Wishing you a wonderful New Year! One filled with love, light, and lots of laughter.
Good Morning Diego Garcia! Excerpt Chapter 4
Bombay, India
June 1975
We asked about good restaurants in the area. She suggested the Harbor Bar, a lounge bar in the hotel where you can enjoy drinks and order food from any Taj Hotel restaurant.
“Nice!” I said. “The airline clerk recommended it.”
“Yes, and it’s famous for its selection of drinks; the first licensed bar in Bombay,” she added.
“I’m feeling perkier already,” I said.
“Let’s check it out!” Charles smiled.
“Be sure to ask the bartender about the signature cocktail,” the receptionist said, pointing us in the direction of the elevator and lounge.
“Sounds perfect,” I said.
Entering the Harbor Bar, we noticed the liquor license plate: proudly hanging, proclaiming its place in Bombay history as the oldest licensed bar in Bombay.
The greeter showed us to a comfortable window table facing the historic waterfront—overlooking the Gateway to India.
A smiling waiter welcomed us to the stylish lounge bar.
“We have a selection of fine wines, malts, spicy cocktails, and international food fare,” he said. “But first let me tell you a bit of our history.”
We smiled, waiting for him to continue.
“The Harbor Bar opened in 1933,” he said, “during the Prohibition era, and was the first licensed bar in Bombay.”
We nodded.
“An American, traveling across the Indian Ocean in a yacht, was docked in our harbor when he received a radio call from his wife telling him Prohibition in America had ended. He had no alcohol on his yacht and decided to walk to the Taj Mahal Hotel and get a drink to celebrate the news. Entering the Harbor Bar, he asked for a special drink to quench his thirst after many years of not drinking alcohol. The bartender agreed to make him a special drink to commemorate the happy occasion. Using Indian fruit juices, he promised to concoct a tasty cocktail which would blow his mind.
With the first sip of the exotic cocktail, the man shouted in glee. ‘What is the name of this amazing drink?’
The bartender smiled and said, ‘Sir, since it’s an original made special for you, you can name it.’
The American stood, raised his glass, and shouted, ‘From the Harbor Since 1933!’”
“What a great story,” I said, laughing. “I’d like to try it.”
“Flambéed at the table,” the waiter said.
“Flambéed?” I asked. “Even better.”
Charles nodded. “When in Bombay … we’ll have two.”
The waiter returned with a cart holding two wine glasses filled with sliced fruit and another glass filled with fresh squeezed fruit juice and ice. He poured the content of the two glasses into a shaker and shook it with the fancy flair of a seasoned performer, and poured the mixture into two fluted bowl shaped glasses.
“Gorgeous glasses.” I said. “Shaped like the kerosene hurricane lamp my grandmother used during storms when power went out.”
“It’s called a hurricane glass,” he said.
I laughed. “Of course.”
He poured gin into another waiting wine glass, and struck a match to light it.
“Oh,” I said, watching the flames rise.
He swirled the glass and flames around, and slowly poured the flambéed gin into our hurricane glasses. One last stir and the signature cocktail was presented with a broad smile.
The flames disappeared. We sipped the tasty cocktail.
“Peachy and light,” I said, asking for the recipe.
“Gin, crème de peach, pineapple juice, and green chartreuse.”
“Thank you!” I noted the ingredients in my travel journal.
“Flambéed to perfection,” Charles said.
We clinked glasses together, and said, “Cheers!” in unison.
The waiter smiled.
We decided to order dinner from a restaurant located in the hotel named Tanjore. Our waiter explained their menu offered dishes from all of India’s diverse regions. He suggested we order a sampler platter for two, which represents all of them. “You won’t be disappointed,” he added, and explained tastes of India vary tremendously, as a result of local culture, geographical location, seasons, and economics.
Charles asked the waiter to select a white wine to go with all of the different cuisines.
“An Alsace Pinot Gris,” he suggested. “It provides a touch of sweetness.”
“Perfect,” Charles said.
Good Morning Diego Garcia! Excerpt Chapter 3
Bombay, India — 26 June 1975
The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new lands but seeing with new eyes. —Marcel Proust
We arrived in India at 7:00 AM. On final approach, I pointed out to Charles the hundreds of shacks, surrounding the airport. Endless clothes lines strung across roof tops to dry laundry.
“Welcome to Bombay, gateway to India,” the flight attendant announced.
We pulled our belongings from the overhead bin, and waited for the cabin doors to open.
Exiting the plane with us was a beautifully dressed Indian woman, in a sari which appeared to have gold threads woven into it. “Be careful in the terminal,” she said in a thick British accent. “There are bands of thieves who steal valuables. Keep your suitcases close to you at all times.”
“In the airport?” I questioned.
“Yes, It’s terrible. Crime in India is out of control. The government needs to do something about it.” “Oh, thank you,” I said, “we’ll be careful.”
With only ten minutes to catch our scheduled flight to Madras, we stopped at the airline desk to ask them to hold the plane for us.
“What is your final destination?” the airline clerk asked.
“Colombo, Sri Lanka,” Charles answered.
“I’m sorry,” the airline clerk said. “It’s not possible. You’ll need to collect your baggage and pass through customs.”
“Customs?” I asked. “We’ll never make the flight.”
“I can book you on the next available flight to Madras in two days time, and on to Colombo,” she said.
We wondered aloud how to contact our friends in Trincomalee. No clue how to let them know.
“Surrender to fate,” I said.
“Not much we can do,” Charles said. “Book us on the next available flight out.”
“Since the delays are Air India’s fault, we will book you into a luxury hotel and pay your expenses,” the clerk informed us.
“Where will we be staying?” I asked.
“The Taj Mahal Palace Hotel,” she answered.
“The Taj Mahal?” I asked. “Fabulous!”
“It is,” she said. “It’s been renovated and is beautiful. It’s Bombay’s first harbor landmark and the first licensed bar in the city.”
“Sounds great.” Charles smiled.
“It’s legendary,” she said. “Ask the hotel staff to tell you about its history. The ballroom has a gorgeous view of the Gateway to India.”
“Exciting,” I said. “Thanks!” I turned to Charles. “Time to see the sights of Bombay.”
Charles nodded.
“But for now, all I want is a shower and a comfortable bed,” I announced.
With our tickets re-booked, we followed the crowd into the baggage area.
After two frustrating hours, we found our luggage and proceeded through customs.
We lugged our heavy suitcases along a long corridor in the direction of the exit. Charles walked ahead of me, trying to locate a bank so he could change money. Seeing none, he suggested I stay with the luggage while he explored.
I pushed our suitcases close together and stood waiting for him to return.
Disembarking passengers thinned out. All at once, the terminal seemed eerily empty.
Out of a side corridor, three young Indian men appeared, moving toward me.
I quickly straddled the suitcases and sat, legs dangling across them.
Approaching, they asked if I wanted help moving them.
“No, thank you!” I said, firmly. “I’m waiting on my husband.”
“We help you,” one young man said, reaching for a suitcase.
“No,” I shouted, looking around the terminal for help.
I noticed a sea of orange robes heading my way. A group of young women chanting and dancing in brightly colored orange saris.
“Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare, Hare Rama, Hare Rama,” their chant grew louder and their dancing got wilder as they neared.
The three young men backed away and disappeared into a dark passage.
When the dancers reached me, they smiled.
One introduced herself as a devotee of Krishna, and offered to sell me a booklet to benefit the starving children of India. Others continued to chant and sway.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“New York,” she said. “And you?”
“I’m from LA. Why are you in India?
“We’re here to sell our books and spread the word about Krishna Consciousness, and build a temple to honor our Swami, Srila … ”
“There are thousands of starving children in New York,” I said.
“We worship the Hindu god Krishna as the one Supreme God,” another young woman chimed in, ignoring my comment.
“So you’re missionaries?” I asked.
“We’re evangelists. We believe in reincarnation …” one follower wanted to explain their beliefs, but another interrupted, while others continued to chant.
“I believe in reincarnation,” I said. “But I don’t think I need to sell it to others.”
They kept chanting and dancing around me.
“How many times do you have to chant this?” I asked.
“Sixteen,” a young woman answered.
I shook my head in disbelief. Where the hell is Charles?
“We’re vegetarians, and abstain from worldly pleasures,” the young woman said.
“Does chanting help?” I asked. I must have looked confused.
Another young devotee explained they practiced being celibate.
“No drugs or alcohol,” another chimed in. “The temple will be our heaven on earth when it is completed.”
They tried again to sell me the book.
“No. But thanks,” I said, my eyes searching the corridor for Charles and grateful for the diversion which drove off apparent predators. What was taking him so long?
When the Krishna believers realized I had no intention to purchase a book, they moved on.
I looked again for Charles and sighed, relieved to see him coming back. His smile told me he had found a place to exchange money.
Good Morning Diego Garcia! Excerpt Chapter 2
My new book will be released as soon as I receive feedback on nautical terms and lingo from my beta reading sailor friends. Needless to say, I’m anxiously awaiting their feedback.
Thought you might enjoy an excerpt from Chapter Two, while we wait. Hope it
resonates with you.
I glanced at Charles. He was sleeping.
My eyes closed and I returned to remembering the first big travel adventure.
From JFK Airport we flew to London, and boarded another flight to Tel Aviv. A driver, holding a sign with our family name on it, greeted us at the Lod Airport in Tel Aviv, and showed us to a sherut (a shared taxi) which took us (along with other new emigrants) from Tel Aviv, through the Negev desert, to the village of Arad, where we studied Hebrew.
“Amazing adventure,” I said.
Charles patted my knee. “Were you dreaming?”
“Remembering; same thing,” I said, smiling. “And now we’re up and away again; seven years later. Another adventure. It’s exciting”
“Chicken Marsala or Beef Stroganoff?” the hostess asked.
I put my seat forward in an upright position and lowered the food tray.
“Chicken for me, please,” I answered. “And Chardonnay.”
Charles chose the Beef Stroganoff and red wine.
“You look like Dr Ben Casey,” the airline hostess told Charles. “I love his show.”
“So, I’m told often,” Charles said smiling. “In fact, I’ve never seen the show.”
“You haven’t?” she asked. “It’s a great medical drama. A neurosurgeon at County General Hospital. Anyway, enjoy your meal.” She moved on down the aisle.
I uncovered a steaming dish of chicken smothered in mushrooms with pasta. “It’s true,” I told Charles. “You do look like Dr Casey.” I took a bite. “This is delicious. I hope the food is as good on Air India.”
“Maybe better,” Charles said.
“Charles?” I asked, touching his arm.
“Yes?”
“What will you do, when we return to California?”
“What do you mean?”
“Workwise? If your company doesn’t have a new assignment for you?”
“I’m sure they will by then.”
“And if not?”
“Something will turn up. Why do you ask?”
“We’ve been in limbo a long time. When we lived in Virginia Beach, The Little Theatre there advertised a play by Samuel Beckett.”
“And?” he asked, giving me a strange look.
“I wanted to see it, but arrived too late one evening to get in.”
“What was it about?”
“Two people waiting for someone named Godot—wanting someone else to move them forward; prove their existence.”
“Sounds ridiculous.” Charles grimaced.
“Of course Godot never shows.”
“Why on earth would you want to see that? Sounds ridiculous.”
“It reminded me of our situation. Waiting on your firm to tell us where to go next. Like we have no free will. “
Charles didn’t answer. He finished his lunch and went back to reading.
I went back to remembering.
Following the upheaval of the Cyprus War in July 1974, we were homeless and confused about where we’d live. After our evacuation to England, Charles awaited news daily from his employer, a Swiss firm, on where they planned to send him. He had worked for them for years, both in Europe and in the Middle East, and they hoped to place him somewhere. So we waited, and waited some more. I read lots of books, took long walks in the English countryside, and wished for a place to call home.
After weeks of waiting, Charles received a telephone call one day telling us to book flights to Virginia Beach, Virginia, where Charles would work out of the company office near Langley.
Upon our arrival, we found a beautiful, fully furnished home for rent on the 10th hole of the golf course, near the beach; bicycles included.
I stared out the plane window and watched billowing clouds float past. The flight attendant stopped to ask if we’d like more coffee or tea.
“Coffee please,” I replied.
“Cream, sugar?” she asked.
“No thanks. Black please,” I answered. “Smells fresh.”
Charles said no thanks and continued reading.
She smiled and moved on.
I took a sip of coffee.
“Since when do you drink black coffee?” Charles asked.
“Since Virginia Beach and visiting the Edgar Cayce Library.” I answered.
“The Cayce Library?” he questioned.
“Yes, while you were busy visiting military bases, I spent my days riding the bike along the boardwalk to the public library; researching the Cyprus War. One afternoon, by accident … ” I hesitated. “There are no accidents,” I added.
Charles nodded.
“I rode past the Edgar Cayce Foundation Library. People laden with boxes were busy moving books. A volunteer worker explained hundreds of books were being moved from the old Cayce Hospital Library to their new home. She invited me to go on in, have a look around, and make myself comfortable.”
“And you did,” Charles said.
“Yes. Entering the library, I felt as if I had discovered a secret chamber of knowledge; a vault filled with mysterious truths. My head tingled with excitement, so I knew I was in the right place.”
“What does this have to do with black coffee?” Charles asked.
I told Charles all about Edgar Cayce, “The Sleeping Prophet” and how he had the ability to put himself into a relaxed sleep state and connect his mind with all information in time and space. From this state he could respond to any question asked: from practical to trivial, to secrets of the universe. His psychic insights became know as “readings” and were recorded by a stenographer. People from all over the world sent letters requesting information on someone or something. All Cayce needed to know was the name of the person requesting the information and their location before he went into a trance and collected information.
I thought Charles would go back to reading his book, instead he seemed to be listening to me.
“The library was divided into several sections,” I continued. “I found myself drawn to one about discovering your mission in life and another section with books and articles about exploring ancient mysteries. Although I had always felt there was more to life than this life, the Cayce Library was my introduction to the idea of the existence of souls, and how they live on and on after physical death. I felt certain I had experienced past lives … and been lucky in all of them.”
“You were lucky in Cyprus,” Charles said. “We were lucky to get out alive.”
I nodded and continued. “I was soon lost in a sea of information on Edgar Cayce and his thousands of readings.”
“What does this have to do with black coffee?” Charles asked.
“Oh,” I answered. “Cayce talked about diet and the importance of balancing alkaline-producing foods with acid-producing foods and eating locally grown, seasonal foods. And he gave a list of things to avoid like not eating large quantities of meat or cheese with starchy foods.”
“Such as?” Charles questioned.
“Enchiladas, for example.”
Charles laughed.
“Milk, cereal, coffee with milk or cream,” I added, sipping my black coffee.
“To each his own,” Charles said. “No one can convince me Mexican food isn’t healthy.”
“I love it too. I stopped eating cereal after the discovery though.”
Charles opened his book and continued reading.
I removed my travel journal from the seat back pocket in front of me and scribbled images of the jagged clouds and noted some random thoughts about the uncertainty of being in limbo.
Uncertain? Unclear. Unsettled. Unknown.
Good Morning Diego Garcia!
PRE-ORDER ALERT from Susan Joyce! Go to http://peelbooks.com/ and click on cover image.
When Susan and Charles receive a letter from Cyprus friends, now in Taiwan, they get a chance to help crew a sailboat from Sri Lanka across the Indian Ocean. They have no clue what to expect. Susan reminds Charles she isn’t a good swimmer. He tells her a life jacket will do the trick, and convinces her it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. A must-do travel adventure. They say goodbye to friends and family in sunny California, fly to New York and on to India, arriving the day the Indian government has issued a state of emergency. And then onto the boat, and into the ocean. In monsoon season. With no charts.
In this true-life travel adventure, Susan keeps a journal and record her bizarre thoughts and telling dreams. A real life thriller, Susan’s monsoon-season journey is about discovery and spiritual realization—one dream at a time.
Winners 4 Cover Design!
In early October, I asked for feedback on the book cover design for “Good Morning Diego Garcia.” Comments kept coming in, and all indicated, the designs weren’t quite perfect. We needed something different. So my husband (Doug DuBosque) and I put our heads together and started over. Thanks to your keen observations and super suggestions, Doug created a new, exciting book cover. At the same time, he created a new cover for The Lullaby Illusion.
Congratulations to all who commented! You are winners and will receive an e-copy of the book as soon as it’s released. THANK YOU!
Susan Joyce
Giving Thanks for Good Friendships!
My friend Betty is arriving tomorrow for a five day visit. She is an American woman I met while studying Hebrew in Israel in the late 60s. Haven’t seen her since 1974, following the Cyprus War. It’s exciting to know we can share those “Remember when?” moments and celebrate being together.
Not sure she will recognize me when we meet at the Montevideo port tomorrow morning. Perhaps a “Welcome Betty!” sign will jar her memory. There aren’t many woman named Betty in South America.
Take a moment and give thanks for your good, long-lasting friendships! Mine inspire me. I am blessed!
Exciting News! Travel Stories!
The Travel Highlights competition has closed and voting is open until midnight UK time on November 30th 2015. An excerpt from my new book, Good Morning Diego Garcia is included. To read and vote, go to
http://www.fd81.net/freds-blog/voting-now-open.
Lots of great travel stories! Read and vote for three of your favorites. You can vote daily. The Travel Stories and Highlights book is due for release on December 1st 2015 and is available for pre-order at:
http://getBook.at/TravelStories for 99p/99c.
Order your copy now.
Book cover redux
We asked your opinion of a couple of variations of a cover design we ordered (at the bottom of this page). Although nicely done, it was from a low-cost designer, which means the design process is fairly minimal. For a fixed price, you get a design, period (pretty much). We started looking through hundreds of photos, and found one that better conveyed the sense of turbulence (physical and emotional) that runs throughout the story.
So please have a look and share your thoughts!
What appeals to you, and what doesn’t, and why?
A) dark w/bubble
B) dark w/glow
C) light
Cover for Good Morning Diego Garcia!
It’s an exciting time for me. I’ve finished writing my new book. The editor is now going over it with a fine-tooth comb. Like a flea comb? LOL!
The book is about my journey to India and on to Sri Lanka in 1975 to help crew a yacht across the Indian Ocean in monsoon season. We ended up, way off course, in Diego Garcia where the yacht got stuck on a corral reef. Then journeyed on to the Seychelles.
Would love your feedback on the cover. Which should I use?
And why? Or do you have other ideas?
I will send five helpful respondents a complimentary e-copy of Good Morning Diego Garcia when it is published.