a handful do, but the spear fishing off its shores is about as good as it gets in that part of the world.

 

My home is on another neighbor island, and though larger than Delos (one and a half times the size of Manhattan) it barely received much notice in Delos’ heyday.  Yes, it was known for agriculture and highly desirable clay deposits used to create that era’s equivalents of tuna fish cans, pickle jars, and cereal boxes, but it definitely was not the main show.  Not even an opening act. 

It was an island of granite, forced to endure centuries of foreign occupiers, one after another from the Middle Ages through the middle of the 20^th Century.  Those years generated a lot of history, filled with daring pirates, dashing heroes (male and female), bittersweet realities, and many tales, but there’s no time to tell those stories now. 

Besides, times have changed, the focus of visitors today is on the present and I doubt a time traveler from just fifty—certainly seventy—years ago would recognize my island home today.  It is a new sort of international cross roads, one of dazzling beaches, mega-yachts, private jets, and 24/7 lifestyles.  It is Europe’s most popular tourist island, the sexy Aegean island of Mykonos.

Assuming you’ve never experienced my island’s incredible light, the unmatched beauty of its sea, and omnipresent energy that would do the gods of Delos proud, the thought of my choosing to live in such a “tourist paradise”­ might lead you to question my sanity or at least my taste.  Believe me, there are a lifetime of reasons for asking that question, but my decision to make Mykonos my home is not one of them; and for a very simple reason: Mykonos is not Disneyland, it is a real place filled with remarkable people. 

 

Mykonians are a warm and hospitable breed, raising families in keeping with deeply held traditions, and yet they are among the most accepting people on earth.  I’m continually amazed at how tourists intrude with cameras upon the most personal of public events, such as a funeral, and not one local objects.  I once thought that was because Mykonians considered tourist season some sort of annual tsunami that rushed in upon their island for three months leaving them no choice but acceptance until it receded in September.  But I’ve come to think differently.  Mykonians overlook behavior from visitors that they would never tolerate from one of their own because they know no offense or ill will is intended.  They accept that behavior for what it is: foreign.

 

There is an additional reason I live there.  I write mystery thrillers that just happen to explore serious societal issues confronting modern Greece while touching upon the country’s ancient roots.  During tourist season, many visitors from the mainland and beyond willingly share their private thoughts and confidences in relaxed beachside chats or pre-dawn whispered conversations in a club or bar.  The world comes to party on Mykonos, and I sit with pen and (inconspicuous) pad in hand gathering in all the material they’re willing to share.  Yes, I’ve learned to surf the tsunami.  Fish it, too.  Hard work, but alas, we must suffer for our art.

You can, and we here at Murder is Everywhere hope you will, visit Jeff at his website:

http://www.jeffreysiger.com

He's a great guy, and a fine writer!