Flying home from Oahu.
I'm on the aisle. Callie has the window, eyes closed, wrapped in a blue United blanket. Somewhere in my carry-on is the notebook I bought in Edinburgh ten or so years ago. I can't remember which book I was researching. Might have been Killing Kennedy, but it was definitely a Killing book. Between 2010 and 2020 I didn't write anything else.
If I were in the Netherlands right now, as I thought I might be this weekend, I would be driving my rental car back to Brussels from a venue known as Megaland in the Netherlands. It's right next to Aachen, the first portal into Germany for the US Army in 1945. My ears would be ringing from a Bruce Springsteen show almost four hours in length. The euphoria would linger.
I'm riding the Eurostar as I write this, halfway between Paris and London. It has been a wild two weeks for Callie and myself, our first time back in Europe since Covid. It was also my first time in Paris since Taking Paris was released. . . .
Wags and Wiggles, the local doggie day care, reopened this week — and not a moment too soon. Django was getting the same cabin fever as the rest of us, despite more trips to the dog park than he'd ever experienced. He's a hound and alert barker, with a propensity for taking personal responsibility for our safety and well-being, patrolling the backyard and howling at any perceived threats. Having us around the house 24-7 put him on high alert. He's adorable but anxious, and finally getting the chance to once again hang out with a bunch of dogs all day has calmed him down a bunch.
The detective handling the case was a solemn young man who spoke perfect English. His name was Mohammed. He called me into his office and settled behind his desk. "What is your religion?" he asked immediately. "Christian." He wrote it down. "What is your tribe?" What could possibly be the right answer? "The Californians," I answered.
