Broooooooce (part two)

Broooooooce (part two)

"The only time in my life I've captured on film pure, unadulterated bliss."

And so it came to pass that several years passed from the first, magical, mystical time I encountered Bruce on that night in 1980, and it came to be the year 1984, when he achieved his greatest commercial success with the release of the "Born in the USA" album and tour.  The single from that album was "Dancing in the Dark," and soon it became common knowledge that Bruce chose a girl from the front row to dance with onstage while performing that song in concert.  Needless to say, it became my singular goal and focus to become that girl, no matter what it took.  I went to several shows on the tour before it arrived in Los Angeles at the end of October, and I made it my mission to study carefully all the young women he pulled onstage, hoping to learn some lessons which would help me reach that pinnacle.  I noticed that he generally tended to pull from the right side of the row, and that he tried when possible to pick girls who were wearing his concert tour tank top, the one which Courtney Cox wore in the video of the song.  Most importantly, he didn't pick girls who were screaming or going crazy.  I guess he didn't relish the thought of being attacked onstage, and I didn't blame him, though of course that would have been my natural inclination!

Now that I had learned my lessons, the only remaining problem was how to secure a front-row seat.  It had to be front row.  I'd never seen him pull anyone from the 2nd row, it was 1st row or bust.  Back in those pre-internet days, the only way to get tickets was to line up at Ticketmaster outlets.  I chose an outlet on Hollywood Boulevard, thinking that might be a bit less crowded than in the more civilized West L.A. enclaves near my home.  I knew that waiting all night on the sidewalk was going to be the order of the day, and I thought fewer people would want to do that on Hollywood Boulevard back in its pre-gentrification days, than in Beverly Hills.  I hired my cousin to sit vigil with me for $50, and we parked ourselves on the sidewalk nice and early in the evening, ensuring we were first in line.  I was sure my front-row ticket would be in my hands within a few, difficult, hours.  And so the night passed, fairly uneventfully as I recall.  More and more people joined the line, we all traded Bruce stories and listened to his incredible, inspiring music.  The only thing we didn't do was sleep.  When Ticketmaster opened in the morning, I rushed in bleary-eyed, cash in hand, only to be confronted by the terrible fact that the system was down.  I waited, my heart pounding so hard it drowned out all the traffic on the boulevard, until finally service was restored.....of course far too late for not only a front-row ticket, but any ticket in the front section at all.  I purchased as many loge seats as my cousin and I were allowed to get, and, filled with despair, I went home and face-planted onto my bed, where I cried myself to sleep.  My brilliant plan had failed spectacularly, and at this point, I felt I had no hope.

When I awoke, refreshed, I dusted myself off and plotted and schemed a plan B.  I would simply phone every ticket agent in town.  At least one was bound to have a front-row seat, and if I had to sell my first-born to get it, I was willing to do it.  So I got on the phone and started calling.  Each agency had tickets in the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, etc., rows, but none in the 1st.  I'd politely thank them, and call the next.  I was beginning to despair again, when I dialed VIP Tickets in Sherman Oaks, who, I'm glad to say, still do thriving business today.  The person who answered the phone informed me that yes, they did in fact have a pair in the front row, but they didn't split up pairs, and each ticket was $500.  That amount of money in 1984 was a fortune, and I knew that although I might be able to beg, borrow, and steal it to get myself one ticket, simply because the force of my will was that great for this, the great goal of my life, I would never be able to find anyone else who wanted it as much as I did.  And even if I did, I could just imagine the complications which would ensue if that person were picked and I wasn't, or vice versa.  I did not even want to contemplate the damage that might do to a friendship.  So I begged and pleaded with the gentleman at VIP, and he told me that there had been another woman who had also wanted to purchase a single ticket, and if they could find her, and she still wanted the ticket, I could purchase the other.  I held my breath and didn't sleep for a day or two, until I got the call: "Sandra?  Are you ready to rock???"  I let out a scream, even though I was at work, and instantly everyone around me, who had been fully clued in as to what was going on, let out a cheer.  Although my workplace at the time was in Marina del Rey, I instantly jumped in the car and drove all the way to Sherman Oaks on my lunch break and handed over the $500 fortune, receiving in exchange something so much more priceless than any Willy Wonka Golden Ticket.  This was my ticket to heaven, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it would take me there.

I went to all the concerts Bruce played that week at the Sports Arena in LA (or, as he always called it, "The Dump That Jumps"), so by the time my magic date of November 2nd, 1984, arrived, I had screamed myself hoarse.  My companions that night were my mother, who had fronted some of the money for the ticket, and had she never done anything else for me in my life, she would forever be the Greatest Mother of All Time simply because of that; my best friend Shoshana; my friend Eric and his father; my fiance at the time, Jeff, and Jeff's friend.  The friend had been a sore topic because I had other friends who had desperately wanted to come, but Jeff had insisted I part with one of my hard-earned loge tickets for his friend, so in the end I grudgingly gave in, but to this day, if I were to run into Jeff, I'd let him know I still resent him for that!  I brought with me my instamatic camera, hoping that if my dream were realized, one of my friends would snap some blurry, grainy shots.  However, at the door, I was told the camera wasn't allowed, so I had to leave it hidden in some bushes outside, since I didn't want to walk all the way back to the car.  I bade a temporary farewell to my group, and took the escalator down to the lower level, where with each passing step I got closer and closer to that spot I'd dreamed of for so long.  As each security guard asked me for my ticket, more and more obstacles fell away, until finally, there I stood at the seat, the one I would have chosen above any throne on that particular night.  There was a baseball cap on the seat, and, worried, I said, "this is my seat!" only to hear someone retort that it wasn't.  Wild-eyed I looked up to see who was speaking, only to see the owner of VIP Tickets, teasing me.  Relieved, I threw my arms around him, he wished me luck, and retired to his seat a little ways behind mine.  I said hello to the woman who had purchased the other ticket, and we looked each other up and down uneasily.  But soon, all that was forgotten, as Bruce Springsteen appeared like a vision a few scant feet in front of me and burst into "Born in the USA."  A scream went up from the crowd and we all jumped to our feet.  I had to remember myself, to try to appear cool, calm, and collected, even as the blood was rushing in my head and my heart was pounding so loudly that I could barely hear the song, though the decibels were off the charts.  Keeping my lesson in mind, I restrained myself from joining in the screaming through sheer force of will.  I had my eyes on the greatest prize, and I wasn't going to do anything to jeopardize it.

At that moment, being in the front row of the greatest live act of my age, my life-long musical idol, I felt that even if I were not the lucky one to get onstage that night, it would still be remembered as one of the best nights of my life.  It was sheer heaven to be so close, to be enveloped in the music and the magic.  Bruce is the most generous of performers, he gives his all every single night to his worshipers, and at such close proximity I felt this intensely, and was filled with joy.  I've always told everyone that going to Bruce's concerts has always been the closest thing to a religious experience I've ever had, because of the transformative and transporting power of his music and his personality.  The night of November 2nd in 1984, it was nirvana.  As he segued from one best-loved song to another, the excitement in the crowd grew, and by the time he ended the first part of the show with the one-two punch of "Badlands" and "Thunder Road," the electricity and sweat in the air was a marvel to behold.

During the break, I went into the lobby, where I'd arranged to meet my gang.  We all marveled at the magic of the show, the power of the music, and the charisma of the man.  A couple of times total strangers came up to me and told me they'd seen me in the front row, and that I was going to be "the one."  A thrill would pass through me, but I tried to keep my rising excitement at bay, bearing in mind that the possibility existed that another would be the chosen one, and I didn't want to be so crushed that I'd have to be borne out on a stretcher.  As the break ended and I returned to my seat brandishing my magic ticket, the opening of "Cover Me" rang out.  At that moment I was consumed with a combination of excitement and fear like I'd never experienced before, knowing that at every concert that song was the lead-in to "Dancing in the Dark."  I stood there, swaying to the music and trying desperately to look nonchalant as I felt my insides turning to a combination of jello and fireworks.  As the last notes of "Cover Me" faded away and the pulsing first notes of "Dancing in the Dark" filled the arena, I felt a responding trembling begin in me, and it became harder and harder to maintain my facade.  As the song ended and the moment of truth was upon us, Bruce turned his back to the audience and launched into the monologue he always spoke before reaching for his chosen dancing partner.  I was filled with a terrible foreboding because he was on the opposite end of the stage from where I was, with his back to the audience.  He won't be able to see me!  Was my only thought.  But as he spoke his words, "sometimes I feel so lonely...I get so down-hearted...I just want to cry....and that's when I need a little help, and I want to reach out to somebody, somewhere, and say...." little by little he sashayed closer and closer to me, all the while with his back turned.  As he got closer to me, I stepped closer to the stage, and slowly, slowly, my arms rose up to meet him as my upturned face filled with a look of purest elation.  And as he said, "and say...." he whirled around and said "hey baby!" and extended his hand to me with a grin.  As I grabbed it like my very life depended on it, he said "c'mon sugar!" and he walked me to the steps leading up to the stage.  My heart was thundering so hard I barely heard the roar from 17,000 throats, and I nearly tripped running up the stairs.  But once up on that stage with the hero of my idolatry, I became a better dancer than I'd ever been in my life.  Normally I dance like Elaine from Seinfeld, on the rare occasions when I'm forced to do so, but in that moment of pure magic I was transformed into a prima ballerina from the Mariinsky.  I threw my entire self, every moment of hope and longing, every dreaming second, into that dance.  I knew it was the dance that would matter the most in my life, and it was going to be the best dance any one of those 17,000 people had ever seen.

As we danced and whirled and twirled on that stage, time seemed to stand still and all the crowd vanished.  There was just me and Bruce, a girl and a god, a dream achieved.  Someone once said to me that something had felt like "winning the Olympic gold medal, winning the lottery, and being elected president all at once...only I wouldn't want any of those things as much."  And that is how I felt in that moment.  At one moment I got sassy and leaped away from him and turned my back, hopping away, tossing a seductive glance behind me at him, and he followed, intrigued.  We danced our dance of enchantment, and I could tell he was enjoying it too, which made me exuberantly elated.  I wished that dance could have gone on forever, but that was fated to happen with another woman.  I was vouchsafed just those few moments, and all too soon they came to an end.  Each time the song ended at all the previous concerts I'd attended, Bruce had taken the girl in his arms and leaned her over and kissed her.  Every nerve atingle, I awaited my moment, and it came when the last notes began to play.  Bruce Springsteen took me into his arms, leaned me over, and our lips met in a moment so sweet that all these decades later the memory is as potent as if it had all happened this evening.  Always and forever I will remember the feel of his strong arms holding me tight, his lips on mine, how his eyes were closed against the intensity of the moment.  My feeling of utter triumph was just absolutely overwhelming.  I thought I might well die of joy, that never again would my life reach that height.  As the drummer, Max Weinberg, began the closing drum roll which heralded the end of the song and was the signal to Bruce to let the girl up, Bruce did something I'd never seen or heard of him doing: he took out one arm from under me, and gestured to Max to continue, as he continued kissing me.  He did that not once, not twice, but three times, before finally, reluctantly, raising me back up into reality.  The spell was broken, and once again the crowd roared mightily as Bruce took my hand and led me back to the steps from which I had to descend from nirvana back into the rabbling herd.  As we walked the few steps to the stairs, I squeaked in my hoarse voice (from screaming through several of his concerts earlier that week), "will you marry me, Bruce?"  He laughed in delight and asked my name.  As we reached the steps I told it to him, and with the greatest possible reluctance, let go of his hand.  It would be fifteen years before our hands would touch again.

Broooooooce (part one)

"Now laying here in the dark, you're like an angel on my chest, just another tramp of hearts crying tears of faithlessness."

Bruce Springsteen has so many lyrics loaded with symbolism and a romantic, poetic sensibility, but that one sentence from his masterpiece "Backstreets" has always been my favorite.  It encapsulates all the reasons I have adored Bruce since my high school years all those decades ago, and if anything, adore him ever more with each passing year.  It's easy for me to envision the scene he describes.  I've had those tramps of hearts who cried tears of faithlessness to me, just as I have been that tramp myself.  Bruce shows us all for what we are, angels and tramps, demons and angels, well-intentioned but fundamentally flawed humans.  He's not your average singer-songwriter singing about beautiful girls and guys who break your heart, he sings about all of us, he is all of us, an average guy trying to do the best with what he's been given.  "So you're scared and you're thinking that maybe we ain't that young anymore; show a little faith, there's magic in the night, you ain't a beauty, but hey you're alright, oh, and that's alright with me," as he put it so eloquently in yet another masterpiece, "Thunder Road."

At the moment when I was born, on February 15th, 1961, in Zagreb, Croatia, there was a complete eclipse of the sun.  My mother, although not exactly a great believer in zodiacs and such, thought that was a significant enough sign that she decided to consult an astrologer, who told her that this meant that I would be very lucky throughout my life, and in the thing that was most important to me, I would be extraordinarily lucky.  Now with the hindsight of 55 years, I am convinced that this one most important thing has been my saga with Springsteen.

I discovered Bruce's music at the tender age of 16 or 17.  I was a pretty young thing at Beverly Hills High School, and yet there was always an old soul inside of me, one who always viewed the glass as half empty.  When everyone else was sighing over the Bee Gees or Abba, as soon as I heard Bruce's breakthrough album, "Born to Run," and, a year or so later, "Darkness on the Edge of Town," I was spellbound.  The spell has never been broken to this day, and now I very smugly congratulate myself with how well I chose my musical hero, because when almost all the other stars of the day have faded  or disappeared entirely, Bruce still keeps putting out meaningful music which never fails to speak to me and lift me up.  And don't even get me started on Bruce's live shows.  Just this year, at the age of 68, he broke his own record and performed over 4 hours non-stop.  I was fortunate to see him 3 times this past year, and as always, his truly unbelievable energy and enthusiasm, love for the music and his audience, his exhilarating stage show, left me soaked to the skin with perspiration and euphoria.  I can safely say that his concerts have been the closest things to religious experiences I've ever experienced, and I am fervently thankful that they continue to this day to be the same level of perfection that they were when I was first fortunate to see him, in October of 1980.

Although I loved Bruce's music during high school, I never got lucky enough to see him live during that time.  Either I was away during summer vacation, when he had his legendary concert at the Roxy nightclub, or tickets sold out before I had a chance to buy them.  I remember one time a friend of mine, Steve Auerbach, drove to San Francisco to see Bruce perform at a small club.  I was pea-green with envy, and couldn't wait for him to get back.  When I asked, "how was it???"  He answered simply, "it was the best night of my life."  A couple of years later, I'd learn for myself that he wasn't exaggerating.

I was a sophomore in college at UC Berkeley in 1980 when finally the opportunity presented itself to see my idol live.  He was performing two nights at the Oakland Coliseum, and my boyfriend got us tickets for the second night.  I excitedly counted the days.  A week or two before the show, one of my housemates, Sean, told me he had tickets for the first night, and would I go with him.  I felt sorry for Sean because he was extremely socially inept, and always too shy to ask a girl on a date.  I told him this would be the perfect opportunity for him to get himself a date, since Bruce was the hottest ticket in town.  He said, "ok, but if I can't get anyone to go with me, will you go with me?"  I told him I would, though I was certain he wouldn't have any problem getting himself a cute chick to accompany him.  I'm sure he didn't even bother trying, because the afternoon of the concert, he presented himself in the doorway of my room, asking if I was ready to go.  Oh, Sean!  He will now forever have the distinction of having been my companion the first time I laid eyes on the greatest hero of my life, in the flesh.

To say that Bruce electrified the arena, would be like saying that Thomas Edison brought about a minor change in illumination.  This man was a live wire of kinetic energy that was completely unstoppable, a walking, running, talking, singing, whirling incarnation of megawatt passion for music that was telegraphed in every word he sang, every charming tale he told the audience, every drop of sweat that poured out of him as he gave everything he had, which was about as much as I think it's possible for anyone to have, to us, his audience.  Years before, a rock critic who later became his manager, Jon Landau, saw Bruce perform at a club in Boston.  In his review, he wrote, "I have seen rock n' roll future, and its name is Bruce Springsteen."  Those words, and the words of Steve Auerbach, rang in my ears together with Bruce's music that unforgettable night in Oakland.  As he sang the songs I'd loved for years, and new ones I'd just come to discover on his newest album, "The River," I felt a sense of magic I'd never felt before.  I was riveted, mesmerized, glued to the spot.  The songs I already loved so much came to life in a way I'd never have been able to imagine, they seeped into my soul and psyche, they became a part of my very DNA the way this genius of music, of life, interpreted them.  After nearly 4 hours of the most exhilarating performance I'd ever seen, I was not nearly ready to leave the arena, and the only way Sean was able to drag me out, is because I had the knowledge I'd be back again the next night.

But that was just the beginning.  Bruce was playing 3 shows the following weekend in LA, at the Sports Arena.  I immediately booked a flight, drafted a couple of friends, and trekked to the Sports Arena all 3 of those nights, looking for people selling tickets, since the shows were all sold out.  Back in the day of 1980, it was easy to get tickets for very reasonable prices, and we succeeded all of the nights.  By the end of my 5th Bruce concert in the space of 10 days or so, I was a full-fledged apostle, ready to follow my messiah to the ends of the earth...or at least all over California, New York, Connecticut,  or London, all places where I was fortunate enough in future decades to be able to attend these events, which were miracles to me.  There would be times over the years which were unthinkably difficult for me, times when I felt myself free falling into deep depression, when I'd stay in bed all day, for days, unable to find a reason to get out of bed.  I'd wonder then if perhaps I was clinically depressed, if I should perhaps take some medication.  But then I'd read that the sure sign of depression was that nothing brought you joy, and when I'd put that test to myself, I always failed, because there was always one thing that, no matter how awful everything else in my life was, never failed to bring me joy: the music of Bruce and, most especially, his concerts.

The Paris Necklace, Part Two

My Paris Necklace

My trip to Europe for the summer of 2016 had already been booked and paid for since the fall of 2015 (I can barely wait a month or two past the last vacation before booking the next one).  Already it was longer than the time I was allowed to officially take off from work; I couldn't tack on a trip to Paris, however much I would have loved to.  What I could do, thanks to the modern wonder of the Eurostar, was to take one of my already-scheduled 3 days in London, and make a mad dash across the Chunnel, to Paris and back in a day.  That would have to suffice for this time.  In any case, a taste was all I wanted for now, a preview of coming attractions which would unfold, hopefully, in years to come.  In my dream scenario, I would have lunch at Closerie des Lilas and walk around the Left Bank, and find myself a special souvenir before returning to London that evening.  So I purchased my Eurostar ticket and called it a day.

Of course, my thoughts immediately turned to Nevenka.  After much rooting around through dusty piles of papers, I found an old address book with the address where she, Norman and David had lived all those decades ago.  I had no idea whether she lived there still, but I was determined this time I would try to contact her, and this was my only portal.  In the letter I wrote to her, I asked if she remembered me, and told her I'd never forgotten her great kindness to me and the magical summer I had spent with her and her family; I told her I was coming to Paris for a day, and that nothing would make me happier than if she would allow me the privilege of treating her to lunch.  I enclosed my email address, something which had not even been conceived of the last time we'd corresponded, posted the letter and uttered a prayer.

Not long after, I was elated to find her name in my inbox.  It was a very brief epistle, she merely said that of course she remembered me, and if I had a few days coming or going, she would be happy to have me as a guest in her home.  Excited beyond words that something I'd longed for for so long was actually going to happen, I replied to say that sadly I was going to have a brief 7 hours in Paris, to which she said that she would meet me at the Gare du Nord if I'd send her my train information, and yes, we would go to lunch.  This time when I responded, I felt compelled to say something about David, since it felt too strange not to.  I didn't know if she remembered that I had sent her a letter at the time of his murder, and thus I didn't know if she even knew that I was aware of his tragic death.  So, I told her of my devastation upon hearing of it, about his photo which I always had prominently featured in every home I'd lived in.  Although she confirmed that she'd be at the Gare du Nord to meet my train, she mentioned nothing about David in her reply.

I arrived in London on a Monday morning in late July, and the following morning boarded the Eurostar for Paris.  Because it had been several decades since I'd seen so much as a photo of Nevenka, I worried that I wouldn't recognize her, but I did as soon as I stepped off the train.  Her hair was completely grey now, not the lustrous chestnut I remembered, and the decades had left their mark on her, of course, but she was immediately recognizable.  We fell into each other's arms as I fought back tears.  I couldn't help but think of our last sighting of each other, how different we had been, our lives, the world entire.

She indulged me by agreeing to lunch at Closerie.  As we sat in that lovely garden cafe steeped in history, mine and of course so many others', I looked across the table at her in awe.  I just simply could not believe I was in Paris, having lunch with Nevenka at Closerie.  Everything I'd hoped for from my day in Paris had come to pass, as if I'd written the script and it had miraculously manifested.

Although I was terrified to mention David, she eventually did bring up his name, and we spoke of him at length.  She told me of how he'd loved Israel, Jerusalem in particular, and had been proud of the Jewish roots he had through Norman, his father.  He had visited it often before deciding to spend a year there at university, but had only been there two weeks before the assassin stole his young life.  She told me of her trepidation when he'd told her of his plan, and how she'd pleaded with him to at least never eat in the cafeteria, but to just buy his food there if he needed to, then go elsewhere to eat it.  She told me how, on the fateful day, a friend of his who knew the campus had come to meet him and show him around; how they had just sat down to eat in the cafeteria when the bomb exploded; how the friend saw David fall but only thought he'd fainted; how the friend was gravely injured and spent two months in hospital; how he kept asking whether David was in a hospital room near him; how no one had the heart to tell him until he was stronger, of David's terrible death.

Nevenka said she and Norman had been in New York visiting friends when they saw news of the bombing on television.  When no word came from David, they feared the worst, knowing he would have called to reassure them had he been alright.  In Israel, she said, only the police have the right to tell parents these horrific news, so they waited all day in an agony of unknowing.  They sent a friend to all the hospitals in Jerusalem, to no avail.  Finally, at 5 p.m., the call came.  She and Norman and their friends embraced and supported each other as they sobbed.  Nevenka told me that the first words she spoke were, "David has been killed, but he is not dead!"  She said that according to the autopsy, a fragment of the bomb pierced the back of his head, and he died instantly, some small consolation.  Apparently he never even knew what happened.

Norman, she said, never spoke of this, and internalized it all, whereas she spoke of David and what happened constantly, and she is certain that it was this which led to the cancer which took Norman's life four years later.  I asked her whether the assassin had died that day as well, but she said that no, he was in prison in Israel.  When I said I hoped it was forever, she shrugged and said she didn't know nor care, and that she'd never for a moment felt any hatred towards this monster, had never wasted any thought or emotion on him.  She told me she still keeps in touch with David's friends, most of whom are married with children now, and never does she wonder why they get those blessings while David did not, why their parents still have their children and grandchildren, but she doesn't.  She told me that all she feels, is enormously fortunate, that she had David and Norman for the years that she did.  I could only stare at her, dumbfounded with awe, and ask, "where do you get this enormous strength?" to which she replied, "I get it form them.  They are always with me."

She told me she'd established a scholarship in David's name at the university where he'd died, for music students, since music had been his greatest love, and that she'd also willed her lovely flat to the university, so that they could sell it to keep the scholarship funded.  She told me of the time right after, and how for a long time in the mornings, she and Norman would look at each other, and she'd ask him whether they should even bother getting up; he'd replied that yes, we must, what else can we do.  And so they'd gotten up and gone through the motions of life, though the last thing they'd felt was alive.

Nevenka was leaving for Berlin the day after our Paris meeting.  I asked her why Berlin, and she told me she'd never been, but David had loved it, and that she was following his footsteps and going to places he'd been, which was why she often went to Israel, where she was going again later in the year.  When I said that I was glad I'd been on time to see her before she left, she assured me she would have changed her flight to another day in order to see me, which touched me.

Once our meal was concluded, I only had a couple of hours left before my Eurostar waited to take me back to London.  I'd wanted to to to the more familiar streets such as St. Germain des Prés or Blvd. St. Michel, to wander around the streets and explore the boutiques and patisseries, find myself something special as a souvenir of my only day in Paris in so long.  I hadn't thought that Nevenka would want to spend the entire time with me, so when she did, of course I deferred to her when she suggested a walk to her neighborhood, a short distance from Closerie.  She said there was a street called Rue Mouffetard around the corner from her flat which had some boutiques I could look at.  I regretted that I wouldn't be visiting the more familiar Left Bank streets, but of course I didn't protest, and in the end I was incalculably grateful that I'd held my tongue.

Rue Mouffetard was the quintessential old-world Parisian street, straight out of La Boheme.  it was paved with cobblestones, had a bustling, charming square with a farmers' market, and lots of unique boutiques, all filled with lovely, charming wares.  There was a chocolatier where I bought the best chocolates I'd eaten in years, and a delightful neighborhood patisserie.  Almost best of all, Nevenka took me around the corner and showed me the apartment where Hemingway and Hadley had lived during the "A Moveable Feast" years.  I'd written the address down back in LA, but had misplaced it, so I'd resigned myself to not seeing it, and in fact hadn't even mentioned it to Nevenka, thinking there was no point.  So when she took me right to it, and I immediately recognized the street name, Rue Cardinal Lemon, it was in keeping with what seemed to me a near-miraculous series of events that day.  As I gazed on the blue door to the building and the plaque commemorating Hemingway and Hadley's residency there, I honestly couldn't believe my eyes.

Walking along the charming Rue Mouffetard, Nevenka kept pointing out potential souvenirs for me to purchase, but nothing was exactly what I was looking for, and I wondered if that ideal souvenir even existed at all.  But then, we came upon a jewelry store (of course!) called Vade Retro.  In the window was an extraordinary bib-style enameled necklace in a riot of greens and reds and blues, with crystals and a silver chain.  My eyes lit up, and I murmured that this was something very interesting.  We stepped inside for a closer look and to inquire the price, and as the saleswoman took it out of the window, she told us that it was by a famous artist from....Israel, named Ayala Bar.  Nevenka and I exchanged a glance, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and I knew it had to be mine.  The necklace also came in a smaller version, which was just as lovely, but a lot more dainty and delicate.  I debated between the two for a moment, but was particularly enamored of the larger, so I spent all the Euros I'd exchanged, plus some credit card availability as well.  Nevenka then said, "what would you think if I got the smaller one for your mom?"  I was amazed, again, and could not believe her kindness, thoughtfulness, and generosity.  I exclaimed that my mom would faint away with joy to get something so precious and beautiful!  Nevenka bought her the stunning necklace, then asked what she should get for my aunt.  We picked out a gorgeous brooch shaped like a rose, then, all our priceless purchases in hand, stopped at the patisserie on her block before going up to her flat.

Although I hadn't seen it since 1982, the memories rushed at me as I walked in the door, and a sob caught in my throat.  I saw the candles she always kept during, and the photos of Norman and David. One photo of David in particular caught my eye.  I always remember him as the beautiful, charming little 6-or-7-year-old he was when I saw him last, but in this photo, taken a year or two before his death, he was a movie-star-handsome young man with a look of fierce intelligence, a son to make any mother proud.

Nevenka made us lemonade, and I ate my patisserie while we enjoyed our last moments together, then it was time to say goodbye to her and to this enchanted Paris summer day.  Nevenka said she was coming to the US in September, and I pleaded with her to visit us in LA, since there are also family members of Norman's who live there.  She was headed to the East Coast, but said she'd consider it.  I didn't have words enough to thank her, to express how very happy I was to see her again after all these decades of regret and thinking I'd never see her again; how appreciative and grateful I was for absolution, granted without words.  We embraced warmly and, wearing my beautiful necklace, I got in a cab bound for the Gard du Nord, where the Eurostar waited to take me back to London in a fog of wonder over the events of the day.

After a couple more days in London, my next and last destination was my homeland of Croatia.  First, in my hometown of Zagreb, I stayed with my family's dear friend Mario Bebek, and his ravishing (inside and out) girlfriend of many years, Dajana Misetić (pronounced Diana).  Dajana works in a position of influence at Zagreb airport, so we always enjoy special privileges there, this time having her and Mario meet my flight and making me feel instantly at home in the city of my birth.  Of course, they both commented on my stunning necklace, and of course I took great joy in telling them the story  behind it, which made it even more special in my eyes, and theirs too.

After a wonderful few days with them and my cousin Mirjam in Zagreb, I spent eight days on the magical island of Hvar, where my father was born and where we are lucky enough to have an apartment on the main square.  I wore my magic necklace every day, and every day I was showered with compliments on its beauty and specialness.  People would stop me as I walked along the streets just to say how lovely it was.

I left Hvar on August 8th, as always heartbroken to be leaving.  As I was going through the metal detectors at Split airport before boarding my London-bound flight, I was asked to remove the necklace at the last moment, necessitating another bin, since I'd already put all my things in several other bins, which had already gone through.  The night before had been a difficult one for me, my last night on Hvar, and I had barely slept at all.  My brain was so addled, that it wasn't until we had taken off for London that my hand flew to my throat, as I realized with horror that I'd forgotten to retrieve my beloved necklace!

I was seated at a window seat, and the two people next to me had just gotten their snacks from the flight crew, so their tables were down, but I could have cared less.  I barged my way out and tore to the front of the plane, to the first attendant I spotted.  I insisted they must contact the airport immediately, as I had left an extremely valuable necklace in a bin.  She plastered a phony smile on her face as she complacently told me that would be impossible, and that I'd have to wait the entire two hours until we landed in London, at which time I was to go to the lost and found for all the airlines and fill out some forms.  I was beside myself, and implored and begged and cajoled, all of which did nothing to wipe the smirk off her smug face.  Since I hadn't slept all night the night before, I'd hoped to spend those two hours asleep on the plane, but now instead I spent them screaming internally; it was a hellish nightmare of two hours' duration which felt like many more.

The wheels had not yet touched British soil before my phone was on and I was frantically dialing Mario's number, begging him to call Dajana immediately to see if she knew anyone at all at Split airport who might save me.  He promised to call her immediately, told me not to worry (easy for him to say!), and that he'd let me know as soon as he knew anything.  I sent him a photo of the necklace, but I felt pretty hopeless.  The necklace was so uniquely beautiful, I was convinced that anyone who laid eyes on it would want to snatch it.  After two hours when there was no word from Mario, I began to try to resign myself that my gorgeous magic necklace from Rue Mouffetard was gone forever.  I looked up Ayala Bar's site on the internet and scoured every item on there, but there was nothing as gorgeous as my lost treasure.

In despair and resignation, I texted Mario to ask if Dajana had been able to contact anyone in Split and at least set something in motion to try to locate it, but I added that I realized the odds were against me, and that I blamed my stupidity on my sleep deprivation.  My eyes nearly popped out of my head, and my heart out of my chest, when his reply came: "Don't worry.  It will be in Dajana's hands by tonight."  Even now as I write this, tears begin to flow.  Apparently my savior Dajana, who thankfully knew the story of the necklace and its incalculable value to me, had telephoned the director of Split airport, had told him how important this was, and he had apparently put the fear of God into everyone there, resulting in this miraculous and miraculously rapid discovery.  I told Mario and Dajana that they had quite literally saved my entire vacation, because had that necklace disappeared, the bitterness of the loss would have tainted all the happy memories I had.  But now, thanks to them, the story of my magic necklace will forever be even better and more special.  It told Mario he had better marry Dajana posthaste, or else I would, because I was certainly not risking her escaping from the family!

Later that night, as I walked near Sloane Square, my phone glowed with a text from Mario: my necklace in Dajana's hand.

The Paris Necklace, Part One

Been a long time, been a long time, been a long, lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time....to quote the immortal Led Zeppelin.  It's been so long since I wrote here that I no longer even resemble the lady in the photo, though I'm too lazy to change it just now.  Suffice it to say the hair color is different and the wrinkles a tad more finely etched.  My dear friend Dajana reminded me of this long-neglected blog today, which prompted me to revisit, since I have a story to tell.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away (Berkeley, 1982),  Hemingway's "A Moveable Feast" was given to me by a boy I'd met in my English Lit class and with whom I'd gone on a couple of dates as forgettable as he was.  However, he was to prove to be the opposite of forgettable in the long run, since that book impacted me greatly, by introducing me to 2 of my lifelong loves, Hemingway and Paris.  Hemingway being the ultimate misogynist carnivorous hunter bullfight-lover, I'm amazed that I am as fascinated by him as much as I am, not just his writing but his entire larger-than-life persona. Paris, however, is a much easier and simpler love affair which has endured since 1982, though not without its bumps.

After devouring "Feast," I was inspired to change my upcoming summer school program in London to include a week in Paris before school was supposed to start.  I booked my flight accordingly, since I longed to see the Left Bank, where Hemingway and Hadley (the first wife who shared his life during those starving 1920s days he writes about in "Feast") lived in a meager though charming upstairs flat, and, in particular, to visit La Closerie des Lilas, his favorite cafe, where he spent many hours in convivial bonhomie with the likes of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ford Maddox Ford, John Dos Passos, and Ezra Pound, among many other literary legends.  Upon arrival, I fell head over heels in love with Paris, like many starry-eyed twenty-year-olds had done before me, and many since, and promptly extended my stay from one week to two.  Having visited London before, I decided orientation week at summer school was entirely unnecessary compared to the wonder that oozed out of every Parisian nook and cranny.

Having spent my first week at the very upscale home of friends on the Right Bank, I moved to the Left Bank for my second week.  My mother had asked her friend Nevenka Gritz if I might stay with her, her American professor husband Norman, and their 6-year-old son David.  They lived just around the corner from the apartment Hadley and Earnest had shared, and walking distance from the Closerie des Lilas, so of course I couldn't have been more entirely thrilled.  I'd never met the Gritz's before, and was enormously touched with how warmly they welcomed me into their charming home. I will never forget the atmosphere of love and caring that pervaded their apartment, the classical music always playing on the turntable, the intellectual discussions with writers and artists which were a daily feature of life chez Gritz, and the love I developed for David, their only son.  He was a precocious, solemn boy, whose great brown eyes would follow me around the apartment and melt me entirely.  He was so intelligent, so beautiful, and so endearing that I enjoyed spending time with him as much as I enjoyed wandering the Left Bank streets I'd traveled to Paris to discover.  Sharing la vie boheme with the Gritz's in the Paris of 1982 when I was 21, was an experience which seeped into my very DNA.

Although decades have passed since then, I have never forgotten the happiness of their home.  Now, all these decades later, I know what I didn't then: that that kind of happiness in a home is the rarest and most beautiful of things, and anyone fortunate enough to reap that gift, is truly blessed by all the gods.  The Gritz's were just simply happy, not living in any great style, but in an atmosphere of close and loving family life.  David was the glowing center of it all, a child so exceptionally bright and charming that he had all of us wrapped around his little finger.  To this day, I still have a photo of David, taken at my mother's home in Los Angeles a year or two later.  He's sitting on a bed looking at the camera with those enormous, wise eyes.  He's got his Asterix t-shirt on and some white shorts--it must have been summertime.  That photo, in its dated Laura Ashley frame, has followed me to every home in which I've ever lived, and always has had pride of place in my collection.  There have been very few children which have succeeded in winning my heart, but David was special, and left his mark there.

That summer of 1982, I returned to Paris while at my London summer school program, and Lisa Brackelmanns came with me.  She was also from L.A., we met at the program, and have remained great friends to this day.  We both stayed with the Gritz's, who never ceased to amaze me with their generosity in welcoming a total stranger into their charmed life and home.  I was lucky to be so welcomed, and to bring Lisa with me.  We had a marvelous time, except that I had misguidedly insisted on going for Bastille Day, which I though would be some marvelous party, but instead was a nadir of debauchery and bacchanalia which reminded me of what it must be like in Rio for Carnival, or New Orleans for Mardi Gras, the antithesis of anything I'd enjoy.  It was a miracle that we made it back to the Gritz's relatively unscathed, though not un-groped, and the next time I found myself in Paris on Bastille Day, I locked myself in my hotel room before 5 p.m. and didn't emerge until the next day.

I don't recall whether or not I kept in touch with the Gritz's independently of just through my mother after that charmed summer.  They did come to visit a year or 2 later, at which time I took my photo of David, but as far as I recall, that was the last time I saw them.

Enamored so of Paris, I prevailed on my mother and her husband to visit at the end of the summer, once my London studies were done.  Being reduced to my last farthings, I once again threw myself on the warm embrace of the Gritz's, who took me in as I waited for my mother and her husband to meet me there before we'd continue on to our native Croatia.  I recall the day that they arrived, I took my last centimes and visited a patisserie on the Gritz's block.  Once they arrived, we explored the city and they, too, never having seen it before, fell in love with glorious Paris.  Eventually they purchased a small apartment there, which I never had a chance to see.  Years later, when they divorced, my mother accused Nevenka Gritz of colluding with my stepfather to cheat her of her rightful part in the apartment.  Because it was decades ago, the particulars of the situation are lost to me, though I do remember being shocked and skeptical that Nevenka, one of the kindest women I'd known, would be capable of such perfidy.  On the other hand, my loyalty was to my mother, who was hurt and outraged, so, regrettably, I never spoke to Nevenka, Norman nor David again, even though I returned to Paris several times over the course of the subsequent decades, always remembering fondly that first, magical summer, when I was 21, heartbroken for the first time, and healed by the glory that was Paris and the warmth and sweetness of the Gritz home.

One day in 2002, I was living with my then-boyfriend, whom I always refer to obliquely as He Who (short for He Who Shall Not Be Named), and reading the Los Angeles Times.  An article on the front page caught my attention: a bomb had been planted at the Mount Scopus campus of Hebrew University in Jerusalem; 9 people dead, 100 injured.  As I scanned the names of the dead,  a name leaped out at me which felt like it was searing my retina: David Gritz.  My heart stopped and my throat was suddenly bone-dry.  "It cannot be him.  It's another David Gritz.  It can't be him.  IT CANNOT BE HIM!!!!"  But....the age was about what his would be (24), he had lived in Paris....his father was American....I still refused to believe it.  I dropped the paper and, sobbing, phoned my mother to ask her to reach out to mutual friends and find out whether it could possibly be him.  She did, and, of course, it was.  Devastated and overwhelmed with guilt that I'd made no effort to contact them through the years, I somehow forced myself to go to work, where, after continuously breaking down in tears, I was pitied and sent home.

My mother and I immediately wrote to Nevenka and Norman, sympathy letters filled with emotion, and of course, we never heard anything from them.  During the ensuing years, I frequently thought of them, especially when my eye would fall on that photo of little David, looking at me with those big, dark eyes.  I never forgave myself for not contacting them.  When I did go to Paris again, in 2007, I was too ashamed and afraid to contact them even then.

David

Once I learned about the internet and got a computer, a long time after everyone else on earth had, I would occasionally look up Norman and Nevenka to see what, if anything, I could discover about them.  I read of the beautiful memorial service for David in Jerusalem; that he had been a violinist, like me, that he had loved music and had been cultured and intellectual like his parents.  I read that in 2006, 4 years after David's terrible murder, Norman had succumbed to cancer, and I couldn't help but think that it had to have been David's death that allowed the cancer to claim his father.  It was just unbearable to think that, of that beautiful, happy family, in that charming, cozy Left Bank flat, living a life as close to perfect as most humans could aspire to, everyone but Nevenka was now gone.  When something so all-consumingly terrible happens, I wondered, how in the world does one go on? I didn't believe that I could; it would take so much more strength than what I have.

Last year (2015), I once again looked up Nevenka on the internet, and was amazed to find the names of Norman and Nevenka Gritz among the plaintiffs in a massive case brought by victims of terrorism against the Palestinian Liberation Organization (Sokolow vs. PLO).  Plainly this case had been brought years ago, while Norman had still been alive, but, surprisingly, I had never heard of it.  Even then, in 2015 when it had been adjudicated and a judgement rendered, I had still not heard of it, though I was grimly thrilled that the decision was against the murdering monsters of the PLO, to the tune of about $655 million.  Reading further about the case, I was happy to find that this decision was so damaging to the PLO, regardless of whether or not they ever paid a penny of that blood money, because it damaged any chance they might have had to be allowed into a respectable world body such as the U.N. or NATO.  Now that they had been judged in the eyes of the world to be the murderous thugs that they were, I fervently hoped that Nevenka would find at least some small modicum of comfort and closure.

Like so often before, I longed to reach out to Nevenka.  As always, I couldn't think of what I could possibly say to her, how or where to begin.  I also thought it would be indecorous to reach out when she had been granted a large sum of money.  So, as always, I did nothing.  But what I did do, shortly after, was to start reading books about Hemingway.  I read biographies of his wives, I read about the Spanish Civil War about which he had been so passionate, and, for the first time since 1982, I re-read "A Moveable Feast."

In 1999, at the beginning of my relationship with He Who, we had gone to Paris together.  We were passionately in love, in the most beautiful and romantic city in the world.  It was a heady time, pre-9/11 when the world changed, and our week there played out like a stereotypical romance novel, or one of my favorite ABBA songs, "Our Last Summer:" "We made our way along the river and we sat down in the grass, by the Eiffel Tower.  I was so happy we had met, it was the age of no regrets...I can still recall our last summer, I still see it all: walks along the Seine, laughing in the rain, our last summer, memories that we made."

I'd returned to Paris only once since that summer, in 2007, when my relationship with He Who was dying an agonizing death.  I'd been alone, and the contrast with the summer of 1999 had been excruciating.  Ever since then, I'd avoided any mention of Paris.  It had come to represent a romantic ideal I'd once been fortunate enough to live, but was now lost to me forever.  I'd even refused to watch Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris," even though my friends all assured me I'd love it.

Now, however, many years had passed, and after re-reading "Feast" and all the other Hemingway-related books I'd devoured, and watching "Hemingway and Gellhorn" about his marriage to the brilliant and brave war correspondent and journalist Martha Gellhorn, I once again developed the same itch to see Paris that I'd had in 1982.  My strength had returned, and I believed that I'd be able to relish it with clear eyes; I was even able to watch "Midnight in Paris, " and enjoyed it.

Claudio and Gabriella, Part The Second

Steve and I set out to explore London.  Having obsessed about it for all the 20 years of my life (well, at least 13 of them), it required a great deal of magic to live up to my exorbitant expectations, but it certainly did not disappoint.  I was in a state of shock and awe as I stood in front of Buck House, the majestic Mall behind me, stood at the very spot where my beloved Anne Boleyn had lost that seductive head of hers, and said a prayer at the majestic tomb of my elementary school namesake, Mary Queen of Scots.  I said a silent thank you to her son, James, who after many years of bloodshed united the kingdoms of England and Scotland, and finally built a tomb worthy of his glorious mother.  Too bad he had to enclose her in it together with her cousin Elizabeth I, who had beheaded her popular cousin when she became the fulcrum of vast Catholic wing conspiracies bent on dethroning Elizabeth and replacing her with Mary.

I still have photos of myself standing in front of Hampton Court Palace, a self-satisfied smirk on my face, my much-thicker-than-now hair windswept, in my Burberry-style blazer, the Anne Boleyn gatehouse in the background.  I was thrilled to discover a large print of Anne's iconic portrait, her own self-satisfied smirk on her face, at a second-hand shop.  It was mounted on cardboard and thus not easily transportable, but I managed to get it all the way back to the US, where for many years it held pride of place on my bedroom wall.

I loved the astonishing historical buildings and places I'd read and fantasized about for so many years, but almost more I loved just walking around, hand in hand with Steve, exploring the streets, small and large, the gorgeous, lush parks, the little cafes.  His parents had instructed us to visit Mimmo's, an Italian restaurant in Knightsbridge, which they loved and agreed to treat us to.  I remember we felt so grown up and posh in the very fancy boite, and I even remember the attractive, glamorous couple sitting next to us with whom we stuck up a conversation.  I don't remember much about what we spoke of but I do remember the wife whispering to me that Steve was extremely attractive and intelligent, that he would go far, and I also vividly recall the pride and smugness I felt when hearing that.

Steve's mother had also instructed us to purchase her a dress from Laura Ashley, at that long-ago time a solely UK purveyor, so off we went to their store, where I fell madly in love with all the very traditional English country charm and wanted everything for myself.  In the next few years quite a bit of my wardrobe and linens were from that brand, but at that time I had to limit myself to their cheapest available item, long ago forgotten and discarded (as was all the rest, eventually, as I grew more interested in Prada and Dolce!).  Steve did pick out a dress for his mother, and one of my favorite photos from that time shows him modeling it, a mischievous gleam in his eye, his pillowy lips puckered as he throws a kiss to the camera.

One evening I was taking a bath in the claw-footed bathtub in my bathroom.  I had left the door unlocked since the only other person in the house at the time was Steve, so I was mightily shocked when the door opened and a young boy of 6 or 7 walked right in and grinned at my naked self.  I covered myself as best I could with my hands and asked "who are you??"  He smiled at me, not at all shyly, and announced that he was the young master of the house, Sebastian, the son of Claudio and Gabriella.  With his perfect English accent and Lord Fauntleroy tousled blond locks, it was hard to believe he had any Italian blood, but in fact it was, 100%.  I begged him to leave so I could get out of the tub and get dressed, but he was enjoying my discomfort too much to relieve me on that score immediately.  I remember him standing there for an excruciatingly long time before his mother called to him and he finally left me.  I also remember how mortified I was, convinced that we'd immediately be evicted because I had sullied the pure mind of the child, or some such thing.  Fortunately, Gabriella was nothing like that.  She was indeed the "blonde lynx" of the article I'd read that first night in her home, but no ice queen was she.  She was an Italian volcano, all smoldering passion, sexuality, exuberance, a life force.  Not for her the priggish mores of the English establishment; she was delighted that my initial meeting with Sebastian had been au naturel!   I can still hear her throaty laugh as I stuttered out embarrassed apologies.

Gabriella and Sebastian had been with Claudio as he took the London Symphony on a Japanese tour, but they had decided to return earlier because Sebastian was starting school.  Once they were back home, they promptly wanted Steve and me out.  Gabriella made a call to a friend of hers in Italy and asked if we could stay in her flat at #40 Pont Street, and her friend agreed with alacrity (I couldn't imagine anyone saying no to Gabriella).  Before we could blink, Gabriella and her friend Franca Folli had us all packed up and transported us to Pont Street, one of the most chic addresses in London, adjacent to Lennox Square, Beauchamp Place, and about 5 blocks from Harrod's.  As Gabriella and Franca left us there, Gabriella turned her swanlike neck and drily said to us, "enjoy your honeymoon."  Then she and her blonde mane were gone, we closed the door, and began to enjoy our honeymoon by jumping up and down with glee, like two kids in a candy store.

The flat was ample, not huge, furnished rather simply but with impeccable taste.  There were two bedrooms of adequate size and a rather large living room.  I'm sure there was a kitchen, but since we hardly ever used it I don't have much recollection of it.  We were just a block away from Sloane Street, home of Princess Diana's Sloane Rangers set, and in the other direction was her favorite restaurant, San Lorenzo, which alas was too far out of our price range, and for which Steve's parents (nor mine) were about to foot the bill.  San Lorenzo would have to wait for another year, another time, another man, but finally I did get there.  Across the street was the Cadogan Hotel, once home to Oscar Wilde and Lillie Langtry, another obsession of mine since I had seen the Masterpiece Theater miniseries about her, "Lillie," starring the gorgeous and talented Francesca Annis.  I was thrilled with the blue plaques all over the city commemorating the famous and infamous people who had lived there or stayed there, and to have the Lilly Langry one directly across the street, well, it was all just too good to be true.

My stay with Steve on Pont Street had a dream-like quality even back then, let alone now.  We simply could not believe our great good fortune, that we were young and madly in love, in the greatest city in the world, under the care of the Abbados, one of the greatest families in London.  Although we knew this moment was just a blip in time and would end oh-so-soon, we also knew that it would remain forever fixed in our minds as a Xanadu moment, and that very few times in our lives would compare to it.  We were thus lucky, that we appreciated and marveled at each day, each moment, and knew that at least for that one moment in time, we were among the most privileged people in the world.

One day we had a delicious, All-American lunch at the Hard Rock Cafe.  At that time, that was the only Hard Rock location.  It had been opened by a group of ex-pats desperately homesick for their favorite American fare such as cheeseburgers, french fries and hot fudge sundaes, none of which had existed in the UK.  I loved the idea of it more than the fare, but we were very happy with it on all fronts...except the extremely long line out the door, which seemed like it stretched all the way to Piccadilly Circus.  Nearby there was a magazine stand which we perused, and naturally I found an article about Claudio and Gabriella.  I bought it to show Gabriella, and when we visited with her and I excitedly showed her the article, she shrugged it off with her usual insouciance and made a comment to the effect of, "meh, yet another article about us, I've seen too many already."  I was simply agog in her presence and thought her the epitome of everything stylish, beautiful, and glamorous.  Having grown up in Beverly Hills and met quite a few of the glamorous set, that was quite an accolade, but she earned it and then some.  She had limpid green eyes which slanted ever-so-slightly at the corners (or was it just the eyeliner she used, it's hard to recall now, I just remember the effect), a perfect oval face with perfect smooth skin which crinkled beguilingly around her eyes when she smiled or laughed, which she did constantly; she was tall and slim as a reed, and she was always impeccably dressed in that casual, slouchy way which can look so dowdy or sloppy on all but the most fashion savvy, which she was in spades.

Gabriella and Claudio (Part One)

"A private airstrip in Sardinia.  A silver Lamborghini roars up.  The handsome Italian gets out, his black hair tossed by the wind, kisses his blonde lynx goodbye, and disappears up the waiting stairs of the private Lear jet.  Destination?  London, Berlin, Milan....could be any one of the many places where he is so hotly desired."

I was only in my 20th summer when I read those words, and am now in my 51st, but I have never forgotten them and they frequently spring to mind, as do memories of that magical time.

I believe I emerged from my mother's womb a born Anglophile.  All through my formative years in elementary school and high school, my nickname was always "Mary Queen of Scots," so deep was my obsession with all things related to the British Isles.  Dreaming of the time when I would actually step foot on that "sceptered isle set in a silver sea, " I never could have guessed how special and magical it would turn out to be.

My father is a composer/conductor, and in his youth he had the good fortune be studying conducting at the same time as Claudio Abbado came to Zagreb, where we were living at the time (and where I was born), to conduct a concert, with my father put in charge of preparing his rehearsals.  They became fast friends and spent all their time together while Claudio was in Zagreb, forging a friendship which would endure for many years.  My father and mother were already together at that time, 2 highly attractive individuals who shared the gorgeous Adriatic coast as their homeland: my mother from a lovely seaside town called Omis, my father from an island so beautiful it seems more fantasy than reality, Hvar.  They met in Zagreb, where they were both studying, and with Claudio formed a sort of Jules et Jim camaraderie.  My mother was breathtakingly beautiful, and I just know Claudio must have been very taken with her, and probably jealous of my father.

Life swept them in different directions, my mother and father to marriage and children, then a move to Los Angeles in search of the good life, which unfortunately eluded them.  Claudio returned to his native Italy, just across that selfsame Adriatic, where the good life found him.  He scored one triumph after another, becoming one of the most successful and sought-after conductors in the classical world, a destiny my father could only dream of and envy, as he eked out a meager living giving piano lessons to the likes of Dean Martin's son (when he got lucky).  For the uninitiated, make no mistake, the top echelons of the world of classical music are among the most glamorous and elite that there are, most of their denizens people of extreme education, discriminating taste and wealth.  It all seemed to come so easily to Claudio, and before long he became the conductor of the London Symphony, one of the world's top orchestras.

Meanwhile, my mother had divorced my father and remarried, and I was off studying English Lit. at Berkeley.  My Anglophilia was raging unabated, and I couldn't believe I hadn't yet been to this beguiling land.  The summer after my sophomore year, my boyfriend, Steve, and I planned to meet in London after I spent some time on Hvar, and he in Jerusalem interning at Hadassah Hospital under the aegis of his family's friend Dr. David Weiss.  My mother, who had kept in touch with Claudio, contacted him to let him know I would be coming to London for the first time.  I still remember where I was sitting in my bedroom in the lovely house on Arch and Glen when she called to incredulously read me the letter he'd sent in reply, telling my mother that although he and his family would be away on tour, he would be happy to offer his home at 36 Jubilee Place, SW1, for my use, household staff included.  My mother and I were both gobsmacked, to say the least.  Now my trip was really shaping up to be something special!

I visited Steve for a while in Israel that summer, which is another post, then returned to Hvar.  Finally, the summer was almost over, and it was time for London.  Steve arrived a day or 2 before me and met me at the airport, and together we took a taxi to 36 Jubilee Place.  It was a lovely residential street off of the Kings Road in posh Chelsea, and the home a white-washed multi-level dream of chintz, lace, and china.  The Abbados' maid/cook welcomed us inside, but propriety dictated that we not share a bedroom.  Because only one guest room had been prepared for our use, poor Steve had to sleep in the downstairs living room, in the sleeping bag of the Abbados' 7-year-old son, Sebastian, until another room could be prepared for him the next day.  My peals of laughter at the sight of 6'4" Steve stuffing himself into that little sleeping bag still ring in my ears.

Steve and I marveled at our great good luck that we were ensconced in this neighborhood of unutterable poshness.  We were living like "toffs," even though we were scruffy college students on our first visit to London (well, my first, Steve had already been and was a wonderful guide).  I remember opening my bedroom window that first morning, looking down at the garden with its honeysuckle, lavender and begonias, and the first thing I thought of was the lyrics to Joni Mitchell's marvelous song "Chelsea Morning":

"Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I knew
There was milk and toast and honey and a bowl of oranges, too
And the sun poured in like butterscotch and stuck to all my senses"

The happiness I felt can only be felt when one is 20, madly in love for the first time, convinced it is the last time too, there will never be, COULD never be, another, and in Chelsea with Claudio Abbado's home for just the 2 of us, and London as our oyster.

Anka

We are never too old to make surprising discoveries about our own family.  I always knew that my best-beloved grandpa Milan had a sister named Anka who lived in Buenos Aires, who he hadn't seen in decades, and that it was his dearest wish to see her one more time before he died.  All of that I knew, plus the sad circumstances she found herself in in Buenos Aires before she died, but other than that I knew next to nothing.  I didn't know the tragic and romantic story behind the one-dimensional person I'd been told about.  Somehow my mother and I stumbled upon the subject of Anka a few weeks ago and I have been living with it ever since.  It's a story which deserves to be shared, so I couldn't think of a better post for the real beginning of my blog.

Anka was one of the eldest children in a family of 10 or 11, my darling grandpa being among them.  Their parents died very young and left Anka as the caretaker of them all.  She was a great beauty with a sparkling and vivacious personality, but she had an elder brother who abused her cruelly, in ways which are now lost to time, and made her life at home a misery.  A friend of hers had emigrated to Buenos Aires and beguiled her with tales of the beauty and magic of the place.  This friend had shown Anka's photo to a male friend who immediately fell in love with her astonishing beauty and offered to marry her without even a meeting.  After one too many instances of abuse, Anka fled her hometown of Omis in Croatia (then Yugoslavia) and escaped to Buenos Aires, her heart filled with hopes and dreams of whatever fate might hold for her there.

The young man who was enamored of her was alas not to her liking, but with her beauty and charm she had no shortage of suitors, and shortly met a handsome, dashing boat captain, also Croatian, with whom she fell madly in love.  The two of them made a gorgeous couple and were married in no time.  Soon a son was born, Dushko, and their happiness was complete.  However, it was not to last long, for Anka's handsome husband died young of a heart ailment.  She never forgot him or got over him, she never remarried.

Although she had her beloved son Dushko, he married a cold-hearted woman who was as grasping as she was devious.  They all lived together in the family home, a lovely house in the best part of Buenos Aires.  However, Dushko's wife kept whispering in his ear, "your mother is old, she will become forgetful, people could take advantage of her, we must secure the house to make sure she doesn't get swindled out of it and we end up homeless."  Anka of course wanted nothing but to make her son happy and secure, and, suspecting nothing, she gladly signed the house over to them.  She couldn't have foreseen the tragic consequences: that her beloved only son would die young of cancer and leave her at the mercy of a heartless, venal shrew.  This awful daughter-in-law promptly threw Anka out of the only home she had known and placed her in a nursing home with no air or ventilation, where she shared a room with several others.  Thus this lovely, gentle woman found herself alone, surrounded by strangers in a place that was colder than any she'd known, despite the fierce heat of the Buenos Aires summers scorching her lonely room.

It was thus that my grandfather found her when he was able to achieve his dream of visiting her once before he died.  He had not seen her in all the long decades since she had left Omis as a young and beautiful girl with her entire life and future so full of promise, shimmering ahead of her, with one exception.  She returned to Omis just once in the intervening years, shortly after I was born, so at least I did get to meet this extraordinary woman, though sadly I have no recollection.

My grandfather was able to realize his dream of visiting Anka in Buenos Aires before he died, courtesy of my boyfriend, Dan, who in his generosity and greatness of spirit gave that gift to my grandfather, and not only to him, but also to my grandmother, my mother and my aunt, Anka's nieces.  In the end my grandmother was paralyzed by her fear of flying and stayed behind, which was fine because she and I had such a great time going to movies and spending oodles of time together.  But the rest of them larked off to Buenos Aires, with a pit stop in Rio, and we got to live vicariously through them.  Once they got to Buenos Aires, they found that the administrators of the nursing home had not told Anka that her brother was coming; they thought it would just be a lovely surprise.  When they went into her room to tell her she had a surprise visitor, her still-luminous eyes grew wide, and she asked, "is it my brother?"  I wonder if that was a symptom of her great longing to see him or if she had a premonition, but of course I will never know where those words came from.

My grandpa, mom and aunt were appalled at the state in which they found Anka.  She had only one friend in the world who still visited her regularly, Sabina.  This dear and loyal friend told my family that she would gladly take Anka into her home and care for her, only she didn't have any room.  My amazing boyfriend stepped in to wave his magic wand again, and provided Sabina with the funds to have an annex built onto her home in which to house Anka.  The moment this annex was built, Sabina rushed to the nursing home, only to find Anka's bed empty, her disappeared.  Her awful daughter-in-law had gotten wind of my family's plan and, determined to hold on to Anka just in case this was a plot to wrest the house away from her (or whatever other sick ideas were in her head), she had spirited her away to another home.

Undaunted, this true and faithful friend Sabina went knocking on every nursing home door in Buenos Aires, until one day she found Anka again.  She explained the situation to the people in charge and told them Anka's family in the United States wanted her with Sabina, and she begged their cooperation.  Some were sympathetic, others felt it was not their place and saw the daughter-in-law as the proper guardian and were loathe to participate in what they viewed as deception.  Still, Sabina promised Anka that she would return for her the next day, and hurried to prepare her home for Anka's arrival.  She went back to get her as soon as she possibly could, but she was too late.  The witch had triumphed once again, and this time for good.  Though she spent hours and days and weeks searching, though my family repeatedly contacted the consulate and the diocese, Anka was gone forever, beyond anyone's reach.

My family was notified some years later that Anka had died, but even then was denied the knowledge of where she had been buried, where was her grave.  Now it is far too late to do anything that could help my beautiful great-aunt, but I often fantasize about flying down to Buenos Aires, taking some local authorities with me, and marching to the door of this woman who I now view as evil incarnate, grabbing her by the throat, and forcing her to tell me where my great-aunt is buried, so that at least in death she can know that she is not forgotten.  

I feel such a deep sense of grief and despair when I think of her final years, abandoned and all alone in some godforsaken nursing home or who knows what kind of place, wondering where was anyone to visit her, to take her in their arms and assure her that she was not alone, that she was loved and cherished, and her life was not worthless.  Did she have any idea that my family was desperately trying everything they could to find her, Sabina was searching every nook and cranny of that once-beautiful city, now so out of reach to her it might as well have been Calcutta, pounding the pavement every day?  I am so very fearful that she had no idea, that she thought everyone had just forgotten and discarded her, though I fervently hope she knew the situation with that wicked daughter-in-law, so hopefully was able to place the blame exactly where it belonged.

In order to escape her desperate, lonely existence, she must have traveled in her mind's eye back through the decades and envisioned the breathtakingly beautiful young girl she once was, setting sail for the enticing, unknowable new world, stars in her eyes, sparkles of sunlight dancing like fairies on the waves, transporting her to a life she could only dream would be filled with joy, romance, and a happy ending.  I hope with all my heart that these and other happy visions of the all-too-brief good years of her life sustained her and buoyed her through that infernal darkness, and I hope her last thoughts were filled with the joy of her pending reunion with my darling, precious grandpa, her other loved ones, and of course of her handsome, dashing captain.  I hope she died with a smile on her lips, and I hope that she knows how much she was and is loved, that she was not forgotten during her life, and is not forgotten now.