I spent three days at the biggest book fair in the world, the Frankfurt Buchmesse. A ‘messe’ is a fair, which is different from a ‘fest’. I guess; dunno, don’t speak German. A messe celebrates a thing, while fests just celebrate. Think Octoberfest and all the attendant mayhem. A messe is also mayhem, but with a theme: in this case, books. Not beer. Although there was plenty of that, and I got a bit messe – dup.
See what I did there?
I attended by invite from the “And I Thought,” Ladies, Jade and Wilnona, who are poets and entrepreneurs and dynamic publishers and representatives and I can’t say enough about them, even if their true powers remain a mystery to me. I have never been one to grasp the workings and subtleties of any business, let alone the publishing industry (as evidenced by my sales), but these two are masters of it. Simply watching them work was impressive. Even if I didn’t understand it.
The Buchmesse has been an ongoing concern since sometime in the 12th Century when people swapped handwritten books in a field there, and really took off after Gutenberg showed up. When you’ve been doing something for this long, it tends to grow and, wow, is this thing big. Acres and acres of buildings, themselves acres and acres of hallways and stairs and passageways connected by moving walkways so I managed to get from the entrance to our little table at 5.1, 5.1 (which is the unique German way of indicating the second floor of building 5) without collapsing. Although I did have to stop and catch my breath a lot.
Lots of people there. Lots and lots. Every publisher/literary agent/artist/editor in the known and unknown world attended because, well, it’s their Superbowl. Less inclined to attend and with less of a purpose were writers such as me, gazing wistfully at the assemblage and hoping one of the rich and powerful would deign a glance and maybe toss a shilling into the tattered cap. Like Marc here, a Swiss wannabe. These people are the movers and shakers, not the assembly line workers, and one could not even glance in the direction of a literary maven without first having obtained an appointment. Or having caught the eye. I did neither, but still made some interesting contacts.
The Ladies apparently know everyone in the publishing industry, all of whom made it a point to drop by and say hi, including Aussies and Zealanders who told us hilarious stories about TSA inspections and queries they endured upon transiting the US: “Do you intend to marry a US citizen?” Stunned pause; “Is that mandatory?”
All this visitation wasn’t all that easy given that our table was the size of a family rowboat and just as crowded; along with the aforementioned attendees, we had Deborah Franklin Publishing, Madville Publishing, and Susan Mattaboni, who is a big deal author (unlike me), arrayed about the place, along with books and assorted giveaway items like bookmarks and geegaws. I don’t know how many times my clumsy self knocked various combinations of these throwaways all over the floor every time I squeezed by.
The public was allowed entry on Friday through Sunday, and they stalked the halls in a relentless effort to find and purchase any and every book available in English. I don’t know why, but the Germans are gaga over English books. That superior German education system making English pretty much their second language helps although, given the recent and obvious decline of the English speaking world, they may be better off learning Chinese. The Ladies decided to attract a little attention with a themed approach, and the first day they were 1920s flappers and I was Al Capone, and then a Great Gatsby day where they were flappers and I was a Peaky Blinder’s thug. Don’t ask me what that has to do with Great Gatsby. It worked because I sold practically every book I brought with me, which has never happened to me in any other conference I have ever attended, where I usually count on one hand the numbers sold. Had to use two hands and a foot to keep up here.
Incidentally, practically everyone drifting by greeted me as “Sherlock Holmes!” Really, bud? See a deerstalker hat and a tartan rain cape anywhere in this scenario? Sheesh.
The Ladies then squired me through the real Buchmesse, which is the after-parties held at the various booths by the various publishers, where the real deals are made, usually the purchase and selling of translation rights and services. The Aussie/Zealander reps hoisted a beer with us at the Zealand booth, and the Irish booth had its own Celtic band and, of course, Guinness. I made excellent contact with Korean and Canadian publishers. We’ll see how that goes.
My brother and nephew showed up and I ran around Frankfurt with them for awhile, specifically to a hamburger place called Goldies which my nephew swore made the best hamburgers in Germany, about which he wanted an American’s opinion. Goldies turned out to be a window in a building where you placed an order and then received your hamburger, eating it over a trash can on the street. Great ambiance. And quite popular, with a line out the door and down the street where patrons were in constant danger of vehicular assault. The hamburger? Meh. In this American’s opinion.
After the Buchmesse closed, I took a Flixbus from Frankfurt to Heilbronn and the family compound. I love Flixbus; it beats the train for price and speed. I visited my mother, who is quite ill, and then went out with my sister to a local plant store to do a little shopping. ‘Plant store’ is an understatement; it’s a mega WalMart type place with its own Christmas market and restaurants. Should open one of these here. My sister met up with friends and it turned into the Five with me as the hapless male. The last time I went with my sister to visit her friends I almost jumped off a building. Almost did here, too, although the ladies are quite nice and fun including Sovie, the Norwegian owner of a neighboring house slowly being eaten by sentient plants, and Hannalore, whose husband, Herman, had recently passed. He was a good guy, in the 1950s escaping East Berlin where he was a Border Guard.
I stayed at the airport Holiday Inn because they give us old fart retired guys a military discount, and it was a rather decent place with a rather decent restaurant. I took prohibitively expensive taxis back and forth until I figured out the S Bahn and Underground system, which was rather inexpensive, and oddly run. It’s on the honor system; you don’t actually have to buy a ticket to get on or get out. No trestles, no validation machines – just enter the station and wait for your train. But God help you if the conductors find you without a ticket.
I had a devil of a time both getting to and leaving Germany because I used Space A. It’s a privilege extended to us old fart retired guys, equivalent to waiting at a port for a tramp steamer to come by and signing on with the crew. I tried to get on a military flight out of BWI but apparently every other military member in the tri-state area wanted to get on that plane, which was the only one flying that week, so I missed it. Three days later, I ended up on a C-17 out of Dover AFB, which is probably the unfriendliest airbase for Space-A travelers. It took me four days to get back to Dover from Ramstein, with potential rides canceled or moved or mysteriously disappearing. I slept in expensive hotel rooms, in passenger terminals, and even hotel lobbies until I finally snagged a ride home. Life is an adventure.
I think the trip was worth it, as a test of endurance more than anything because it’s getting harder and harder for an old fart like me to make such trips, especially with all the medication I lug around. Still, a conclave of book lovers is an event to be experienced.
Think I might try that London Book Fair.