conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Awards, Nebula, Hugo with the genre: Science Fiction & Fantasy, Science Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Longest Way Home'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first five paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Longest Way Home
  At Juan Santamaria airport I pass a life-size, cardboard cutout of a delicate-looking young woman propped up beside the customs desk, reminding everyone that sex with a minor is illegal and punishable by a stint in local prison. I wonder what it is exactly that I've been sent to Costa Rica to learn.
  I make my way to a small hangar beside the main terminal and find an old man with tousled gray hair and a drooping mustache. He's waiting for me. Beside him stands a teenager—no more than fifteen; they both wear white, short-sleeved shirts, with blue and gold bars on their shoulders. They're standing beside a twin-engine, six-seat prop plane.
  I'm heading to the Osa Peninsula, on Costa Rica's southwestern Pacific coast. The underdeveloped Osa is far from the well-worn eco-circuit of volcanoes, zip lines through cloud forests, and surf schools along the northern coast, for which Costa Rica has become famous.
  Again, the tired old man nods. I approach the plane and give the fragile-looking wing a gentle shake. The entire plane rocks badly. The old man holds up a finger of warning.
  Before I climb aboard I check my e-mail. D has just sent a message. It hasn't downloaded completely, only the subject line has come through: "WARNING," it reads.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is four more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It's 104 degrees when Boog Powell, a slugger I remember from very early in my youth, throws out the ceremonial first pitch at 7:01 in the evening. The humidity is resting steady at 94 percent. Because the Orioles are struggling so badly—as they perennially do—tickets were easy to come by. We just stand out by the front gate of Camden Yards, and people come running at us to unload their extra seats. The baseball stadium was built in the retro ballpark style that launched a trend and helped spearhead the revitalization of Baltimore when it opened in 1992; I've always wanted to see it.
  A skinny guy with bright red hair promises us his tickets are right behind the dugout and offers them at less than face value. Buying tickets on the street outside a venue was something I used to do often. Reading a scalper's pitch and potential for scam is an art form, but this is an Orioles game in Baltimore, not a Bruce Springsteen concert in New Jersey, and the urgency and potential for being ripped off are minimal. Still, I walk away and let Seve handle it.
  And they are. In fact, they're the best seats in the house, front row, right behind the Orioles dugout—as promised.
  A vendor comes down the aisle, shouting, "Ice-cold water. Tasty beer!" His face is pouring sweat. The first few innings roll past with little action. Neither the Orioles nor the Angels get a man on base. The normal rhythm of the game—practice tosses, warm-up swings, and covert signals—asserts itself. From the sparse crowd around us come halfhearted encouragements. "We'll get 'em next time, J.J.," and "Get wood on it, baby," and after a called third strike comes a baseball favorite, "That's bullshit!" echoing out onto the field. I haven't been to a baseball game in several years, and although I've never before set foot in Camden Yards, I feel as comfortable here as in my living room.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs? End with the sentence ' — 1st Free Press hardcover ed.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: What advice would you give to an amateur traveler, looking for a unique or off-the-beaten-path traveling experience?
  I always encourage people to ask for help on the road. Making oneself vulnerable is the surest way to a connection that makes for memorable travel. No one has ever refused me help while on the road. No matter how low-down the place might be, everyone has a pride in where they live, and they want you to experience it in a good light. I've ended up around some pretty interesting dinner tables simply because I asked for directions.
  I'm just finishing a novel that I've been working on for a while. And I'm due to do some traveling—I have a story in India, and another down in Brazil that I need to do.
  ANDREW McCARTHY is a writer, actor, and director. He is an editor at large for National Geographic Traveler and has written for The New York Times, The Atlantic, and The Wall Street Journal. The Society of American Travel Writers named him the Travel Journalist of the Year in 2010 and presented him with their Grand Award in 2011. McCarthy made his acting debut at nineteen and has appeared in dozens of films, including Pretty in Pink, St. Elmo's Fire, and The Joy Luck Club. He lives in New York.
  The longest way home : one man's quest for the courage to settle down/Andrew McCarthy. — 1st Free Press hardcover ed.