Thursday, December 27, 2012

SHENZEN, April-May, 2004 (Part 1)

For weeks I'd whined about higher-than-expected clothing prices in Hong Kong, so it was time to venture deeper into retail Shangri-La and give the shopping pastime another chance. I learned a paradise of bargains was located in a town called Shenzhen.

Hong Kong is made up of four main districts: the island, Kowloon, the outlying islands and, up north, the New Territories. Shenzhen lies across the border from the New Territories. I said the name over and over because it felt good in my mouth, like a song: Shenzhen, Shenzhen, Shenzhen.

In 1980 China opened the area as a commercial shopping district when they realized capitalism might have a point. Because it's in mainland China, a visa is required. The paperwork makes it clear your intention is to shop — not spy.

Shenzhen carries a reputation of being a not-altogether-safe destination. Before I left Los Angeles, I mentioned the possibility of my visiting Shenzhen to William's parents.

They expressed concern, dashed off a note and insisted I carry it with me:

    Get off the train, go through immigration, cross the bridge and go into the mall. DO NOT leave the mall, EVER. If you leave the mall you could be MUGGED, ROBBED, BEATEN, MURDERED or WORSE.

Okay.

Three women from William's work went on a Sunday afternoon and came back claiming they'd been followed the entire time by "a very sinister man."

William didn't want to go and, more importantly, didn't want me to go. But I needed a little danger to buck up my courage after fleeing Lockhart Road like a big baby. I wanted to see Shenzhen.

William tightened the straps on my backpack. He checked me out to see if looked "muggable." He took me by the shoulders, looked me in the eyes and said, Just come back alive.

This is a part of marriage I really like. The part where someone really cares if you come home alive. The part where my jacket is zipped up or "drive safe" is called out when I head to the car. The part where a hand reaches out in sleepy darkness to pat my thigh when I'm wide awake waiting for the ceiling fan to tell me my future.

I'm not so crazy about what we call "the box." I don't take well to being shut out and William takes very well to shutting himself in. He's capable of immersing himself in a task for long stretches of time, which serves him well at work, where he has put in up to twenty-six-hour workdays.

But when he remains in "the box" at home, I take it entirely personally. I'll get grunts instead of answers. Heavy sighs when I break his concentration. And I think it always has to be about me. Something I did or didn't do. Said or didn't say. I simply cannot accept it has nothing to do with me.

Before we redid the house, he was delighted to have the joint shuttered up with the blinds closed. I came along and tore them down. People will see in, he said. My reply: And they'll be bored. There's nothing to see. Really, we aren't that interesting.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 16)

Years ago I learned a travel tip that serves me well to this day: Hop on a bus, anywhere, and look. In Hong Kong, many of the buses are double-deckers. I took my Octopus card and deliberately got lost.

Octopus is the name of Hong Kong's "smart payment" system; Octopus cards can be bought almost anywhere to be used almost anywhere. Once purchased there is no time limit and simply adding cash keeps it current. I used it on ferries, trains, buses and trolley cars. You can also use it at McDonald's, William liked to remind me.

The ferry to Hong Kong Island was charming, the metros fast, quiet and clean, the buses reliable. Getting around Hong Kong was a pleasure.

A city bus usually has a circular route. It's a cheap and easy way to sightsee, but in Hong Kong it can also be an adventure. In fact, if you're a fan of thrill rides, take a Hong Kong double-decker.

I'd climb to the upper level of the bus, sit in the front, grip the rail and hang on. Many streets were hilly, curvy and narrow. When negotiating a turn, the driver slowed his two-tiered behemoth to a near-stop and inched us to within inches of the retaining wall. I held my breath and waited for the sound of metal on rock, but we always cleared the turn and continued on our way.

In calmer moments, the ongoing enterprise of Hong Kong's construction fascinated me. From our apartment window I watched mile-high buildings rise, encased in intricate bamboo scaffolding. Bamboo is plentiful, substantial as metal and has the added grace of flexibility. Workers clambered up and down the wooden matrix with ease.

I harbored doubts about the quality of the construction, however, since our apartment regularly filled with the aroma of whatever the folks next door were cooking. William would arrive home from work thinking he was getting a hot meal, and I'd tell him to visit the neighbors because we were having a cold salad.

I also made plans to explore Wan Chai, a district on Hong Kong Island also known as "Sailortown." Popular with U.S. armed forces during World War II and the Vietnam War, military personnel spent their R&R in Wan Chai's red-light neighborhood. Here I was at ground zero for The World of Suzie Wong, a love story between an artist and a prostitute (with a heart of gold, of course).

The area had cleaned up considerably since Suzie modeled for Robert Lomax. It was now chock-a-block with fancy restaurants and domiciles for the wealthy. The Wan Chai waterfront is home to the Hong Kong Convention and Exhibition Centre and the Hong Kong Performing Arts Center, where Broadway musicals open year-round. In the mood for Annie? Wan Chai is where you'll find her.

Much of the area was shiny and new, but I was in a more salacious mood and attracted to the more, let's say, colorful side of Wan Chai's history. Lockhart Road upholds these ideals. It probably wasn't a great place for a woman on her own to poke around at night, but I felt brave and secure in the daylight. At first.

Once again, it was as if I were transported into a movie. Colored lights flashed atop bars called Blue Girl, Copacabana, and Pussy Cat. A giant martini glass pulsed in neon as its green olive blinked on and off. This street of dreams still beckoned hardworking sailors on a Saturday night and acted as a wonderland for an inquisitive tourist.

I looked up, I looked around, and mid-Mary Tyler Moore-spin I stopped. I was being scrutinized by the ladies outside the clubs. I was in the wrong movie and they were setting me straight. I did not belong on Lockhart Road. I didn't dare go inside, or even pop my head into a bar on Lockhart Road.

I shouldn't have been so nervous. The likelihood of being mistaken for a working girl was preposterous, but I sensed I was out of my element in this neighborhood. My presence on Lockhart Road was akin to stepping into a couple's bedroom by mistake. I scurried off like a chastised child.

Thursday, December 13, 2012

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 15)

Gosh, do you think I'll need a jacket?

Wonder if I should bring a sweater?

These sentiments disappeared completely from our conversations.

By the third week of April, Hong Kong's days were hot and humid. I found myself taking cold showers and doing a lot of laundry. On the streets I periodically ducked into stores for the cool rush of air conditioning. I gulped the icy ventilation as if sucking from an oxygen mask. I would stroll an aisle or two, feigning interest in the merchandise, then dive back into the stifling heat for a few more blocks.

Five minutes outside and my sunglasses were sliding off my nose in a river of sweat.

To hear the locals tell it, we're having a perfectly cool spring and it doesn't get really bad until July.

I met a middle-aged woman in the elevator of our apartment building. She was from Atlanta. Four years ago she moved to Hong Kong with her husband, an IBM consultant.

I asked how she liked living here.

Oh, I love it! she enthused, then added, I do have to return to Atlanta for the summer though...it's so much cooler there.

Having spent summers in the American South, cooler was not a word I'd use.

Of course, we're having a lovely, cool spring in Hong Kong this year, she said with a big smile.

I looked down at my blue jeans, soaked through and embarrassingly dark with perspiration. Instantly grouchy, I wanted to smack her across the head with my backpack.

Here's what I did love about our neighborhood: We lived on the same block as the Hong Kong Cultural Centre, the Hong Kong Museum of Art and the Hong Kong Space Museum. A little further up the street, we had the science and history museums.

All these venues were free on Wednesdays, so that's when I went. One evening I popped next door and saw the Merce Cunningham Dance Company at the cultural center. Walking next door for highbrow entertainment was my idea of convenient...and all the buildings were air-conditioned.

Thursday, December 6, 2012

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 14)

William had no idea what stone he had overturned with his response, but it was a big one.

It took me a long time to share my writing with him after that. He continued to offer to proofread my emails, but when I wrote a book I didn't show one page to him. I didn't believe he could really hear or understand my writing voice, and worse, I'd let a dream spill out of my mouth.

William had issues with voicing his own aspirations. When I said things to him like One day you're going win an Oscar, he would roll his eyes and look at me like he ardently hoped I would shut the hell up.

I tend to jump up and down, yelling my dreams for the world to hear. My husband is the opposite.

What's your dream? I asked him.

He shrugged.

Come on. You must have something.

Make money and retire.

That's it?

Sure, I want to take care of you. That's good enough for me.

I don't believe you.

It's true.

I don't believe you.

And I was right.

Thursday, November 29, 2012

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 13)

In both Rome and Hong Kong I had started to chronicle my travels and send email travelogues to friends and family. In part, my writing was the result of being on my own so much. I needed to speak, in English. I needed to communicate what I was experiencing.

Up to this point, my writing life had existed only in screenplay format. Writing prose and memoir was fresh territory and my readers back home responded favorably to my efforts.

After lunch with William one afternoon in Hong Kong, I broached the subject of taking my writing further.

Hey, you know, I think I might be able to write a book.

What do you mean?

Like, maybe a book about my travels, expanding on my email essays.

William and I have a favorite travel writer who will remain nameless at this juncture, but that writer's name came up right here.

Well, William offered, you're no _____________________.

I know I'm not __________________! I'm not saying I'm ______________! I'm saying I'm me and I think I have a book in me.

And then I cried. And he felt terrible.

Later on, this incident came up with our therapist.

Okay, William, she said, you basically pulled out a gun and shot her dream in the head. What are you, a literary critic? This is your wife, your partner. You stand behind her one hundred percent, no less. And, Mel, this is not about you. This is about how he sees himself.

If that comment had come from a colleague or friend, I may have thought fuck off and been done with it.

But it came from him. The one I want to impress. The one I want to make proud. I wanted his advice and encouragement. I craved his admiration. But in the moment I shrank away and heard a parent's voice from a long time ago. I sailed right on back to my eight-year-old self on the night I announced to my family that I wanted to grow up to be a professional actress.

What? You're not pretty. Don't be ridiculous. You'll be a nurse and that's that.

Thursday, November 22, 2012

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 12)

I'd been up Victoria Peak a couple of times on the bus before deciding to try the famous Peak Tramway funicular. I happen to have a recurring nightmare of driving up an intensely vertical hill where I gain traction, then slip down, down, backward. That happens to be the Victoria Peak tram ride.

Operating since 1888 without a single accident, they say. Up it goes, ascending a dramatic incline then slipping back as it adjusts itself. Coming down isn't any less terrifying because the tram is on a single track and passengers are thrown against their seats in what feels like a backward freefall.

Glad I did it. Once.

On a Sunday afternoon William and I sailed to the island of Macau, a sixty-minute ferry ride from Kowloon. Macau, a Chinese territory settled by the Portuguese in the sixteenth century, remained in Portugal's hands until 1999. Today Macau is on a fast track to becoming the Atlantic City of Asia.

Because the Black Ships of Lisbon traded goods between Japan and China from Macau, Portuguese architecture dominates the landscape in pink, yellow and white buildings with arched windows and ornate staircases.

Macau is not, however, a quaint, sleepy fishing village. It's a gambling hub of flashy lights and showy fountains competing with its more vintage aspects.

Wandering up and down the narrow, hilly cobblestone streets, we saw furniture shops filled with reasonably priced pieces that would cost a fortune at home. They're advertised as antiques but I learned that craftspeople here are very good at creating "antiques," so who knows, and really, who cares? I'd have been happy with any of them but wasn't about to start shipping, certainly not without a Black Ship of Lisbon.

We settled into just looking, and lunched on a popular Macau treat: custard tarts. Flaky pastry encasing a creamy and airy pudding. We sat with our paper bag of sweet goodies on the steps outside what was once the Cathedral of St. Paul.

A tall gray stone façade is the only remaining component of the original structure, giving it the appearance of a film set. This poor building apparently never got the memo that it wasn't supposed to be here, ever.

First constructed in 1580, the cathedral barely survived two fires, one in 1595 and another in 1601. It was rebuilt, phew, breathed a sigh of relief and then a typhoon stormed through in 1835 and the building caught fire a third and final time. Periodically the Ruins of St. Paul's are restored...to what? I guess being really good ruins. I can vouch for the ruins as a dandy place to eat tarts on a sunny spring afternoon.

After our day on Macau we headed home to Kowloon. I babbled on to William about tomorrow being the day we would pick up his newly tailored linen suit. He didn't say anything. I did all the talking, using words like dapper, classy and rakish. William studied the shoreline as we breezed by on the ferry. He seemed amused that I didn't get the memo any more than those poor builders of the Cathedral of St. Paul.

Thursday, November 15, 2012

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 11)

One more block and we landed at Temple Street and the market itself, where merchandise hung on racks and overlapped on rickety tables. I bought a pashmina-type shawl and a pair of Ray Ban-style sunglasses. A week later the lenses popped out of the frames. Yes sir, you get what you pay for. Maybe I was lousy at shopping.

I took a pass on the wigs, watches, T-shirts, dresses, teapots...well, they have everything. Temple Street, a blinding and atmospheric adventure, is worth the view. We sucked in the tangy smoke rising from grill carts piled with barbecued meats. I bought a crepe, stuffed with ham and melting cheese, wrapped in a wax paper cone.

Around another corner we came to the goldfish market, where hundreds of bags of the minnows hung outside storefronts. Many children own the little fish as pets because it's difficult to own a puppy in a tiny high-rise apartment.

As William and I ducked in and around the hordes I asked if he could ever live here. His answer was a firm no. We agreed Hong Kong was dazzling but claustrophobic. Also, for William the experience held myriad strange touchstones. He looked like a local, but there all cultural similarity ended because William was born in New York and grew up in Southern California.

William described his time in Hong Kong as Roots meets Lost in Translation. Waiters in restaurants addressed William in Cantonese and when he responded with a blank stare the shock on their faces was obvious. William's fish-out-of-water experience was even more palpable than mine. I was supposed to be out of water while he was supposed to be swimming — but had never learned how.

Did I ever tell you what a friend said to me when he heard we were dating?

What?

He said, I never knew you were into Asian men.

Really?

I know, weird, huh? Like you're a fetish.

What did you say?

I said, I'm into this one, that's all I know.

We took to pointing out what we called "CLUs" when we were in public. Couples Like Us. It was a rare thing to see an Asian man with a white woman, although the opposite was commonplace. In two months in Hong Kong we saw exactly two CLUs.

Sometimes I'd daydream about getting out of Los Angeles and living in the country in another state. If we sold our small house in Los Angeles, we could get a mansion in somewhere like Iowa. On television I'd seen commercials of happy, rich couples raising llamas in Idaho and think, We could do that. Llamas look nice enough.

And llamas are likely nice enough...but we'd be so far out of our league when it came to CLUs. And I'd ponder what that would really be like. It would be way too weird for me, for us.

I squeezed William's hand as we walked through Temple Market. We would probably always be city folk. Swimming in pools of mixed-up fish was where we belonged.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 10)

As much as I thought I could resist the shopping thing, once more it proved unavoidable.

The next day, I discovered a Deco-designed department store called Shanghai Tang. A boutique of impeccable Chinese chic. I admired the polished wood floors, wrought-iron staircase railing and dresses hand-made in slippery silks and brocades. These were displayed next to aqua, coral and lemon-yellow cashmere sweaters stacked perfectly on shelves. I didn't dare touch and I didn't buy, but boy, did I take it all in.

William and I spent an evening at the famous Temple Street night market. We climbed out of the subway, walked three blocks, and we heard them before we saw them: Cantonese singers performing traditional Chinese opera.

I'm not an opera buff, but I can appreciate the melody of Puccini. This was not that. This was discordant, squeaky and bordering on shrill. I'm told it's an acquired taste (the cilantro or caviar of music) and with time and careful listening an appreciation develops. This may be so, but what I heard that night was heartache, high drama and shrieking. Lined up one after another, these Cantonese singers in garishly painted faces fought for our attention. Felliniesque.

The Temple Street night market is known as "The Nightclub of the People," and here was the evidence. The crowd, the singers and the sellers shone under brilliant green, blue and red lights. The streets of Hong Kong are always as packed and glowing as the Las Vegas Strip.

We arrived at a row of fortune tellers with their hopeful customers. Spread in front of each oracle, a method of divination: a raised palm, Tarot cards and overturned teacups. The clients, still and desperate, hung on to every syllable dropped from the seers' lips.

I'd be exactly like that, I thought, because I have a weakness for wanting to know: What the hell is going to happen to me? Maybe these people could tell me where I was supposed to find my purpose and creativity. Maybe they had the inside track on this information. I slid closer, like a moth hovering near a light bulb, and felt William's hand on my elbow tugging me to the other side of the street.

Whatcha doin'? he asked.

Looking. Just looking. Jeez.

Uh huh.

Well, you never know. Really you never know who might know something of value.

That may be so, but I can tell you they don't.

I glanced back over my shoulder and secretly speculated if they knew: What the hell is going to happen to me? What am I supposed to be doing with my life?

Thursday, November 1, 2012

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 9)

Hong Kong weather is dramatic. Spring days are often cloudy but sticky. A walk down a crowded street assails the senses with exhaust fumes and the thick air hurts the lungs and muscles. Thunderstorms arrive unexpectedly and drenching rains create little rivers in the gutters. Lightning flashes in zig-zags over the harbor, competing with the city's nightly laser light shows.

Earthquakes are not commonplace, as they are in Japan, but typhoons are. The tempests are categorized on a scale of one through ten. At Level 8, officials declare a "direct hit." At that point, one is advised to stay clear of windows. Typhoon season starts in June and I was scheduled to be gone by then.

One night in April, a thunderstorm arrived, full of bravado. Lightning flashed and thunder exploded like bombs in the sky. On our way to dinner we joined a lineup of people waiting for taxis, each of which hydroplaned to the curb.

During the week, William and I would meet for lunch and dine on Indian, Taiwanese, Italian, American, Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese — the benefits of being in a cosmopolitan center. Once, I mentioned to William that I was oddly in the mood for Chinese. His response: You're in the wrong town for that, sister.

On this particular rainy night, we were off to celebrate William's birthday at a Hong Kong institution, Jimmy's Kitchen. This restaurant has been popular for its Western-style cuisine since 1928. Jimmy's is reminiscent of the kind of New York City dining rooms seen in black-and-white movies of the 1940s, with dark wood paneling, ceiling fans, crisp linens, efficient waiters and jazz playing in the background. The menu choices included shrimp cocktail, baked onion soup, beef Wellington and chicken à la king.

I sipped a martini in a frosty glass and William had a scotch. We ate seafood vol-au-vent, oyster soup, rack of lamb and rare steak. A waiter presented a tray of accoutrements for our baked potatoes: small silver dishes with sour cream, chopped chives and bacon pieces. Dessert was Baked Alaska, dramatically flambéed at our table.

This was the dining experience of another generation and, hey, Isn't that Deborah Kerr nibbling on her martini olives? She may have put on a few, but was still elegant in a turquoise cheung sam with cap sleeves and narrow satin piping.

The storm passed during dinner and we walked home on shiny rain-slicked streets reflecting a parade of neon light in small puddles. This was the Hong Kong of the movies.

Thursday, October 25, 2012

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 8)

William and I adjusted to our lives Hong Kong. He was excited to be working with a director and crew he had worked with previously. I often joined William and his assistant for lunch. I liked her enormously. Maria was smart, calm and efficient. William counted on her and they had a good working relationship.

At one of our lunches, William quipped something and Maria laughed. He made another comment and they shared another laugh.

What's the joke? I asked.

He looked at me and answered, Oh, it doesn't matter...you wouldn't get it.

Try me.

It's okay, don’t worry about it.

After a few minutes, I glanced at my watch and said, Sorry, I have to run. I forgot I have an appointment with the tailor. See ya.

I bolted. Gou pi!

Later I confronted William.

You know that tailor appointment I had today?

Yeah?

I lied about that.

What do mean?

I had to get out of there.

Why?

That you wouldn't get it stuff . That was lousy. I felt like someone's clueless aunt. Like I was back in high school.

William looked like he'd been smacked. He looked way too shattered for the crime, if you ask me.

I really missed this one, Mel. I feel awful, I'm really, really sorry.

Yeah, I can see that. Okay. It's okay—

And he went on and on about how awful he felt. He berated himself over and over.

I spoke up. Hey, I'm the one who's hurt and you're taking that away by being more hurt.

And thus began a routine we would re-enact over the next few years. I'd call out a grievance. He'd be chagrined. Pained. Overwrought. Then I'd comfort him and wonder if I was overreacting.

William is a perfectionist. This makes him really good at his job...but sometimes difficult to live with. I'm a ruminator. This is handy as a writer...but sometimes difficult to live with because I can internalize everything then suddenly explode in an all-out attack.

We know we will wrestle with these issues our whole lives together. Knowing and doing are two different things — but at least we know.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 7)

On Easter Sunday I thought William and I should experience afternoon tea at the Peninsula hotel. Work had kept him busy and his sightseeing had been limited to cell-phone and DVD stores. It was high time for high tea, a signature British tradition left behind by exiting colonialists.

In 1997 the English gave up Hong Kong after 156 years of colonial rule. We were living on Salisbury Road, we shopped on Nathan Road and visited Aberdeen Harbor, but for the most part the British are very much gone and, though English is widely spoken, the streets are filled with a bustling Chinese population.

Nevertheless, I sensed glimmers of Hong Kong's colonial past. The spirit of a Macao-era Jane Russell lingered, a glass of champagne in one delicate hand while the other held a cigarette between perfectly manicured fingers. Maybe it was the time I'd spent with Mr. Tailor draping brocade silk across my body, but I could easily imagine Shantung suits, Mandarin collars, hairdos slick with pomade and a magenta orchid tucked behind a lady's ear.

There was something vaguely 1950s about Hong Kong. Curlicue ironwork, creaking wood stairwells with polished banisters, and intricate black-and-white floor tiles pulled me to an earlier time. I noticed a brick wall charred in history and wondered what its story was.

Yet every day I witnessed more construction and escalating architecture. It was odd to be in such a storied city surrounded by predominately 21st-century buildings. I'm an arrogant tourist; I wanted old stuff. I searched for cultural originality: a couple of pagodas, at the very least.

But Hong Kong insisted on reveling in her multiple personalities. She was an exotic hybrid of East and West, rich and poor, old and new. I'd catch an unfamiliar scent emanating from a Chinese apothecary and ponder who used those ancient concoctions. Next door, in a chic lime-green cocktail lounge, a group of hipsters sipped rosy cosmopolitans. And then the gadget stores with racks of watches, cameras, cell phones and DVD players.

My head reeled. I took a moment to stand in the commotion and let it swirl around me. For all of Hong Kong's modernism, I wanted to go backward. I wanted to steep myself in the romantic long ago I imagined Hong Kong to hold. Hence: tea time.

At the Peninsula, my heels clicked across the marble floor as we followed the maitre d' to a small table set with linen napkins alongside a creamer and sugar bowl in gleaming silver. We were surrounded by high, buttery walls topped in ornate gilt. Palm shrubs potted in bronze urns provided lush greenery beneath chandeliers hanging in gold fixtures.

Up on a balcony, musicians played "Somewhere I'll Find You." We lunched on crustless cucumber sandwiches, creamy pastries and currant scones with clotted cream. All very, very. Oh look, Noel Coward tinkling the ivories. I gave him a wink. Here we were, together in Hong Kong. Who would've thought?

Thursday, October 11, 2012

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 6)

Back in Los Angeles a friend had recommended a Hong Kong tailor.

There's nothing like an outfit cut and sewn just for you, she gushed. And the craftsmanship is outstanding. When in Hong Kong and all that, I guessed. And here I was once more...shopping.

At night, I lay awake imagining designs for myself and, oh, perfect, an off-white linen suit for William. Does William want a linen suit? Irrelevant.

I decided to track the gentleman tailor down and see what he had to say for himself. I stepped into a dark, musty office building on Nathan Road, took a creaky elevator to the second floor and entered a showroom filled floor to ceiling with fabric bolts, design books and fashion magazines. The slender tailor, in his striped dress shirt, blue tie and requisite measuring tape around his neck, greeted me and we talked clothes.

I pointed to a picture of Paris Hilton wearing a pair of swank trousers with a matching jacket and asked him if I was being ridiculous. He assured me I was not. I believed him. He's very good, I thought, and together we chose a navy Thai silk.

He took my measurements, which are not remotely close to those of Paris Hilton. Heady with fantasy, I decided to splurge on a second outfit. Together we came up with a design: a sleeveless top to match a pair of flared pants in red silk brocade.

The talented tailor created an outfit so glamorous it would take me a full four years to drum up the courage to wear it out of the house.

The clothing I commissioned was not inexpensive, but compared to what tailor-made would have run back home, it was an excellent deal.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 5)

At the top, I found more — oh, swell — shopping malls. I donned blinkers, parked myself at a railing and took in the harbor view far below the thick forest of the mountain. First thought: snakes.

Deep in the greenery I saw the remains of a colonial estate. Cheek in my hand, I considered what must have been a formerly white mansion now turned a dirty gray. Who lived there? Who sat on those porticoes and balconies? The architecture stood out from the contemporary, gleaming glass of the condominium buildings. This mansion resonated of another time in Hong Kong's history.

Victoria Peak provides cooler temperatures than the city it overlooks. Before the construction of roads and the Peak Tramway funicular, passage to the top was provided by sedan chair. Personally, I would find it difficult to rest comfortably while two poor souls hoisted me straight up the severe elevation, but I suppose this was the rickshaw mentality of another time.

When the British began their colonization of Hong Kong in 1842, they introduced Victorian and Edwardian architecture along the harbor. As the popularity of transport up Victoria Peak by sedan chair grew, so did the concept of living on the mountain. Between 1904 and 1930, those rich citizens of Hong Kong desiring getaways raised their chins heavenward and started to build. Manors sprang up with the whimsical names of Treverbyn, the Haystack and Myrtle Bank. All very Tea time! and Tennis, anyone?

I longed to slash and crawl my way through the overgrown vines and roam the mansion I was studying. Second thought: snakes.

Back at the bottom of the Peak, curiosity won out and sent me into shops filled with gorgeous silks, pearls and china. I ran my fingers over the fabric and admired carved vases and sculptures. Just looking, just looking became a mantra, until it came to food. It was nearly dinnertime and I needed groceries.

I skimmed back to Kowloon on the ferry and found a supermarket. Meat and chicken were more expensive than expected, and stickers with Danish, Brazilian and French flags indicated some cuts had traveled nearly as far as I had. Because Hong Kong is an island, much of the food is imported: cheese and wine from Italy, lamb from New Zealand, lettuce from California.

Only after loading my cart and paying did I remember I wasn't back home and didn’t have a car. I could have flagged a taxi, but in my stubbornness and frugality figured the distance didn't warrant the extravagance. I heaved my bulging backpack over my shoulders and picked up a full bag in each hand.

Along crowded sidewalks I lugged, readjusted, and cursed myself for buying anything in a bottle or can.

And this became my grocery shopping ritual in Hong Kong. Unless torrential rain forced me into a taxi, I walked weighted down by my goods. In the end, I was rewarded by the loss of a good five pounds. Hmmm...maybe I deserved to celebrate with some new clothes.

Thursday, September 27, 2012

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 4)

Step One was getting out of the mall we called home and onto the streets of Hong Kong, where I found myself angling through crowds in a crazy dance. The city byways were not only packed with foot traffic, but every other intersection was in the throes of demolition. Detours routed pedestrians this way and that.

I jostled, bumped and careened through cars and trucks and hordes of people. It was a shock to step out of our quiet apartment, swoosh down inside a silent elevator and then — whoa — slam into a mass of humanity that made Manhattan seem tranquil.

Persevering, I came upon an alley with a row of small booths, each one stacked with knockoff designer handbags, sneakers and sunglasses.

Okay, just a little look-see. Studying the goods, I picked up a running shoe, tried on a pair of glasses, then got quite excited when I found a snappy four-dollar backpack in a booth piled with flowery luggage. Sold.

The damn thing lasted exactly two months and fell apart in my hands the day I flew home.

My Hong Kong browsing also took me through several Watsons drugstores, where I discovered inexpensive toiletries. I developed a real affection for these stores, but how many jars of skin cream or tubes of toothpaste did I really need?

Drop it. Drop the shopping thing.

The green-and-white Star Ferry slipped across Victoria Harbor, from Kowloon Peninsula to Hong Kong Island. After this breezy trip, I jumped on a bus that traveled a twisty route straight up to Victoria Peak, the highest mountain on Hong Kong Island. Because of the area's subtropical climate, the peak's hillsides are a mass of verdant jungle into which soaring apartment buildings are precariously built. Condominiums in this neighborhood sell in the millions of dollars, ranking Hong Kong real-estate prices third in the world, behind London and Monaco.

Hong Kong's population of nearly seven million is squeezed into about 425 square miles. Views from Victoria Peak to the harbor are spectacular. Hong Kong is the banking center of China and its ports serve a worldwide community in trade and commerce. This combination of factors has buyers lined up and prepared to shell out exorbitant amounts for homes aloft in the clouds.

On the bus ride up, I craned my neck to see cemeteries cut into the mountainside. Far below, on tiny green fields, I could see what looked like insects chasing an itsy-bitsy soccer ball. I don't suffer from vertigo, but at this dizzy height I breathed deeply and chose to trust the driver. What else could I do?

Thursday, September 20, 2012

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 3)

After he left for the airport, I stood alone in the kitchen. Spencer brushed against my leg. Stinky looked up with big brown eyes. I was lost. I had to trust that our bubble would not burst.

Thirty-six hours later William called home.

I'm glad I'm married.

What do you mean?

On the flight I thought about it and once I got here and talked to people in the office, it just hit me. I liked calling you my wife. As in "My wife will arrive later" or "My wife will need a ride to the airport." I liked it. I like being married.

It surprises you?

A little...yeah.

I smiled. I liked hearing this and it surprised me a little as well. Different. Better.

I miss you so much.

Me too.

Two months. Two months.

And those two months finally passed and I too zoomed to the airport and around the globe.

At the Hong Kong airport William greeted me with a big smile. I slipped back into our bubble and the car that delivered us to our apartment, where William had flowers, wine and a dim-sum lunch waiting. Although our one-bedroom living space was basic and beige, it was roomy enough and had a kitchen.

Hong Kong is vertical. Our apartment, in the district of Kowloon, was above a shopping mall. Almost everything in Hong Kong is above a shopping mall. Giant, blocks-long, dazzling shopping malls. Certainly I had been aware of Hong Kong's reputation as a shopping mecca. However, brand-name bargains didn't jump out at me. Had I traveled over seven thousand miles only to find Rodeo Drive prices?

Further quelling any potential homesickness, the familiar faces of Hollywood stars greeted me every day. Actors we don’t normally see hawking products in the U.S. take the money and run in Asia. The steely handsomeness of Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Adrien Brody stared down at me from giant billboards.

I decided to dump the notion of shopping and better use my time to explore this lofty burg. However, as gambling is to Vegas, consumerism is to Hong Kong. Shopping is the territory's lifeblood and I would find myself sucked into the sport over and over.

Thursday, September 13, 2012

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 2)

A few months earlier, shortly after our elopement, William's parents had held a traditional Chinese banquet to celebrate. To prepare, William and I took dance classes, practicing to "Overjoyed" in a piece specially choreographed by our dance teacher. We dipped, spun and laughed through weeks of practice sessions, each one followed by a delicious sushi dinner in a restaurant below the studio.

For the banquet, our talented designer friend, Gilles, made me a red silk dress with a tiny bustle and an elegant train. William wore a dark suit with a red tie. We arrived at our party and met lots and lots of strangers. William's parents had planned every element of the evening and all we had to do was get dressed, show up, and dance.

Traditional dragon dancers entertained the crowd, a five-piece band played and friends and relatives from as far away as Australia, Japan and Hong Kong attended. An elaborate multi-course meal was served, wine was poured and we performed our dance. We laughed and chatted and did all the things that wedding couples do.

William's parents were brimming with happiness. We understood this evening was as much for them as it was for us. William took the microphone and raised his glass to them. I want to toast my mom and dad for this evening. Thank you for showing us how to celebrate.

We spent the night sharing looks, smiling and touching hands. Our bubble had begun to form. A few weeks later we took a two-day honeymoon to Newport Beach, where we rode bikes along the seashore, slept in during the mornings and dined on steaks at night.

A few days later it was time for William to leave for Hong Kong.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

HONG KONG: April-May, 2004 (Part 1)

A ticket to Hong Kong. What an opportunity.

Having never been to Asia, I cleaved to cinematic images of what the metropolis, with its grand harbor, must look like. I pictured small junks with papery sails contrasted against skyscraping architecture. I imagined Tai-Pan and its august sailing ships, or nightclubs aglow in neon from The World of Suzie Wong. I heard a soundtrack of Chinese opera mixed with lush Hollywood compositions.

The flight on Asiana Airlines was entirely enjoyable because I was in the richness of business class, courtesy of William's employer. To date, it’s been the only time I've been granted anything above economy class and I made the most of the experience.

I appreciated the legroom and the wide leather seat. The food service included appetizers designed as edible art pieces. Thin slices of cucumber curled around sweet, pink shrimp. Crab dip, cheeses and spicy patés, then tender rice noodles topped with carrot ribbons.

Decisions had to be made: sleep in my luxurious chair or stay awake and continue eating, sipping champagne and watching movies? I panicked. The flight was near seventeen hours and I feared there might not be enough time to do everything.

*****

Get your scissors ready, the director had told William when this project came up. The film would provide William with his first opportunity to act as a department head on a studio feature, and in a distant location to boot.

I was in the stratosphere at the idea of traveling to the Far East. Unfortunately, William would leave at the end of January and I wouldn't arrive until April. We were in our first year of marriage and our fifth year together, and we had never been apart for as long as two months.

The limousine parked in our driveway. The driver discreetly loaded William's bags into the trunk while the two of us embraced on the front lawn. The dog and cat sat on the porch, no doubt wondering why their parents were acting all goofy and sentimental.

It won't be long, I whispered.

Long enough, he answered into my hair.

Thursday, August 30, 2012

AN EVEN HOTTER DAY IN AUGUST (Part 4)

We crossed the parking lot. It was nine-thirty in the morning and already tremendously hot. William asked me to wait outside while he started the car. I figured he wanted to get the air conditioning going, which I thought sweet and husbandly.

Then I heard the music. Stevie Wonder's voice rang out from the car stereo:

Over time, I've been building my castle of love
Just for two, though you never knew you were my reason
I've gone much too far for you now to say
That I’ve got to throw my castle away

My husband took me in his arms and asked, Do you remember when you said if we ever got married, this is the song we should dance to?

I shook my head, speechless, and he spun me in a circle. We waltzed in an empty parking lot on that hot August morning, tears streaming down our cheeks.

And though you don’t believe that they do
They do come true
For did my dreams
Come true when I looked at you
And maybe too if you would believe
You too might be
Overjoyed, over loved, over me

Oh, William. I should have waited for you. I should never have married or spent any time at all with anyone else.

We pressed our foreheads together and circled around and around.

I'm so glad you found me, I said.

I'm so glad you found me, he said.

Overjoyed.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

AN EVEN HOTTER DAY IN AUGUST (Part 3)

We awoke early the next morning. After the fractured mood of the night before, William compensated by acting wide awake. We showered, drank coffee and dressed in our summery wedding outfits.

We slipped into his aqua-colored Altima, cranked up the A/C and smiled at each other on our way to the green-glass high-rise near the Los Angeles airport. The flowers, tied together with an ivory ribbon, lay across my lap.

We cleared security on the main floor. My bouquet rode alone in a gray plastic carrier through the courthouse's X-ray machine. We floated up in an elevator to the civil ceremonies department. After securing our marriage license, we had a forty-five minute wait.

We went downstairs to the courthouse's cafeteria. A few lawyerly types lined up for coffee and bagels. The entire building had a clinical newness without a strand of romance. Certainly not in the weary eyes of the professionals around us, or even in the licensing area where others lined up to marry.

When our names were called back upstairs, we could as easily have been at the dentist's office or the DMV — until we stepped into a paneled room and met a plump, short gentleman who introduced himself as our judge. At one end of the room stood a wooden white arch with fabric and plastic flowers entwined in its lattice. The judge wore a generous smile and steered us under this makeshift wedding bower.

The three of us faced each other and pretended we were in a lush garden landscape and not several stories high in a large glass building near the airport.

We are gathered here together, the judge intoned, then chuckled at this most minimal of gatherings.

Do you, William...?

Do you, Mel...?

The history of these ancient vows, these words that had traversed eons to become ours on this Friday in August of 2003, had us holding hands as we blinked back tears.

The judge had the demeanor of a sentimental Spencer Tracy as he gently guided us through the ceremony. Okay, Mel, look at your husband. Good. Okay, William, kiss your bride. Good.

William and I stayed locked in each other's eyes through the entire ceremony.

Afterward our kindly judge insisted on taking pictures of us with our camera. He took extra shots. You can never have too many of this day.

Officially married and abuzz with excitement, we entered the elevator on our way out. Two floors down the doors opened and an old man shuffled on with us. He gave us a once-over and zeroed in on me.

You a bride?

Well, yes...we just got married. I held up my flowers as proof.

He turned to William.

You're a lucky man.

I know, William said.

The elevator stopped at his floor. I wish you all the best in the world, he said as he shuffled off.

William turned to me as the doors closed.

Well, that was our reception.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

AN EVEN HOTTER DAY IN AUGUST (Part 2)

Can I wear shorts?

To say I lost it would be an understatement.

It's our wedding. What's wrong with you? Shorts?

I just don't get the big rush.

Fine, forget it.

It just seems all of a sudden.

I didn't dare tell him that I already had a bouquet waiting in the refrigerator.

Or that, one day last June, I'd picked up a white Indian-cotton just-in-case-he-asks dress.

Or that I'd already selected his outfit, having pressed a linen shirt and khakis of his.

Or that I'd made a dinner reservation for the next night at a restaurant overlooking the Santa Monica Bay.

Or that a bottle of champagne lay in the fridge next to the flowers.

No problem, William. Let's just dump the whole idea. We could both be covered on your medical insurance and I could get that new crown I need on my molar, but forget it. My teeth can all fall out. Who needs teeth? It's obvious you're having second thoughts—

Okay, okay, William whispered. He put his hand on my shoulder as I stifled sobs.

I pulled away.

Look, I'm just getting my head around the tomorrow-all-of-a-sudden thing, but by the time we wake up in the morning, I'll be with you one hundred percent.

I flashed back to our first year of dating. Four months into our relationship, William quipped, "Do you think you love me?"

And I'd slipped up. "Yeah, I do."

But he didn't respond in kind and I kicked myself.

Six months in, the phrase "I love you" still had not been uttered by either of us.

Eight months in, he said, "I know I haven't said the L-word yet, but once I do, I'll never stop."

What a weirdo, I thought.

Nine months in, I picked him up at the airport after he had taken a weekend trip. That night, he took my hands and said, "When the plane was taking off, I thought, What if something horrible happened and I hadn't told you my real feelings? And then I couldn't wait to get back here and say I love you, Mel. I really love you."

The benefits of being with a careful shopper suddenly made perfect sense.

And so, as the two of us and the dog made our way home on that Thursday night in August, I knew what William was telling me was true. If he said he'd on board in the morning, he meant it.

Still, my sleep would be uneasy. I'd have to see it to believe it.

Before going to bed, I checked on the flowers in the fridge. They were still fresh and waiting.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

AN EVEN HOTTER DAY IN AUGUST (Part 1)

Of course, I plunged into planning the where, when and how of accomplishing the deed. My initial romantic notion, clearly influenced by some Clark Gable-Carole Lombard scenario, was to elope by driving up to Lake Tahoe and checking into a log cabin for a couple of nights. We could learn to fish, we would hike in the forests and we would eat rare steaks. And we would find a courthouse. All in two days.

This idea, however, turned out to be impossible because of William's work schedule. As I continued my research, I discovered it was no longer necessary to drive to Vegas or anywhere in Nevada to get hitched with little or no notice. Perhaps because of lost marriage licensing revenue, the State of California now made wedlock at city hall simple and quick. We could get a license and meet with a judge in the same day.

The blistering heat continued through August. We had no idea how long William would be on his current project and agreed we didn't want a traditional wedding. I made arrangements and shared them with him during an evening walk with our dog Stinky.

If we get up early tomorrow morning, the court clerk said we could get a license and be married by a judge within an hour.

Where?

The airport courthouse.

There's a court in the airport?

Well, no...it's called that because it's near LAX. Probably about twenty minutes from here.

Don't we need a blood test or something?

They don't do that anymore.

William tugged the dog away from a bush.

So, what do you think? I pursued.

About what?

I bit my lip.

Getting there at eight tomorrow morning.

Tomorrow? Why don't we go on Saturday?

Because they only do this on weekdays and all the other days are booked. The court clerk said tomorrow looked good.

Sounds like the court clerk is your new best friend.

Sounds like you're dragging your heels. Listen: I do not want to be one of those women who coerces, drags or manipulates a guy down the aisle. So are you up for this or not? If not, you do all the planning. Just tell me where and when.

My mood matched the cool air. I felt myself gliding into bitter surliness. This was William's draggy reluctance rearing its head yet again. I shouldn't have been surprised by this.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

A HOT DAY IN JULY (Part 5)

Seriously, something strange is in the Scrabble bag. What is this? And I pulled out—

A ring.

Well, sort of a ring. It looked like half a ring. I held my breath as I studied it: gold, with tiny diamonds down the side, but next to them there were four empty prongs reaching skyward. There was no stone.

I placed it in my palm as I would a fragile seashell. In the bag I felt another not-quite-a-Scrabble-tile thing. I slipped my hand inside and pulled out another ring, this one with a large, clear, square diamond.

For a minute — or it could have been a week, who knows — I sat in front of the Scrabble board, mouth agape. When I finally looked up, William wasn't there.

He returned from inside the house carrying a Scrabble rack cribbed from our travel Scrabble set. He set the rack down in front of me. On it, seven Scrabble tiles read:

MARRY ME

When I looked down, William was on bent knee. I started crying. And then we were hugging. And we were both crying.

This was the thing? Scrabble?

Will you marry me?

Yes. Of course. I love you. Yes. Yes. Yes.

And the kiss was like our first. Sweeter than marshmallows dipped in raspberry juice.

So really, this was the thing? Playing Scrabble was the thing?

Yes it was. I decided I would propose the next time you suggested a game.

See, luck! You lucked out that I didn't suggest a game in Rome. I can't believe we didn't play in Italy. Merda! I can't believe we didn't play. Pure luck. You've had a long time to prepare. Seven months!

But once you mentioned it this morning I knew it was on and suddenly there no time.

What's the story on these rings, anyway?

They're from my mom. From her side of the family. I figured we could take them to a jeweler and have one made into an engagement ring with a setting you like and you can make the other into a wedding band. You decide.

Were they in the bag for both games?

Yes!

So that's why you lost. You were handicapped by nerves.

No, I lost because you were better.

Right.

You were better, that's all.

You were a wreck.

You don't give yourself enough credit.

I think I give myself enough credit. I'm getting married, aren't I?

The candles burned lower. A breeze made the flames jump. Stinky and Spencer dozed at our feet and I knew I would sleep very well tonight.

We were settling down and it felt right. If this could happen, maybe I could find answers to other questions. Maybe a settled place was the place to look up from.

But there was only one decision I had to make today.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

A HOT DAY IN JULY (Part 4)

I scooped tiles off the board and dumped them back into the bag. I poured some more wine. All was right with the world. I felt like a winner, that was for damn sure. Gloating, I magnanimously offered the bag to William to choose a letter to see who would go first.

He picked an "E."

I picked an "A." Can she do it twice? The crowd says yes!

William shook his head and smiled.

I like our life, don't you? I said.

He gazed at me, his face lit by candlelight and our twinkling overhead lights.

Yes, I really like our life. It’s good.

Yup. Me too.

And I slammed down one letter after another on the board and played a whole word. Again.

Wow, seventy points on the first go. I'm going to win this one too. Sorry to say, but this is not your Scrabble night.

It's looking rough, he agreed.

William took longer than usual to work out his next word. He frowned a little and reshuffled his letters and played a short word.

You okay? I asked while looking for a way to use the "Q."

Of course. Why?

Well, it's looking good for me again. I put the "Q" on a triple letter score to make QAT.

I dipped my hand into the bag and felt something jagged, like a broken tooth.

Hey...yuck...something's in here...like, not a letter—

William gave me puzzled look.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

A HOT DAY IN JULY (Part 3)

William always beats me at Scrabble. I'm okay with that. I have a good time coming up with my little words while he shuffles his letters around like mad, searching for a humdinger of a bingo every turn.

Dusk turned into twilight and the weather had indeed cooled. I plunged my hand into the maroon Scrabble tile bag and scrounged for more letters.

What's up for you tomorrow? William asked.

Coaching at noon, then the health club....God, I don't know — hey, look at that!

And I played EXACT on a triple word score.

Woo! I'm winning! You should be worried, honey. Although it's not so much skill, you know.

Really? You think not?

I mean, it's a little skill, but it's really the letters you get. The balance of vowels and consonants. I'm winning this one because I have a good balance of letters. Just luck.

Hmmm.

William appended -ED to another word and I knew he was either saving letters to try to create one big word, or he was stuck with a lot of vowels. I may not be as competitive as him, but I was still enjoying this lead. A lot.

And then it happened. There were only three tiles remaining and I had a seven-letter word of my own. Not only that, but there was an easy place on the board to play it.

Yes, yes, yes!

William shook his head.

Come on, that never happens. C'mon!

I know. Amazing. Well played. Congrats.

You're shocked, right? Completely and utterly.

But it's still all about the balance of letters, right?

And skill, of course. Skill too. Play again?

Thursday, July 12, 2012

A HOT DAY IN JULY (Part 2)

The temperature continued to rise. In the dark we lay under cool white sheets with the ceiling fan whipping above us.

Swish...swish...swish....

I stared at the blades, lit in moonlight, sweeping in rhythm like the hands of a sped-up clock. William slumbered away. Spencer, our cat, curled his body against mine and I rubbed his ears.

What's the what I want? In my head, my plans for marriage had transformed into a career, which of course it wasn't. I needed to step back and get some perspective. I could see how my galloping across Morocco and Poland and Italy was a creative act, but here, back home?

Tomorrow. Something. Maybe. What?

On that note I finally fell asleep.

Over breakfast the next morning, I suggested we eat dinner on our backyard deck that night.

Hey, it's hot now but should be nice and cool in the evening....I'll grill something.

William is many things. One thing he is not is a morning person.

Of course, I am completely a morning person. I wake up brimming with ideas and a need to voice them. And that's before coffee.

Once caffeinated, I'm on to dreams I had in the night, questions that kept me awake in the dark and, Wow, look at this story! I'll hold up the newspaper right in front of William's face. Meanwhile he's forcing down another spoon of cardboardy bran cereal while poring over the sports section, half asleep.

You know what we haven't done in a long time?

William shrugged.

Scrabble! When was the last time we played Scrabble over dinner?

William nodded.

Great! I'll get some fresh fish to grill and we'll play a game or two over dinner. Salad, strawberries....

By this point, he was in the shower. No matter, he didn't need to know the menu. It was going to be good. In a fresh burst of meal-planning creativity, I went to the grocery store and to the fish market to pick up a couple of tender salmon filets to go atop a Caesar salad.

Back home I washed and pared ripe strawberries, whipped up sweet cold cream, chilled white wine and marinated the fish. I set dishes on the deck table, making room for our giant deluxe rotating Scrabble board.

I lit candles and filled the CD player with music from Ella Fitzgerald, Monty Alexander and Miles Davis. At least on this day I had a purpose.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

A HOT DAY IN JULY (Part 1)

In our part of Los Angeles it doesn't usually become "awful hot" until August; September brings increasing heat, then arrives October, also known as "fire season." But July of 2003 proved slightly different as temperatures inched into the nineties. William continued to work on his movie at a studio lot in the Valley.

I was muddling, hot and uncomfortable. True, I had found peace in our home, but I still had no leads on a life of purpose and creativity. One down, two to go. With the house renovation completed, my creativity languished in a moody state of uncertainty.

In our first year of living together we hosted thirty-five lunch or dinner parties. I studied cookbooks over breakfast and went to farmers' markets on weekends.

In a particularly desperate bid for creativity, I invited two small neighbor girls over for dinner and a movie one night when William would be working late. I suggested to their parents they could enjoy a night out while I entertained their daughters.

The children arrived on our doorstep and I sat them in front of salads decorated to look like little girl faces, with black olives for eyes, cucumber slices for cheeks, tomatoes for smiles and stripes of ranch dressing for long tresses.

The salad faces stared up at my small guests. The children blinked back at them and started eating. I followed up with gooey mac and cheese, ice cream sundaes and popcorn to go with an animated movie. I guess it felt good to be doing something good but my overeagerness to please depressed me.

The screenplay I had worked on for two years gained some traction when it advanced in the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences screenplay competition, the Nicholl Fellowships. Thrilled, I called William at work and we celebrated over the phone.

And that was that. I didn't go any further in the competition. I didn't win. I didn't get an agent or a producer call or a new career.

Do what you'd like, William said. We'll live on my salary. Do what you want.

Who wouldn’t want this scenario?

Me, that's who. Because I didn't know what. I looked into classes at a local college. Maybe art history or music history. Maybe English lit. Or maybe me crawling around a campus with a bunch of eighteen-year-olds would be an exercise in humiliation.

I did maintain a private coaching schedule and had a few actors arriving at our house to prepare for auditions. But these actors wanted roles more than they wanted to learn the craft of acting. I couldn't help them with career guidance. All I could teach them was how to break a script down into beats, then turn those beats into actions, then turn those actions into interesting performances. Who wants that in Hollywood?

Thursday, June 28, 2012

THE END OF ANCIENT: February, 2003

At the top of the Via Veneto, William and I found a park called the Villa Borghese, an oasis with gardens, fountains, museums and pathways. A good place for a walk on our final Sunday together.

We skipped the museums and stuck to holding hands and strolling in the brisk air and golden light. We came across some stables and hung over fences to nuzzle horses as they breathed steamy gusts of air into our faces. We laughed at puppies rolling down hillsides. We chatted about where we were, both geographically and relationship-wise.

I wanted the perspective gained from my winter weeks in Italy to make me more secure and less needy about the magic "thing" I was supposed to do to trigger our engagement. I didn't want the anxiety of what, where or when.

As we luxuriated in the good fortune of our romantic haze, we knew only that we would miss each other. We were post-9/11 but pre-Iraq war and pre-global economic downturn. Otherwise, unknowingness was all I possessed. For someone who could daydream for hours in a state of mystery, I was getting a sky full of cloudiness.

I arrived back in Los Angeles and two days later received a dozen red roses with this note:

Mel,
Buon San Valentino al mio vero amore!
Love, William

Valentine's Day, 2003, and love, nurtured in Italy, landed on our doorstep across six thousand three hundred and fifty-three miles.

I clipped the stems, set each rose in sugar water and placed the vase next to the bed. As I reached to turn out the lamp my hand stopped in mid-click.

It's 2003. William and I have been together over four years. I beat my record. Engaged/not engaged. Married/not married. None of that matters on Valentine's night. I beat my record. I didn't use the Nikes and run away.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

AMALFI: February, 2003 (Part 3)

I picked up a picnic lunch at a grocery store and wandered through pottery shops and a small stationery factory, where designs in cerulean blue and shiny gold curled around the edges of embossed linen papyrus. I bought a small compass in a store filled with all things seaworthy. After perusing the goods of the town I strolled along the beach, with its shuttered-up restaurants and boat-rental kiosks.

It was easy to imagine hot summer days and a seaside filled with lean, tanned bodies splashing in foamy waves. Still, I was more content to be alone here in winter. I took a bus way up the hillside to the town of Ravello, where I wandered gardens studded with alabaster statues of naked Italian men. Stone plazas offered views of the winding coastline far below.

The weather, though sunny, became increasingly cold. An icy wind tore at my jacket and I stopped periodically for cups of hot milk or chocolate. My sunglasses clouded as I stepped inside the warmth of coffee bars.

Freddo! a shopkeeper greeted me.

Si, si, I answered, rubbing my gloved hands together as if to show I understood.

I ate my lunch parked on a bench overlooking the ocean. I read my book under a tree and imagined an everyday life in such a place. So remote, so far up, so far away....

Nope. I loved it, but I couldn't live here. And now I was missing my boyfriend back in Rome. I left the Amalfi coast after a few days. As the countryside passed outside my train window, I pondered the facts. I had three more days with William then I was back to Los Angeles.

Peace, purpose, creativity. Where, when, how?

Once in Rome, William and I shared a dinner of salad and cold meats on the bed, caught up on our news and whispered love thoughts to each other, but no one went to sleep engaged to be married. Certainly no one in this room at the Excelsior Hotel on the Via Veneto was set to exchange time-tested vows and sign on the dotted line.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

AMALFI: February, 2003 (Part 2)

I awoke in the dark to the crashing sound of thunder. Across the now-black sea, rain poured in sheets and lightning flared. I could make out roiling whitecaps in the ocean.

Dinner. I decided I was going to find a place out there, in that rainstorm, to eat. I grabbed my umbrella and set forth, getting pelted by raindrops so fat they resembled a Hollywood effect. I slipped and slid down slick stairs and across shiny cobblestones. Rain soaked my shoes and pants.

I crossed the main piazza, illuminated by occasional lightning flashes. Spears of light brightened the round top of the Duomo. It wasn't difficult to notice the inspiration Edgar Allen Poe may have found here.

It being winter, there weren't many choices for dinner, but I found one open trattoria. I stumbled in, slightly shocked by the heavy storm, and shook myself free of my damp coat. According to my guidebook, this family-run restaurant was known for its fresh seafood. An older — well, elderly — gentleman steered me to a table and pulled out a chair. I could see through to the kitchen, where his mama cooked, her face rosy in a cloud of steam. At the cash register his wife counted receipts.

I learned of all these relationships over my three-course meal of insalata, zuppa and golden-fried octopus and shrimp. The man, who was the family son, stopped by at each course for feedback and I told him, "Bella, bella and bella." He was tickled by my limited but positive response and offered a local treat to enjoy with my cappuccino.

He produced a tall bottle of greenish liquid. Basil liqueur, he explained, and poured me a small glass. An unusual but not unpleasing taste and oddly perfect on a winter night with a storm raging outside.

My new friend filled me in on some agricultural facts. Because the Amalfi coast includes the ancient city of Pompeii, Vesuvian ash is embedded in its soil, making its fertility remarkable. Here lemons were fat and tasty, tomatoes sweet and juicy, and basil especially fragrant.

The son took a serious tone when expressing sadness about 9/11 and his fears of an upcoming war (the U.S. was only a month away from marching into Afghanistan). He believed George Bush was a stupido, as was the Italian leader Silvio Berlusconi. He pined for Bill Clinton and brushed aside the former president's amores.

Capisco? he kept asking.

Si, si, I answered.

When it comes to sadness and fear, linguistic barriers disappear and an international fluency of the heart takes over. I thanked my host and his family for the delicious meal, donned my coat and stepped back outside to cross the piazza and return to the hotel.

My sleep that night was deep and dreamless. The next day dawned crystal-clear and brilliantly sunny. Amalfi, washed clean, awaited my exploration.

Thursday, June 7, 2012

AMALFI: February, 2003 (Part 1)

The bus driver had us sailing along the perilous Amalfi coastline, twisting and weaving his bright blue behemoth of a vehicle around hairpin turns overlooking dramatic drops to a crashing blue sea. My stomach lurched every time he turned his back to the road in order to converse with a passenger behind him, but for this guy this trip was an ordinary occurrence.

"Good God, eyes front!" I wanted to scream, but my Italian wasn't up to the task.

The breathtaking ride was an exercise in trust I wasn't sure I would pass. I turned away from the ocean view and tried to focus on the tiers of lemon groves perched on the jagged hillsides. How Amalfi came to be was incomprehensible to me. Its rugged landscape was less than conducive to building a community, but nonetheless I was grateful to the nutty city planners who decided to ignore this and build houses on top of each other.

In the fifth century, Romans hid near this coastline while escaping invading Germans. It was good hiding place: if they found you, you could jump into that ocean and swim like an Olympian.

Amalfi is also noteworthy for being the birthplace of the invention of the compass, in the thirteenth century. It makes sense: lost Romans, on the run. Where the hell are we? Beats me, let's set up camp and hey, why not grow lemons while we're at it and make a tasty aperitif we can call...hmmm...limoncello.

To get to Amalfi from Rome I had taken a train to Salerno then hopped on a bus. We passed Positano and other lovely towns perched over the sea and continued to the jewel of the coast. Amalfi, which I had visited those many years ago on my first trip to Italy. It is one of my favorite places in the world. Other than a few satellite dishes and the addition of an internet cafe, the town had not much changed in sixteen years. The Duomo, the cathedral of Amalfi, sits atop a staircase so steep its parishioners often have to take rests while climbing it to reach Mass in one piece.

I found housing in a pensione up three curvy stairways. I was given a large room decorated with two antique beds, an armoire, a desk and a chair upholstered in brown chintz fabric. A tiny bathroom held a tiny shower stall. I parted curtains, opened shutters and doors to step onto a small private balcony with a view of the seaside sparkling in afternoon light. As with the convent in Cortona, I was paying thirty-five dollars a night. Another bonus of winter travel, to be sure.

Would I have wanted to share my five days in Amalfi with William? Of course, but there was something about this location that was conducive to my private journey. This rang true for others as well: E. M. Forester, Gore Vidal, John Steinbeck, D.H. Lawrence, Edgar Allen Poe and Henrik Ibsen all wrote here. Cocteau and Klee painted here. Greta Garbo and Margot Fonteyn rested here and Jackie Kennedy Onassis secluded herself nearby, high up in the town of Ravello.

I napped on my first afternoon in this magic place, I reckoned I was in good company, cocooned in a nurturing spirit. I drifted off sure that after a few days in the heady clear air of the Italian coast I could head home to write a masterpiece.

Absolutely...as soon as I have a tiny nap...that's right....

Thursday, May 31, 2012

ROME: February, 2003 (Part 3)

At the Excelsior, not splurging on room service or laundry meant grocery shopping to fill our mini-fridge and trips on a subway to a laundromat. I abandoned all pride and waltzed through the grand hotel lobby with sacks of food or bags of dirty clothes.

Buon giorno, Signora.

The bellboys, concierge and receptionists addressed me as "Signora" because I was convincingly masquerading as a married woman. Once I knew we would be traveling in Morocco and Italy, I decided — for "security reasons," and to show "respect" to "socially conservative" cultures — it would be best if William and I presented ourselves as a married couple.

At least these were the arguments I posited to my significant other/partner/live-in boyfriend. From a friend I borrowed a simple gold band with a tiny embedded diamond. Odd how it fit so perfectly on my finger...really, was that a coincidence?

William viewed the entire charade as exactly that. On the other hand, I was thoroughly enjoying the newfound dignity conferred by my upgraded status. I liked addressing the hotel staff with "my husband" this or "my husband" that and I wore the role well at the shop where I bought a gift for "mio marito." I shrugged in the world-weary manner of a wife and the saleslady shared a knowing smile.

Si, Signora.

I liked it, a lot, this pretend marriage. As I got older, going from the namby-pambiness of "girlfriend" to the cachet of "wife" gained importance to me.

Before we moved in together, William had a chat with his parents to alert them of our home renovation, our cohabitation, our eventual marriage and — something we both agreed on — that we would not have children.

They were not at all happy with the last item. His mother lamented that "nothing makes a person happier than having children" and predicted he would change his mind. His father simply saw no good reason for us to marry if we weren't planning on having children.

I waited for William at home.

How did it go?

Not well.

We hugged.

This is what I want, William said. You and me and the pets are our family.

So, as I saw it during our travels, I was simply setting the stage for our family. I polished my "wedding ring" and gave my boyfriend a sly smile.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

ROME: February, 2003 (Part 2)

Speaking of wifedom, I was in the throes of curiosity myself. It was early in the new year but it was difficult not to explicate William's sentence:

You're going to do something to make the proposal happen.

We climbed over crumbling stone, weeds and cracked plaster. We placed our hands on marble walls and thought about people living their lives here so long ago. We took pictures and even when I see them now I swear I can see my mind percolating. Do what? What will I do to pop a proposal out of him?

January was too early, I knew that. My flight home was right before Valentine's Day, so that couldn't be it. He would never propose over the phone or email...would he?

Those pictures of me are carefree, happy, delighted, and on my way to crazy.

After our long afternoon of sightseeing we were ready for dinner, but alas, too early. Bars were open with snacks but a real dinner would have to wait until restaurants opened at seven-thirty. We window-shopped, stopped in music shops and bookstores and browsed in clothing stores.

By the time we opened the door of a small trattoria to order wine and study the menu, we were ready to chew cardboard. William ended up cutting into a perfect steak, charred on the outside and dripping red on the inside. Quite appropriate after visiting the Colosseum. My red was in the glass of wine I had paired with a salad, baked fish and tender ravioli stuffed with creamy cheese.

After wending our way home to the Excelsior and tucking into bed, I whispered to William that I would be off again in the morning — but no worries, since his laundry was done and the fridge was stocked. I'd be back in a week. Fairly warned, he kissed me good night.

Maybe my return from ports south would be "the thing." Maybe I was giving him a week to prepare a proposal. I fell blissfully asleep, unaware I wasn't even in the ballpark, timing-wise. I was as ignorant as Julius Caesar out for a spring walk.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

ROME: February, 2003 (Part 1)

Once a week, on his Sunday off, I would convince William to get out of bed, out of the hotel and into the world. Without my nagging, he'd be content to sleep until lunch, order room service, play a game of Scrabble, watch the hotel's American ESPN feed, and return to bed. I understood his exhaustion, but wouldn't have it.

One afternoon we left the Excelsior for lunch, with plans to explore the Colosseum and the Roman Forum afterwards. As we left the subway station and approached the imposing structure of the ancient Colosseum, we were greeted by the sight of beefcake boys dressed up as gladiators. For a fee one could have a photo taken with one of these cheesy Ben-Hur movie extras. They were encouraging young and old alike to step into a prop chariot and paste on smiles with them. I thought about my previous visit here, blissfully devoid of gladiator wannabes.

Once inside the Colosseum, I recalled how I sat almost entirely alone on a sunny November day way back when, eating my picnic lunch while envisioning the hugely popular and ghastly battles of the first and second centuries.

Now, many years later, the Colosseum and the Roman Forum were undergoing restoration. I'm all for supporting the crumbling walls of historic structures and it irked me that fools felt the need to spray them with graffiti and make off with whole chunks of two thousand-year-old stone.

But beside the scaffolding I saw a sign advertising a musical performance. Right here, inside the Colosseum. Nooooo....

All around us, other tourists and families traipsed by, licking their scoops of chocolate gelato. Talking, talking, talking. The lack of quiet interrupted my thoughts and I couldn't imagine anything beyond the hubbub in front of me. The structure was still impressive but not as evocative.

Same deal with the Roman Forum. We did manage to duck the crowds by climbing up narrow pathways through gardens and into a neighborhood of ruins above what was once old Rome. From our perch we looked below into the downtown area, where Julius Caesar had once made political speeches. Where the man foolishly ignored both the Ides of March and the admonitions of his wife and walked straight into a flurry of daggers. He fell dead at the statue of his archenemy, Pompey.

Should have listened to the wife.

Thursday, May 10, 2012

A LONG TIME AGO (Part 2)

The abuse continued. The next morning he looked at me and asked:

Are you going to put on some makeup? Or should I just get a paper bag for your head?

When we arrived at his house in Toronto he suggested I not talk to him at dinner.

I have to talk to people all day long. I don't want to do it at home too.

I watched in silence as he quaffed almost an entire bottle of red wine.

When I broached the predicament with my mother, she answered:

Do not tell me you're going to wreck this one too.

On my birthday, I was dressed up and sitting on the couch, waiting for him to come home and take me out to dinner.

Happy birthday!

He breezed in through the door and flung a large rubber sex toy at me. It landed heavily in my lap. I sat frozen in shock, staring at it. He laughed.

Just kidding...sort of.

He threw a gold box at me. Inside was an expensive wristwatch.

The fissure in the snow globe widened and water was leaking down its sides. From inside, the little figures with their painted rosebud mouths and jaunty skis stared at me.

In desperation, I insisted we see a couples' therapist. The psychologist met with us together, then separately. I was surprised when he called me at home one afternoon.

For your own safety, I recommend you leave this situation.

The snow globe exploded. Shattered glass, water and fake snowflakes spread across the floor as the tiny people tumbled off their phony mountain.

For four months I had worn the expensive watch before giving it back, along with the ring. That's how long it took me to straighten my backbone and run out the door.

Perhaps out of guilt, he gave me a parting gift.

I'll give you an airline ticket to anywhere in the world.

I chose Italy.

At the top of Capri that November afternoon, I knew that whatever happened to me, I would harbor the day. Alone in exile and eating a lunch of provolone cheese and prosciutto amidst the ruins of a blistering white estate, I was as free as Tiberius must have felt. As free as I would forever be. It was a freedom no one could ever take away. A freedom I would never again relinquish.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

A LONG TIME AGO (Part 1)

Many years earlier, I sat atop the island of Capri, in the ruins of the home that once belonged to Emperor Tiberius, and considered my future.

It was a November afternoon and I'd hiked far carrying my lunch and a book in my daypack. Entirely alone with a vista of the startling blue Mediterranean Sea, I felt I'd been given a gift from God. A private peace with a private view of what I had only previously seen captured on canvases.

Tiberius, an unhappy emperor, abandoned the high-stakes, complicated life of Roman politics and exiled himself to live in this mansion. Some historians claim he was a terrific but moody general and others suggest he was well aware of the poisonings and stabbings orchestrated by his mother. This mixed-up fellow apparently tried to avoid responsible rule by partaking in acts of sexual perversion. As scandalous tales of his exploits hit the streets he jumped into a boat and paddled to Capri, where I now found myself contemplating life with a sicko back home.

I was fleeing a fiancé. There are bad men in the world and I was escaping one of them, a misogynistic doctor, and a cosmetic surgeon at that. It was the perfect combo: I was an actress engaged to a rich, successful man who could keep me looking darn good...forever.

A few months earlier he had flown to meet me in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where I was playing Viola in a production of "Twelfth Night." On a night off, he took me to a fine restaurant and opened a small velvet box to reveal a large emerald surrounded by many, many diamonds.

I was a struggling actress. Easy math.

I moved out of my New York City apartment and he drove us to Toronto, where we planned to live for a few months while he prepared for his medical boards. We would then settle in Los Angeles, where I would pursue my acting career. My mother sighed in relief and my friends were envious.

On the drive north, I asked him an innocuous question about his work. He replied:

Are you really that stupid? Or are you just acting stupid because you’re an actress?

That was the first hairline crack in my snow-globe life with Dr. Nuts.

The speed of his transformation had me reeling. How could I have missed this cruelty? Was I so blinded by marrying a doctor and the dazzle of that ring? Was I so intoxicated by being chosen? Or was it the promise of security against the vagaries of a perilous acting career? Or was he just pathological?

At Martha's Vineyard I stayed up all night, wondering. How could I let this happen? How insecure was I? Perhaps I really was that stupid. And now found myself trapped at the halfway point.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

TUSCANY: February, 2003 (Part 3)

The following morning I climbed a steep, narrow pathway up, up, up to the Basilica of Santa Margherita, which was situated at the top of the town. I explored the inside of the church, lit a candle and sat in silence. My prayers, my meditations and my lit candles were wishes for a life of peace, purpose and creativity

For me, peace meant not panicking about paying the rent. Purpose was a reason to exist. I'd puzzled, cried and moaned for years about being blessed with a gift for acting, yet as my career had sputtered to an end I didn't know what to replace it with. Should I keep writing screenplays so I could join the millions of other writers in Hollywood with unproduced scripts? Creativity had to be more than the dinner parties I served up every month...didn't it?

My thoughts drifted away in the warm air of the cavernous basilica. Sunlight spilled across the nave from stained-glass windows on high. I was the only visitor. A spicy aroma of incense permeated the wood pews and brought to mind the masses my family attended every Sunday in the Orthodox Church. My brothers and I had no choice in the matter and tried our best to stay alert through long services held in droning Ukrainian. As payback we embarrassed my mother by wolfing down the after-service cupcakes. Fair trade, as we saw it, and the only merit churchgoing held for us.

In adulthood I discovered comfort in the ritual of Sunday morning services. I experimented with church. For a long time I attended an Anglican service, then I went to a "Self-Realization" temple, where all major religions are honored. William, raised Roman Catholic, rebelled and had nothing to do with organized religion. No, we wouldn't be wed in a house of worship.

I respected his perspective on the great unknown but sometimes longed for companionship in the wonderment of forces bigger than those we can see and touch. I needed to believe in something larger, in a kind of fate or destiny in order to find peace and purpose. William believed in talent, discipline and just a little luck, while my mind could drift for hours in mystery.

Back outside Santa Margherita, I studied the far-reaching landscape way below. Green and fertile earth stretched to the horizon. Squares of cultivated farmland held tiny houses with itsy-bitsy white sheets hung to dry across gardens and yards. From a height of over sixteen hundred feet, I looked at foggy clouds hanging over pastures. Birds twittered and hawks dipped low. I looked up at the moving sky. The fierce wind of the night before, still in action, had clouds scurrying as if in a sped-up film effect.

Should God have cared to listen to me, a tip of his head was all it would have taken. In such a place, it was easy to imagine a monastic life of peace and study. Here on the tip-top of Cortona, Emily Dickinson and I would take our leave. I wanted to marry that man back in Rome. I saluted God and took off back down, down, down to back my bags and bid farewell to the sisters.

On the train ride back to Rome I thought about my first trip to Italy.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

TUSCANY: February, 2003 (Part 2)

After coffee served by my new best friend, the darling and chubby sister of mercy, I was out the door and in to the town of Cortona. February makes for excellent travel in Italy. The streets were empty but for locals. The downside is shuttered restaurants, as family-owned businesses use this time for their travel as well.

Nevertheless, the chance to explore in relative privacy is well worth the limited dining choices. I could always find one or two available eateries in any small town — and hell, it's Italy, the food's tasty. A bowl of pasta, a chunk of bread and a glass of wine are enough after a long day of hiking in brisk winter coolness. I mean, my mother's idea of a pasta dinner was spaghetti soaked in Campbell's tomato soup.

After a day of exploring I found my small restaurant of the day. As I sipped a Chianti, I examined the rough-hewn walls and uneven floors and reflected on how Cortona represented a hushed, enchanting and solitary adventure. I touched my index finger to an amber candle holder with its single flickering flame and waited for my linguine con tuna, tomatoes and capers.

My history as an actor brings with it the hazard of adapting too easily to circumstances, as if I were playing a part. In Florence, I missed William. From a bridge I pictured our future married life and considered the dignity I would find at the end of a tunnel as I moved from girlfriend to fiancée and finally, wife.

Here in Cortona, living in a convent, I slid into a mirage of independence and imagined myself as an Emily Dickinson type. I could live in a place like this. Mornings would find me shopping for foodstuffs at the local market, chatting away in melodic Italian. Afternoons I'd work on a novel and evenings I'd enjoy a simple meal before retiring under a mountain of quilts. I'd to read myself to sleep lit by a full moon shining through a small window cut into a stone wall.

Was I a woman teetering on schizophrenia? Who would want to marry that?

I finished my dinner and walked home along cobblestones streets to my room and the nuns. I stopped outside a bar advertising "Nutella Night." Anyone ordering a drink would receive a tasty and free Nutella treat. Nice combo, I mused. Beers and Nutella. Nutella. Could be my middle name.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

TUSCANY: February, 2003 (Part 1)

From my train window I saw the destination high upon a Tuscan hill: Cortona. A medieval, walled town sitting like a curlicue atop a Dairy Queen ice cream cone.

I left the train station and stepped on a bus that wound its way up the hillside and dropped me in a town square. Here in Cortona I would spend four days living in a convent priced at thirty-five dollars a night.

Pure fantasy: me and the monastic life. I've boarded at a convent across from the Sistine Chapel in Rome. I've spent days in silent retreat at monasteries in California. Let me tell you, the relief of day-to-day chit chat is...well...relieving. Monasteries and convents tend to park themselves on idyllic landscapes, secreted behind walls and, though not glamorous, they're usually spotless, tiptoe quiet and often serve decent homemade grub.

After hiking up one small alley and down another I found the Cortona house of nuns and checked in like Maria arriving on set for a round of "The Hills are Alive." The nuns themselves were right out of Central Casting. A short, round-faced sister pinched my cheeks, slipped her arm through mine and led me down a marble hallway, up three stairs and around a corner. We stopped in front of a dark wooden door.

She unlocked it with a skeleton key and pushed it open to reveal my room, which held two single beds dressed in fresh linens. All the while she chattered away in Italian. I couldn't understand the specifics but was able to detect her pride when she showed me a private bathroom in sparkling tile with a large tub.

I was ready to move in.

After she left I dropped my bag, opened the shuttered windows and looked below to a cobblestone street. My stay was silent, peaceful and perfect...until a windstorm struck at four in the morning and those charming shutters hammered at the stone walls.

Once the storm settled, however, I slipped back into a deep sleep until dawn broke with the delicate voices of nuns singing morning prayers. The gentle sounds wove their way through stone hallways, up the stairs and under my door. I lay still in my bed with blankets pulled to my chin, watching sunlight creep through the shutter slats. It was a most delicious awakening.

Thursday, April 5, 2012

FLORENCE: February, 2003 (Part 3)

The rest my time in Florence I spent gazing at Jesus and Madonnas in the Uffizi, lunching on a picnic in the Boboli Gardens, wandering around the Pitti Palace for more Renaissance art and searching up one street and down another for the Mercato Centrale.

I have a fascination for city markets, and the view didn't get much better than a two-story indoor market of stalls stacked with vibrantly colored vegetables and fruits. The reds, purples, oranges and greens looked freshly dipped from the palate of a painter.

I inhaled air pungent with the aroma of cheeses. Smoked meats dangled from the ceiling. Fresh-caught fish tinted in pale grays and pinks lay one after another, as if napping. Oh, I regretted that William and I were living in a hotel room. Grand as it was, it did not have a stove...a stove...I'd give up those white linens for a stove.

My lunch space at the market was shared at a rustic wood table with local workmen in from the street for glasses of golden beer and their sandwiches of choice, giant hot pork panini. The meat, crispy on the outside, pink on the inside and succulent in juicy drippings.

I took a last long walk around the city, which shimmered in the autumn light. It was comforting that as the world spins into advanced technology some things stay put...David, the Duomo, the Ponte Vecchio, Tuscan light, and pork sandwiches.

On my last night in Florence, rain poured down in sheets, creating pond-sized puddles. I sloshed in and out of a restaurant for dinner, and on my way back to the pension decided to celebrate and stepped into a dimly-lit taverna. I found an empty stool at the bar, ordered up a cappuccino laced with whiskey and looked around at the crowd of Firenzian hipsters.

Young couples laughed and flirted, moved close to light cigarettes and sipped from martini glasses while sharing casual winks. I wanted to join in. I wanted to converse, to have beautiful Italian sentences and witticisms drip off my tongue. To laugh or chat passionately about world politics and art and food and love. My satisfaction at traveling alone melted away as quickly as the foam on my coffee. My singular melancholy was as romantic as that of a spinster. Kate Hepburn at the beginning of "Summertime."

I finished my drink, slipped off the barstool and stepped back out the door as anonymously as I had arrived.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

FLORENCE: January, 2003 (Part 2)

In Florence I wandered across the medieval Ponte Vecchio, which bridges the Arno River. Tiny art shops and clothing stores were crammed one after another on the classic Florence structure. In the setting sun, the view of lamp-lit houses and apartments alongside the riverfront was one of warmth. I smelled garlic and tomato emanating from home kitchens.

As I leaned on the ancient stone of the bridge and looked down into the calm water colored with ripples of light, I felt a sentimental pull to family. Whenever I saw a look exchanged between lovers, I missed William. This heart tug was a curiosity to me, a gentle reminder of companionship, partnership and friendship.

I wasn't filled with loneliness. To visit and to observe different parts of the world was all right by me. The sensation was one of floating in singularity, like a ghost. I liked missing William because I knew I could get to him in a train trip. If there were no one waiting for me perhaps I would have experienced profound aloneness.

I started to notice an interior split on this trip. My singular self, rubbing against the part of me that wanted to marry William. Marry William, I whispered over and over while studying the water. This was a different marry than the partnerships of my past. I used to see couples, old and young, bent to each other in serious talk or laughter in what seemed a married conspiracy, and used to believe they were acting. Putting on a show and faking it in public. Even with William's crankiness and my neediness I was beginning to glimpse a new reality. I was buying those couples and ending my cynicism. I was looking into the possible with fresh eyes.

I shivered in the Florence evening and moved on to find warmth in red wine and a dinner of tender chicken roasted in lemon juice. Ah yes, alongside a bowl of white cannellini beans coated in olive oil and topped with crisp pancetta. If there are people to look at, food to feast on, books to disappear into, and marble — for God's sake — marble and stone walkways, and if there's a man somewhere who's missing me, a fellow I have the privilege to pine over...what could possibly be wrong? Certainly nothing in Florence was amiss on this January evening.

The next morning I set out to find another friend, a fellow named David.

The David is only the David up close. In Italian cities and especially in Florence, there are replicas of this famed Michelangelo statue on every street corner or teetering in front of trattorias. He's on millions of postcards and in thousands of books, but I'm telling you: it ain't the David until you stand in front of the real gentleman.

This trip would be my second date with the man and he was in the middle of a major cleaning, surrounded by a partial wall and scaffolding. David stands thirteen feet high. He was sculpted between 1501 and 1504 out of a single piece of white marble. For all his brawn, David is nevertheless vulnerable. Poor David, since I last saw him, had been hurt. In 1991, a deranged maniac claimed he heard voices telling him to take a hammer and smash one of David's toes.

In the Galleria dell'Accademia, David's home, a long hallway leads to the statue. Lining these walls are other unfinished sculptures by Michelangelo. On my first visit in 1986, I dutifully examined these works while wondering where the main site was located. As my curiosity peaked, I turned a corner and sucked in a gulp of air.

Frozen in place, I tried to calm my heart and carefully, quietly...as though not to disturb anything...stepped forward. I stood awestruck for close to an hour as other tourists wandered around me. He's so real and yet carved in perfect stone. That is the genius. I'm not sure I even knew what genius was until David and I met. Every sinew in his arms, every muscle appears to breathe and have blood moving through it.

Starting in 2002, experts labored through the nighttime hours to give David his first bath since 1873. The statue had been covered in dirt and grime, much of it carried in on the clothing of his audience. It took a full two years to finish the restoration but many determined it was worth it. David now shone brighter and lighter and had a "healthy glow."

That was all well and good, but for me David glowed whether he was spotless or tarnished. I considered myself hugely fortunate to have had two visits with the man, and I was star-struck as my feet skimmed across the museum's floors to the exit. I landed on the cobblestone street still slightly dazzled.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

FLORENCE: January, 2003 (Part 1)

The first time I traveled through Italy and stayed in pensioni, I savored waking to rich, dark coffee with foamy hot milk and a crusty chunk of bread served with butter and jam. Most pensioni included breakfast with their room rentals.

These years later, I was disappointed to find coffee machines in the dining rooms of the places I was staying at. These impersonal dispensers dribbled out caffeinated drink into plastic cups. On the side, guests could help themselves to a cellophane-wrapped pastry of some sort. An inedible and cheerless start to the day. I wanted Italy to stay exactly the same as I remembered but she wasn't cooperating.

I checked into a "Let's Go"-recommended pensione on my first cold but sunny morning in Firenze. The book mentioned a "delicious breakfast" but alas, it was also machine packaged. The room was tiny and musty and altogether dreary. A single bed with a thin mattress waited for me. I arranged another pensione for the second night and hit the street to get out of the place.

The guidebook did come through that evening, sending me into a lovely surprise for dinner. A small, working-class neighborhood restaurant filled with men at the end of their workday. White-tiled walls, small tables and a black-and-white floor. Black-and-white photographs of the city hung above the diners.

For the equivalent of a mere ten dollars I was served a meal of vegetable soup, rabbit cooked with spinach, and a full bread basket. Wine and water were included. Men gathered around tables in groups of four or five. They paid little attention to me, which was a good thing, but I couldn't help noticing the Italian custom of men going out and women staying in.

In the evenings,young couples met up in bars, but Sundays were for families. Entire families strolled the streets. The father held a ribbon-wrapped gold box from the panetteria, the wife alongside kept an eye on the youngsters and everyone exchanged greetings with neighbors. Only on Sundays would whole families gather in restaurants. I've been told tradition keeps Italian women running the home and Italian men running the street. As a woman on her own, I dined most evenings surrounded by men and wondered if this tradition would ever advance.

A tradition I hope doesn't change is that of the siesta. In Italy citizens disappear after enjoying a large lunch with wine. Shops close down, restaurants shutter, and folks nap. I like this. After a morning of sightseeing I spent my afternoons reading and snoozing. Eateries didn't re-open for dinner until seven-thirty, which left waning hours for museums, galleries or window shopping. Apparently, Spain is in a fierce wrestle to save its siesta tradition as Western hours descend on the workplaces of Madrid and Barcelona. This may well be the case in Rome, but smaller cities and towns still honor the sacred siesta.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

ROME: January, 2003 (Part 3)

At the Excelsior I learned to stomach the curious glances from hotel staff as I paraded through the opulent reception area with my plastic bags of groceries or laundry (take that, overpriced hotel cleaning service).

Our January in Rome included nights pounding with thunder, lightning and rain followed by mornings of clear, crisp air in sunlight and a climate in the mid-fifties. I have never spent summer days in Italy and have no desire to do so. Winter is best for sightseeing without crowds or heat. I walked, bused or took the Metro every day.

Outside St. Peter's Basilica a life-sized Nativity scene stayed erected, as if the city were unready to call a halt to the holidays. I wandered through the cathedral and the Sistine Chapel, where Michelangelo's ceiling fresco had been completely restored to the vibrant colors of the artist's original work. The Vatican museum and its massive golden treasures made me think about a Papal rummage sale as a source of funds for all the sexual abuse lawsuits against the Catholic Church we keep reading about.

I jaunted over Roman bridges and into Castel Sant'Angelo, the mausoleum of the Emperor Hadrian and his family, now a museum with a fantastic view of the top of St. Peter's, the Tiber River and their surrounding environs. The sky, a brilliant blue under the warm sun, created the effect of having walked directly into a scene from a postcard.

I spent an afternoon in Campo di Fiori. Translation: field of flowers — and it is. A flower and vegetable market near Piazza Navona, the square is filled with restaurants, a fountain and outdoor cafes. I lunched on soup and salad while I people-watched. I have found that in design and fashion, Europe is a good two or three years ahead of the United States. I saw women in stiletto-heeled boots with sharp pointy toes and winter coats trimmed with fluffy fur-like boas. Styles we wouldn't see for a long time back home.

My days in Rome started with an alarm at eight in the morning. I walked William to the subway, then ambled about the city, sometimes up to seven miles in a day. Occasionally I had a workout in the hotel gym followed by a sauna. Very nice and very luxurious. I worked on my writing projects, took a nap, and found food for William's late dinners.

After two weeks of this schedule, I was anxious to get away to smaller Italian towns, and started planning my exit. William's work had taken on new pressures since Morocco. His workload, and stress levels, had doubled, and no amount of tasty pasta deliveries on my part could alleviate the strain.

I became an unwitting additional source of stress during his off-hours, peppering him with questions he was too exhausted to answer. I asked for computer help and he indulged my needs even though he was burnt as overdone toast. I cajoled, he missed the humor and ended up snapping at me. As delighted as I was to be in Rome with him, I wasn't really with him, and it was difficult to accept I couldn't make things better.

It is the nature of filmmaking to operate at a heightened state of tension. Escalated pressure is encouraged from the top, the idea being that the work is better, faster and more profitable as bodies accumulate under the strain. It is both a sick and exciting art form and it was taking a daily toll on us.

William would call me upon leaving the studio and I knew his trip home would take an hour — unless he got caught up in some last-minute details, when more unacknowledged hours would tick by. When this happened I sputtered and spewed my way around the hotel room until William arrived home, took one look and realized he probably should have called about the delay. Then I would take a very adult approach and burst into tears.

It was time to take a break. William didn't have time to worry about me and I couldn't do any good worrying about him,