Which Way To Turn?

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: Just saying. If you and I are ever anywhere, and we're lost, don't look at me. I have no idea. My husband has learned not to go the way I insist is the right way, because it just isn't. But I am right often enough, by chance, not to be infallibly wrong, so we can't even count on that.

My dear pal and admired colleague Norb Vonnegut's wife is just the opposite. But let him tell you. And there are prizes in store!

NORB VONNEGUT: It's great to be back on Jungle Red. The last time was in 2009, when I explained the meaning of "hornet gak" and described how 5,000 flying, stinging, angry insects almost ate my first novel, Top Producer. It was, as you might guess, a terrifying start to my career as a writer.

I survived. My third novel, The Trust, is coming out this July. And now I'm working on my first piece of non-fiction with a co-author, who spent two years in jail. But I digress. Today, I really want to talk about travel mishaps.

You know what I mean. You're going someplace fun, someplace exotic, someplace to stretch out and recharge the batteries. There's adventure in the air. And boom—everything goes wrong. "The Human GPS" is a true and heroic story about my wife, Mary, who once fended off a marauding band of Venetian pirates.

What better way to launch into the summer than a discussion about travel misadventures, right? The idea for this post actually came from my longtime friend, Mark Sheehan, who is a travel writer living in Sydney, Australia.

Mark compiled a series of travel stories for his new book: Are Those Your Underpants on the Conveyor? Most proceeds will go toward a cure for cystic fibrosis, a cause that Mark has championed for decades.

When he asked me to contribute a short anecdote for the book, I jumped at the opportunity. The Human GPS is an early look at what's inside Mark's book, which releases later this summer.

So here's my question: Do you have a travel story?

Post a few lines here about your own misadventures, and I'll send a free paperback copy of The Gods of Greenwich to five people chosen at random by Hank.

And let's spice up the offer. I'll send a galley of The Trust to the first person who tells me something I don't know about Charleston, SC, where much of my novel takes place.

Enough already. Here's what happened to Mary and me in Venice.

 *****THE HUMAN GPS****

               By Norb Vonnegut

You know how we all have one special talent: the gift big enough to fill a room; or so subtle only our id knows for sure? I believe everybody has a knack, a flair, call it what you want. We each enjoy our own superpower.

My wife is a human GPS. You could drop Mary in the deepest, darkest Amazon rain forest, and she'd find her way home no problem. Urban sprawl is a piece of cake. She pooh-poohs electronic navigation systems when we're driving somewhere unfamiliar, finds the voices annoying no matter the gender or the accent. Mary grabs a map and takes over the navigation, which is fine from my perspective because I could get lost in our backyard.

There have been the occasional mishaps. We once drove to Gatwick, when our return flight to the USA was out of Heathrow. But that's another story, and Mary was diagnosed with chicken pox the day after we returned. So I'm inclined to think the circumstances were extenuating. Even Superman runs into the occasional case of kryptonite, right? 

This story is about Venice. The city is to tourists, I think, what the Himalayas are to mountain climbers. Don't get me wrong. I love the place. There just happen to be enormous challenges when touring the canals. And some are more serious than the navigation.

Several years ago, we were driving through Austria en route to Italy. And true to form, Mary was scrutinizing maps and reading a travel guide that described “marauding bands of Venetian pirates.”

“Watch out,” the guide warned. “There are thieves are everywhere.”

Duly alerted, we resolved to keep our eyes peeled. But the "marauding bands of Venetian pirates" became something of a running joke during our drive. For that matter, the warnings seemed overblown upon arrival. There was a state-of-the-art parking garage on the mainland outside the water taxi stand. It was well staffed and well organized, the picture of efficiency. I think 747s would be lucky to receive the kind of guidance our parking attendants offered that day. No sign of bandits.

The drop zone for water cabs was our first hint something was amiss. Literally, it was a drop zone. The attendants—smiling and waving their arms in the manner that makes the Italian language so enchanting—guided us to the departure area, tossed our bags into the hands of the crew, and signaled for us to get in. Next stop Venice.

There was one problem. The drop was eight feet. There were no stairs or ladders, just lots of air separating us from the deck. It was, as you might guess, the kind of moment that gave us dry mouth.

We did it, grasping the walls, allowing our bodies to stretch as far down as possible, and finally dropping. Me first. I helped Mary, who stuck the landing, a couple of feet, no big deal. When we were both safe, we glanced at each other with knowing looks that said, "This isn’t right.”

Then we waited. Our boat captain explained that another family was arriving, which made me wonder what kind of monitoring system the garage used. After about 15 minutes, the couple and their kids arrived. They, too, stuck the landings, both Mary and me helping this time. The captain indicated we would go to their hotel first.

We drove across the harbor, breathtaking views of Venice, and exchanged pleasantries with the family. Like us, they were staying three days. Inside the city's canal system, a turn here and a turn there, the captain announced to our fellow passengers with the Cheshire cat smile, “We’re at your hotel.”

That’s when Mary kicked into action. She marched up to the front of the boat and stated, emphatic, resolved, 100 percent certain, “No we're not.”

Our captain pretended not to speak English. But he got the point. Mary gestured right, then left, and stabbed at her map of the canals with an insistent forefinger. He was cowed and, nodding his head with an expression that says "Yikes" in any language, started the boat again.

Mary tapped him on the shoulders when it was time to turn, her map and index finger always at the ready. After another twenty or so minutes, we arrived at the first hotel. The couple thanked us, packed up their kids, and disembarked. They told Mary, “Thank you. We would have been lost."

Then came our turn. The captain turned down one canal and proceeded to a dock, which looked like all the others. “We’re here.”

Mary folded her arms and shook her head, tapping her foot on the deck. The captain shrugged and started motoring again. He had this guilty look on his face, like he should have known better than to try a second time. Twenty minutes later we pulled up to our hotel.

Phew.

In retrospect, I think we charged right into the marauding band of pirates from the guidebook. They wanted a quick drop, a quick buck, and a quick getaway. I don't claim to have any special insights into pirates. But as pirates go, I suspect these guys were fairly agreeable. They just happened to meet their match that day, my wife, the human GPS, the modern equivalent of Red Chief in the famous hostage story from O'Henry.

HANK: Travel stories? Charleston? As we said, there are prizes in store, so let's hear 'em! Me? I just wanna meet the fabulous Mary!

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"When the money talks, I listen," says NORB VONNEGUT. He is the author of three financial thrillers including The Gods of Greenwich, which the NYT calls, "A gleeful peek at the world of hedge fund moguls." Stephen Frey says The Trust (available July 2012) "reels you in fast…then goes like lightning." Published in eight languages, Vonnegut has appeared on Bloomberg as well as the Dylan Ratigan, Judith Regan, and Laura Ingraham shows. Currently, he is working on his first non-fiction project—a true story about the American dream colliding with American justice.

Vonnegut brings a unique insider’s perspective to his writing. Before turning to color commentary on Wall Street, he built his wealth management career with Morgan Stanley, Paine Webber and other icons of finance. A Harvard College and Harvard Business School graduate, Norb splits his time between New York City and Rhode Island and is a Trustee for the American Foundation for the Blind. LIKE Norb Vonnegut Books on Facebook to learn more.

True Confessions

Norb Vonnegut is back. Because he has a confession. And we could not resist an object lesson.

That Morning in Brisbane

I have a confession to make.

It took me about thirty years to become a published author overnight. Top Producer is my first novel, and after a career on Wall Street where everybody avoids the limelight, you might say I wasn’t ready for primetime.


And every word is true.


First a little background: Top Producer will be published in other languages and in countries outside the USA—Australia, Japan, the Netherlands, Poland, and Hungary. My Australian publisher, Murdoch Books, released Top Producer on September 1, 2009. They were first to print my novel and will, therefore, always occupy a special place in my memories.

It was exciting to attend the Brisbane Writers Festival. During my first week as a published author, I was having a blast Down Under. There were parties and author panels. After three or four radio interviews and at least one television appearance, I began operating under an illusion.



I’m a celebrity.


I woke up—literally and figuratively—on a Friday morning at 1 am in Australia. My publicist had scheduled an interview with Buddy Cianci (ex-Mayor of RI and radio talk-show host) at 2 am Brisbane time which was noon in Providence. I had set the alarms on my BlackBerry and the clock next to my bed. When the hotel reception also called at 1 am, the three ring tones sounded like a four-alarm fire in the neighborhood.


Hey, I didn’t want to sleep through the radio interview.


After a week of big parties and late hours, I was a wreck waking up in the middle of the night. Bed head. Groggy. Not a pretty sight. I pulled on a pair of old shorts but stayed with the flannel pajama tops that have been part of my wardrobe since last century. Outside, BlackBerry in hand, I tried to wake up in the fresh air by replying to e-mails. What did I care how I looked.



Nobody’s out in Brisbane at 1 am in the morning, right?


Wrong. I sat on the bench in front of my hotel, slowly gaining consciousness before my radio interview. Two guys and a woman approached me from the distance. They were returning from a big night out, Aussie style, and the woman pointed at me.


Not now, I thought. I don’t want my fans seeing me like this. Bed head.

Nasty pajamas.

The trio drew closer, and the woman pointed again.

They want me to autograph a book. I’m not ready for fame.

“Look,” The woman said, “he’s homeless.”

I glanced back over my shoulder and, finding no one behind me, realized she was talking about me.

The woman persisted. She shredded my illusions and tore out my heart.

She asked, “Do you think he needs money?”

I gazed at her in much the same way a deer eyes oncoming headlights. My hands rose involuntarily. I didn’t know what to say.

No. No. You have it all wrong.

And the woman sighed, a note of relief in her voice, “It’s okay. He has a BlackBerry.”

Hornet Gak (Yes, that's what we said.)

"The gold standard for financial thrillers."

*Publishers Weekly starred review of Top Producer

HANK: Coming up: Hornet Gak.

But first: Financial sharks take on a whole new meaning in Norb Vonnegut's acclaimed debut thriller. Let me just give you a hint: it begins with a gala party at the Boston Aquarium. And a certain large fish is no longer hungry at the end of the evening.

But swimming with the fishes is not what's on Norb's mind today. The female mind--if there's such a thing--is what's on his mind.

And also, Norb says:

Hornet Gak

To be brutally frank, I have an ulterior motive for being here.

For my next novel, I’m collecting words and expressions that only women use.

No guy, for example, ever says, “She’s adorable.” My buddies would hoot if they heard me say, “too cute,” particularly in reference to knee-high boots. Hank sent me an e-mail, signed it “xoxo,” and observed, “There’s another one, right?”

See what I mean?

Will you comment with a few expressions unique to women, as I recount what is perhaps the most horrific author experience of all time? I’ll send a free copy of my Wall Street thriller, Top Producer, to the person who submits the best word or phrase. (The contest ends at 11:59 pm on Friday, November 20.)

What about the author horror story?

In fact I was not a published author that Sunday morning during August 2007—just hopeful as I worked through my literary agent’s redlined edits of Top Producer. I heard an odd, semi-rhythmic clicking just over my desk, annoying as all hell. It sounded like dripping water, but it wasn’t raining outside.

Get ready for an “ewwh” moment.

I tapped the slanted ceiling over my desk, gently at first, nothing too aggressive. To my surprise the wallboard split, and hundreds of insect legs poked through the crack.

Flies?

That’s when I decided to suck out with a vacuum cleaner. It worked great at first. The bugs made a pleasing and fairly regular “thump” sound as they barreled into the canister.

The calm before the storm.

A chunk of the wallboard gave way, though, and a thousand "bald-faced hornets" swarmed into my office. These yellow jackets sting repeatedly, not just once. They're vicious. When they sting, they leave a scent—a homing device for their brethren to attack the same spot. I got lucky. The hornets didn’t sting me once.

Even so, you could hear me screaming all the way to Boston.

With the yellow jackets buzzing everywhere, I ran from the room and slammed the office door shut. Using a rolled-up towel, I sealed the crack under the door so the hornets could not strafe the rest of the house.

An exterminator—a guy in a Hazmat suit fresh off the set of Ghostbusters—arrived several hours later with two tanks of poison strapped to his back. There was a pitched battle, man versus insect, winged carnage everywhere. And a three-by-three section of wallboard collapsed over my desk, exposing the mother lode of all nests.

There is no word in the English language that adequately describes the fallout. I'll go with "gak." Hornet gak–writhing wasps, wriggling slugs, and grey catacombs oozing with white maggoty larvae gasping their last breath–crashed onto Top Producer.

The gak buried my agent's redlined edits, his meticulous markings and thoughtful suggestions for improving the story. The gak dealt Grove O’Rourke, my fictional hero, a major setback in his quest to help a widow find her missing fortune.

I took one for the team, rolled up my sleeves, and fished the be-gakked manuscript from the slime. Things got safer, I’m pleased to report, post publication. There are no trace elements of hornets anywhere in the hardbound copy of Top Producer, just a few sharks.

When’s the last time you heard an author describe writing as a life-and-death experience?

**************************************
Norb says he'll stick close to his computer today--isn't that--adorable? What a sweetheart, I mean, OMG. Cutie-pie. ;-)

He also told me a great story about his most embarrassing moment as a newly published author, so I convinced him to confess it to you, too. So come back tomorrow to hear all--and Norb will announce the winner of the free Top Producer during halftime of the Harvard-Yale game. (Shall we make a list of things only men would say?)

**NORB VONNEGUT is a wealth adviser who writes about Wall Street’s behavior behind the headlines. His first novel, Top Producer, received a starred review from Publishers Weekly. He is now editing The Fund, a thriller scheduled to print in the winter of 2010-2011. Norb built an extensive career with Morgan Stanley, Paine Webber, and other Wall Street institutions. His author’s website is http://www.norbvonnegut.com/. His blog, Acrimoney, has non-fiction insights into today’s financial news.