Ordered room service for breakfast on Saturday. Hey, I was on vacation. Ya gotta order room service at least once, right? Plus, I had a hankering for pancakes–real pancakes, not the crepes that were available on the hotel’s breakfast buffet.
Truth be told, what I really wanted was some maple syrup.
Seriously. The maple syrup in Canada is wonderful. It is the apotheosis of maple syrup. If the only syrup you know is that sugary goop that cowers in bottles on the shelves of American supermarkets–and you’ll note that none of them dare to put the word maple on their labels anymore–hie thee north of the border and get a taste of the real stuff.
My only programming on Saturday was the Battlestar Galactica panel, which included my friend Amy Sisson, Suzanne Church, Eliza Baynes, and David Clink. Lots of audience participation on this one, well managed by David, but it can be boiled down to this: the ending sucked. Those of you who have seen it know this already.
(Operational note: I must at some point have failed to properly propitiate the scheduling gods, as the BSG panel was opposite a Neil Gaiman reading. Further evidence of the scheduling gods’ wrath is forthcoming.)
The Odfellow dinner was Saturday night. More name-dropping: Bob Sojka and David Hendrickson, whom I neglected to mention in the previous post, and new Odfellows Brad Hafford and Buck (whose last name I’ve forgotten, sorry). Was delighted to find fellow ’98 alum Rich Bradford and son among the crew. Rich’s appearance was a pleasant surprise; I hadn’t seen him since Odyssey. Dinner was a crowded, chaotic affair. While the food and company were both fine, the restaurant staff had apparently never been asked to split checks before, which made it difficult for those of us deducting our expenses to get receipts. But a few of us managed a neat way around that, by paying our shares with credit cards. Ha! We really stuck it to Da Man, there.
Stickin’ it to Da Man, part II: After the masquerade–always a good time at WorldCon–it was back to the Delta for more parties. After the previous evening’s fiasco, the hotel staff had gotten even more draconian, not allowing anyone up to the crowded party floors–5 and 28–until people came down from those floors. This resulted in a long line. Ah, but the plan had a fatal flaw: if you were going to your room, you were allowed on an elevator immediately. Well, it just so happened that my room was on the 26th floor. From there, it was just two flights of stairs to reach the parties. Can’t stop the rock, you bastards!
At the Hadley Rille party, I ran into the irrepressible Camille Alexa, who promptly took me by the arm and informed me that I would be her guide/escort as she made the rounds. Well, OK. Off we went into the swirling crowds, with me running interference. We chatted up various and sundry, including Leah Bobet, with whom I had a panel the following day. Later, we found ourselves headed for the Intercontinental Bar, accompanied by none other than Larry Niven. Don’t ask me how it happened; I attribute it to Hurricane Camille. While at the Intercontinental, I got to meet Patty Garcia, publicist for Tor. Once it became clear that the Intercontinental was done serving alcohol for the evening–at least to us–we all headed back to the Delta (except for Larry Niven, who called it a night). Parties were winding down by that time, as most of them were out of booze. I took that as a sign that it was time for bed.
Next installment: Professional advice for breakfast, and I get a Hugo (only to have it taken away).
