I thought this was number 7 in Tales of the City, and I thought I’d read 1-6, but when I checked “Sure of You” (which I have on my shelves) it looks like it belongs in between. ( )

Made me cry. ( )

Another of the Tales of the City books. This one set after the turn of the century. This one deal mainly with Michael. We learn about his brother and his ailing mother. As well as bring back Mary Ann from the older books and Brian. Mrs Madrigal is in this one as well and very elderly. ( )

maupin claims that this book is not a "tales of the city" book, and i can see what he means. it is in the first person, told by his most-fitting alter ego, michael tolliver. not much happens through most of the book. there is no shocking twist, no tongue-in-cheek plot line, no short, serialized chapters to rush through. it is merely a check-in, check-up, re-affirmation. but it happens to be pretty. and kinda fulfilling.

when i finished "sure of you," the 6th book of the series, i was actually mad at the author. he had made one character, the supposed heart of the first three books, into a heartless bitch. everyone else just kinda floundered. not much happened, but when it did it was bad. i thought i had to read it, to find out what happened next in the stories of these people, but i wish i hadn't.

turns out i really didn't need to. this most recent installment recaps those stories, glossing over the worst defects of character. it brings so many things back into focus. i liked it.

confession time: i am a recent convert to this tales of the city thing. but not really. about ten to twelve years ago, about the time i was about to move to san francisco, or was perhaps just here, i turned on PBS. i was met with a strange scene, an older, besuited man crying on a bench in what turned out to be alamo square, that famous san francisco trollop of the film and t.v. world. and a woman comes up to him, talks to him, makes him laugh and gives him a sandwich. i knew the woman was olympia dukakis, because i grew up in massachusetts and was too young to vote when her cousin ran for president. but i did get to see her cheer him on, her academy award clenched in her proud fist, an award she won for moonstruck, a movie i really really liked.

so, yeah, on the t.v. there she is. and she cheers this man, and feeds him, and the credits roll. and i watched that and thought, "what the fuck was that?"

i didn't know what it was, but i knew that feeling of being greeted by strangers on these wonderfully tilted streets, the way that chance seemed to follow on my heels as i walked them. i knew that i held that image in my mind as i began to learn how to maneuver myself around my new home. i finally found out what the story was when my brother, also a recent transplant to these parts, started renting the mini-series. tales of the city. oh yeah, think i heard of that.

it wasn't until a copy of the first book fell into my lap (almost literally) so very recently, a decade after the image of that meeting in the park was burned into my brain, that i finally learned the rest of the story. and i didn't intend to read on. i thought the first was enough. and then a copy of the second book fell into my lap (pretty literally). and i was hooked.

so this most recent book (i kinda hope it is the last, but i have read otherwise) feels very much like coming full circle in so many ways. without even knowing it, the characters that armistead maupin has created have influenced me, comforted me, shown me around the city.

for that i thank them.







( )

As I've grown older, I've learned that pleasures aren't always better when shared:

Over the next eight years, almost without noticing, I arrived at a quiet revelation. You could make a home by yourself. You could fill that home with friends and friendly strangers without someone sleeping next to you. You could tend your garden and cook your meals and find predictable pleasure in your own autonomy.
–and–
Still, I gave her a call, wondering if she might have lost someone herself, but our talk was limited to the surreal events we’d just watched on television. A crisis does draw people together, but rarely for the right reason. The old wounds flare up again soon enough; the bond lasts no longer than the terror.

It's a mistake, sometimes anyway, to attempt more than the most superficial reconnections to those who once were important to you. There are new faces at the table, and their novelty doesn't make their importance any the less for its fleetingness:

“Who’s Sally Bowles?” asked Ben.
I turned and looked at my younger, less theatrical half. “She used to be married to Ansel Adams.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Yes, I am,” I said.
–and–
And I’d like Ben there, of course, cuddling me into the void with the usual sweet assurances.

This sweet novel, a continuation of if not sequel to the greatly belovčd Tales of the City series, has done what Author Maupin's stories always do: reached back to me from the slight head start he has always had, assuring and reassuring me that the road *does* go on, the path stays open.

I value that so much. I overlook a certain lack of inspiration, a kind of well-trodden feel, that this story left me with. It's not like authors always need to break new ground, or even strive to, to make their stories delightful. But overlooking leaves a mark on one's pleasure.

Still...pleasure there was. ( )