Why would you look so much like yourself?

Living in New York, you get used to running into celebrities who do not want to call attention to themselves by looking like their public persona. They dress down to blend in although they must realize they call attention to themselves by wearing baseball caps and sunglasses or, in many cases, simply by being extremely thin. People they pass may not know who they are, but they have a pretty good idea they are somebody. 

I understand trying to camouflage yourself, but I have always been floored by celebrities who go out looking like themselves.

Rod Stewart

I once asked a friend with ties to the music industry who that guy was who was always walking around 57th Street looking like Rod Stewart. "Rod Stewart," was his answer. I could not believe a rock star would go out looking so much like himself. If you want to see what he looked like, check any online photo of Rod Stewart.

Madonna

I once saw a woman standing on the corner of 72nd and Columbus and wondered why anyone would dress up to look so much like the Material-Girl-era Madonna. She had the Marilyn Monroe hairdo, very high heels and a mink coat.  Who would anyone spend $25,000 on a mink not to mention whatever it cost to hire a Rob Lowe lookalike to walk her dog just to look like Madonna? Then it hit me. A fake Madonna with a fake Rob Lowe? I don't think so. That guy is so handsome, I don't know if they could have found a look-alike for him.  (It took decades before Rob Lowe admitted he had ever spent time with Madonna. He didn't mention the dog, but he did confirm they had kind of a date.)

Sophia Loren

When I got off a plane from New York to Los Angeles c.1990, I regarded the woman standing at the desk with a a bit of disdain. Isn't she trying a little too hard to look like someone? She was wearing a short tweed skirt, with a patterned blouse, lace stockings, a leather jacket and very high heels. She was wearing glasses. I suppose they were sunglasses. Overdone, I thought.

I don't recall when I realized she was someone.  Maybe when I arrived at luggage claim and saw her standing alone with the prime area at the end of the chute to herself. No one stood within thirty feet of Sophia Loren.

Hugh Grant

 

This involved no glamour, no special effort. Standing on a corner in New York somewhere in the fifties (streets) and eighties (years). He was dressed like one of his characters. Pink shirt. Sleeves rolled up. Arms akimbo. He wasn't famous yet although it might have been the weekend he would become famous.  He looked exactly like one of his 1980s rom-com characters. Come to think of it, that might have been hard to avoid. He looked very much the same on-stage at the 92nd Street Y decades later.

Robert Palmer

In the 1980s, the singer had a hugely successful video for "Addicted to Love." It was so big that it was often parodied largely because of the expressionless supermodels behind him "playing" guitars. So, it seems to me that if he wanted to go unnoticed in Manhattan, he might have avoided charging across 59th Street dragging a model behind him. (No scandalous accusation here. She seemed willing to go with him. Just not that quickly.)

NOTE: You ran into another Madonna with the Morans. You should write about that.

© 2021 Jane Kelly

Happy Birthday, Mommy

I see postings on Facebook memorializing mothers with notations that their offspring "miss them every day." Those words are posted by those who are lucky enough to have had their mothers' presence in their lives for many days. I knew my mother for 8,180 days. I imagine I have thought of her every day since she died on June 8, 1971, but she was not present in my adult life so I cannot say I miss my mother in the way I sense others miss theirs. I never really knew my mother as an adult. I was barely an adult when she died. I never got to have the type of conversations with my mother that friends in their thirties, forties, fifties, even sixties had with their mothers. I didn't know my mother as well as they knew theirs. 

Twenty-two did not seem that young to lose my mother. How could I complain when I had friends who had lost their mothers as children? I was the caboose baby trailing the other two Kelly kids by eleven and nine years. I never expected to have parents into adulthood. As my then thirty-three-year-old sister said at my mother's funeral, "At least she lived a long, full life." My mother died at fifty-eight.

I did not come from a demonstrative family. It may be an Irish thing. I once told a friend I had a perfect opening line for a book but no book to go with it: "I remember the day my mother hugged me." My friend, last name Flynn, responded, "Your mother hugged you?" (I used the line in a short story but still would like to write a book go with it).  

The last time I saw my mother in the hospital--she would die overnight--I considered saying "I love you," but my family didn't talk that way. A declaration like that probably would have terrified her. When my brother, who had flown up from his home in the Bahamas to see her, walked into her hospital room, she muttered, "Oh, boy. I must be in trouble." My point is that, as a family, we were not prone to emotional displays. My sister-in-law used to grab me and push me into my brother for good-bye hugs. I don't think I ever hugged my sister.

I believe, however, there is, shall we call it, subtext that indicates there was, and continues to be, true affection underlying the reserve.

I have a tendency to hold onto the grab handle above passenger car doors but have no idea why. Make that had no idea why. Sitting with my hand stuck up in the air seemed like a bizarre position. But think back to your youngest years when you were led around by adults with your arm in that exact position. In my case, often I was holding onto my mother's hand.  I wonder if that is why holding that handle feels so comfortable now.

When I think of my youngest years with my mother, I recall that position and being completely engulfed in taffeta. I am sure there were other materials and I am sure there were straight skirts, but I remember burying myself in those taffeta skirts. You could hide from anyone in there. They offered such safety.

Not that I hear it very often, but I like the sound of taffeta to this day. And the smell of Chanel No. 5. And the taste of maraschino cherries plucked from a Manhattan cocktail. And travel. 

My mother married a man, a devout Catholic, that she said, "would not walk to the corner if the Pope was passing by." On the other hand, all you had to say to my mother was "Do you want to go . . ." and she was in the car. Seeing the world was one thing she missed in life. When she died we found an article clipped from Look magazine with pictures of the ten best hotels in the world. She did not get to visit any of them. Perhaps that's why travel is so important to me. Perhaps, I am traveling for her.  

Sometimes, overtly. When I had a layover in Tokyo after a thirty-day trip to Asia, instead of staying at the airport, I took the two-hour ride from Narita to the city, stayed at the Imperial Hotel (she loved luxury hotels), rose early and toured as much of Tokyo as I could before heading back to the airport. Walking through the Imperial Gardens, I said aloud, "Is this enough, Mother. Can I go home now?"

Sometimes, subtly. Like anytime I upgrade to a hotel room with a view in a first-class hotel when I probably could stay down the street in a Motel 6.

My mother's name was Mary. She lost her father at the age of five and was shipped off to boarding school for a few years. She came of age in the Depression and, although I don't know if she wanted to work or go to college, she did neither until the late thirties when she went to work at an insurance company and met her husband. Being a wife and mother became her job. She lived in an era when married life meant staying home and taking care of the house. Even after the kids went to school, or left the house for good, her job was to stay home. My father actually said, "No wife of mine will ever work." I don't blame him for that kind of thinking. It was the custom of his era and he wanted to do what he believed was best for my mother.

I doubt my mother ever read The Feminine Mystique but she recognized the restraints trapping mid-century women. She wanted to make sure I had options she didn't have. She explained that Ida Lupino was a director as well as an actress and that it was quite an accomplishment in that era. She urged my friends and me to move to New York and try comedy writing which was not the normal career path of teacher, nurse or secretary. (We didn't.) She made sure I knew what was going on in the world especially that there was a growing Civil Rights Movement and that people did not pay enough attention to her personal "platform" that this country had mistreated the Native Americans horribly and needed to make amends.

She taught me how to behave in public, to move around in the world and to remember that every unfortunate person was somebody's baby.  She did not teach me how to cook, clean or make a bed. If I am going to stink at something, being bad at cooking, cleaning and making my bed does not worry me. Failing to be polite, self-sufficient and kind would worry me greatly.

I am a rule-follower but I didn't get that from her. When I brought home my first B in conduct, she had to console me. She felt it showed I had gumption and I was not going to let "them" push me around. I was in second grade. Maybe because of that, I was free to choose whether to follow the rules or not. Most times, I choose to follow.

My sister told me a story shortly before she died that changed my idea of my relationship with my mother. I always imagined she liked me okay, and I never really wondered if she loved me. I figured that was her job. When I was two and a half, my family had, as usual, decamped from Philadelphia to the Jersey Shore for the summer. My father stayed behind in the city and traveled down for weekends. After becoming ill, being misdiagnosed and treated incorrectly, I developed a neat trick of stopping breathing and turning blue. My sister recounted how my mother, alone at the Shore with her children, ran out of the house carrying my limp body screaming, "Somebody help me. My baby's dying." Spoiler Alert: someone did.

Whenever I think of that story, I realize what I must have meant to her. An outward reserve can hide a real depth of emotion. Even though I didn't think my mother hugged me, I suspect she did. Maybe not with her arms but in so many ways for each of those 8,180 days.

© 2021 Jane Kelly

 

Going downtown with Mommy

If you asked me to conjure a special memory of my mother at home, I'd be hard-pressed to come up with one. Certainly, there are no memories of her in the kitchen like the ones so many daughters cherish. Given time, I am sure I could recall some remembrances from somewhere inside the house, but what leaps to my mind are the times we spent elsewhere. Anywhere else. If local, in downtown Philadelphia.

Some of my earliest memories are sitting beside her on rides through pitch-black subway tunnels on trains that in the darkness seemed to fly through the air. A dead giveaway that they didn't? The blue sparks flying off the tracks and the screeching of the metal wheels. They never scared me because Mommy was in the seat beside me.

Most outings within Philadelphia were shopping trips that included lunch at Wanamakers. Like many local kids my age, I remember going to the tearoom at Wanamaker's Department Store. My mother always asked for Little Nellie's station and I ordered tea sandwiches (no egg - I was allergic), chocolate milk and chocolate-mint ice cream. It would be my choice today if the restaurant were still open. Well, maybe I'd skip the chocolate milk.

Although I remember many shopping trips, I got to, or perhaps had to, shop two days a year. One in the fall for school clothes. One in the spring for summer clothes. Get what you wanted then or you wouldn't be getting it. With two exceptions (unless she happened onto something she thought you should want which happened fairly frequently):  a Christmas dress and an Easter outfit. And for many years, an Easter bonnet.

Easter was really the height of the fashion season in our house. If I had to guess, I would estimate that 40% of all photos in my childhood were taken at Easter. Easter eggs were great but the day was all about new clothes. Dresses, coats, shoes, handbags and hats. Most importantly hats. My mother loved hats. Luckily, she needed one for every Sunday at church.

My sister liked to tell a story about shopping with my mother in the fifties. Think average costs. Houses around $10K. Cars $2K - $4K. This story involved a hat. I remember the hat involved. A brown satin cloche with jewels on one side. She wore it a lot. Good thing.

In those days, women could not have their own credit cards, but my father had provided my mother with "charga-plates" for all the Philadelphia stores. I think this story might have involved Blum's. I always picture my mother and sister stepping out onto Chestnut Street on a cold winter night. My mother clutches her hatbox in her hand.  Let me mention at this point that hats were not returnable.

     Mother to my sister Rosemary: Did you happen to notice how much that cost?

     My sister, being her daughter, had not.

     The answer: $55. One percent of a house, but only if you rounded up. 

Did I mention I got my financial sense from my mother?

Shoes were also big in our world. Even though my father believed that no one should wear cheap shoes, I swear I saw my mother, when asked the price of a pair of shoes, hold up one shoe and give the cost--of one shoe. 

Even I got annoyed with her when it came time to buy shoes to go with my prom dress. Everyone was getting shoes dyed at Beck's or Dial's where they cost $2.98. My dress was cream-colored so, according to my mother, I had to have the perfect tone silk shoes to match. $38 then. Roughly $317 today. Even I found that extravagant--although because she is the one who brought me up I no longer do. In her defense, my feet did not hurt.

Few people knew that before there was a Saks Fifth Avenue in suburban Philadelphia there was a small store tucked in the corner of Center City Gimbel's store. My mother did. One Easter she gave me a shopping experience there that harkened back to the 1940s. I recall standing on a platform in a designer coat while saleswomen--more than one--fetched accessories. I ended up with a wool dress to match the coat, a crepe dress to match the coat lining, shoes, a handbag, gloves and even the right tone pantyhose. Or maybe stockings. It was a long time ago. Shortly thereafter the sixties started. I am glad I had that experience before it was too late. I am sure that kind of shopping experience is still available, but not in my current world.

My mother was all about getting me out--of the house or of our town. She wanted me to have many varied experiences. I think, maybe, so she could have them too. I am grateful she took me along.

Television helped my family eat better

My brother, nine years older, once said to me. "Boy, when we were growing up, it was so all-American, apple pie and Mom." I looked at him as if he were nuts. That was not my experience of childhood or of my mother. A friend, I've long forgotten who, once told me that my mother was "not very motherly." I think she meant it as a compliment. I certainly took it as one.

My mother was a housewife and mother from 1938 to 1971. I don't think she minded the mother thing but she was never into the housewife part. At least as long as I knew her. One of my fondest memories is coming home and finding her sitting in the living room with the woman who came to clean our house -- eating snacks and watching soap operas together. I gave one of my characters a mother like mine - a woman who not only didn't like to perform housecleaning, she didn't want to witness it. 

Recently, I came upon photos of my parents with my brother and sister doing kid activities. Again, not my experience. Ask me about my collection of drink umbrellas. 

The secret of my friendship with my mother is not that she did kiddie activities with me. I did adult activities with her. I was her buddy, her pal for excursions to get her out of the house and away from any related chores.

The lifestyle my mother and I shared was supported by the weekly allowance she received allegedly for the household. From that, she was expected to feed a family of five. Which she did. Every week she would make a list, call a gentleman named Mr. Rossman and read it to him. She would then unlock the back door and, within hours, a carton of groceries would appear like magic on our kitchen counter. The bulk of her allowance went to Mr. Rossman. She stashed the rest away for outings, some just local, but often day trips from our home in Philadelphia to New York. 

She took me on shopping trips and to Broadway shows but, in the early days of television, she soon discovered that TV shows offered free entertainment. She had to cover train fare, taxis, meals and entertainment with what she could save from the food budget. There was nothing you could do about train and taxi rates, and meals with her were never a bargain, so I guess she tried to economize on entertainment. As television grew, she was in. Television audiences paid nothing.

My first free, in-person experience of a TV show was actually in Philadelphia at Action in the Afternoon. Our local CBS affiliate built a small western town behind their studios and every weekday afternoon broadcast a live western. I have no recollection of seeing it on television but I recall a visit to the set with my mother. A cowboy crouched beside me, lowering himself to my level to be nice but I buried my head in my mother's big, wide, 1950s skirt. My mother, however, did not let my reticence deter her. Having exhausted Philadelphia's television resources, we were off to New York.

In the early days, the Today Show might have had a window where you could watch the live broadcast, but no way my mother and I would have been up and in New York in time for that. The show did, however, offer one oddity. They had a camera and a monitor set somewhere in the wall or window of 30 Rock where you could see yourself on television even when the show wasn't on. I vaguely remember my mother taking me there. I don't recall seeing myself but I do remember the black and white screen and people's amazement at seeing themselves on it. My mother would have had to lift me so I could see myself, but I am sure she did. It's the kind of treat she would have wanted me to experience. In those days, seeing yourself on a screen was not commonplace.

The earliest clear, albeit brief, memory I have of traveling with my mother is having lunch or tea at the Palm Court in the New York Plaza. I suspect I was about four because I remember wearing a fancy dress for our trip and feeling too small for my chair. I recall the excitement of seeing the actress, Ann Southern, at a nearby table. Aside from that cowboy from our local station, I don't recall any previous in-person sighting of someone from my TV screen. Ann Southern did not disappoint. She was every inch the star with a mink coat draped over the back of her chair. I think that may have been the same day my mother took me to see The Big Payoff an early television quiz show. I can envision where we sat but I can't figure out how she got me in there. Maybe there was a time when there was no age restriction for TV audiences or maybe she told them if there was an age limitation they should have put it on the ticket. I have an odd feeling it might have been the latter. 

As I got older, my mother included my friends in these trips. I remember bits and pieces. I recall getting interviewed to try out for Password (my friend, Debbie, got an invitation) but not seeing the show. I have no idea who the celebrity guests were. I guess after the excitement with Ann Southern I had gotten pretty blasé.  I know there had to be other shows, but I have no idea what they were. Maybe watching the Game Show Network would conjure a few memories.

When the proliferation of talk shows hit the airwaves my mother latched onto two. The Merv Griffin Show and the Dick Cavett Show. These shows, especially Cavett, had incredible guests. I wonder who they were. Even when I can pinpoint the week I went to Cavett and look at the guest lists, I just cannot remember. I must have carried the blasé thing too far. 

An aside: I know we saw Sonny and Cher somewhere. Not sure if Cavett or Griffin. They were not yet the megastars they became in the early 1970s. My mother became a huge fan but died before they hit it really, really big.

My mother had her fifteen minutes of fame on the Merv Griffin Show. She wasn't seeking it. We'd gone with a friend of mine and her mother. The show decided to play a prank on an audience member. I hate pranks and the one that day was particularly unfunny. I would say that even if they had not played the trick on my mother. They told her that her seat (on the aisle in the balcony) was reserved but she was welcome to sit on the steps to watch the show. I know. Hilarious, eh? I have tried to locate the clip because it shows not only that she was a good sport but that she was gracious about the whole episode. I would have advised the "comedy" writers to find other work.

NOTE: You had a very sad experience at the Merv Griffin Show. A comedian bombed. Deservedly but still it was sad to see. I remember he turned to Merv and said, "Help me, Merv. I'm dying here." The flop sweat was visible. On the way out I heard his mother explaining, "They just didn't understand him." I never remembered his name, so I don't know if he ever pulled himself together, got new material and succeeded. He had a lot of work to do.

My mother watched television at home too. Needed to avoid that housework! So, she knew when The Mike Douglas Show was moving to Philadelphia. She got tickets for the first day and we ended up in the first row. I had to look up that the show featured Vic Damone, Vivian Vance and John Gavin. I only remember John Gavin because by then I was a teenager and he was very handsome. (I think Sheldon Leonard may have been on too, but my Google search showed Sheldon Lewis. Since he had been dead for several years by that time, I am ruling him out.  That I would remember.)

Years later my sister said that she always knew when my mother was planning a trip to New York because we would be eating hot dogs for a week. That wasn't true. I don't think my mother ever ate a hot dog in her life.  I understood my sister's point but I think she was looking at things from the wrong angle. Yes, my mother's food allowance supported our adventures but expensive Broadway shows would have limited the menu. But not television.  Television helped my family eat better. 

And I won't forget, what I did for work . . .

We've all probably done dumb things for our jobs. Driving through a snowstorm. Flying in bad weather. Traveling to a city ravaged by riots. I've done all three but the last one stands out for me. 

The 1980 Miami race riots started in earnest on Sunday, May 18, 1980, following the acquittal of four Dade County Public Safety Department officers in the death of Arthur McDuffie, a forty-something black insurance salesman and Marine.

At that time, my job was flying around the country training people how to use online systems. (Yes, the date is right. There were online systems pre-Internet.) I was due in a Miami law firm on Monday but flew to Florida on Friday to spend the weekend with a friend. As I recall we spent a few days at a theme park. Possibly Busch Gardens. We drove from her house on the beach in St. Augustine. On the drive back, I heard something about the verdict in Tampa on the car radio but didn't make the connection with my business trip to Miami.

Before cell phones, e-mails or texts, I must have given my friend's number to the airline as a contact number. Somehow I got the message to call Eastern Airlines and ended up listening to a tape that essentially said Eastern Airlines will fly you to Miami but we can't guarantee your safety once you get there. In simpler terms, it said, we'll take you if you want but don't blame us if you get killed.

Never once did it occur to me not to go. I had an appointment on Monday. Obviously, the world would end if I did not arrive on time. At least that was how I saw it.

So, I boarded the plane to Miami. I recall nothing until I reached baggage claim. The area was eerily quiet with people wandering around without the usual hubbub surrounding travelers. People frantically, yet quietly, looking for someone to take them away from the airport. Cab drivers were assembling groups of passengers. I had to ask several drivers before someone assigned me to a cab with four other passengers. All four strangers.

Outside in the passenger pickup area, it was deadly quiet. I climbed into the center of the front seat squeezed between the driver and a man returning home to his riot-torn city. None of the passengers spoke as we rode down empty streets through dark and silent neighborhoods. At some point, we drove onto an expressway and I could see lights and smoke in the distance. The troubled area seemed far away. At that point, I did not know there were two concentrations of unrest. 

One by one, the other passengers got out at their homes or hotels. At the last traveler's stop, the driver told me to come along too. He carried my bag into the hotel and spoke Spanish with the desk clerk. I couldn't help noticing my driver sounded a bit desperate. But, there was nothing he could do. The hotel was booked. 

I have to give that driver credit. He could have dumped me. He could have stuck my suitcase inside the door and run. He could have safely driven away before the desk clerk could break the bad news to me. But, he stayed and loaded me and my bag back into the cab to head through the dark, silent night for my hotel. I didn't actually know where that hotel was located, but I had figured out it was nowhere good.

He took me to my Holiday Inn, I think, in Coconut Grove. I remember very little about it except that the desk clerk assigned me a room on the ground floor with a window that opened up onto an alley. In all my years of business travel, I had never been assigned a room with dubious security. This was not the night to try one out. I tend to be an easy-going guest, but even I asked to move to a second-floor room on the inside courtyard. The guy behind the desk didn't protest at all although I wondered if he would try to pawn the first-floor room off on some poor late arrival. If there would be any later arrivals.

I imagine I watched television that night, which I am pretty sure would have been full of bad news--none of which dissuaded me from keeping my appointment the next day. I must have found a cab to take me to the office tower where I was to work. I arrived, settled in, and before long was told that I was being sent home--and this was a first--because of snipers.

Now, I know we were on a fairly high floor with windows on three sides, but I still thought I had a better chance of getting shot by a sniper out on the street. It wasn't my call. Everyone was leaving. At least, I did not have a rental car. This was pre-GPS. That was no day to get lost in Miami.

I had an afternoon to kill in Miami but I couldn't leave the hotel. I suspect I had to eat from the vending machine. That happens on business travel. Maybe there was a restaurant. I have no recollection. There was, however, a pool protected on all sides by the hotel. I sat along the side on a bright sunny day while National Guard helicopters flew overhead. Not very far overhead. I remember the noise. I probably recall the choppers being lower than they were. Maybe because  I could see the guards' faces clearly. Maybe because they had weapons in their arms and their legs were dangling over the side of the copter. That probably wasn't the most relaxing afternoon at the pool, but what was I going to do? Go out for a walk?

I have no recollection if I moved on from Miami the next day. I don't know how I got out of town. Mostly, I remember the silent streets at night and the National Guard helicopters during the day.

Now that I am older, I ask myself why I went to Miami. Was it simply the normal reaction? I think so. Was it smart? I don't think so. Was it typical? Yes. I had to support myself. So whenever needed, I climbed on a plane and flew through a thunderstorm or continued to drive in a snowstorm when I couldn't see the car in front of me. I'd like to think I wouldn't do it again, but I have a feeling I would. And not just because I was on my own and needed the job. I had both a work ethic and an exaggerated view of how important my work was. I think a lot of us did. I used to watch all us road warriors dashing around airports off to meetings and events that seemed so critical. If I hadn't gone to Miami, the world would not have ended. No one would have minded if I'd called and said, "I think I'll wait until the shooting stops." But that thought never occurred to me.

In the year of Covid, so many essential workers are putting themselves in danger to keep the rest of us fed and safe. In the year of Covid, so many people are going to work at the risk of their own health and safety. After the year of Covid, when they look back I believe they will think it was the right thing to do. What I was doing was not sufficiently important to risk life and limb. I wish I had realized that then.

NOTE TO SELF: There was a night flying into Atlanta when the co-worker with you was gripping his seat handle. You had the window seat and were watching lightning striking all around you. You found it exciting. What was wrong with you?

NOTE TO SELF: Once driving to Vermont the snow was so thick on I91 that traffic was moving slower than usual but probably ridiculously fast given the conditions. You stayed in line and were happy to follow the leader until he turned off and you became the leader. It was a hair-raising drive. Your then-boss would have expected you to drive on, but your then-boss was nuts. You should have never gone along.

NOTE TO SELF: You just remembered you climbed into the back of a laundry van in Mexico City. Perhaps this is a good candidate for the list. 

© 2021 Jane Kelly

I could have been killed or badly scratched

I am trying to keep a record of people that I never forgot who have long since forgotten I existed. One of the nicest categories is PEOPLE WHO MAY HAVE SAVED MY LIFE.

In New York . . .

I was walking down Fifth Avenue in New York and wasn't really conscious of where I was when I heard screaming. A lot of screaming.  Before I had time to react, a woman who knew why everyone was afraid ran by, reversed, grabbed my arm and pulled me around the corner. I didn't question. I went with her to safety.

Only then did I follow her gaze.  I looked up and saw something falling from the roof of Trump Tower. Some sort of roofing, a big black sheet, floating down. It wasn't an air-conditioner (the most prominent fear of New York pedestrians) but I bet it still could have packed a wallop. I have to think that woman, who did not have to come back for me, saved my life or more likely spared me a trip to the hospital.

In Barcelona . . .

Francisco Franco was still dead when this happened.  The year was 1976 and I had met a woman from California at my hotel. I am a lazy tourist. She was a conscientious one. It made sense for me to let her show me around the city. She actually had a guide book. A thick one. That she used. Radical. She probably also read up on the political situation in the area before she arrived. Yeah, I didn't really have time for that. 

So, when we were walking down a narrow street and an angry crowd turned the corner and started marching towards us, my alarm bells didn't go off at the level they should have. "You do not want to be here," she said while I was still trying to figure out what was going on. She grabbed my arm and pulled me into a doorway where we watched the protestors pass within inches. Franco had died the year before but protestors were still not viewed kindly in Spain. I don't think she actually saved my life that day, but she did teach me to be aware of the political situation I am walking into.  So who knows what she saved me from in the future?

In Venice . . .

I was never hot looking. Even at my peak, I didn't have to fend off admirers off as I walked the streets of the United States. Standards, however, were different in Italy where the slogan in the seventies appeared to be American Girl, Good Time.  

It was into that atmosphere that I checked out of my hotel in Venice with a Sunday afternoon to kill before I caught the night train to Dubrovnik. I had a several hours to write postcards, drink a few Oranginas, and wander through Venice alone. However, young American girls had difficulty wandering anywhere alone in Italy. I felt as if each American tourist of my age and gender was assigned an admirer upon arrival. On occasion, there would be a conflict and these "admirers" would argue over a visitor. And that was how my Sunday was going when I decided I could not take it anymore. I went to the train station, saw the next train was going to Vienna and got on it. (God bless Eurail passes.)

What I would not know for several days until I saw an International Herald Tribune was that the train I planned on taking had been derailed in northern Italy during a 6.5 earthquake. I probably wouldn't have been killed--no one was--but I would have been thrust into a very chaotic situation. Over a hundred thousand people were left homeless by that quake. So, I owe a debt of gratitude to the annoying young men in Venice.

Before I left Venice, I did get to mail my postcards saying I was taking the night train through northern Italy on my way to Dubrovnik. In those days when you were out-of-touch, you were out-of-touch. No one heard from me for weeks saying that I had not been caught in the earthquake. If they had worried, they never mentioned it. 

NOTE TO SELF: A part of you regretted that you missed experiencing a major earthquake, but then you reminded yourself of your greatest fear: being minorly inconvenienced. In addition, you did not want to be a tourist at someone else's tragedy.

NOTE TO SELF: Two guys did actually get into an argument about who saw you first. Not sure what Italian city. You walked away while they were arguing. One did catch up to you, but all he got to do was explain the World Cup.

I was too cool - or sensitive - for the OJ Simpson trial

"I have to go to the LA County Courthouse to pick up some documents . Would you like to come along?"

You have to consider the emphasis ON and the spacing BETWEEN the words to grasp what Steve was saying.

"I have to go to the . . . . LA . . . . COUNTY . . . . COURTHOUSE . . . to pick up some documents. Would YOU like to come along?"

Would I like to come along? The LA County Courthouse was pretty much the center of the universe in July 1995. At least in the United States. Asking me to accompany him to the Courthouse was the equivalent of asking if I'd like a seat in the dugout at the World Series or on the sidelines at the Super Bowl. I wouldn't get on the playing field but I would get closer than I ever imagined.

For those too young to recall, Orenthal J Simpson, affectionately called OJ by just about everyone in the US--some because of his illustrious football career, some because of his Hertz rental-car commercials--was arrested in 1994. The Heismann-Trophy-winning NFL football player had been accused of killing his wife and her young friend and, even though the evidence made it appear fairly certain that he was guilty, the nation was involved in constant discussion about his guilt or innocence. Strangers debated every detail of the trial. It became our main entertainment. There was no need for soap operas. The trial was on all day. Those with jobs came home from work on the east coast to find the trial on the air live from Los Angeles. And then when the day's coverage ended, there was discussion from lawyers with a whole new profession as talking heads on news shows nightly. The country was obsessed with OJ Simpson.

I would never have gone to the courthouse without an alleged good reason. I saw myself as far too cool to visit or even ride by the Courthouse like a tourist. Too cool and too sensitive. Murder trials did not seem like an appropriate tourist destination but I didn't have to worry. I was visiting the Courthouse on official business. I would be no gawker, no tourist, no hanger-on. I had a valid, if weak, reason for being there. Steve did not really need help carrying a dozen documents.

I think we walked over because parking would have been an issue if we drove. Media vehicles had taken over the nearest parking lot. Some official must have checked Steve and me as we entered the courthouse. If not, the place would have been swarming with press and tourists. I don't recall how, but we were admitted. More impressive that summer than gaining admittance to the back room at Studio 54 in the seventies.

I don't recall the floor we went to. Something like five or six. Today, I did a search for "on what floor was the OJ Simpson trial held." The ninth--which made sense because I recall keeping an eye on the elevators in case the doors opened to reveal--what? Something OJ-related that would have story-telling value?

(I also did a search to see what day the prosecution rested which was Thursday, 7/6/1995. I checked because I was there the next day (when OJ was not) when the defense came to ask that the case be dismissed. It was not. So, apparently, this is my memory of 7/7/1995.)

After standing in the elevator lobby for a few minutes, I realized that not every elevator would stop. The real action was probably outside. "I think I will just wait for you out front." I left Steve in the Country Records office to do all the actual work.

On that day, to disappoint as many Angelenos and/or tourists as possible, all you had to do was step out of the LA County Courthouse and not be Robert Shapiro, Robert Kardashian, Johnny Cochran, (Defense), Marsha Clark or Christopher Darden (Prosecution). The disappointment when I exited was palpable. By the time I crossed the small patio area and climbed the few stairs to street level, all eyes had returned to the door. I passed through the gauntlet of photographers and tourists unnoticed. No, not so much unnoticed as rejected. People had put their cameras and their autograph books down. No one even suspected I was somehow OJ-related which, when I think about it, was a good thing.

The hard part came after I was outside. How could I hang around while not looking like a tourist? I was dressed in business attire. DC business attire. I was more formally dressed than anyone but the lawyers. Still, why didn't I bring a notebook? Or a folder? A smartphone would have come in handy, but I was there a decade too early. I looked at my watch regularly, but there was a limit even for someone making it clear she was waiting for someone. I tried not to stand out. Mostly I tried to take in the show that was going on around me while making it clear I was not part of it.

It was hard to ignore the spectacle outside the OJ Simpson trial. Hanging around at the entrance to the courthouse was a little bit like lingering in the open-air lobby of an office building with shops. There was plenty to buy. T-shirts. Hats. Buttons. I wish I'd written down both the inventory and what was printed on them. I suspect a lot of the writing was of a Free-OJ sentiment. 

Tourists came by but business wasn't brisk. A lot of photography was going on and this was before everyone had a camera in their phone.  The Jesus-Saves man who carried his sign in front of the courthouse every day had a national profile. Visitors posed with him. They posed with two luxury cars. I forget which one belonged to Shapiro. Maybe a Mercedes sedan? The Mercedes convertible that pulled up belonged to Johnny Cochran. His driver was happy to take pictures of tourists posing in front of it.

When the stars of the trial exited, excitement surged through the gauntlet, but there was no matching noise, no cheers for the lawyers headed out. I suspected the attorneys met with the press inside the courthouse. There remained, however, an  assembled crowd to gawk at them. The loudest noise was cameras clicking.

Shapiro came first, expressionless, walking unnaturally slow.  Making sure photographers got their shots? Who knows?

Cochran came a few minutes later walking at the same bizarrely slow pace. Did he pose with tourists? I think he did. He definitely traded pleasantries with them as he took off his jacket and slipped behind the wheel of his convertible. Did someone ride with him? No idea. It's too long ago to recall but, if not, what happened to his driver?

What left the biggest impression was what happened after Cochran pulled away. With the major players gone, it was time for the enterprise that was the OJ Trial to close for the weekend. As in any office on a Friday, the workers chatted. Two reporters asked the guy selling t-shirts what he was doing for the weekend. Theirs was not a perfunctory exchange. They knew each other's details, about their families, their travel. I bet a month later the reporter for the Philadelphia Inquirer participated in this weekend ritual telling others about his visitors and the trip he was going to take, the trip on which he would be killed in a car accident. I read the press corps felt the loss. I bet everyone there felt that loss as employees in any organization would.

The groups were still saying their good-byes when Steve came out to meet me. Things were shutting down for the weekend as we walked away. The feeling was in the air.

I felt it was unseemly to observe this circus, yet I couldn't resist. Two people, young people, had died horribly to set this scenario in action. Theirs was a personal tragedy but I was observing a historical event. Not a battle or an election, but a phenomenon in the country's social history that would have a larger impact than any of us knew on that afternoon.

All in all, I am glad that I went along.

PS That day I only saw the defense team.  Many years later when  I began writing mysteries, I would run into Marcia Clark from the prosecution at conferences. She too had written crime novels.