(Versione italiana)


It’s all about the cats: Worldcon 1st part

It’s all about the... towels? – Worldcon 2nd part

It's all about the panels and towels - Worldcon part III





As you may see from the double cover, kindly provided by Anna, this issue of my Worldcon adventures isn’t just special, but even double.



Let’s go back then where we stopped the last episode.



Once I have overcome the shock for the unexpected ‘Don’t Panic’ towel, a tired and hungry Ian Watson urges me once again to hurry. So, we head to the SFWA room (and don’t ask me what it is, it’s all in the linked page), where Ian leaves us to reach his room, while we gorge ourselves on cakes and other titbits. In the meantime someone is knitting, while the BBC shows news about Robin Cook’s death which is instantaneously linked by Roberto Quaglia to Wim Duisenberg’s death and to the London attacks, in one of his pseudo-conspirationist theories which leaves me quite dizzy. Luckily, besides the carrot-pie, there’s some savoury food as well, cheese I think, maybe just some nasty cheddar, but at that moment it’s ok.



Then we go away, and, in the lift we take on the way to our destination, I narrowly miss stamping on Greg Bear’s feet (no pix available). Such things happen only at Worldcons.

The next scrounging mission is accomplished in the ASFA room, where we are greeted by an exuberant Asiatic-American girl who wants to know everything about me and who shows us the book of the Hugo award winning masterpieces made by artists in the fantastic field.
At a given moment, I see it’s almost time for my rendezvous with Cadigan. I get rid of Quaglia, take evasive action and suddenly realize:

a) I don’t have a book by Cadigan for the autograph session, which makes me feel ashamed, as I have introduced myself as a “fan in disguise”. I just can’t act as a real journalist.
b) on the other hand, I risk to act as a perfect idiot, because the batteries of my digital recorder and of my video camera – which I’m supposed to use to take a photo of her – have both gone dead.

First I panic, then I look for a plug to recharge the video camera, but I realise - I had forgotten - that British plugs are not at all like Italian ones, nor like French ones. Cursed Europe of differences! I pass to plan B: I switch on my laptop, which is of course agonising as well since there’s no way to recharge its battery either, and I plug in the video camera as long as I can. As for the recorder, well, I have new batteries, so I just change them.

Next step: Dealers’ Room to find one of Pat’s books, possibly not Mindplayers, because it should already be at my parents’ house, buried somewhere among my university dissertation books. Useless to say, all the dealers had some of them. Before I needed one. All sold out.

Eventually, just in front of the autograph session, I manage to find Synners, used of course, for the modest sum of 3 pounds.


She’s just adorable. She makes me sit down near her, behind the table where she is signing autographs (imagine the fans’ envy!), answers to all the foolish questions I ask her with my shaky recorder, and in the end she lets me take a photo of her. Now, she’s one of my contacts on Flickr and I’m one of hers.



What do sex and cats have to do with all that? Don’t be impatient, ever heard about suspense?
For the moment, let’s skip useless details and go to the Hugo. Oh, no, sorry, there’s just one ‘useless’ detail I can’t skip: in the meantime, I have also met Alain Le Bussy and some of the French-speaking people.

Well, I arrive at the Armadillo with Silvio, Elisabetta and three more Italians I had never met before. At the entrance a security guard urges me to leave my rucksack at the cloakroom, but I am allowed to keep my laptop. Thank goodness, because I need it to go on recharging the battery of my video camera.

The introductory speech is pronounced by Kim Newman and Paul McAuley (‘Paul: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen ... Kim: Bon soir, mesdames et messieurs ...’). Thanks to them, we become aware of being in a parallel dimension, where the Hugo award is so called in honour of Victor Hugo and France is ‘The only remaining super-power, her atomic empire stretches from Grand Quebec and the Duchy of Louisiana, and through the Emirates d'Afrique Nord to the chain of Ariane Orbital Satellites whose friendly Rayons de Mort enforce the Pax Francais upon a grateful globe.’. It’s definitely worth reading in its entirety, if you’re not too eager to know everything about sex… oups, I mean cats. And here’s the list of the awards.
I feel as if I was at the Oscar Night, certainly nothing to do with the Premio Italia!

 

Follows the winners’ group photo (mine are awful, this is one of them), then back to the hotel (the hostel, in my case) to get prepared to the parties.


And here comes the action.

***
When I get to the Hilton I’m hungry. I search for food at the various parties, just to be disappointed: there are actually some canapés, I get to find some cheese, but surely I’m not going to have dinner. I console myself by starting to fill the void in my stomach with vodka. That’s the reason why I might say that any resemblance between what I’m going to tell and real life individuals is purely chance.

Like an hallucination, Roberto Quaglia materializes right in front of me. He’s entertaining other hallucinations of Teutonic origins, to whom I am introduced. Among them, the German Perry Rhodan publisher, Klaus N. Frick. He reminds me someone familiar. It will take at least an hour, a few glasses of vodka and possibly of beer as well (I don’t remember if the beer came before or after the revelation, but any resemblance between what I’m telling and real life time is purely chance as well) before I understand that the person he resembles has nothing to do with science fiction – strictly speaking, I mean, although we all know that everything is science fiction. He’s the splitting image of Friends’ TV series Chandler. Dizzy with alcohol, I expect to see any moment Monica coming around. He confesses he has never seen Friends. Maybe because he just lives inside it.

While Robert Silverberg appears and disappears at not so regular intervals and China Miéville hangs around with a tall girl he just seems not being able to get rid of, who is actually his girlfriend, I suddenly realize there’s a competition going on for me between two young guys, whose names will remain secret to avoid unpleasant consequences. Just be sure that any resemblance between these guys and real life individuals is purely chance.

One is a friend of Klaus’, another German, tall with long black hair and blue eyes. The other is a Turkish-Canadian boy that Roberto has introduced to me in a perilous moment of lucidity, when he has suddenly recalled my passion for Turkey. Both too young and apparently too frail for my taste. But it’s no time for being fastidious. They are male, cute and sexually active. What more can I wish for?
The Turkish guy marks me closely, the German at the beginning pretends not to care and tries other female options. But as soon as the Turk walks away a moment, the German pulls me to one of the parties and asks me: ‘Is that your Italian boyfriend?’ Boyfriend? ITALIAN? Bof. I answer he’s neither, I’ve just met him. He’s visibly annoyed. Here starts a match with no holds barred, which I partly miss because I leave for a moment to talk and have some fun with Anna. When I come back, I find a surrealistic situation. The German is speaking Turkish, and the Turk, amused, replies in English: ‘Your Turkish is worse than my German’. I don't know if it's the fault of the vodka, of the beer, or of the late hour, anyway I’m beginning to feel a bit confused.

Too bad they can’t make friends, I would willingly satisfy them both, being a human sandwich has always been my secret dream. To avoid Turkish-German-Canadian diplomatic incidents, I realize I must choose. The decision I take is based on an abominable calculation: the German leaves in the morning, the Turk stays till the following evening. If all goes well, I kill two birds with one stone.

Moreover, the Turk makes the mistake of walking away once again. Weak bladder. The German takes advantage of the situation: ‘What about looking for a pub?’ We also invite Chand… I mean, Klaus to come with us. And here there's something I must say: of them all, he’s the one whose company I appreciate the most, even though he doesn’t show any interest in me and I have none in him. Maybe just because of that. However, Klaus turns down the invitation. He has already had his dose of amusement watching the two cocks pecking each other over the hen, it’s time for sleep.

I run away from the Turk with the German. But I haven’t thought of taking care of my bladder, so romanticism turns into a chase to the first pub or bar with a toilet available. Too late: apparently, at 2 AM everybody’s in bed in Glasgow. Worse than Lyon.

The boy, who hasn’t even touched me yet, and looks frustrated by not being able of finding a place suitable to the situation, eventually decides to invite me for a tea in his hotel. I accept enthusiastically, my bladder is thankful.

Actually, he prepares the tea. But it’s destined to get cold.

***
I have skipped the rest because I know you are mostly interested in the cats part, and I don’t want to keep you waiting too long. Moreover, with no pictures it’s not the same.

I don’t remember if I’m back at the hostel at 6 or 7, however it’s daytime. At 8 o’clock I’m up and running, eager to use my new towel.
At the Exhibition Centre I take my breakfast with Watson and a Hungarian guy who already was with us the day before, whose name I don’t even try to remember (I mean, you know, Hungarian names…).

Then, I start a new panel tour.
Here my memory doesn’t help. I only know there’s a moment when I meet Anna, but I can’t remember if at the politics panel or before. I think before, probably at the Fan Lounge, where at a given moment I find her intent on posting on Live Journal. Oh yeah, the only day I haven’t brought my laptop because the battery has been completely sucked up by the video camera, she discovers that the Fan Lounge is the only place in the Exhibition Centre where the wi-fi connexion is FREE. I'll hate her forever.
However, for the politics panel, all I know is that I feel as if I was dreaming: they speak and I understand strictly nothing. Until Anna says out loud what I have been thinking all the time: ‘I must go to sleep’. And she boldly leaves, while I stay a bit longer, victim of my own pride. But reason ends up by overcoming it: it’s totally useless, I can’t follow what they’re saying. I go away too. This is an eloquent picture of me, taken by Anna, I don’t know exactly when.

Let’s come now to the cats, at last. At noon, the program has:

- Easy Japanese for Fans: What’s the Japanese Phrase for “Could you sign my Hugo?” or “Where’s the nearest public toilet?” or “My Hovercraft is Full of Eels”. All things which might actually turn out to be useful at Nippon 2007.
- Crafting Sex Scenes: There’s the long silken hair, the heaving chests, the upright member: how do you write a believable sex scene? What about when the sex isn’t consensual? There’s a fine line between prurience and realism. Uhm. I have already had my dose of sex, let’s see if there’s something else.
- The Strugatsky Brothers & Their Role in SF. This looks interesting, but…
- it’s not even comparable to: What the F*** is it About Cats? We all know about the weird connection between SF writers and cats. Why? And what are the best and worst examples?

Let’s be clear: I’m not greatly interested in cats, but, since it has been the big leitmotiv of this convention, I can’t miss the chance.
Well, either they all have thought the same thing as I, or it’s no urban legend that fantastic literature fans are big cat lovers: the room where the meeting is held is certainly small, but it doesn’t make it the less impressive to see it full to the point that I’m obliged to sit on the floor, like others. And like Anna, when she arrives without having planned to meet there.

The panel, with the participation of Alma Alexander, John Meaney e Irene Radford, speaks of cats, as you have already understood (I hope). Everyone sings the praises of their feline's brave deeds, but all in all I don't see what all this has to do with science fiction. If I remember right, someone tries a parallel between the independence of the animal and the typical character of the writer, but I don’t have the impression that the question has been deeply analyzed. However, I must admit we have seen some beautiful pictures.

Ten minutes before the end, Anna and I get curious about the sex panel: will it be as crowded as the cats one? We run downstairs and have a look at the room. Mumble… Well, actually the room is bigger, but it’s filled only by half. It would seem sex lovers are about as many as cats lovers. Something to think about. We wonder then if sex lovers would accept to curl up on the floor as the cats lover did.

The convention, for me, ends more or less here: one more Scottish lunch with Anna and one of her many American friends at the Exhibition Centre restaurant, and I go back to the hostel to get some sleep. And to get ready for the last evening, the Dead Dog Party, where people are supposed to finish the Real Ale. Here we meet Terry Pratchett, and Anna and others approach him for a chat. And here I find the Turk again. With a lopsided smile, he asks me if the previous day we had found a pub. I just say: ‘I don’t remember, I was too drunk’. I don’t think he has believed me, but he must have understood the meaning: no use asking more questions.

He doesn’t cling to me all the time, as the night before, but he’s equally nice, he doesn’t look offended by what happened. I almost hope I will be able to repeat the performance. But I will never know if he would have accepted, we are too tired and decide to leave early. A kiss on the cheek and see you… at the next Worldcon?

Oh, I forgot to say one thing: the German was not frail at all.

 

Well, Pat Cadigan is attending this panel together with… I think it’s Sean McMullen, the guy next to her, but I’m not certain. However, that’s not important, and completely unimportant is what they tell each other at the panel, they mostly speak about their life of happily married, childrened, divorced people, how beautiful family is, and we’re all heroes, and so on. The highest moment of the meeting is after a lady in the public tries to explain how exciting family life might be if you just have the right spirit, even doing the laundry. Cadigan’s reply is: ‘The last time my laundry was exciting, someone got divorced’. Standing ovulation.

 

Well, now that I think of it, it’s not true that Cadigan was the only one I have read among the authors who attended the convention. There must have been Brian Aldiss as well. Theoretically, at least. But I never got across him.

 

Anyway, a great woman, as well as a great writer, of course. Very ironic, very nice, and very approachable too. I walk up to her – shyly, I confess – at the end of the panel, and I introduce myself as a journalist who is, in reality, ‘a fan in disguise’. She seems to like it. We agree to meet at 3 p.m., her autograph session time, and I leave floating 15 centimetres from earth.

 

It’s lunchtime. Ritazza time, of course. I don’t remember exactly how it happens, but not far from Ritazza I meet Roberto Quaglia with wonderful Ian Watson, who, without his epic moustache, sees me, recognizes me and greets me cheerfully.

 

 

I feel like a queen. The photo session is inevitable. Here is what Quaglia produced.

 

 

I still have to withdraw money

 

a) to feed myself

b) to buy the cursed towel.

 

Quaglia, Watson – who, in the meantime, has introduced me to Sheckley’s wife – and other people gravitating nearby, wish to have a look at some places where we might find some free food: rooms full of people belonging to associations with mysterious acronyms as names, such as SFWA or ASFA. Moreover, Watson is in a hurry to get rid of some heavy books by leaving them in his hotel room. So, he urges me to hurry to the ATM. After a moment’s hesitation, due to the pleasure of being in such good company, I do it. When I come back (actually, I don’t remember the real order of the events, let’s just imagine that’s how it went), I find, together with Watson & Co., the Sosio’s with annafdd. And that’s what annafdd pulls out of her bag as soon as she sees me.

 

 

 

Obviously, that’s not when I took the picture, because at that moment I was so moved that the few mental faculties I had left just faded away. Thank you, Anna. You saved me from certain death by drowning in the water I wouldn’t have been able to dry otherwise, or eaten by fleas born out of the dirt I wouldn’t have had the courage to wash away, for fear of the death by drowning.

 

Please, forgive me, I’m overcome with emotion. See you the next episode.

(Versione italiana)

After all this time, memories are beginning to fade. However, let’s see what turns up.

 

First of all, I have to add a detail to my former report: French friend Patrick on a mailing list remarked that the subject of the Saturday panel with China Miéville was “Is there too much homoeroticism in fantasy for real homosexuality?”, and Miéville had been invited there as “token straight”. I approve: sf people are democratic people, we respect minorities. Anyway, I can’t see how I could forget such an important detail: either because of my fatigue drunkenness, or, as usual, because of my hormones, which at the sight of such a token silenced without too much diplomacy my already hidden lesbian side.

 

Let’s get back now to our report.

For dinner, I find myself at an Indian restaurant with annafdd, Benjamin Rosenbaum and a group of Americans, after taking a few picturesque photos.

 

Too bad I was so tired, because I was sitting just in front of Benjamin, who went on entertaining us with his gags and more, such as a very erudite explanation of his theory about Jonas’ book, which, according to him, was originally a comic, or at least parodistic, tale, which was completely misunderstood. Unfortunately, because of my fatigue I wasn’t able to follow everything he (or anyone else) said, and I just kept on languishing in a digestive drowse until we left the restaurant.

 

After dinner, first we went back to the Exhibition Centre, and then to the Hilton, where all the parties took place, while annafdd went on dragging me all over with superhuman energy – or at least that’s what it seemed to me, having no energy left – and introducing me to representatives of the fandom from all over the world, people whom - alas - I remember now only vaguely.

She also explained me those parties were organized to promote candidate cities to future Worldcon editions (or even previous Worldcon editions, what’s the use of inventing the time machine otherwise?). I just felt miserable because there was so much to eat and drink there that I regretted having dinner at the Indian restaurant. And paying for it, of course.

 

In the meantime, I made a big mistake: I told annafdd I had forgotten to bring a towel. I always forget something when I travel, and naturally, I realize it when it’s too late. I even tried once to forget something on purpose, hoping to exorcize forgetfulness, but it didn’t work. Well, I think so. Actually, I don’t remember.

 

Anyway. I was speaking of the towel. Well, if I had stayed at a hotel there would have been no problem, of course, but in order to save money I had chosen the wonderful Bluesky Hostel, so the problem was real.

annafdd  started chasing a towel for me: every time she introduced me to someone, she told him/her about this story, and asked if they had an extra towel. I’ll be remembered as “the woman who didn’t have a towel”. We roamed all over the Hilton chasing the precious item, trying to sneak into prohibited rooms, finding parties where doors were hermetically closed, feeling sure that inside there had to be a towel, and wondering, finally, if a conspicuous number of paper napkins from the parties wouldn’t do. The conclusion was, I decided I would buy a new towel the following day. annafdd then had a great idea: ‘At the dealers’ room I have seen “Don’t panic” towels!’. It’s decided: the next day’s mission will be buying the ‘Don’t panic’ towel.

 

I think eventually I went to bed around 2 a.m., or even later, which means I didn’t sleep for 24 hours, except for a nap on the shuttle from Paris to the airport, something I wasn’t able to repeat on the airplane because a nice guy took out of his case a maxi Toblerone, filling the Ryanair aircraft of chocolate scents which, after a generous breakfast, had only the effect of provoking dangerous, and unpleasant, peristaltic movements. Luckily, I don’t suffer from air sickness.

 

The following day, then, starts another chase to the savage towel. I won’t go into the details of how I got along without one at the hostel, but I want to make clear that I did have my shower. Actually, the day’s other mission was harpooning Pat Cadigan and try to have an interview with her, and I think I wouldn’t have been very convincing if I had kept the previous day’s exhalations.

 

By the way. About the previous day, there is a detail I forgot to mention in the other report: at the entry, we found two signs, one above the other, the first one announcing that Iain Banks (and, incidentally, J.K. Rowling) would not attend the convention, and the other one announcing that Iain M. Banks would be present on Sunday.

We concluded the science fiction author would be present, not the fiction author (to understand the difference, have a look at Banks’ website).

 

First stop, then, at the dealers’ room. This time I’m alone, I don’t have a rendezvous with Anna, we know we’ll meet somehow. I get to the ‘Don’t panic’ stand to discover the towel costs 15 pounds. Well, I had already decided to buy a Worldcon souvenir, so no problem for the price. The real problem is when I open my wallet and see I only have 5 pounds left. I ask the people at the stand to keep my towel and leave, determined to get money from the cash dispenser. But I realize all of a sudden I’m going to miss a panel I’m interested in, I think ‘The Best New Feminism SF’: it must be that, because it’s one of the panels which were scheduled at the same time as George R.R. Martin’s reading, which, as you can see, was quite successful.

 

And about Martin, now I have a doubt: was it the evening of the previous day (on Saturday) or of that day (on Sunday) that we found Martin before us in the queue of people waiting for a taxi and, later, at one of the parties?The only one who can tell is Anna, so she’s kindly requested to leave a message both in the Italian version and in the English one, please.

 

 

Well, I’ve written too much for today. I think the towel story can wait. And Pat Cadigan too.

Or can’t they?

(Versione italiana)

 

Arriving in the town where the World Science Fiction convention is taking place to hear the bus driver speak like Scotty – especially a few days after James Doohan beamed himself to another, maybe better life – has quite a puzzling effect. You don’t understand a word of what he says, to begin with, and in addition to that, you imagine he’s telling you: “Warp 7, and a wee bit more”, and you don’t know which planet you’re in anymore.

But the Worldcon is literates’ stuff, Star Trek is not at home here. Of course, you may spot a few Klingons here and there, but it’s clear they’re not in the right place, sort of illegal immigrants who somehow managed to have a residence permit. Here the protagonists are others.

Because the great truth revealed at this year’s Worldcon is that science fiction, fantasy and reality have the same protagonists: cats.

 

Let’s start from the beginning.

I arrive in the afternoon, around 4, after the puzzling experience with the warp bus driver, at the Exhibition Centre, where I register at the press room. Although I had announced in advance my presence, they haven’t prepared a badge with my name on it, so for three days my name will simply be  “Press”.

Someone, considering the badge position, will be tempted to actually “press” something”. Someone will do it. But the details are not supposed to be made public. Not in this part of the story, at least. Which doesn’t mean you’re not authorized to ask in private. However, someone else has preferred to avoid misunderstandings on this respect.

As for the badge, you can easily understand that when I had to take it off I felt a bit “de-press-ed”.

 

I wander through the long and large corridors and the vast rooms of the Exhibition Centre, my back heavy with the laptop in my rucksack and too many missing hours’ sleep: in Paris, where a friend hosted me, so that I could take the 7 a.m. shuttle to what is optimistically called the Beauvais-Tillé “airport”, I had woken up at 2.30 and never been able to sleep again.

 

I have got here convinced I would have no problem in orienting myself, because, as I always say, I could make it in Turkey all by myself, why shouldn’t I here?

In half an hour’s time I find myself sitting at a table, on the verge of crying. I take my mobile phone and send Silvio Sosio an sms, asking him where he and the other Italians are. Where can Italians be? At Ritazza’s, of course! (I’m sorry, no Ritazza pix, maybe I should have taken one).

 

Then I meet Silvio with ever-present Roberto Quaglia, and to speak frankly, from that moment on I don’t remember a lot. Maybe, being so sleepy and in the meantime feeling the relief for having found my fellow creatures, must have made me somehow drunk. I just hope I didn’t vomit on anyone.

 

Whatever it is, anyway, somewhere in the line of time I meet Anna Feruglio Dal Dan. That’s a turning point in my life. Because Anna, a Worldcon expert, starts dragging me around and introducing me to people from anywhere in the world (mostly Americans) and in the end I feel even more drunk than before.

To begin with, we try to slip into a room where is scheduled a panel with China Miéville, but we realize soon that breaking through the wall of groupies is an impossible mission. I must admit he’s a very fine male specimen of the human race. I can even swear I heard a male fan (even married, if my memory doesn’t fail me) say: “I’m straight, but I must admit that China...”. The person’s name will be revealed, of course, only to the highest bidder.

So, we have a walk, and after some time we go back to the same room, where the panel has finally ended. Here, while Anna chats with China awakening the groupies’ envy and suspicions, I ask Ellen Kushner if she remembers me. We met a couple of years ago in Lyon, at a friend’s home. She must be as good in remembering faces as I am, because she can’t remember me – on the other hand, if she hadn’t had a badge I wouldn’t have remembered her – but she recalls the occasion and asks me news of our mutual friend, that I actually haven’t seen for months. I take a picture of her, and after that Anna introduces me to China. I take a picture of him as well but, maybe the excitement, maybe hormones, whatever it is, the result isn’t exactly a masterpiece.

Then Anna introduces me to a real human volcano: Benjamin Rosenbaum, Hugo nominee in the Novelette section, an American who lived for some time in Italy – Siena – and in Switzerland, and who speaks some Italian. His description of the fights between the Sienese “contrade” has a hilarious effect on us, perhaps a stimulating one on him and surely a retarding one on my many lost hours’ sleep (I don’t know if the sexual joke works in English, but if it doesn’t, be aware that in Italian it was meant to be a sexual joke… well, I hope so).

 

We keep on wandering through corridors, and that’s how we meet John Scalzi, a guy who tells us he once put his first novel on his blog and that’s how he was found by a publisher, who decided to publish it, and after this experience he didn’t follow the advises of friends who told him not to try again the same technique, put another novel on his blog, and was published once again. I say: “Then you should take part to the panel we are going to, ‘Is Blogging Helping or Hurting Your Career?’.”. He replies: “Actually I’m the moderator in that panel”. Ah. Oups.

Well, we go to the panel. Interesting and amusing at the same time. I advise you to have a look at the videos I shot. You may download them here: first part, second part and third part. Be careful: they are between 20 and 30 megabytes each.

 

 

Unfortunately I didn’t record the happy ending, which gives the title, or at least part of it, to this post. At the beginning of the panel the participants had spoken of the huge success cats have on blogs (for instance, apparently Anna’s cat, Zip, here in the last picture uploaded by Anna on her Flickr page, has her own fan club), so in the end, when Eileen Gunn obliged Benjamin to pronounce no more than 10 words, he said: “Only five: It’s – all – about – the – cats”. Which became this convention’s refrain.

In the next episodes we’ll speak of towels. And maybe we’ll add something about cats, unless we find it more practical to do it in another episode.