Husky Galore

Such is my jetsetting lifestyle that a mere week and a half after returning from the US, I was off again. This time my destination was one of my favourite places, Berlin. (San Francisco is also one of my favourite places. Stacking them up, I think it's the 24-hour nature of the cities, how safe they feel, the public transport, and the 'alternative' feel.)

I'd picked an evening flight so I could make the half-hour journey to Gatwick after a full day's work on the Thursday. The time difference and a few public transport mishaps meant that it was 1am by the time I made it to the home of my friends Arakin and Ben in a pleasant, woody suburb. Ben had nobly stayed up to cook me a pizza, after which I crawled into bed.

The next day was Friday. I greeted Arakin and the three of us walked into the nearby village for a breakfast of waffles and coffee before heading into central Berlin. Here we visited an arcade/bar, mostly so I could play James Bond pinball, before my hosts went shopping and I hopped on the S-bahn to meet Lupestripe in Spandau.

This wasn't an area I'd visited before and I loved being shown around the quaint streets by my guide, from the bloody final days of WW2 to the bronze sculpture of an otter grabbing its own tail. We rounded off the afternoon with a couple of rounds in a beer garden, talking writing.



Saturday was the Berlin Air Show. I'd wanted to go for a long time, but it only takes place every 2 years and I'd never quite managed to make the dates match up. This time I had and, to make it even better, I would be going with my friend Sandy, a furry writer, aviation enthusiast and all-round lovely person.

I set off early because I'm an absolute fanatic, catching one of the special free trains out to Schönefeld airport. I'm always paranoid about transport but the number of clearly air-minded folk on the platform reassured me. The train was standing room only and I had a long wait to grab a space on one of the shuttle buses, then another wait in the entry queue, although this one was at least enlivened by two Tiger helicopters displaying overhead.

The showground itself was fairly empty at 10:30am. I got a coffee and sat with it before setting off to explore the four pavilions of trade stands, only making it through the Aerospace and Space sections before heading out with my haul of freebies (pens, stickers, patches and many, many funsize bags of Haribo) to the static display, dominated by the hulking form of the Beluga transporter.

As this is more of a trade show than an air show, with public days at the weekend, it was lighter on the flying, but there was an impressive 6-helicopter display at lunchtime. After that I joined the queue to sit in the cockpit of a Tiger helicopter; I've always been fond of them, not least because there's one in GoldenEye.



My turn came just as the flying recommenced, so when I'd climbed down I hurried to find a good viewing spot. Not long after that, Sandy and her partner Kit arrived, and we enjoyed the display together until a downpour forced us to beat a retreat to the shuttle bus and civilisation.

Sunday was my last full day. I took it easy after a wonderful but tiring Saturday, watching a New Zealand spy comedy series (called New Zealand Spy) with Arakin until it was time to go to a pub in town, where I had arranged to meet literally everyone I know in Berlin: Lupestripe, Sandy, and my scootering friend Marcy with her partner.

On Monday I set off for the airport in, I thought, plenty of time for my mid-morning flight - even allowing for getting stopped at security as I invariably do. (My crime on this occasion was stepping off the body scanner without being told to, which meant I got screamed at and a borderline inappropriate patdown.)

I had reckoned without spending forty minutes in the queue for passport control. I guessed from all the English voices that many of the other queuers were on the same flight, and as the announced time for boarding, then gate closure, then takeoff rolled past, we all got increasingly anxious and frustrated. Finally through, I checked the departure board, saw LAST CALL next to my flight, belted to the gate, down the stairs and onto the bus, where we waited until the last panting, worried strays had been gathered in.

But if we hadn't been delayed, we wouldn't have had the captain announce as the aircraft started rolling: "And for the avgeeks among us, on the righthand side you can see an F-22 Raptor taxiing towards us."

I didn't manage to get a photo but it was Very Cool.

"I dreamed you were late for your flight!" K greeted me the next morning. "Don't do that!" (Spoiler: I didn't.)

I walked to school with K and B, saying goodbye to the latter (who was probably at just the age to be horribly embarrassed by hugs in front of her friends). I had acquired so much swag I had trouble closing my suitcase even though it no longer contained a bag of funsize Mars bars (given out at the convention) and a parcel (posted to my friend in New York). I summoned an Uber, which came early, cutting short my farewells to K and Sam. On our journey, the driver told me how his great-grandfather had come over from China 100 years ago and told his family never to go back there.

I had left for the airport earlier than the airport website said was necessary, which was lucky because I automatically headed for the International terminal even though I was changing planes in Seattle and thus wanted Domestic. I sorted that out and still had time for a coffee, ordered from a ROBOT ARM.

To my chagrin, I had a middle seat for the short first flight. "Oh, I'm sorry," said the woman in aisle when I asked her to let me in. "That's OK!" I said. "No, I mean I'm sorry for you!"

I should have been sorry for her because I was probably the worst seatmate ever, craning my neck to look to either side and laughing way too loudly at I Love Lucy on seatback. Watching 60-year-old sitcoms thousands of feet up in the air. What a time to be alive.

My wander through Seattle airport (I found an aviation-themed gift shop!) and a glance through the windows at the startling mountain, surely a cardboard prop set up to entice tourists, made me want to do a proper trip here some time. When my couple of hours were up, I found myself in the central row of seats, on the aisle - so only the second worst possible seat.

Then the woman in the worst possible seat and her partner got to move forward to the emergency exit legroom row, which at least gave me a row to myself. But if I'd been in the middle, that could have been me!

I get very grumpy when people in window seats don't bother looking at the view, even for takeoff, and especially when they close the blinds. What a waste! But somehow I contained myself, listened to some music, read my book, ate and drank everything offered to me (I had many refills of orange squash during the night just so I could enjoy some human interaction), and appreciated the lack of any responsibility for anything that was going on or need to be doing anything other than sit back and relax.

I was, as always, delighted to see the intricate landscape of England below me, and to touch down back at Heathrow with a sense of a holiday well had.

The next day, the gerbils came home too ^.^



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On Sunday morning Kyell, Kit and Spark picked me up at the Oakland BART with a cheery "The shuttle for Galactic Camp is now departing!"

Kyell and I were due to give a panel on writing historical fiction at 11am. This is early for Sunday morning at a furcon, and we were not surprised that we only had half a dozen attendees. This turned it into more of a group discussion than a lecture, with resources shared and connections made.

I helped pack up the Kyell Gold table (Kit gave me a tiny plastic trophy as a reward for Helping, which I now display proudly) and we slipped away before the closing ceremony, stopping on a quiet street in Alameda for lunch. Afterwards we walked to an ice cream shop, where I tried durian (first bite a bit farty-tasting, then refreshing and not too sweet) before I was dropped back at the BART. We did big farewell hugs, because no matter how soon I get to see them again, it will be too long.

Galactic Camp is a small convention, and perhaps that's why it was so fun and so friendly. I was impressed by the efforts the con staff made to have everything running smoothly, and by the kindness and patience shown by the museum volunteers amidst the fluffy mayhem ("Ship don't mind, she needs the money", as one of them told me). But you can't have a con without attendees, and everyone I met went out of their way to say something nice and make me feel welcome. (Shoutout to the gentleman who made a joke about my presence being required in the Ready Room every time we crossed paths.)

This was not only the last day of the convention, but my last day in the US. K had suggested we all go out for dinner, and take a Waymo self-driving taxi to get there (I really wanted to try one, but, coming from a less advanced civilisation, I was too scared to do it on my own).

I was allowed to sit in the front passenger seat (usually occupied by B) and was fascinated to watch the steering-wheel turn all by itself. It found a place to park and we had burgers. Just hanging out with my friends over a meal and a drink, rather than everyone rushing off to work/school/tourist activities, was a lovely way to spend my last evening.



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Daughter B was starting her Saturday with a Facetime call to her grandparents, K's mum and dad. The last time I saw them I was about 16, so I seized the opportunity to look over her shoulder and say hi. (B told them we were going to play keepy uppy on my last day because I was the best at keepy uppy.)

The ferry to the Seaplane Lagoon doesn't run at weekends, so I made a BART and bus journey, then a pleasant coastal walk on which I saw birds I later identified as a least tern and a black oystercatcher, and followed a ground squirrel as it popped in and out of the rocks. I was hailed in the car park by Kyell, accompanied by Kit and, for today only, the third team member, Hashtag, and we walked in together. (They had given a lift to an artist named SparkToons, from whom, by coincidence, I'd commissioned a badge.)

The first thing I did was book myself onto a tour so I could see a bit more of this amazing vessel. One of the volunteers ('docents', a US word I learned) took us from the flight deck up ladders and through hatches to the bridge, where we inspected the navigation equipment and were allowed to sit in the captain's chair. We were also in a great position to watch the fursuiters on deck, and see the light aircraft buzzing us as its pilot, a local furry, took photos (I met him the next day).

I joined in the fursuit photo at lunchtime (later I would discover that, standing at the back behind many taller people, I was visible only as a raised, gloved hand) and took some photos of my own. I just had time to buy and wolf down a plate of nachos before heading below decks to take part in Kyell's novel-writing panel, taking place in the ship's former chapel/library. I felt a bit of a fraud as I've never completed anything longer than a novella, while Kyell has about 30 books under his belt, but it was a lot of fun.

It was soon after this that one of the docents, who was wearing a pair of fluffy ears on his Vietnam Veteran cap, politely touched my arm and asked me not to go anywhere because "We're going to see if we can get you in a cockpit."

He rounded up another docent and they led me to the F-8 cockpit, where I carefully eased myself in and posed for photos. I was so happy, and they were so happy that I was happy, and I was so happy that they were happy that I etc etc, that I came close to tears. The convention, and the holiday, had many highlights, but this one shone the brightest.

Today there was coffee, and the Fantail Bar at the stern had opened for business. I rounded off my day with a gin and tonic in the sun while a guy from Germany played hits of the '90s on acoustic guitar.

Kyell gave me a lift back to the Oakland BART, and I rode along with him, Kit, Hashtag and SparkToons, swapping stories about our day and very pleased with our adventures.



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Friday was the start of Galactic Camp, around which I had built the trip. A furry convention on an aircraft carrier? That served in WW2 and also collected Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins on their return from the Moon?? Sign me up!

Even in San Francisco I was self-conscious about dressing up in a flight suit (what if I got arrested for impersonating military personnel?), so I put a hoodie on top and set off for the Ferry Building once more.

I caught the ferry to the Alameda Seaplane Lagoon, which no longer, alas, has any seaplanes, and was excited to see USS Hornet appear out of the morning mist. I disembarked and walked around the dock towards it.

The first person I met, of course, was another Brit, and we walked to the ship and up the gangplank together. When we arrived he turned out to be a tourist trying to visit the museum, rather than a furry, which explained his confusion when I introduced myself as 'Huskyteer'. Sadly the convention had exclusive use and he was turned away.

I showed my driving licence as ID, received my convention badge and lanyard, and sat down to remove my hoodie and don my 3D-printed flight helmet. Inside the cavernous hangar deck, all was bustle as the dealers prepared their stands for opening at 11. I greeted Kyell and Kit, who had kindly brought some of my books along to sell beside theirs.

This was a quiet day, with most attendees coming over the weekend or on Friday evening. I acclimatised, explored, chatted to strangers, and even sold some books!

Usually the dealers have their own room, with a queue to get in, so it was nice to have them in the middle of things. The attitude to opening hours was laidback, so you could purchase something pretty much any time if the seller happened to be around. Another refreshing change was the commitment to providing reasonably-priced food, which meant I could get a $2 hot dog from the kitchen downstairs (although Friday was rather spoiled for me by the apparent lack of coffee anywhere on board).

Most of the aircraft carrier was open for exploration, including the flight deck with its parked aircraft, the engine room, sick bay, and the bunk rooms where convention-goers who had paid for residential attendance could sleep (I was tempted but decided I like actually sleeping at night, plus I hadn't had room in my luggage for a sleeping-bag and pillow). I got so deep in the bowels of the ship I was worried I would be unable to extract myself and would miss the last ferry back to the city.

But I made it, as the sun was setting and the moon came up. The city and the Ferry Building, Oracle Park and the Hills Brothers Coffee sign were lit up as we travelled towards, then under, the white Bay Bridge studded all along with lights.





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I had Big Plans for Thursday, to make up for the previous day's epic fail, so I was annoyed to wake up and discover it was raining. However, I was assured it would clear up by 10 and was probably fine further south anyway, so I set off for a Train Adventure.

Trains are always exciting and romantic except in the UK, and I love the big double deckers on Caltrain, hooting and ringing their bells over level crossings and as they approach the station. I made an early start and settled in to watch the world go by.

My first stop was San Carlos, to visit the Hiller Aviation Museum. For people not driving this involves a half-hour walk, mostly along the side of a freeway, where I got hooted at for having the temerity to be a pedestrian. But it was worth it.

I had never heard of the Hiller company, but they created many weird and wonderful helicopters and these, plus other aircraft, were proudly displayed. There's the Rotorcycle, a singer-seater, folding personal evacuation helicopter; the Flying Platform, which has the pilot in the centre of a lethal-looking ring of power; the Commuter, a glimpse of the personal flying transport we were promised by the Atomic Age. Other oddities include a replica of the Avitor prototype steam-powered airship, and a Mustang used for air races, hardly recognisable as a fighter in its metallic purple livery.

There's also the front half of a Boeing 747, where you can sit in the cockpit. I boarded as a group of young adults with special needs was leaving. One boy turned to me with a big grin and said "Plane is fun!"

I grinned back, gave a thumbs up and said it sure was.

I had enough time before the next train to pick up a coffee from the irresistibly-named Groovy Goose, and also a bag of ground for my hosts as I'd been going through their supply at an alarming rate.

I travelled a few stops down the line to see Kyell and Kit, successfully this time. They met me off the train and we went to a Japanese restaurant, where I had kitsune udon because how could I resist a noodle dish named after a magical fox spirit?

I had some time to kill after my friends returned to the hard work of writing (Kyell) and marketing (Kit) furry books, so I strolled around the pleasant town, ending up in the library for a sit down, free wi-fi and a chance to write some postcards. Yay libraries!

Then it was another Caltrain journey south, followed by a bus to the transit centre. (I was a little concerned by the notice on the bus prohibiting replica hand grenades.) From there, another set of furry writing friends, Ryan Campbell (author of many of my favourite titles) and his husband Jakebe picked me up so I could accompany them to their LGBTQ softball league.

Their team, Pup Fly, weren't playing until 9pm, and I would need to head back before then. But we sat in the sun watching another game while they attempted to explain softball to me (unfortunately they explained it in terms of how it differed from baseball, which I don't understand either)

My time with these lovely people, last seen in 20() when Ryan was ConFuzzled's Guest of Honour, was all too brief, and soon I was making my way back north by bus, BART and Uber. But I loved seeing places and things I wouldn't have visited if it wasn't for the people.







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The plan for Wednesday was to take the train south to meet my author friend Kyell Gold and his husband, Kit, for lunch. K kindly offered to give me a lift to the Caltrain station at 22nd Street. We chatted in the car, then I hopped out at a suitable place to pull over for a moment. As K drove off I reached for my phone to find out where the station entrance was...

...and realised that I had left it charging in my bedroom.

After chasing, pathetically and unsuccessfully, after the car, I sat down and had a think. I like to think I'm not so dependent on my phone that I can't cope without it, but since I was supposed to be meeting someone I now had no means of contacting to say I was en route (we’d arranged that I’d let them know which train I was on), I thought it best to abort.

I couldn’t even enjoy alternative San Franciscan activities, as I wanted to hurry home and reassure Kyell that I was neither dead nor rude, merely incompetent, so I made my way back by maps, memory and asking the bus driver to tell me when my stop was.

I slunk back into the house to report my failure, and K gave me pasta and a beer to make up for it.

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Out and about on Tuesday, I saw a husky wearing little green doggie Crocs. I'm sure there was a legitimate veterinary reason for this but it looked hilarious.

I had one more Bond location to tick off: City Hall, which catches fire in the film, with plenty of "James! James!" screaming from the heroine. While I was there I visited the library and bought a couple of books at their Friends shop, including an edition of Casino Royale I didn't already own (yes, I have a problem).

I'd scouted a suitable place to have coffee and come up with Suspiro, which promised BOOKS - COFFEE - RECORDS. Can't argue with that. Soon I was sitting in the sun with a latte and a coffee bun beautifully decorated with blue and white icing, like a china plate. It was a very groovy, alternative spot, and I ended up buying a short story collection written by one of the baristas before strolling to a nearby thrift store supporting HIV charities, called, of course, Out of the Closet, where I bought a hoodie and a book.

Alert readers will note that I had now bought 4 books, which is a lot for someone who already owns a lot of books. But they were all in good causes.

My objective for the day was Treasure Island, because I'd read a brochure that mentioned the old Pan Am Clipper building and this sort of thing is very much my jam.

I couldn't find a timetable for Treasure Island at the Ferry Building, but a woman at the information desk saw me looking confused and asked if I needed help.

"Oh, that one does its own thing, kinda bops around the bay," she said, not very helpfully, but she did tell me that when the ferry did appear it would leave from gate B. So I waited until the little boat arrived and asked for a ticket.

"Where you from?" asked the ferryman. The UK, I told him. "You know what? Welcome aboard," he said, waving my five dollars aside.

Sitting on deck looking back at the city, the wake and the gold-tinted waves, I felt I was possibly the happiest person alive.

I enjoyed the Pan Am building, deserted but for a security guard and some workmen. There was a small exhibition on the ground floor, and I explored the other floors at will, stopping before I actually walked into someone's office.

The rest of the island was less exciting than I'd hoped, much of it belonging to the military or else under construction, although the views across the bay were as splendid as advertised. It was also very windy, so when the return ferry came I gratefully took an indoor seat and relaxed into the warm leather.



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Monday was the Memorial Day holiday. J was working but my other Bond friend, I, was free and happy to hang out again.

We met at the cable car turnaround, where a crowd of tourists waited to see the cable car turn around (obviously I thought myself quite the local by this point). He took me to the Flood Building to see the Maltese Falcon (strictly a Maltese Falcon, but ssh), then to the nearby restaurant where Sam Spade orders lamb chops.

More A View to a Kill locations: the Lefty O'Doul Bridge, and the building in Japantown that was once the Nippon Relaxation Spa (where Bond shares a hot tub with a hot Russian agent). Non-Bond items on the itinerary included the baseball stadium, a rooftop garden, the pretty Presidio (where we got lunch from food trucks and I also had an ice lolly) and the Palace of Fine Arts. This is a beautiful structure designed to evoke ancient Rome, with a lake where we saw a night heron and I realised that the funny lumps sticking out of the water were in fact the heads of turtles.

We parted in the hope of meeting again the next time one of us was in the other's country. I returned to base to find a game of Bananagrams in progress, so I demanded to be dealt in to the next round.



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B was having a sleepover, and had reported beforehand that her friend liked pancakes. So we had pancakes for Sunday breakfast.

Afterwards I headed to the Ferry Building, where I was meeting two online friends for the first time: I and J from the James Bond forum. To my delight, they came with a bonus K: J's little dog King, who got carried and spoiled but deserved it because he was great.

We got lunch from one of the many food places and sat happily discussing, and arguing about, Bond things in an amicable and nerdy fashion. Then we ambled over to Pier 39, where King got lifted up to bark at the sea lions, before heading to a quieter area to look for seabirds. In an exciting unplanned spectacle, a dozen or so huge and shiny old Chevrolets, many jacked up, appeared in a roar of engine noise and loud music - members, according to the drivers' jackets, of the BLVD KINGS SAN JOSÉ.

J suggested we get Irish coffee from an Irish bar famous for it, but they didn't allow dogs, so we got it to go. Irish coffee to go means a paper cup of coffee and cream plus a miniature of Tullamore D.E.W. to pour in it.

We sat in a park drinking booze in this socially acceptable manner, then J kindly drove me home, which meant I got to cuddle King in the front seat.



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