This is really only part of the story, a few pieces of the stained glass that make up the mosaic. I find it on my mind and pushing to spill out onto the page. When I kept a diary, years ago, I'm sure I wrote about it- but without the clarity that hindsight has given me.
When I was 17, I left home in Seattle to move to Los Angeles to attend the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. I had been accepted to UCLA after graduation the year before- things were so different then, I'd applied on a whim and gotten in- but late in the game they discovered that having graduated as a junior meant I didn't have enough English or Foreign Language credits for their requirements. Long story short, I decided to attend AADA instead. I spent a fabulous year there, and then came home for the summer. Or so I thought. I didn't get invited back for the 2nd year of the acting program. I was heartbroken and shocked. I should have returned to LA anyway, as planned- working, taking classes, and most importantly, being where it all happens. But the summer break had been kind to me: I'd been working non-stop in theatre, and other theatres were beginning to take notice. I stayed in Seattle, then quite the theatre town, and worked at a young software company called Microsoft at its world headquarters (and therein lies another bittersweet hindsight story). I planned a trip to Europe with a girl I'd met at a Europe Through The Back Door seminar. We would fly to London and spend two months travelling the entire continent- Spain, Germany, France, Italy, Greece. I laugh to myself now, because it was such an ignorantly ambitious plan for two small town girls who had never been outside of the US. The night before we were due to leave, with all of our tickets and Eurail passes and even some currency exchanged, my companion's family scared her into not going. There had been a bombing in a German disco and some other incidents. While at 19 I had been through a devastating romantic breakup and the school rejection, nothing prepared me for how disappointed I was in her cancellation of our plans. I could have gone alone, but knew my social ineptitude would keep me isolated for the entire time I was there and it just wouldn't be as much fun for me. So I stayed home. The day we were to have landed in London was the day the US bombed Libya and killed Quaddafi's daughter. My companion felt justified in not going, since we had planned on spending so much time in Greece, so close to Africa.
We planned a road trip instead, to San Francisco and LA. That decision was the catalyst for why I am still in SF, and I see it now as my divergent path in a snowy wood. Life had other plans. I never made it to London.
Years later, another trip was planned, this time with my jazz pianist as a reconnaissance mission for our combo. We were going to London because he had supper-club contacts there, and a major travel bug. He was also a travel agent, and we had first class non-stop tickets on Virgin for $699 round trip. We had comped rooms at an elegant boutique hotel, and meetings set up with hotel entertainment directors. We may not have been able to book many jobs in SF, but by God we were going to take Europe by storm. I remember reminding my mother that I wouldn't talk to her for several days hence because I would be in London. She caught her breath and said "Oh." and then, "I just got a shiver like someone was walking over my grave." I said, "Thanks a LOT, Mom! Like I'm not already anxious about flying so far for so long!" She apologized and said she shouldn't have said anything. She wished me a wonderful trip. I guess I should have trusted her foreshadowing: our departure date was September 12, 2001.
I've stopped making plans for Europe; they seem to guarantee international incidents. Me and London, we're just not meant to be.
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