When Bud Parr announced the MetaxuCafé Holiday Gathering, I thought, "I'm in the area and I'm a bookblogger; I should go and meet some of the faces behind the blogs." Both Eddie and my sister agreed to accompany me, since there's safety in familiar numbers, and travel routes and meeting times were arranged. By Tuesday afternoon, my sister was forced to drop out due to an oncoming cold. Eddie was still game, so I met him at his apartment and a new route was mapped.

Neither of us is prompt, but it was Eddie who took the initiative and got us out the door. During the walk to the bus stop, I complained of being cold, missed the relative comfort of my car, and said I didn't want to go. He bears my eccentricities with unrivaled tolerance and kindly mentioned several times that it wasn't too late to turn around. Although I persisted in complaining, I didn't accept the out.

Despite initial enthusiasm, why did I suddenly not want to go? To be honest, I am a coward and suffer from a critical personality flaw that causes me to second guess myself into cringing inaction.

If Eddie was okay with returning home, why did we plod grudgingly on? I had already left a comment on Chekhov's Mistress saying I was going, in the mistaken belief that I am not a coward.

I've been to two blogmeets before. I went to both with Kate of KateSpot, who helped organize them and held my hand through the initial meeting of each attendee. If it wasn't for her, I would never have gotten to know two bloggers who are also fine people: Jim of Parkway Rest Stop (Congrats on your 2006 Weblog Award!) and Zonker of Thunder and Roses. So, as you can see, I am not a stranger to meeting strangers.

Yet, something happened upon stepping across the threshold of Verlaine. Panic, in the form of questions swirling through my head like sand in a windstorm, pushed all other thoughts aside. Do I know what anyone looks like? Where in this bar are they? The front or the back? Do I just walk up to someone and say I'm here for the MetaxuCafé thing and what do I do if that someone isn't? How is "MetaxuCafé" pronounced anyway? Does anyone even know what BookBlog is? What do I say if I meet someone and have no idea what their blog is? Where's the bathroom?

Not knowing what else to do, Eddie and I sidled up to the bar and ordered drinks. As we sat there, we overheard a conversation taking place behind us. A small group talked about authors, but not authors they had read, authors they actually knew. We realized we were sitting at the edge of the MetaxuCafé group, and I realized I was under-equipped for conversation regarding authors and books and literariness.

I used to work for a publisher. I've been to BEA, BEC, LBF, FBF, and dozens of other book fairs multiple times each. I've seen The Rock Bottom Remainders perform at ABA—before it became BEA—and have shaken hands with many authors. Once, I even almost managed to get myself thrown out of a BBC launch party when I dissed the Teletubbies within earshot of the man responsible for the companion publishing program. I run a web log that is the number one Google result for "book blog" and seems to post decent traffic numbers. I love to read and talk about books.

Somehow, though, I still can't shake the feeling of being a literary poseur. It's the personality flaw mentioned above. Eddie offered to make the first move and introduce us around. But I suggested that we leave, and we did, with him being ever tolerant and not holding me against myself.

We ended up at Katz's Delicatessen (of fake orgasmic When Harry Met Sally fame) eating knishes and sharing a pastrami sandwich. During the bus ride home, which happened after much walking back and forth inside the Port Authority Bus Terminal searching for the correct gate, it was decided that the outing was an adventure rather than a total loss due to my paralyzing cowardice.

And we got to eat one hell of a tasty pastrami sandwich.