As the power failure took out New York to Toronto to Detroit, I was sitting in a little neighborhood park off the bank of the St. Lawrence river, reading in a breeze with my shoes off. The worst thing that happened today was the sun moved, so I had to slide my butt one foot South along a wooden bench to reclaim some shade. The second worst thing was the rental bike was a 21" model with the seat jacked way up, and not a very big crank so I had to pedal fast.

An awful day. Truly awful. Sunny.

The third worst thing was the discovery that HYPERION is just the first half of the story. I will most likely not be able to find THE FALL OF HYPERION at any of the pathetic little English-language bookshelves (mostly mindless bestsellers for touristes stupides Americaines) that pass for "Sections Anglais" in Quebecois bookstores.

Seriously. There is NO INDICATION on the front cover, back cover, or spine that this isn't just the first book in a series--turns out it's the first half of a story, nomore/noless/hack-chop/thanks-for-your-dough.

Such trouble I have.

Soon I will sign off at this lousy little Internet place (and it truly is--they don't know how to fix their system so the firewall lets outgoing email through; every time I configure Outlook Express, I read someone's unknowingly incarcerated messages--no parole, never to be delivered--to French colleagues, German family, Spanish doctors) and hike back up to St. Genevieve, meet the wife, sluice and soap the sunburned skin, and descend upon the Cafe du Monde to eat the chow of bliss again. Steak tartar again, a table d'hote, the grilled camembert and tarte tatin? A certainty of success, but will I, sitting on the plane this weekend, suffer the regret of the salmonless?

A ginger-scented weight of indecision. Also onions.