NEW ORLEANS: April, 2009 (Part 8)

Former Senator Larry Craig, he of a certain bathroom stall incident at the Minneapolis airport, was one American disinclined to rebuild New Orleans.

"Louisiana and New Orleans are the most corrupt governments in our country and they always have been," Craig was quoted as saying in the McCall (Idaho) Star-News. "A rookie cop on the ground in New Orleans, they pay him or her $17,000 starting pay and then wink and say you better make the rest of it on the street."

"I'm not humorous when I suggest we should turn it back to what it was, a wetland," Craig told the Lewiston Tribune (Idaho), saying that some areas of the Gulf, including New Orleans' flooded Ninth Ward, should be abandoned.

As they say in the South: Mmmm-hmmm.

Was it not time to spend the FEMA money and repair the wetlands, the infrastructure and the living spaces of this city? Are we not: Linked.

Two men arrived at the finish line of the Ironman competition with a string of rope joining them hip-to-hip. They rode bikes, swam in Lake Pontchartrain (Ponch-a-train) and ran through the city for seventy miles: Linked.

After Katrina, in St. Bernard's Parish, people waited days for help in ungodly temperatures. They sat on rooftops under a blue, cloudless sky and in heat so intense it burned their mouths to breathe. In some locations the water rose up to twenty feet. Panicked deer hopped from rooftop to rooftop, snakes and stingrays swam by and wild Russian boars searched for dry land. The first help some folks received was from Canada. A Vancouver-based search-and-rescue team arrived to serve. The neighborhood is now known as "Little Canada": Linked.

I had jumbling thoughts in my head as I raced along a sidewalk and passed an older black man sitting on a doorway stoop, sipping from a can of beer in a brown paper sack.

Smile! he shouted to me.

Shocked, I did exactly that. I smiled big and laughed out loud.

That's what I'm talkin' 'bout, he quipped. And we were: Linked.

NEW ORLEANS: April, 2009 (Part 7)

Funny how fast it can happen, when it happens: Change.

Sunday was killer hot but by Monday I was bundled up in two sweaters, a jacket and a scarf. Forget the Panama hat; it would have blown away. The temperature had plummeted twenty degrees to a daytime high of 62 degrees and a nighttime of 40.

One evening I took the St. Charles streetcar to Tulane (TOO-lane) University to see Joan Didion read from her work. I like Didion. I'm a fan of her sharp, concise writing.

After a long-winded intro by an English professor, Joan Didion entered center-stage through a set of heavy, dusty, old-fashioned curtains. The audience welcomed her with a standing ovation worthy of the petite rock star of the literary world she is. Didion ignored the applause and got right to the task at hand. She read from The Year of Magical Thinking, a memoir of the year following the sudden death of her husband at their dinner table.

She read of the fire she built in the living room that evening, of the Scotch she poured for him and the salad she tossed. She paused in her reading and then continued to relate their brief conversation and how she noticed John's hand raised in the air as his head slumped forward, and how she thought he was making a joke she didn't like. It was moving to hear the writing from her lips and in a voice that sounded both strong and exhausted.

She confirmed that as the book sat stacked in warehouses waiting for delivery, her 39-year-old daughter, Quintana, also died.

Walking the neighborhoods of New Orleans, listening to Joan Didion read and taking a disaster tour had me wondering how or if we are linked to each other.

I was struck by the irony of Vanessa Redgrave, having recently lost her own daughter, set to perform the play version of this work at St. John's Cathedral in New York in October of 2009. I thought of how courageous and compelled these women were to put their sorrow into their art, perhaps because there was nothing else to be done. And now, tragically, they had become: Linked.

The shrimpers of the Louisiana coast are known as able-bodied, independent people born of families long tied to fishing. The sea is what they know and they know it well. Today, in the swampland and bayous, white shrimp boats languished half-sunk and rotten, scattered like abandoned toys. I saw these boat carcasses from the window of a tour bus. I was on the Hurricane Katrina Tour. A journey that would take us through the neighborhoods of Lakeview, Gentilly, New Orleans East, St. Bernard's Parish and the Ninth Ward. We'd see breached levees. We'd drive by devastated homes, public schools, shopping malls and restaurants. We'd see neighborhoods that had become virtual ghost towns.

The coastal wetlands are eroding at a rate of 16,000 to 20,000 acres every year. These same marshes provide natural protection from the damage of storm surges.

New Orleans' industries have a combined domestic economic impact of $140 billion every year. We eat the shrimp and oysters, our cars run on the oil, and we use the steel, rubber and coffee that arrive through New Orleans' ports. Nearly $4 billion of FEMA aid designated to help the region sat, unspent, three and a half years after Katrina.

NEW ORLEANS: April, 2009 (Part 6)

I didn't want to hang tight to the French Quarter and its tourist crowds. It was, of course, a positive advancement to have conventions, weddings and spring breakers returning to the city but these people tended to spend their time in this one location and I needed to get out. I carried a small notebook and wrote of the images I saw:

• A roster of names attached to the outer wall of an Episcopal church. Murder victims. The list specified: SHOT, STABBED, BEATEN.

• On the cement stoop of an apartment building a skinny pock-faced young woman with straggly red hair nodded, eyes shut, as if her veins had recently been fed. Standing over her, a skinny black man punched at intercom buttons. He held a leash attached to a small, caramel-colored puppy so desperate, maybe for food and water, that when it struggled to climb the top step, it crumpled in a heap.

• Middle-class neighborhoods where children rode bikes, parents went to work and lawns were mowed on Saturday afternoons were now filled with empty houses that had been waiting three and a half years and counting for insurance companies to pay up. In 2005, when Katrina and Rita swept through, these same companies raked in record-setting profits of $48 billion; in 2006, $68 billion.

• In the Ninth Ward an utter wreck of a house sat high on cement blocks, the result of initial work done by a contractor. The house was owned by a man who gave everything he had to the contractor. Said contractor left the project and disappeared with the money.

• Junked FEMA trailers filled with formaldehyde, a colorless gas known to cause burning eyes, wheezing, nosebleeds, and cancer.

• Many people in New Orleans will tell you the Katrina flooding was not a "natural disaster," but the failed work of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Levee walls had been planted 17 feet deep when they should have been 72 feet deep. The walls collapsed like dominoes and the water came in. In some places it took four minutes to rise from ground to roof level. The number of bodies found was tabulated close to two thousand — but not all the bodies had been found.

• After weeks of draining, the houses were filled with rats and snakes. And then the mold. If you wanted to buy a house in Lakeview, or New Orleans East, or Gentilly, you had to be prepared to wear a Hazmat suit.

• Governor Bobby Jindal had decided to relocate adolescent mental health facilities to a new location forty miles away, across Lake Pontchartrain. Most of the patients' parents didn't have cars to visit their children and there was no public transportation to the facilities. The Governor saved the State of Louisiana $9 million in the move.

The other side of lovely.

NEW ORLEANS: April, 2009 (Part 5)

Back in the Quarter, on a street called Pirate Alley, I wandered into William Faulkner's former house, now a bookstore, and bought a copy of Michael Ondaatje's Coming Through Slaughter. The novel, set in early 20th-century New Orleans, tells the story of a jazz musician and a photographer. I bought the book for three reasons: first, to read a novel set in New Orleans; second, to support an independent bookstore; and third, how could I resist? This was a former home of William Faulkner.

By two o'clock I was hungry again and, back at the Food Festival, I gobbled up a piece of fried catfish and a scoop of potato salad. This had me parched and sent me into Ye Old Absinthe Bar, where I quaffed a mug of amber ale as quickly as one might a glass of water. Back at the hotel by three o'clock, I had a shower and...oh yes...slipped like a love note into my pure white envelope of a bed and drifted off with thoughts of dinner.

When I awoke I called William back in L.A.

You okay?

Sure.

What are you eating?

Trader Joe's frozen dinners.

Okay.

You?

I'm great. I mean, eating my way around the city and writing.

In New Orleans I took to sending emails home to friends as I'd not done since our Hong Kong trip. It was in this writing that I started to consider another book. The writing my teacher Eunice Scarfe liked to call "the story behind the story." Maybe there was something there since I wasn't entirely certain how to repair the novel that I'd finished then shoved to a corner deep in my computer.

NEW ORLEANS: April, 2009 (Part 4)

My excursion included viewing six mansions built in the 19th century. The owners had coordinated with the local historical society to open them to those of us willing to buy a $22 ticket. Five of the homes had been converted into condos, which meant walking directly into bedrooms that had previously been parlors.

After World War II, with housing at a premium, subdividing estates dawned on many as an obvious solution. Despite their high ceilings, these living spaces felt closed-in, dark and cramped. Over-decorated in ornate Napoleonic-era furniture, chandeliers and then — all of a sudden — an entirely misplaced bed in the living room. It disoriented me.

The exteriors of these enticed me, but once inside I wanted to run. There was something sad and make-do about the grandiose reduced to stuffed quarters.

There were three docents assigned to each house. Apparently members of some sort of antebellum cult dressed in off-the-shoulder hoop dresses, these Southern belles were a mix of the old and the young. All moist, pale and brimming with knowledge of their assigned manse, they welcomed those of us on the tours with beaming smiles and extra long vowels.

I admired one house beautifully renovated in shades of pastel green and peach, with period, yet not ostentatious, furniture. Behind the manor, a two-story former stable had been converted into a guesthouse. I could live there.

On my way back to the hotel my curiosity was further rewarded when I walked into three Realtors' open houses. These joints weren't cheap, with close-to-New York City prices. A one-bedroom condo in a converted house, with a tiny kitchen, a loft, a living room barely big enough for a sofa and television, and a small outdoor patio: $1.4 million.

Mind you, because Katrina flooding was not a problem in the French Quarter and Garden District, these buildings remained structurally sound. Wind, rain and the occasional tornado wreaked havoc, but these neighborhoods didn't sustain the water damage 80 percent of the city suffered.

However, the prospect of exorbitant insurance rates (if one could even receive coverage) coupled with a high mortgage struck me as a daunting proposition for anyone seeking a home in New Orleans. And then there are those ladies named Betsy, Katrina and Rita ready to sweep through a fragile, ill-repaired levee system and deteriorated wetlands. Real-estate investment in this city presents a challenge.

And yet, as I walked down narrow brick streets and looked up at bougainvillea-strewn balconies, my mind played with the idea of living in such a romantic, dramatic, decadent and delicious world. One could paint, write and compose great works of art submerged in the heady, steamy magic of New Orleans.

NEW ORLEANS: April, 2009 (Part 3)

William shot me a smile and I returned it. We knew we were saying darling, adorable...and glad we don't have 'em. William's brother and his wife had a girl and a boy. Eventually they'd have a third and spending time with them at the beach or on Christmas morning was certainly "a good time had by all," but we never regretted our choice.

After dinner, William and I stepped home, tipsy and sated, to spend our last night together. William's bosses decided he should return to Los Angeles and I wanted to stay a full week. I'd barely started to click off items on my "must-eat" list and there were still many neighborhoods to explore.

The next morning my own pirate sailed away I gave myself a mission: I would seek solace in cheesy grits and biscuits before taking a house tour of the mansions on the Esplanade (Espla-naid).

I walked out of the hotel at eleven the next morning and wandered into the Quarter. Along Royal (Rerl) Street I discovered a Food Festival. It was like the city was waiting for me to arrive. White tented booths ran down the center of the street. Folks purchased beer, wine and Bloody Marys along with gumbo, fried turkey legs and pralines (praw-leens).

I bought a bowl of spicy jambalaya (jom-ba-lye), sat on the steps of the police station and listened to authentic jazz undulating from the end of a busker's trumpet. New Orleans languished as her real self on this day. The sun beat down at 84 degrees and the humidity was a damp 98 percent. I caught a glimpse of myself in a Napoleonic mirror and saw that I'd slipped from a feminine glow directly into sweating like an oinker. Bad.

I needed help and went to the French Market, where I found a Panama hat. The only good thing in the French Market, by the way. It's mostly a cheesy collection of T-shirts and voodoo dolls. In front of Cafe du Monde, where William and I had previously enjoyed cafe au laits and hot, powdery beignets, a crowd had amassed to cheer competitors as they crossed the finish line of New Orleans' Ironman race.

After seventy miles of biking, swimming and running, extremely lean men and a few women stumbled soaking wet into the arms of volunteers. Many looked delirious and needed to be carried away. It was a bit sickening to witness and could put one right off athleticism, especially after a bowl of jambalaya. I clapped my hands for the runners and moved on toward the direction of the house tour.

NEW ORLEANS: April, 2009 (Part 2)

Together William and I took a three-hour jaunt through the French Quarter, then up the Esplanade and into Mid-City, where we landed at Liuzza's by the Track, near the New Orleans Fair Grounds and racetrack. More diner than restaurant, it was purported to have some of the best po' boys in the city, and we arrived hungry. William ordered the shrimp po' boy, a French loaf stuffed with three dozen of the tender babies dripping in a spicy butter sauce. I bit into my oyster (erster) po' boy. Juicy, fat oysters had been deep-fried to a golden crunch and wrapped in lettuce, tomatoes and a fluffy French loaf. At the end of our long walk, it was back to the hotel for showers and the delicious sensation of slipping into cool, white sheets under snowy duvets for an afternoon nap in keeping with a Southern tradition. We slumbered satisfied after the tasty meal and pleased to be in a new world where his per diem took care of such lunches and our hotel room.

Later we shared dinner at Muriel's in the Jackson Square area of the Quarter. Housed in a former mansion, the restaurant is apparently haunted. In a secret corner, under a staircase, we discovered a table set for two with goblets of red wine and bread; for the ghosts, they said. Another pirate parade traipsed past our window as William sipped a Sidecar and we dined on crawfish crepes, soft-shelled crab, Louisiana shrimp, and oysters. The pirates threw beads to the crowd and shouted ho ho ho and stuff about rum.

William and I glanced over our shoulders as the Muriel's maitre d' seated a couple and their toddler at a table directly behind us. I could feel my face tighten into a sour, pursed mask. Why on earth do people think it is a-okay to bring young children anywhere, anytime? Why?

A waiter delivered water to the parents and to the child a bundle of crayons. Oh for God's sake, our elegant evening looked like Sesame Street. I sucked in air and then gulped my wine, fortunately not at the same time. We turned our frosty attention to the appetizers before us and the pirates outside our window.

Near the end of our meal, in the ladies' room, I ran into the mother and her tot. I politely looked down and the child held her clasped hands up to me. She wound her pink fingers around and around, proudly showing how she'd washed them. I slipped to my knees and stared into her bright blue eyes, wide under a frothy halo of gossamer hair.

Did you wash your hands all by yourself? I asked, and she giggled.

She stuck her foot out to show me a white sandal with a large flower on top. Her tiny toes barely peeked out the end of the shoe.

Are these your new shoes?

Like a miniature dancer, she switched feet and pointed the other toward me. We both took a moment to study her sandal.

You have two new shoes? That's fantastic.

She swept her hands down the front of her cotton dress and I thought: Southern belles are surely born.

Oh, I hope she didn't disturb your dinner. This is her first time in a grown-up restaurant. The mother's voice came from far away. It had a tinny distance.

How old is she? I whispered. And what's her name? Caught in the spell of the little girl's eyes, I couldn't look up at the mother.

This is Annabelle. She's nineteen months. The child and I were in a private bubble.

Annabelle, I softly repeated, and again she giggled. Your shoes are perfect and your dress is lovely, Annabelle.

With that she wrapped her small hand tight around my index finger and tugged. Annabelle led me out of the bathroom, down the dark hallway and back into the dining room. With my knees bent and my body tipped halfway over, I looked like Quasimodo and yet was fine with that. It’s the kind of sacrifice one makes when one has so instantly fallen in love.

William laughed out loud when he saw us walking toward him and in a flash, he too was enchanted by Annabelle, whose name could as easily have been Scarlett, or Blanche, or Maggie, or Daisy.

The sun set over Jackson Square and sleepy Annabelle lifted tiny fingers in farewell over her daddy's shoulder as her baby blues closed.

The restaurant window reflected a couple rosy in candlelight. We stirred frothy cappuccinos and shared sweet crème brulee. We'd been sprinkled with magic by one of Louisiana's best. At a mere 30 inches high Annabelle was the real deal.

NEW ORLEANS: April, 2009 (Part 1)

In the spring of 2009 William flew to New Orleans to start a job. This was three and half years after the Katrina disaster. I hadn't visited the Crescent City in many years and was saddened by horrible images of the city on television.

William's departure fell during spring break for The Shakespeare Club, so I was free to follow. We were in Louisiana Luck.

We arrived in New Orleans too late for Mardi Gras (good) and too early for Jazz Fest (sad) but right on target for Pirate Week (spelled Pyrate down here).

Pirates of all ages, colors and genres. Gay and straight pirates. Fat and skinny pirates. Dressed in full regalia, they stomped through the French Quarter and continued to do so for the week. Toddlers wearing eye patches and headscarves brandished swords from their strollers. The most common types of buccaneer were chubby middle-aged white men strutting in packs of three or four, gray hair springing out of their bandannas and cummerbunds stretched to the point of snapping.

I was reminded of Civil War re-enactors on battlefields in Virginia. These aged pirates wore a similar braggadocio of commitment and careful planning. Their faces registered ecstasy as they waved to the crowds. Their black breeches billowed above silly striped-stockinged calves. They dressed in gem-colored brocade coats, thigh-high leather boots and great three-corner hats with wild feathers aplume. They smoked, drank and cussed like, well, pirates. Everyone was acting with a capital A.

William and I wandered into the Jean Lafitte Blacksmith Shop Bar. A low-ceilinged, dark cave-like building with original blackened brick fireplaces and charred wood beams, it was the oldest building in the Quarter, dating from the 1770s. Story has it the pub was a blacksmith shop run by New Orleans' famous hero-pirate, Jean Lafitte. In reality, Monsieur Lafitte and his crew set this joint up to sell their glorious plunder to willing New Orleans buyers. Years later, the bar became a favorite drinking spot of Tennessee Williams.

MONTREAL: December, 2007 (Part 6)

In 2008 William returned home to Los Angeles to continue his work. I again attended the writers' conference, read an excerpt from my novel and received a favorable audience reaction.

In New York City I met with my agent for a fortifying lunch. Susan was still optimistic about selling my memoir despite a stock market in freefall, rising unemployment rates and American car conglomerates on the brink of collapse. I was relieved to hear her speak both realistically and enthusiastically. It was a balm on my worries.

The Shakespeare Club performed a fine rendition of "Romeo and Juliet" in the spring and I was proud of the effort on all our parts. I continued to churn out pages of my novel and sent the first two hundred pages to Susan for her consideration. I was eager for her thoughts because it was the one thing I was feeling most positive about. Maybe the novel would sell before the memoir. Maybe....

I'd taken to learning as much about the publishing world as I could. I studied blogs and read books by editors. It was becoming increasingly clear that this staid and possibly archaic business of book publishing was about to kneel down and turn over like a great elephant rolling into a bath of warm mud — a morphing process similar to what we had witnessed in the worlds of music and movies. Important editors at major publishing houses were either being dropped or quitting at an alarming rate. We were about to hear of e-books, Kindles and iPads. With the economy in peril it became obvious how my professional life would be affected.

William and I celebrated Barack Obama's election and at the same time wondered if we were holding hope of this one person's abilities too high. Could he save us? Maybe....

After reading the beginning of my novel, Susan let me know I wrote fiction well and the writing was mesmerizing...but what would the market be for such a book? To whom could she sell it?

I sank. I had zero answers. It was becoming apparent that the highbrow literary world is not too different than Hollywood or any business, for that matter. The bottom line is about what sells. I wasn't writing for the market. I didn't know how to write for the market. Yet I still wanted an audience.

I stared out the window of my home office at green lawns and black crows hopping across the grass. I rubbed Scrabble's little ears and took Stinky on long walks. My neck continued to itch and it wasn't turtleneck weather. I suspected the publishing universe knew precisely what the hell was going on with my neck because neither of the dermatologists I consulted had a clue. My bathroom was filled with myriad creams and lotions that had little effect.

At least William was working, which we were grateful for every day, but by autumn my manuscript had been in the marketplace for a year with only one near bite.

MONTREAL: December, 2007 (Part 5)

A recession had been predicted and within months Lehman Brothers would collapse. AIG and others would follow and I continued to wonder, How will this affect us?

My agent had started submitting my memoir to publishers in October. By December, while I was in Montreal sucking down mussels and champagne, the rejections had started to come in. I read the letters with curiosity, not only because they were referencing my work and thus my high hopes, but also because I'd never been in this position before.

My experience with acceptance and rejection had been grounded in my experience as an actor, where in one swift phone call from my agent I would know:

1. if there was interest, and how much
2. no interest/didn't get it
3. got it

The responses to my book, though favorable enough to regard as good reviews, also disclosed that the material "wouldn't be a good fit with our trade market." Other phrases included "not sure how to position" and "not right for our list."

I read and reread: fit, fit, fit.

It seemed I'd built a shoe for the wrong size foot and the news churned inside of me like images from a bad dream. Was everything that had happened last summer an over-the-top exaltation I could never live up to? A fantasy? A delusion?

William said, Don't worry, it'll sell. I know it will.

I said, I have to go home now and I love you and thank you for saying that.

I rubbed my neck as I said this. William wrapped his arms around me and hugged. I would be going home to Los Angeles and he would follow in two weeks.

I scratched my neck. Scratch, scratch.

You know what I miss most when we're apart? I asked.

What?

Laughing. You make me laugh and back home, alone, I don't laugh much.

You're an easy audience, he said.

Maybe yes, maybe no...anyway.

Scratch, scratch.

What the hell is going on with my neck? And I stood in front of the bathroom mirror. Cripes, look at this.

William came in and we both stared at my neck in the reflection. Great red welts cut across my throat as if I'd walked away from an attempted garroting in some murderous thriller.

Are you allergic to the fabric in your turtlenecks?

Yeah. Maybe. Allergic to turtlenecks, that's really common.

On my last morning in Montreal I made breakfast for William, kissed him goodbye and packed last-minute stuff into my suitcase before the taxi came. I took a quick look at the day's news online.

Official. Crisis. Recession.

How will this affect us?

MONTREAL: December, 2007 (Part 4)

One morning we set off to William's office so Michelle could see where he was working. He had asked us to pick up some treats for the people in his office so we stopped at a bakery, where I chose frosted cupcakes and had them boxed and tied in ribbon for easy carrying.

Then we made a stop at a liquor store for a few bottles of good wine. By this point in my visit I was feeling pretty cocky with my language skills and asked the friendly store manager if he had gift bags for the bottles. He helped me out and in a magnanimous tip of my language-hat I said, Merci beaucoup, Monsieur, vous êtes un bon homme.

He gave me gentle smile and nodded. I smiled back, picked up my bags and turned to locate Michelle, who had receded into a corner of the shop. Her shoulders were heaving. Her mittened hand covered her mouth.

I scurried over to discover her convulsed in laughter.

What is your problem?

Do you know what you just said?

I certainly do. I told him he was a good man and he is. He helped me with these wine bags.

You called him a snowman!

As she said this I remembered the cardboard cutouts of Bonhomme hanging all over Montreal. He's a giant snowman and the mascot of the winter carnivals held in the province.

Merde.

We crashed out of the store and stumbled down the snowy street nearly peeing our pants with laughter. Friendship at its best in a winter in Montreal.

I missed Michelle after her five-day visit and spent my remaining days in the city working on my novel, meeting William for lunches and on his days off taking him to the city's must-sees.

On a Sunday afternoon we took a bus to Schwartz's Delicatessen for world-famous smoked-meat sandwiches. We bit into tender meat slathered in yellow mustard and overflowing from slices of fresh-baked rye bread. We nodded up and down in agreement with the glowing reviews pasted up in the steamy windowpane.

We window-shopped Rue St. Catherine and wandered through the Musee des Beaux-Arts. We strolled the riverfront and ate sweetbreads and fresh fish at a table covered in white linens set with candles and tucked against a wall of unfinished red brick. We slept late on his days off while fat snowflakes fell quietly outside our windows.

As we shuffled in bliss through snow, content that William was working on a big project and I was working on a big book, the big world was spinning on its axis into other realities. While writing fictional paragraphs I took breaks and browsed news sites. The real estate bubble was popping, fast, and I wondered, What does this mean for us? How will this affect us?

MONTREAL: December, 2007 (Part 3)

The one-bedroom apartment was luxuriously furnished in dark brown leather couches and chairs. The two bathrooms featured marble and glass, the kitchen stainless-steel and shine. In the dining room a long panel of windows looked across to the offices of La Presse, a Montreal newspaper. In the mornings I could watch journalists and staff hard at work while on the street below cars swished their tires through slushy snow. After breakfast I'd walk William to his office then go off to explore the city.

Michelle arrived to spend five nights with us. I'd asked the building manager if setting up a cot would be possible and Oui, madam was his response. However, housekeeping did not appear to be in on this plan and suddenly it was the day of Michelle's arrival and no cot was in our apartment. On my way to the train station I stopped in to see my new friend, the building manager, and he offered a better idea.

When I saw the top of Michelle's head bobbing up the stairs from the train platform I jumped and she cheered. We are both fans of Montreal and to be in it together promised adventure. I flagged a taxi and got us to Old Montreal in my perfectly adequate high-school French. I had learned the language in this country. What clearly would stymie Parisians and Moroccans was a cinch for me. I rattled off directions and we successfully pulled up in front of the correct address.

Once inside, I gave Michelle the quick tour of the apartment. She oohed and aahed but wondered where she would sleep.

Come with me, I said.

She followed me out the door and down the hall where I stopped in front of another door. I opened it with a flourish and announced: Your own apartment! The manager says he likes William so much, we could have this for you, for free!

Michelle and I jumped up and down like teenagers. Montreal was reaching her French-Canadian arms out to us in a welcoming embrace and we could do naught but snuggle in tight. So began five days of museums, art galleries, bags of hot bagels, lunches and dinners with delicious wines and hours of trudging in snow.

Michelle and I enjoy a shorthand when it comes to sightseeing. One of us will grab the other's arm, squeeze and stare until we both silently agree that the fold of that silk fabric, the arm of that chintz chair, the cut of that neckline, the blue of those shoes, the intricacy of that floral arrangement, the bending of that sculpture, the perfection of that berry pastry, the sadness of that old man and the glow of that child's red cheeks...was intended for us to see and share in that exact moment.

Friendship at its best in a Montreal winter. We sped our way to various neighborhoods on the Metro or on city buses. We strolled through a farmer's market scented with the pine of fresh-cut Christmas trees. We studied the unmoving river, its edges frozen like a photograph. We settled in, after a long day, into a restaurant as cozy as an eighteenth-century house because, for crying out loud, it was an eighteenth-century house. A fire crackled, heavy drapes kept in the warmth and we ordered soups and steaks and roasted potatoes.

MONTREAL: December, 2007 (Part 2)

William settled into his apartment in Vieux-Montréal, the city's charming historic district that featured cobblestone streets, art galleries and restaurants near the Old Port, which overlooked the St. Lawrence River. He emailed me digital photos of the city in autumn colors.

The company had given him a car but he mostly walked to avoid driving in snow. To hear William tell it, his daily walks came with more than just aerobic benefits.

I love this city, he exclaimed. The women here are gorgeous and friendly and usually happy to talk in English.

Good. I'm pleased you're getting a workout on the way to work.

I arrived on an early December evening and not a moment too soon. In the taxi from the airport I smiled at the city lit in twinkling pre-Christmas glitter. The car slowed near Notre Dame Cathedral, the snowy square aglow with tiny blue lights spun into every bare tree branch. The luminosity created an ethereal effect.

Our apartment building was around the corner from the church. The taxi pulled to a stop, I opened the door and promptly stepped into a snowdrift. I struggled to get one foot out, stuck the other one in deep and nearly toppled flat on my face as the driver placed my luggage on the sidewalk.

I glanced up to see William tromping through the fluffy stuff to get to me. Two months apart was two months too long but here we were in a winter landscape, inept and bumbling and laughing.

MONTREAL: December, 2007 (Part 1)

Snow. Romantic, silent and cleansing. Snow. Trudging, bundling and bouillabaisse. Snow.

William and I had never done snow together. Being from Canada, I grew up in it. Being from Southern California, he had not and, with the exception of some ski trips and a few winter semesters, had not spent much time in it at all.

After my return from the writing conference I had started work on a novel. My confidence level as a writer was high. I wrote every day, as I believed real writers did. When William had time he sat in my office as I read him pages from the day's work.

After one such session, I looked up and bit my lip.

What? Thoughts?

He shook his head. Where is this coming from?

What do you mean?

It's rich...dense. It's robust writing and I love it. A much different voice than in the memoir.

I exhaled. Thanks. You know that means a lot.

Can't wait to hear more.

And I launched myself into a world of research and writing while William prepared to go on location to Montreal for three months. He would leave in October and I'd join him in December.

Montreal held history for me. As a young actor, I'd toured with plays to the city in winter and acted in a comedy pilot one summer. Quebec is a joyously unique part of Canada. With its own Quebecois-French dialect, its culinary expertise and a zest for beautiful art, fashion and beer, it's impossible not to be proud of the province and the jewel at its heart, Montreal.

FINDING A CREATIVE LIFE (Part 8)

At the restaurant the maître d' seated us on the outdoor patio and a waiter opened our bottle of wine. I hadn't eaten a thing but felt ready to throw up. I pressed my hands on my summer skirt. I looked around at the other diners. They appeared carefree and easy. I opened the menu.

What are you going to have? I asked casually.

I'm thinking the steak. How about you?

Ummm...I guess the mussels, and we shared a smile because I always order the mussels.

Good choice, he said.

I met William's eyes, lifted my shoulders and let them drop along with all the air in my solar plexus.

William raised his glass to me and whispered, It's fantastic. His eyes were wet.

Really? You think so? You liked it?

It's fantastic and she'd be fool not to represent it.

Summer of 2007 was when Peace, Purpose and Creativity locked into place for me like long-sought puzzle pieces.

Peace: Because of William's work we had a roof overhead and food on the table.

Purpose: Because of Shakespeare Club there was an important place for me to be six months of the year.

Creativity: Because of the writing conference and my writing teachers and because I had a literary agent, creativity flourished.

In July we adopted a new kitty and named her Scrabble.

FINDING A CREATIVE LIFE (Part 7)

Susan, Susan!

She stopped and turned as if we were in some cornball love story.

I was out of breath but managed to say, Can I send you my writing? I mean, I'm in the middle of the rewrite but—

She gave me a most tender smile and answered, Mel Ryane, the one person I really wanted to meet. Send me what you have.

Back in my dorm room, I sat cross-legged on the bed and called William. Back in L.A. he was swamped, working two projects at the same time. I couldn't get him on the phone. The most exciting event of my creative life and it would be hours before I could share it with my husband.

I called Michelle.

Remember my dream? The one where I was pregnant? I just figured out what I'm giving birth to. It's a book.

I went for dinner with friends that night. I celebrated with good wine and blushed all night at my good fortune. As I crawled into the single bed in my dorm room I finally reached William on the phone.

Sweet, so, so sweet, he said. I'm beyond proud of you. Come home and let's celebrate.

Flying back from New York that summer I knew that with a literary agent interested in my work and teachers encouraging me, it was time to take my writing much more seriously. As the plane began its descent into LAX a gentleman next to me started up a conversation. I heard the wheels of the aircraft unlock as he asked me, What do you do?

I'm a writer.

I'd never said that before. It made me smile to say it. It made it true.

I'm a writer.

That summer I holed up in my office to finish the manuscript and get it to Susan in New York City as fast as possible. I had a terrible fear that Susan's enthusiasm would dissipate, that perhaps our encounter had been a mirage.

I wrote for four straight days, twelve hours a day. I added content and spell-checked every word. I had the manuscript printed and mailed it to New York. I had a second copy printed and set it on William's desk.

William, bleary-eyed with exhaustion, was surviving on five hours sleep a night and his wife was asking him to drop everything and read her book.

I made dinner reservations at our favorite French restaurant for that Saturday evening. I bought a good bottle of wine for our meal and kept myself busy while William read my book. I gave him some coffee and left him alone. William's past criticism about my writing was erased in this single act. This was momentous for both of us. He was giving me his all.

FINDING A CREATIVE LIFE (Part 6)

In the summer of 2007 I returned to the writers' conference with an excerpt from my Shakespeare Club book. I read for three minutes in a packed auditorium. The women in the audience laughed and cheered. They interrupted me with applause. I was shocked, particularly since the material was slightly on the sad side.

You just never know, as they say in showbiz.

The night I read there was a particular woman in the audience. In an unusual gesture for this conference, a literary agent from Manhattan had been invited. The next day I attended a talk she was giving on the publishing world. During her address she mentioned she heard exactly one reading the night before of work she would be interested in representing.

I was sitting next to my friend and teacher, Eunice, who kicked me with her foot. She means you, Eunice mouthed.

I kicked back. Shut up.

At the end of the agent's chat I picked up one of her business cards. She was engulfed by writers pitching their projects but looked right at me and said, It's Mel, right?

Right, I mumbled, suddenly short on air. Thanks for talking to us. I'm going to a class now. Bye.

Bye, she smiled.

And I took off. Was Eunice correct? It was entirely too big for me to imagine but imagine I did and as I sat in a classroom down the hall and watched the agent walk past on her way out of the building, I knew I had to do something, and fast.

I bolted from my chair, dashed to end of the hall, pressed my hands against a large window and looked down three stories across a green grassy quad at the agent walking far away. She was probably walking all the way back to New York City, right now.

I ran faster than I ever remember running for anything. I tripped down all those stairs, I sprinted across the grass, through a gauntlet of water sprinklers. I called out.

FINDING A CREATIVE LIFE (Part 5)

Day after day I continued to work on the book with Spencer sleeping by my side. The Shakespeare Club, in our second season, performed "Hamlet" that spring. My life was blossoming into a rich canvas of meaning and purpose.

Here, Spencer, your breakfast. Come here, baby. Spence?

He had stopped eating. We learned his liver was in trouble. The vet said to give him anything he wants. People food, that junky cat food from the grocery store, anything to get him eating. We'll do what we can here to encourage his appetite and quell his nausea.

Spencer lost weight. And wouldn't eat.

The vet said, There's nothing we can do anymore. Spencer will let you know when he's ready to go.

William and I held the little guy. We petted him and spoke softly. We cried.

Spencer was my history in fur. For sixteen years he had moved house to house, relationship to relationship and career to career with me. He licked my wet cheeks when I was sad and adapted to every new environment with aplomb. He'd come all the way into this new life with me and I didn't want to let him go.

But he did go. He did let us know when it was time. He sat outside in our backyard. He curled into a ball, slowly blinked at us and we knew.

William and I stood by Spencer's side at the vet's office. Spencer's eyes had gone glassy from the sedative and then pitch black as the lethal shot set him into an unreal stillness. It wasn't really "going to sleep," as they call it. It's a life, stopped.

We fumbled our way to the car and wept...for two weeks. It was a hard goodbye and a most important event in our marriage. We didn't expect anyone in the world to understand our grief over a dead cat. It was enough that we had each other to hold on to as this small member of our family disappeared.

FINDING A CREATIVE LIFE (Part 4)

Later that afternoon I attended a non-fiction critique session also led by Susan. Women, sitting in chairs arranged in a horseshoe formation, each waited with seven pages of a memoir or autobiography they'd written. I'd signed up to read portions of my travel emails from China.

I smoothed my papers with a damp hand, took a breath and launched in. I'd never read any of my writing aloud and most certainly not for critique. At the end of my reading I looked up into Susan's eyes and she said, This is brilliant writing.

As a result of Susan's approbation I knew I was officially pregnant with creativity that now could be unleashed. I signed up to read more of my writing in an auditorium filled with four hundred women — even though I had nothing prepared. The rules for these evening readings stipulated pieces be no more than three minutes long.

I took off for the college library, found a computer and wrote about the Shakespeare Club. That night, when I stood at the podium, adjusted the microphone and read my words, the positive audience reaction told me exactly what I was giving birth to.

I arrived home from the conference as high as those clouds I'd been spinning into dreams above our house in Los Angeles. I poured William a glass of wine and said, Sit, I have to share this with you.

I read him all the poems and essays I'd written that week. When I finished I looked up at the one person I wanted to please more than anyone in the world.

His face was damp with tears.

I only wish I'd been the first one to tell you, Mel. You are a great writer.

I knew the book I had in me, the one I was supposed to write, would be a memoir about my first year of running Shakespeare Club, entwined with the story of my wanting to be an actor, leaving my acting career and making peace with that decision.

It took me eight months to write the book and another five months to rewrite it. Next to me on the couch, our car Spencer curled up tight against my hip and snoozed as I wrote and wrote. I didn't share my work with William. I was too shy to do that. His impression meant a great deal to me and I wanted the work to be the best it could be before showing a single page to him.

FINDING A CREATIVE LIFE (Part 3)

After a few months of volunteer reading, I approached the principal with the idea of an after-school program for third-, fourth- and fifth-graders. I would call it The Shakespeare Club.

What? William said.

The Shakespeare Club. I could teach them all the stuff I know and maybe they could become better readers, I don't know...it's worth a shot.

By October, William had helped me make a brochure and I pitched the club idea to parents, teachers and schoolkids. By November I had thirteen kids meeting in a classroom once a week. By April of the next year that number had dropped to ten kids, and in May they performed a rudimentary production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" and I sank into a bathtub exhausted and drunk on goodwill.

For years my friend Heather had been encouraging me to go to a weeklong writers' conference in upstate New York. She had been attending it for what seemed like an eternity and thought it was just what I needed. It was sponsored by an organization called the International Women's Writing Guild.

Geez, Heath, I don't know. All women? I'm not really into large gatherings of women. Goddess-type talk and airy-fairy stuff aren't for me. I don't think I'd be good there.

After my Shakespeare Club duties were over, it was clear I needed something else creative in my life. I was hankering to write but didn't know what. I said what the hell and signed up for the conference.

In June I arrived at Skidmore College, site of the event, and checked into a dorm room with a healthy dose of skepticism. On my first morning I followed Heather around like a puppy. Over breakfast I buried my face in tater-tots and sausage while she greeted friend after friend with gleeful screams and hugs.

I left this girly reconnaissance behind and went to peruse a schedule of classes. The first class I landed in was a non-fiction workshop taught by the writer Susan Tiberghien. I opened a brand-new wide-ruled notebook and uncapped a Uniball pen and as soon as Susan suggested a writing prompt I found myself scribbling words across the page like a writer on a cocaine bender.

Where the heck was this coming from? I was like one of those crazies who talked about channeling. Page after page filled up with words then sentences then paragraphs. My fingers were stained with blue ink and I sat back in my hard-backed classroom chair.

This is it. This is my conception.

FINDING A CREATIVE LIFE (Part 2)

I continued, however, on my quest for purpose and creativity. I meditated on it. I wondered about it and kept my eyes open. My best friend Michelle traveled from her home in Canada for a visit and we took a trip to Northern California. Perched cliffside with tequila and a winter sunset we watched crashing ocean waves and billowing sea foam.

I have to tell you this dream I had last night, I told Michelle. I this dream I was pregnant. I mean like big and full with a round belly.

Oh, Mel, Michelle sighed. This is the one thing I've always wanted for you. You'd be a great mother and it makes me sad you haven't had that experience.

Believe me, I wouldn't be a great mother. It's because I know that I know it's not for us. No, this dream is about something else. I'm going to birth something but I don't know what it is yet. There's something out there I'm going to do that has my name on it, but I don't know what.

By the spring of 2005 I was given a clue. A local elementary school left fliers on the doorsteps of our neighborhood, asking for community volunteer help.

I showed the flier to William and told him, I'm going to go over there to a meeting.

What are you going to do?

I don't know. Something.

You can do whatever you want. Why would you want to volunteer at a school?

I don't know what else to do right now and if they need help it's stupid for me to hang around here trying out new recipes like it's some kind of calling.

There were five people at the meeting in the school library. The principal, a couple of parents and another non-parent volunteer, Michael. The group was planning a new kindergarten yard and needed help, so I signed up.

I asked Michael how I could help by doing something more academically oriented, and he gave me information on a non-profit organization called Wonder of Reading that trained mentors to work with kids struggling to read.

So I planted flowers at the school, then took a three-hour training course, after which I was assigned to read with a little girl and a little boy. They were both in first grade and I met with each of them for an hour a week.

FINDING A CREATIVE LIFE (Part 1)

For our first eight years together, on my birthday I asked for only one thing:

William, will you get up with me in the morning, have coffee and share the newspaper across our kitchen bar, like real people do? This sounds as ridiculous to say as it is to write, but marriage is nothing if not the melding of eccentricities.

William is a healthy sleeper and was a committed night owl. When he wasn't working he liked to stay up late. Then he crawled into bed, cuddled up and slept until noon.

My schedule is contrary to his. I'm most productive in the morning. In the evening, I can't wait to put on pajamas, often before dinner, and scrunch into bed with a book by nine-thirty. This routine had me up by seven a.m. reading the paper, alone, over breakfast.

Thus: Once a year I made the request and bleary-eyed William complied because it made me happy and, as he likes to joke, I'm so easily entertained.

It went like this for years until I noticed that we do this almost every day now. They say married people look alike over time. We adjust. We catch up to one another. We match habits. I see more action movies and he's taken an interest in dramas.

One Christmas I asked for another special gift: Please come to one yoga class with me. Just try it. I promise you'll like the teacher, she's seriously cute.

He came, he tried and now we do yoga two or three times a week together. We continue to bend, shape and form ourselves into a kind of Henry Moore sculpture in both yoga class and our day-to-day lives.

Certainly I have grown to accept that he still loves to stay up late and sleep in when he can. I have figured out that his moods don't have to be mine. Nor does my emotional life get to rule the atmosphere of our home. I remind myself to speak up and speak truthfully. He listens and doesn't get bogged down in self-recrimination.

COZUMEL: October, 2005 (Part 9)

Most hurricanes blow into an area, devastate it, and blow out within hours. Hurricane Wilma planted herself on Cozumel for two full days. A cruise ship pier was destroyed. Along the San Miguel promenade, restaurants, shops and bars were eviscerated. The national park of Chankanaab experienced catastrophic damage and our five-star resort was blown to bits. Sixty-three people died in the storm and the area suffered $29 billion in loss.

Thousands of tourists crowded Cancun and waited days for planes to get them home. They sweated out the time in stifling shelters set up in schools. Some were given care kits, each containing a sheet of plastic and a bag of potato chips.

From all reports, the Mexican people remained gracious hosts under extraordinarily difficult circumstances. Many of their own homes were in rubble, yet they continued to help stranded foreigners find food and water.

We flew into Mexico City, changed planes and continued on to Los Angeles. At the end of the long day I crawled into bed and fell asleep. William stayed up. The house was quiet until I woke up screaming from a nightmare.

Do you think there's a tiny part of us that would like to experience the drama of a hurricane?

COZUMEL: October, 2005 (Part 8)

Mexicana Airlines had one daily flight out of Cozumel, and it was entirely booked — with a ten-person waiting list. We were told we could get seats for the following day. But we didn't want to return to the hotel and so became numbers eleven and twelve on the waiting list.

The flight was scheduled to leave at 12:45 p.m.

The clock read 10:15 a.m. and we sat. We waited. I prayed.

We waited.

I ate my sandwich. A woman wept at the Continental counter. Lines of tourists wove through the airport. A low-level hum rang with worry.

I read my book, In Cold Blood, and thought how things could have been worse. I could've been a Kansas farm girl in 1959. I wished I hadn't eaten the whole sandwich.

At noon we went back to the Mexicana counter and were told we were way too early. But it's going to leave in 45 minutes, I squeaked.

We sat back down.

At 12:20 we were told, We just don't know.

We sat back down.

The amount of people in the small airport had tripled in two hours.

At 12:35 we crept back to the counter, nervous of another rebuff. The damn flight was scheduled to leave in ten minutes.

You can have the two last seats, the ticket agent said.

Really?

Yes, they won’t be together, but they're yours.

A lucky break.

Things happen in threes.

We held hands and walked across the tarmac. I looked back from the top of the boarding stairs and saw that the sun had disappeared. Dark clouds were rolling toward us.

As the plane lifted off and I watched the coastline in the distance, I thought about Rosa, the dining room hostess, and Enrique, our waiter, and Liuva, Mrs. PR. What about those families playing on the beach? Where would they go and what would happen to their homes?

COZUMEL: October, 2005 (Part 7)

The Florida couple was supposed to know all about hurricanes. I had privately designated them our "go-to" people. Now, not only were they perusing timeshares, but her hair was braided in one of those stupid vacation hairdos with little beads.

Wait a second....

"Mrs. PR" finally showed up and did her best to reach the airline. It was hopeless. The line rang busy, busy, busy because other people had apparently watched CNN.

Next to her, "Mr. PR" struggled to draft a statement about a possible hotel evacuation. He repeatedly checked with her on phrasing.

What's the status here, anyway? William asked him.

Everything is "as usual" until the government makes an official statement.

A sunburned woman came up to William, utterly frantic.

"I'm so afraid of hurricanes. I don’t know what to do. The hotel won’t tell me what to do," she said.

You have to decide what to do, William said. The hotel isn't going to tell you what to do.

It was good advice. We should have taken it ourselves some time ago.

We decided to change our tickets at the airport. William went up to the room to pack and I returned to the dining room to make peanut butter sandwiches. I was convinced these sandwiches would save our lives no matter what happened.

A curious hostess watched as I spread peanut butter and added sliced bananas. She'd never seen that combination before. I highly recommended it, but stopped myself before pitching the value of potassium. Time was of the essence. She handed me take-out containers and gave me a cheery good-bye.

At the reception desk, a staff member clipped off our yellow hotel ID bracelets. They offered a final cocktail, but we declined and scrambled into a taxi.

COZUMEL: October, 2005 (Part 6)

William, can you sleep?

No, you're talking to me.

We have to get out of here. We can't hole up in the bathtub with a couple of blankets, travel Scrabble and a bag of peanuts.

He put his arms around me.

We'll figure it out in the morning. Try to sleep.

At best, my sleep was fitful. I dozed, woke with nightmares, then drifted off and jolted back awake. Over and over.

Morning finally arrived. I opened the sliding doors and my glasses instantly fogged up. The sky was clear and the sun shone, but the air was full of humidity.

Bleary-eyed, we made our way down the five flights of stairs to the lobby. I wondered what we would find. Would there be pandemonium? Maybe we'd waited too long and would encounter an angry, panicked mob demanding help from the hotel staff.

We reached the main floor and heard...soft jazz. Through the tall windows I saw guests slathering on sunblock and splashing in the pool. Some of them were laughing.

Wait a second....

In the center of the lobby a small crowd of people gathered, but they didn't look the least bit worried. We went to the Guest Services desk and were told the PR woman who could change our flights would be in at nine o'clock. We were advised to have breakfast and come back later.

What are those people doing? William asked, nodding toward the group.

Oh, they're going on the Tulum tour. Would you like to go?

Wait a second....

In the dining room, couples giggled over Mimosas and Bloody Marys. Families heartily gobbled up French toast and pancakes. Waiters cleared plates and brought out trays of bacon and ham. William choked down a bowl of cereal and I played with my scrambled eggs. Mostly we had coffee.

At nine o'clock sharp we arrived back the PR desk. We drummed our fingers on the counter, checked and rechecked the clock. Across the lobby, an attractive couple signed up for a scuba tour.

Over in a corner, the Hurricane Andrew couple appeared to be meeting with — really? — a salesperson. Were they buying a timeshare?

I nudged William. Look, they're about to purchase a pile of mud. Didn't her sister call with weather updates? Hasn't anyone here watched CNN?

COZUMEL: October, 2005 (Part 5)

By the final slurp of our Brandy Alexanders we had a course of action. If the weather was no worse in the morning, I would go off in search of Dramamine while William packed the snorkeling gear. We would take that glass-bottom boat trip, we would see pretty fish, and we would not vomit.

Later in our room, while brushing my teeth, I drifted over to the television and clicked on CNN. I froze mid-brush and stared at the weather graphic in front of me. I made a gurgling noise to get William's attention.

The tropical depression now had a name: Wilma.

And she was a Category 5 hurricane.

This is the worst storm in Atlantic history for as long as storms have been recorded, the broadcaster intoned.

The map on the screen didn't target the Yucatan. It didn't target Cancun.

The single location pictured was a tiny island: COZUMEL.

Toothpaste dripped down my chin as I pointed to the TV. We have to get out of here. Mierda.

After umpteen futile attempts to reach the airline by phone (at $3 a minute), we had no choice but to wait until morning to seek help from the concierge.

We crawled into bed, exhausted from stress and hard thinking. After flopping around on the bed, smashing my pillow and uselessly squeezing my eyes shut, I gave up. I exhaled shallow, anxious breaths and tried to imagine how events would unfold.

Thanks to CNN, my head was filled with terrifying facts.

The power would go out early in the game, probably when winds reached Category 1 status at 74 mph. Our room would plunge into blackness. The air conditioning and refrigeration would shut down. An ocean surge would flood the hotel and the streets.

A Category 2 force of 110 mph would shatter those floor-to-ceiling windows in the lobby and blow out the sliding glass door in our room.

And when the Category 5 gusts hit at upward of 155 mph—

COZUMEL: October, 2005 (Part 4)

That evening, the weather forecast on CNN remained indeterminate. The tropical depression over Jamaica still looked far off.

Despite that, over a bottle of wine at dinner, we discussed our options.

We quizzed our waiter about management's contingency plans in the case of a storm. He told us during Hurricane Emily, in July, the hotel ferried its guests across to Cancun and another resort. He also reminded us this brand new hotel was substantially built. No worries.

We knew it was unlikely we'd be reimbursed if we left early. People save for years for a vacation like this. Were we alarmists to consider bolting?

Do you think there's a tiny part of us that would like to experience the drama of a hurricane? I asked William.

Possibly.

That isn't a good reason to stay, is it?

No.

An employee at the front desk informed us that in the event of a natural disaster, the hotel would look after its guests. We would be granted "refugee status" and be "cared for."

Mildly assured, we went to the bar and ordered Brandy Alexanders. William wondered if the tourists dragging their wheelie suitcases down New Orleans' flooded Canal Street after Hurricane Katrina were also told they would be "cared for."

By our second drink we asked ourselves what we'd be staying for. We couldn't snorkel as long as those black flags continued to billow. We'd pretty much done the "all-inclusive" eat-what-you-want thing and enjoyed Jacuzzis every day in our room.

The only item left was a brackish trip on the glass-bottom boat.

Sometimes I wonder if it isn't better, in the case of a natural catastrophe, to have it just happen. In Los Angeles an earthquake shows up whenever it wants, full of surprise and gotcha!

With a warning, decisions have to be made. I knew I was being childish, but I wanted the vacation to last. I wanted it to be everything I read and everything I saw in those photos. I wanted, I wanted, I wanted....

COZUMEL: October, 2005 (Part 3)

The glass-bottom boat docked at the hotel pier and I asked a few disembarking passengers about any seasickness. The men said they got ill and the women laughed, but everyone agreed the snorkeling from the boat was worth the rough waters. As they walked away, one fellow looked back and said, You may want to get out there sooner than later. Weather doesn't look good for the next couple of days.

The television in our room offered limited local news. We watched CNN International and learned that a tropical depression had formed in Jamaica with a possibility of heading toward the Yucatan. And a possibility of gaining strength and becoming a Category 2 or 3 hurricane.

We came into our room after dinner and from the balcony I could hear waves lapping at the rocky shore. Karaoke singing floated up from the bar. The black warning flags flapped over the railing. We went to sleep with the balcony doors cracked open to the sounds of the sea.

At four a.m. I awoke to hear loud crashing waves and something blowing in the wind. Creaking chains or rope. In the dark, I started across the room to close the doors and forgot about those hazardous two steps down. Suddenly airborne, I flew then landed on both feet like an action hero.

A lucky break.

At breakfast, I pointed out a couple of hotel guests with their legs in casts and, over there, a man with his arm in a sling. Perhaps they had not been so fortunate with their steps.

You know how things happen in threes? I said to William. Well, I nearly lost my contact lens and I nearly broke my foot....

William, not easily impressed with omens, nodded and added sugar to his coffee.

It was Tuesday and we were off to Chankanaab for some spectacular snorkeling. On the tour bus we met a couple from San Antonio and asked if they'd heard any weather news. Not really, but the woman had asked her sister back home to call with updates. Originally from Florida, they'd survived Hurricane Andrew, a Category 4 in 1992.

You were lucky.

Yeah, I guess. We came home to four walls on a slab of cement, but we got through it.

CNN reported the possibility of a hurricane coming our way.

Possibility is the key word, the woman said. They can easily drift in another direction. We've lived through so many of those warnings where nothin' happens.

These folks knew a thing or two about hurricanes.

William and I struggled to snorkel in Chankanaab. The rough ocean made William queasy and I had to constantly stop to clear my snorkel. We were knocked against rocks and spent most of our time trying to avoid cuts and bruises. The water was cloudy and, frankly, any colorful fish seemed to have vacated the area. Perhaps they knew something we didn't.

We found a pair of lounges on the beach, opened our books and held tight to the riffling pages. I glanced up at the palapa above our head. How do its branches and leaves stay together during a storm? Still, the sun shone brightly from a nearly cloudless sky and we lathered up with suntan lotion.

COZUMEL: October, 2005 (Part 2)

Down below, I noticed red warning flags fluttering on the deck railing. On closer study, the ocean was actually jumping with whitecaps. We were prepared for rain but hadn't considered wind. Snorkeling off the hotel deck would be impossible in such strong wind. We'd be bashed into the rocks. I pushed aside the worry. The gusts will calm.

The room was tastefully decorated in dark brown, blue and beige. A split-level design had two steps leading from the bed to a sitting area. Hmmm. The combination of the glossy marble floors and those steps could prove deadly after one too many glasses of champagne.

In the evening we took a stroll and explored the hotel. We sipped piña coladas and peered over the deck at crashing waves. It was not looking good. Maybe tomorrow will be calmer.

With my back to the ocean, I faced the hotel. Guests chatted over cocktails at the warmly lit bar. The lobby and the hotel's three restaurants were all visible through tall windows. Because there was no beach it felt as if we were on an ocean liner. Laughter floated from across the pool. Glasses tinkled and a balmy wind blew strands of hair across my cheek.

I thought of the Titanic.

On Sunday afternoon we wandered through the town of San Miguel and made our way north along Cozumel's coastline to a park. The beach was filled with locals. We sat on a log and watched families picnic. Dads drank beer, moms cradled infants and children threw themselves fully clothed into the warm sea.

When we returned to the hotel we noticed the red warning flags had been replaced with even more serious black ones. The wind had intensified.

The resort offered us two free tours from several options, including the Mayan ruins of Tulum, a glass-bottom boat ride and a snorkeling trip to the national park of Chankanaab.

We picked Chankanaab for Tuesday and the boat ride for Wednesday. Until then we'd read and lounge by the pool.

Poolside on Monday morning, I knocked out a contact lens while putting on swimming goggles. I managed to snatch it up before the strong breeze did.

A lucky break.

COZUMEL: October, 2005 (Part 1)

Once we became snorkeling and vacation addicts, William and I researched new spots and discovered the much-lauded Cozumel, an island off the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico. Because it sits on the world's second-largest coral reef, Cozumel is an ideal location for snorkelers and scuba divers alike. It called to us.

We chose a brand new "all-inclusive" five-star resort. Its website boasted of snorkeling access directly off an infinity pool. Photos enticed us with crystal-clear waters lapping a rocky bank. It called to us.

The resort didn't have a private beach and we were fine with that. We didn't need a beach. With only 175 rooms, each with a large Jacuzzi tub, we figured we would avoid noisy tourists.

Weather reports indicated it was Yucatan's rainy season. Rainy (but warm) was all right and snorkeling in a drizzle is completely doable and actually quite lovely.

We were also aware that hurricane season wouldn't officially end until after November, but Cozumel and neighboring Cancun hadn't been struck since July. As we were already into October, we felt we'd be fine. Entranced by the resort's online photos, we saw what we wanted to see and we read what we wanted to read because: It called to us, and we were willing to take the chance.

We booked a one-week stay and left on an overnight flight Friday, October 14.

A perfectly logical thought ran through my mind: There have been quite enough hurricanes this year; I'm sure they've run out. Even though we'd seen coverage on the handiwork of Dennis, Emily, Katrina and Rita, this was my thinking despite scientists' warnings in May of 2005 that the hurricane season would be "above normal" and active. As it turned out, 28 tropical and subtropical storms formed and 15 of those became hurricanes that year.

We arrived in Cozumel on Saturday, entered the hotel and were greeted with glasses of chilled champagne. Nice touch. We sipped, looked up and gasped. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, there it was: a vista of blue-green ocean dancing in sunlight. Exactly like the photos. Around the infinity pool guests lay on chaise lounges, browning their bodies. Next to them, colorful exotic drinks sat on small tables.

William took my hand and I kissed his cheek. Vacation. We would spend time together. Perfect. We look like the people on the website.

I nibbled a guacamole appetizer and William registered at the desk. I suddenly regretted we'd only booked one week. From our air-conditioned room we stepped outside to a large balcony. Tropical humidity embraced us. A hammock rocked in the breeze and waited for someone with a book. The Mexican Caribbean spread before us in a stunning endless view.

KAUAI, HAWAII: Spring, 2005

Travel versus vacation. Here's how I see the difference:

Travel = in motion.

Vacation = stationary.

William was raised in a household where true vacations didn't happen. His family trips always included an obligatory visit to some relatives or some other function. The idea of just tanning on a beach or lolling in a hammock didn't exist for him.

I grew up in a home where vacations were barely affordable, but made to happen because of my father's determination that we abandon the city and explore "God's country." Dad folded up our gigantic orange tent and packed it along with sleeping bags and cooking utensils. He stuffed everything into, and on top of, our small car.

Mom gathered up stray pots, Melmac dishes and a Coleman stove. To this day, the scent of summer pine evokes memories of dawn in a forest camp and waking up to the smell of that hot canvas tent beginning to bake in the morning sun. Of my mother, frustrated to the point of tears at having to whip up one more meal in the midst of dirt and cigarette butts while Dad trucked the kids off for a day of trout fishing.

Travel set William on edge. He didn't want to get the money wrong, or make language errors, or offend another culture. Because travel didn't particularly interest him, I assumed he felt the same about vacationing. But I also thought he might actually get a kick out of a few weeks in paradise. In a place where "What do you want to do?" is answered with "Doin' it."

Nothing but sleep, sun, food, drink, books, Scrabble and, even for a couple of weak swimmers, a little snorkeling.

I did some research and found a house to rent for two weeks in Kauai. William wouldn't have to worry about currency or language. But as we packed I could see his edginess start. What to bring? What would we need? At LAX he barely spoke to me and on the plane my mood cranked up to pissiness.

I'd arranged this trip and he was being a bear. Couldn't he at least try to have fun? As we shuffled off the plane, we were enveloped in warm, breezy air. He remained silent. We lined up for our rental car where it was decided that I'd drive and he'd navigate. These decisions were made using maybe eight words.

I wanted to scream. We pulled on to a two-lane highway edged in red earth, rolled down the windows and sped past green hills on one side and a crystalline blue sea on the other.

The ocean crashed white foam on long beaches. Tropical air filled our car. William's arm dropped out the window and I could see him nearly liquefy.

I could live here, he said.

Like that the tension was gone.

We launched ourselves into a vacation of oceanic discovery, long, languid days of relaxation, and a commitment to vacate forever, whenever we could. William, never an early riser, was suddenly up at 6:30 every morning. He mapped out snorkeling excursions for us while I packed our lunches.

We hiked through forests and over cliffs to sandy paradises, where we would often be entirely alone. We read, snorkeled, napped, played Scrabble, ate our lunches and soaked up sunshine. In the evenings we sipped wine while I made fresh fish and salads for dinner. We went to bed early and slept deep.

Vacation became a new word in William's lexicon. It sat right next to dream.

A BEAUTIFUL LIFE IN A SWEET-SMELLING HARBOR (Part 5)

On a June evening in 1997 Prince Charles lowered the Union Jack in Hong Kong. Fireworks lit up the sky and rain poured on the harbor. People said, "Heaven cried on Hong Kong that night."

Hong Kong is neither city nor country, but a "Special Administrative Region." Many feared that as the British flag was lowered she would no longer remain a free democracy, but rather would become a controlled state under the thumb of Beijing. China promised Hong Kong "universal suffrage," meaning free elections, but they've reneged on that agreement and created a politically tender climate of regular public protests.

Still, every night joyous laser light and firework shows exploded over Victoria Harbor. They ricocheted blues, reds and greens across our faces as William and I walked the promenade. On just such a night we celebrated my birthday.

Should anyone ever ask How would you like your birthday in Hong Kong? don't think and don't hesitate. Silently nod because here's what could happen:

You put on a string of pearls and stroll the harborfront to the Star Ferry dock. You slip across the brilliantly lit water in a cool breeze with your loved one who, after years of careful training, understands that during such a ride a kiss is required and there you are lip-locked and surrounded by skyscrapers reflecting myriad colors.

You've entered a movie called: Hong Kong.

Then it's up to the tippity-top of the Peninsula Hotel and the Philippe Starck-designed Felix bar for a strawberry champagne cocktail and a stunning view of the cityscape. After that, a window table at a restaurant in the Kowloon Hotel for delicious grilled New Zealand lamb.

A few kisses later it's a creamy, dreamy, sweet vanilla cone from the Mr. Softee ice cream truck parked on the side of the road and you walk home with your true love. Happy Birthday indeed.

My last day in Hong Kong was spent on a final tour of our neighborhood: the grocery market, the teddy bear museum next door (which featured a ten-foot tall specimen), the mall below our apartment for any last-minute shopping (I resisted), then a stop for one of my favorite Hong Kong food items: tea.

In the Metro stations, clinical-looking shops serve "Chinese Urban Herbal Teas." The sales staff wears lab coats with badges identifying them as Customer Ambassadors. Condensed tea is siphoned and mixed with fresh fruits into a cocktail that far surpasses Jamba Juice.

The drinks bear titles of enlightenment: Wake Up Passion, Excellence Memory, Morning Blessing, Speed Up Power, Awakening for Spring, Delivery of Happiness, Living Present, A Blue Clear Sky, and Immunity Warrior.

On my final pass of Hong Kong I marched up and ordered: A Beautiful Life, please.

And I got it.

The Chinese translation of Hong Kong is: A Sweet-Smelling Harbor.

I couldn't agree more.

A BEAUTIFUL LIFE IN A SWEET-SMELLING HARBOR (Part 4)

I would be leaving Hong Kong with little more than a glimpse into a world that would take PhDs upon of PhDs to get straight. A staggeringly beautiful culture complicated with a cruel and dark history. Like many great societies, the Chinese have been both the victims and perpetrators in their story.

In the 17th century, when the British lusted after the silk and tea of China, they offered trade to the Emperor.

Sure, sounds good, but you don’t have anything we want.

The English dug through their closets.

Hats?

No.

Biscuits?

No thanks.

Our fabulous accents?

Hmmm...nope.

One day a British brainiac, contemplating the problem, looked out at his English garden. Flowers. We know everything about flowers.

Specifically, poppies.

They convinced the Chinese that opium was a terrific cure for diarrhea, which it was, but no one considered the side effects. The English went to Turkey and India, filled their ships, and thus began the opium addiction of millions of Chinese men. And women. And children.

Opium quickly moved from medicinal to recreational use and the preparation and smoking of an opium pipe became as formal a ritual as the tea ceremony.

One day in 1800 the Emperor peeped over the walls of the Forbidden City, saw his doped-up citizens tripping down cobblestone streets and thought, This is nuts.

He dispatched armies to every town, village and hamlet with instructions to systematically destroy millions of crates of the stuff. Too late. An addicted population led to a corrupt military and Western suppliers weren't about to give up their bounty. Illegal trade became the modus operandi.

Many other countries — including the U.S. — had jumped onto this profitable bandwagon. In 1839 the governor of Hunan ordered twenty thousand chests of opium burned at the port of Canton. He also levied heavy tariffs on foreign trade, seriously pissing off the English. In response, they readied their cannons, floated their ships into the harbor and took aim. The French and Americans added their firepower and so began the Opium Wars.

The Chinese didn't stand a chance against the advanced military tactics of the Westerners and suffered humiliating defeat. In 1842 Hong Kong was ceded to the British.

Eventually the Chinese Empire itself fell. So here we had an addicted population, a criminal army, questionable authority and a massively growing population: fertile ground for the Communism that followed.

My favorite spot in all of Hong Kong was the Hong Kong Museum of History. In a time travel-like experience the region's story is spelled out both in miniature and life-size reenactments. I marveled at the full-size rendition of a music company both onstage and backstage and felt a rush of guilt over my harsh assessment of Peking opera. There were the towering bun-trees of Cheung Chau — the bread shellacked into a glossy finish — and a trolley car like those in Wan Chai.

A miniature replica of a 19th-century walled city told the story of the outlawed opium. Before me, little soldiers gathered wooden crates of opium to burn. Barricaded outside, tiny addicted citizens covered their mouths in horror, unable to stop the destruction of their fix.

This museum was remarkable. I tiptoed around in silence because no one else was in the place other than docents encouraging me to see this and that. I have never met a single relative or friend who has been inside this detailed wonder. If I were as rich as an emperor, I'd fill a plane with friends and hand out tickets to the Hong Kong Museum of History.

A BEAUTIFUL LIFE IN A SWEET-SMELLING HARBOR (Part 3)

Cheung Chau had the bucolic atmosphere I'd been missing. The island is small, walkable, serene and green. There were forests and hills where butterflies fluttered and birds sang. Those lovely notes hit my ears fresh; I hadn't heard birds in a long time. I parked myself on a bench overlooking the harbor and ate a picnic lunch. No crowds. Absolutely charming.

Every year in May, people in Cheung Chau spend a week celebrating the Bun Festival. Thirty-foot metal cones are built and covered with buns. Real, baked-in-an-oven buns. The purpose of the Bun Festival is to thank the gods for keeping everyone healthy, and the traditional sacrifice is to eat vegetarian for the week. Even the island McDonald's participates by serving veggie burgers.

Parades, dragon dances and fireworks were scheduled for the week after I was there. For me it was satisfying to observe townspeople preparing and I had no desire to return for the crowds.

After my lunch I started a hike up into the hills. Brightly colored baby lizards slid across the cement path, birds sang and I was utterly alone. Really heavenly.

And then:

Cicadas. A racket of sound struck from above. Dolby Surround-worthy and loud. The devil's cry. The buzz was familiar — because you hear it in horror movies all the time. I twirled and looked up into the trees. Nothing. There was nothing to see, only the roar of — what is it? — their wings, their feet? What?

The fracas sounded like they were about to swoop down and swarm my body. My heart raced and I started to run, stumbled and nearly fell into:

A charcoal pit. And in the dirt, a beer bottle and an empty pack of Marlboro Lights.

This could well have been the remains of some family's weenie roast but I wasn't sticking around. My bucolic adventure was over. I raced down the hill and was back on that ferry, on my way to kill Jason with his stories of suicides in these hills.

A BEAUTIFUL LIFE IN A SWEET-SMELLING HARBOR (Part 2)

As I strolled along the Aberdeen promenade, an old woman steering one of the remaining sampans flagged me down. Did I want a tour?

Well, why not?

For seven bucks she sailed me away. We cruised past trawlers and other sampans. Their boat decks were as domestic as house porches, with potted trees providing shade. Laundry hung on lines strung from mast to stern. Family pets snoozed in the sun. A young boy in his school uniform rode with us until we dropped him off at his sampan home.

After the tour I traveled to Stanley Market, yet one more shopping spot notable for shoes, souvenirs and linens, but lunch was on my mind and I found a small French cafe. From my window table I soaked in the street activity and noticed an old man smoking a cigarette and chatting with his buddies. It was two in the afternoon and the man was dressed in his pajamas. Here was a guy after my own heart. I see no good reason why PJs aren't as perfectly acceptable for daywear as they are for bedtime.

In Beijing I'd seen the same thing. Men and women gathered on street corners in their silk slippers, robes and pajamas. Didn’t we used to be like that? Wasn't there a time in suburban North America when we stepped outside, picked up the morning paper, struck up conversations with neighbors, shared coffee, checked our gardens and enjoyed life — all in pajamas?

If the whole world spent a little more time in its pajamas, we'd be a heck of a lot nicer to each other. Thank you, China. I intended to return home with a credo that wearing pajamas in the afternoon was A-OK. I finished my sandwich and promptly bought a new set of pink silk PJs at the market.

My idyllic trip to this other side of Hong Kong Island brought to mind how long I'd been sunk in urban crush. It was time for a quiet, sparse experience and one of the outlying islands answered the call. A mere half-hour ferry ride from Hong Kong, a fishing village on the island of Cheung Chau was my destination. Cars are barred on the island; everyone bikes. Firemen drive around in bright red golf carts.

Do you know what Cheung Chau is famous for? Jason had asked me earlier.

The Bun Festival, of course. I gloated because I'd done my research.

Suicides.

Shut up.

Seriously, sometimes you see people carrying bags of charcoal on the ferry. They go to the island, light up and asphyxiate themselves.

Seriously, Jason, shut up.

Just saying.

Guys can be so morbid. I put the myth aside and sailed on.

A BEAUTIFUL LIFE IN A SWEET-SMELLING HARBOR (Part 1)

There were only a couple of weeks left for me to finish my sightseeing. I made a list and set out to check off the sites one by one.

On Sundays and holidays the streets of Hong Kong filled with thousands of Filipinas. These women crowded overpasses, stairwells, curbs and all available park spaces. Sitting on blankets, they shared picnics and photographs, strummed guitars, chatted on cell phones and played card games.

These are the maids and nannies of Hong Kong. Each worker earns an average of $230 a month, typically sending a portion of this income to family back home.

One of William's assistants, a local named Jason, showed us his apartment. The main room was big enough for a loveseat, television and table with three chairs. There were two small bedrooms: One fit a single bed, the other a double. The kitchen could accompany one person at the two-burner stove. There was also a half-fridge and a small washing machine.

Jason explained the layout of his apartment was exactly the same as the one across the hall, where a couple and their young daughter lived with their Filipina nanny. The parents slept in one bedroom, the girl in the other and the maid on the small couch. Because both parents worked, they needed the childcare, but for everyone's sanity the employee had to get out one day a week and joined her friends on the streets.

Is this what Christmas Day looked like in Hong Kong? Where did these women go for cover when it rained on a Sunday? Would they ever go to school and advance out of this? Would they marry and have families of their own? These thoughts rolled around my head as I sidestepped row upon row of women, young and old, enjoying a reprieve the best way they could.

I heard the story of a little girl who, for her school's costume day, brought her maid on a leash. As the family cat. I pondered this scenario as I traveled on a bus, chugging over hilly terrain. I was on my way to the spot where the English discovered South China.

Aberdeen conjures images of sweaters, sheep and bagpipes, but this was not Scotland. The bay of Aberdeen is where the British first laid eyes on Hong Kong. Oh yummy, let's take it. The whole kit and caboodle...lovely.

And so they did, and did, and did.

Less than thirty years ago, Aberdeen's harbor was populated with over a million trawlers and sampans. As of 2004, there were about 250.

To the British, the harbor had become an eyesore, with its ragamuffin sea craft bearing extremely poor inhabitants. Entire fishing families lived on these boats. Some of them had never laid foot on terra firma. In a clean sweep, the boat people were taken to government housing in Kowloon and on Hong Kong Island. That lasted until those tenements grew distasteful and the residents were moved to state housing in the New Territories.

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 10)

Near the end of the tour we visited the Summer Palace, a park of nearly three square kilometers, most of which is water. Beautiful buildings of ancient architecture surrounded a large lake where an empress dowager liked to fish as recreation. Indeed, her version of the sport consisted of sitting in a boat with rod and line while her servants swam underneath and stuck fish on her hook. Got another one!

Beijing. Big, bold, breathtaking Beijing. My desire for pagodas and red-tiled rooftops was sated as was my yen for local food. I could go home satisfied that I was able to touch on a portion of China's vast history and rich culture.

Our final morning was spent in — guess what — a shopping mall. I bought a purse. A bubblegum-pink purse. I don’t know what I was thinking. I never used it. I chalk the purchase up to vegetable deprivation.

Mr. Leung was excited about this particular mall because the top floor housed a food court where one could find excellent meals at very low prices. I wandered the many levels of the center, then passed through the restaurant area, where my friends happily lunched. I couldn't do it. I needed a salad and the idea of one more chunk of pork was beyond comprehension.

Later in the Beijing airport I was certain I would find a salad. I came upon a cafeteria with a showcase featuring synthetic replicas of their menu items. A plastic hot dog with plastic mustard. Plastic spaghetti with plastic red sauce. And then...there it was. A plastic Caesar salad, with little brown plastic croutons. A server raised her eyebrows as a way of asking my order and I pointed to the salad.

The what?

She came around the glass case and studied the thing. She called her co-worker over and the two of them gawked at it like they'd never seen such a thing. They looked at me and shook their heads. They had no idea what that thing was but would I like a hot dog?

When we arrived back in Hong Kong I turned to my group à la Dorothy saying farewell in Oz. In five short but long days I'd become fond of each of them. I loved that they had taught me how to wash all my dishes with hot tea. I developed such affection for the lady who regularly chatted with me in Chinese as I nodded and smiled. We had a nice hug at the airport.

Bye to Mr. Leung and his wife. Bye to Leonard and his mom. And then Bryan, who actually managed to pick up a few English words unrelated to the Lakers. Certainly more than I accomplished, language-wise. Ni hao was all I had learned, but I would never forget it.

*****

Home is where you make it, and during our Hong Kong adventure we had made our home there. Now I was ready to get back to base camp in Los Angeles, reclaim our pets and jump-start my life. I was unsure what that would entail. After four years of following William around the globe I had no idea what my future held back home. I dreamed of writing more than the unsold screenplays I had labored over. As William's career was gaining traction, mine had slipped into nowheresville.

Who was I? What was I supposed to be doing? And where had my artistic life disappeared to? Purpose and creativity eluded me. William would follow me home in a couple of months, but until that time I would live alone with the weight of those questions. It was time to sort this stuff out and I needed to do it back home.

My final days in Hong Kong started to feel nostalgic. I viewed the malls and street life with seasoned eyes while remembering my initial impressions. After almost two months in the territory I imagined myself a local. As ready as I was to get back to Los Angeles I still wanted to savor the tastes and smells of our Hong Kong adventure.

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 9)

Every morning we dined on Western-style breakfasts. Lunches and dinners, however, were another matter. Our bus would pull up to a Chinese restaurant with waiters lined up outside to greet us. We were then seated at a large round table with a lazy Susan in the center.

No doubt English-language tours were suffering American-style hamburgers while I was getting the real thing. I was feeling pretty smug about this aspect of my trip...until dining protocol knocked me down a peg.

The one point of etiquette I knew was a rule of tea service. In Chinese society it is considered impolite to grab the pot and pour one's own tea before first serving those around you. In a pathetic attempt to show off I reached for the pot and started to pour when distress signals flew at me from around the table.

The pot was carefully removed from my ignorant hands. The ladies at the table showed me what was what. They poured the tea into a large empty bowl and began to wash their cups, bowls, plates and chopsticks in the steaming brew. The gentlemen joined in and washed their utensils as well. A new pot of tea for drinking was delivered as the cleaning ritual was completed.

After tea is poured the receiver raps his or her knuckles on the table as a thank you. Mr. Leung told me the story: An emperor of the Qing Dynasty wished to mingle with commoners and made a sneaky getaway from the Forbidden City. He traveled in disguise throughout Beijing, accompanied by his servants. Because the attendants were in the presence of undercover royalty, they devised a clever form of kowtowing and let their fingers kneel in obeisance.

Our meals were predominately meat. Huge platters of pork, beef and chicken filled the table along with large bowls of rice and soup.

Most days, one lonely plate of bok choy served as the vegetable quotient. After five days of carnivorous mastication I developed a bordering-on-crazy craving for vegetables. The dish of bok choy would whiz past me on the lazy Susan. I'd try my best to snatch it but often missed as the plate spun out of reach.

Leonard, next to me, described what we were about to eat at each meal.

Hot and sour soup.

Love hot and sour soup, I said as I scooped a huge ladleful.

Do you know what that is? Leonard asked, pointing at something in my bowl.

Looks like a noodle of some kind, I answered, and slithered it into my mouth.

That's blood.

What?

They spin blood really fast into that long skinny thing.

So, what happened to the bok choy?

We did enjoy a special meal of Peking Duck, or more accurately, Beijing Duck. It was crispy, fatty, delicious and jam-packed with MSG.

Back at the medical institute, when a doctor lectured our group about good health, I wanted to throw my hand up and ask, Did you ever consider cutting back on the MSG, or trying brown rice and hey, what about your colleagues outside smoking their brains out?

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 8)

The next morning we were up at seven and, after a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and coffee, set off for two of the more interesting sites on our tour.

At the height of the Cold War, the Chinese government constructed a covert underground bomb shelter between 1969 and 1979. They built a subterranean city for three million people, with hospitals, theatres, food storage, recreational facilities and schools for every level of education.

Far below the city's surface we walked through tunnels so cold our breath was visible. A row of white lights hung above us. A second row of warning lights used to hang parallel to them. If the tunnel flashed red, the Soviets had arrived.

I couldn't get my head around the idea that this was going on while I was busy deciding which Bee Gees album to buy.

Tragically, China has wiped out most of its historical landmarks. Much of this destruction happened during the Cultural Revolution under Mao Tse-tung. To counter the loss, they decided to preserve in the city's center a housing area dating back two hundred years.

We visited an apartment in a gray stone building. The woman of the household was of the fifth generation to live there. She shared it with her husband and daughter.

The living space inexplicably placed the kitchen outdoors (it snows in Beijing, just like New York City). The main room contained a double bed, a small couch, a wood table and an armoire. A hot-water metal pipe ran along the wall to provide heat. Because summer temperatures could reach well over a hundred degrees, an air conditioning unit hung from the ceiling.

Our group crammed inside the tiny apartment to hear the family's history. As a welcoming gesture the woman had piled peanuts on a sheet of newspaper for us to shell and munch on. The family would be paid a small stipend for allowing us to invade their privacy and I was touched by their hospitality. These people were considered relatively well-off in a country where the average income is a thousand dollars a year.

We drove through Beijing's neighborhoods and saw serious, filthy poverty. I was confused. Poverty in our capitalist society made sense to me; it's one of our greatest negatives. But a Communist society was supposed to eliminate such hardships, or so I thought.

Meanwhile, Hong Kong, on this May Day holiday, was packed with mainland Chinese, some laying down as much as five thousand dollars a pop in jewelry stores. Throngs of people leave the mainland for shopping sprees in Hong Kong because they believe the quality of goods is higher.

As my friend Leonard pointed out, That should show you the gap.

From the bus window, I watched brand new Volkswagen sedans maneuver through heavy traffic. Those visions of streets packed with Chinese citizens dressed in standard gray Sun Yat-sen suits and pedaling bicycles were little more than a memory. Chinese banks gained 52 percent profit in 2004. Construction was prevalent and "going great guns," as they like to say.

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 7)

Two nights after the climb I decided to treat myself to a massage. I'd never experienced a Chinese massage and was certain it would heal and refresh me. As I took the elevator down to the hotel spa I imagined I would soon be melting in relief.

I made my way onto the table and the tiny therapist went to work.

Pressure is fine, Madam? she asked.

Yes, I whispered.

That was a complete lie. I swear to God, this woman's hands were right out of a Black & Decker toolbox. Fingers like drill bits drove into my back. She was disintegrating my kidneys.

Fine, madam?

Yup, I choked.

What is wrong with me that I can't say no? Because I don't want to show weakness? Because I'm afraid of losing face? How very Asian of me.

Through the little hole in the massage table hung my face...a mask of pain, a Gorey-esque scream, my eyeballs bulging out of my head.

You're very tense, madam. You need ninety-minute treatment.

Not the cheapo forty-five minutes I'd agreed to. I wasn't sure I could last another forty-five seconds in the hands of my torturer.

Okay, was all I could answer.

When she got to my legs, I stifled screams. Squeezed my eyes shut, gritted my teeth and swooned when her knuckles pressed into my calves. Holy Mother of God.

That was good, madam? she asked, her face bright with pride.

Excellent, I murmured and stumbled back to the elevator. After a long soak in a hot bath, I crawled into bed and slept more deeply than I could ever recall.

That massage therapist knew her business. That breaker of bodies was a serious pro.

BEIJING: April-May, 2004 (Part 6)

Mei-Xing waved a yellow flag and Mr. Leung and I rejoined her flock. We were about to leave the low-slung walls of the Forbidden City to visit one of the wonders of the medieval world.

The Great Wall of China took two thousand years to build and is approximately thirty-one thousand miles long. In most tourist photos you see of this landmark, sightseeing visitors amble along a gently inclined section of the Great Wall that overlooks a beautiful mountainous terrain.

Just my luck — that particular area was currently closed and we were directed to an extremely steep path. The route included stairs that led straight up a virtual Mount Everest. Each stone step was over a foot high.

No problem, I thought. It'll be a pretty good workout and we'll get a hell of a view.

I began the ascent. Stone guardhouses were built at intervals along the hill. Other tourists mingled around them to take pictures and rest before either continuing upward or, more sensibly in my opinion, descending down to the gift shop and ice cream stand.

Peering up, it was impossible to see an end spot for our hike because the path meandered around many corners. During the walk I would think every guard station was the final one only to see another in the distance.

Mr. Leung, a bundle of energy, caught up to me at a rest stop and threw down a challenge to go higher.

Oh sure! I agreed.

And higher we went.

Leonard reached us, flush with the pep of a nineteen-year-old.

Higher? he laughed.

Well, sure, I puffed.

And higher we went.

Hey, how about some pictures? I suggested to the testosterone twins and we stopped at a guardhouse while I pulled out my camera. I looked over the wall, way, way down at the posse of wives awaiting our return.

Higher? Mr. Leung called out as he moved further up.

Um, sure...no problem, I answered with as much zeal as I could muster.

We climbed up the Great Wall of China for over an hour.

You know, fellas, of course I could keep going but I just wonder if Mei-Xing might be wanting us to come back to the bus.

They hemmed and hawed and finally agreed to return to the bottom.

And that was worse. The strain of ascending had turned my legs into Pick-Up Sticks, brittle and ready to snap apart. Gazing down the steep incline, my head swirled and I prayed I could reach the bottom without making a complete fool of myself. Maybe I could sit on my bum and slip down each tall step. My stomach roiled with the sensation that I was about to tumble and crash my way down to the base. Why did I agree to higher, higher, higher? What is wrong with me that I can't say no?

For three long days after our visit to the Great Wall I felt like I'd been beaten with a lead pipe.