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.

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.

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.

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.

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.