Joanna Biggar's Blog

The Place to Browse in Boulder

As the NYT reports the phenomenon of e-books quickly overtaking “physical” books, I have been reflecting on the repositories of those old physical artifacts, and the importance of bookstores in our culture — in my life. With my novel debuting in the summer of 2010, I have had the pleasure of visiting many recently. In June, for example, I wandered many times into the incomparable Boulder Book Store, in Boulder, Colorado.  Advertising 150,000-plus titles on doors that open onto a tree-lined pedestrian mall, it lures you in with an offer few could refuse. Housed in what seems to be an old mansion, stairs lead up and down, the floors slope and creak, and the stacks are arranged in such a way as to invite browsing — the old-fashioned kind — and lingering.  In some corners, comfy chairs add an additional lure to spending time, hours, or days perhaps, pouring over pages. To say this is the bookstore with everything is hardly an exaggeration. Many stores may boast having a killer travel section, a complete floor of children’s books, the newest bestsellers and great audio books, but how many can claim a ballroom? Add to that a literary cafe attached to the main floor, and it’s hard to imagine any stopover in Boulder, a Rocky Mountain haven for sports lovers, that didn’t include some quality indoor time for browsing the stacks, buying books and sipping a latte.    Continue Reading »

Speaking of fav. bookstores, in the Bay Area it would be hard to complete that sentence without adding Book Passage. But often when people mention the iconic bookstore, they are speaking of the Mothership in Corte Madera, Marin County. Within the confines of its two buildings, so much of the area’s literary life — readings, workshops, salons — takes place that it is a true literary center. But let us not overlook the “annex,” or the other Book Passage on San Francisco’s Embarcadero.

Joanna Biggar reading at Book Passage

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In thinking about bookstores that provide so much to passing the torch of our culture, I don’t have to go far from home. In our little village in the Montclair section of Oakland, there is a tiny bookstore with a big reach and a big heart. A  Great Good Place for Books has the feel of a neighborhood hang-out. Sunday mornings, when the farmer’s market is in full swing, it’s an easy place to drop in and linger for a while. Chances are owner Kathleen Caldwell will greet you by name.  And any kids you’ve brought along will not only love the cozy reading arrangement in the kids’ section, but will welcome the plate of cookies found there any day of the week. Continue Reading »

Happily, early on, James J. Patterson discovered that the bumpy road through life was lined with books. Clearly, somewhere along the way he pulled out a volume of Montaigne.
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    The new venture is publishing the new novel (That Paris Year) and entering into a whole other world with my friends and compatriots who are wandering down this road with me, such as Linda Watanabe McFerrin and James J. Patterson, known to all as Jimmy. So see posts here about all these happenings. And, meanwhile, we’ll keep our eyes and dreams aimed toward Paris.

As we get ready to leave Costa Rica, there is so much to synthesize, savor, remember. And as we try to pull it all together, there are also the Great Imponderables, the messy moral questions.  Such as, should one, really, eat the bananas (or the pineapples, or the cocoa, or drink the coffee). The list goes on, I’m sure, depending on one’s eco, to say nothing of human rights, sensibilities.

Fruit Market in Cahuita

“Hey Mister Talley Man, Talley Me Banana…” the refrain from the decades-old Calypso song ran through my head as we entered Limon Province, true banana country. Continue Reading »

The National Park at our feet like so many thousands of acres of Costa Rica is full of animals.  Every day we walked along the shaded sandy path in the woods and swamps — sometimes to the end of the point and the beginning of the reef — and every day we swam along the beaches. And without trying, this is what we found.

So I’m sitting on the beach minding my own business and this sand crab, about the size of a baseball, pops out of his hole and starts eyeing me, then does this weird thing where one eye on its long stalk starts to bend backwards. Continue Reading »

We chose, more or less at random, one of the little towns south of Limon that offer lovely beaches and planned to spend a couple of days. And once we checked in, rather like the Hotel California, we could never leave.  The view from our hotel room, right at the entrance to the long curve of beach and jungle that is the Cahuita National Park, told the whole story — waves and coco palms and a sweep of tropical beach.

Cahuita, View from Our Balcony

Well, not the whole story, but most of it. The rest of the attractions were right there, too — the park, and the street.  We were at the end of the paved street in town, and a lively place it was.  Hip young Rasta men set up their shops, sold trinkets, or hustled tourists. Vegetable and fruit sellers hawked their wares; self-appointed guides (any native of the town) offered their expertise for tracking animals,  swimming/snorkeling on the reef, fishing, anything.  And sales of other favors went down, too. Nor were the ganja-men in short supply. Just breathing on the balcony above where the local surfers gathered could be a mind-altering experience.  And just for balance, the howler monkeys would often join in with their incredible howls, as would a green parrot who laughed hysterically, no doubt a commentary on human folly. Continue Reading »

While reviews of going to Limon, the province that encompasses the Caribbean side of Costa Rica were generally enthusiastic, few people had much good to say about Puerto Limon, the main city. Full of thieves and scoundrels, we were told, a wicked place full of drug lords and gangs, and even the trying-to-be-positive guide books gave it such adjectives as “edgy” and “gritty.”  What really sold me though was a description by Paul Theroux in his book of riding the rails through Latin America in the ’80s, The Old Patagonian Express. His description of Limon was one of such brawling color and irresistible decrepitude, that as the throbbing heart of Caribbean Costa Rican culture,  it seemed a place not to be missed. Continue Reading »

Reuben

He is a tall, sinewy man with eyes that have seen everything in their 60-some years, and with a smile that charms you into his world, his stories, an probably charms the fish into his net. He is missing several front teeth. His name is Reuben (unless it is something else), and when we stepped into the open-sided boat that is like a bus running up and down the Tortuguera and Parisima Rivers, he declared “Welcome to my boat,” and proceeded to pass out business cards with an Internet address. “You need to make any trips, any trips in this country, you call Reuben.”

Reuben's Boat Business in Tortuguero

As time progressed — six hours more or less on that boat — Reuben’s stories shifted like the current.  As Doug and I sat toward the back of the boat, for long stetches Reuben would come join us and spin his yarns. Wonderful tales they were, too.  Just before taking the waterway that led to our lodge,  there was a huge intersection of rivers and canals referred to as Four Corners. We had been up many of them during our stay there. But one river leads into Nicaragua (where we truly would like to go) and his stories of the smuggling trade were riveting. According to him, he had done plenty of it, but only with people who wanted to reunite with their families, and dodging the security boats was dicey. He said he wouldn’t touch arms smuggling, and anybody in the (thriving) narco trade was a fool.

He also told us about life in Limon, the city, where we were heading — of fights, stabbings, robberies. He had only recently been robbed there, he said, which is why he had no shoes. (Note: the boat captain and many others working the boats also wore no shoes).  The boss man didn’t pay enough and he would go hungry until he had honest money. Unless he caught a good fish, like he had landed a red snapper the night before, and then he would cook it, with yucca and coconut.  Some men are fools and waste their money on women. But not he. Anyway, he met a guy from Texas that was going to do some business up there on the rivers, and was going to buy him, Rueben, his own boat.

Among his other talents, Reuben was a master mechanic — happily.  The boat came to a grinding halt three times during the trip, and frankly the options didn’t look great if he hadn’t been able to coax it into starting again. We were in the middle of a rainy, rushing river full of crocodiles and nothing inviting in the thick jungle along the embankments.

Reuben's Boat

But Reuben got it going every time, even when we were running parallel to the sea and huge logs and pieces of wood seemed to threaten the engine. When we reached the port of Moin, there was a battered van ready to take us to Limon.  Over-priced and arranged by Reuben of course. We tipped him handsomely.