It was a hot afternoon in Chiang Mai, Thailand and I was trying to keep to the sliver of shade at the edge of the narrow street. My arms were full of books. I had just spent a couple of hours combing through the used book stores along the road. I was anxious to get back to the hostel. I had to find a way to stuff all these books in my backpack before our flight to Koh Samui later that afternoon. An older couple walked towards me on the narrow sidewalk, also trying to stay within the confines of the shadows. “That’s a lot of books,” the husband exclaimed. “What have you got there?” Americans, I thought to myself, and friendly ones, too. The man had a head of pure white hair. His wife walked with a long staff. They were on their first month of a six month stay in Southeast Asia. Avid readers, they were tickled with all the used book stores in Chiang Mai.
The husband plucked the top book off my stack. “The Andromeda Strain! Now there’s an exciting book!” It had been an impulse buy. I had searched the stores for the heavy nonfiction and contemporary lit that I love, but I was mostly finding stuff like James Patterson and John Grisham, the crack of used book stores in travelers’ towns. Among the romances and mysteries, I found a long row of Michael Crichton. I recognized “Jurassic Park” and considered it for a moment. A little escapist reading would be a nice change, I thought. Then my eyes settled on “The Andromeda Strain.” I love books about infectious disease and I’d heard this one was a thriller. I picked it up.
“Michael Crichton is a genius.” Back on the street, the man gushed on and on about the book. “He wrote this back in the 60s. What did we know back then? Killer viruses, space ships…Reading one of his books is like a trip to the library. His research is phenomenal. Read more of his books, you’ll really learn a lot more than you expect!” A few more pleasantries exchanged and we were on our separate ways again.
A few days later I lay on the beach so engrossed in the book that I failed to notice the deepening red burn working its way over my legs and stomach, not unlike the way Andromeda ate through all those Piedmont residents. It was only 285 pages and it lasted me all of a few hours, but I couldn’t get the story out of my head. The man in Chiang Mai had been right.
I was sad to see that Michael Crichton passed away this week, at 66 years. My experience with his writing is limited to Andromeda, I’m sorry to say. That’s something I will remedy as soon as I find myself back in a used book store mecca.
