It's Not my Party and I'll Cry if I Want To

At about 7:45 yesterday evening, we pulled up in front of a bar in a Dallas neighborhood I haven’t been to in years. We snagged a choice parking meter right outside the doors, a lucky break with another rain shower threatening, and seized the chance to unload all of our spare change. A quick check in the mirror told me my lip gloss was still in place and my bangs were losing their battle against the humidity. I stepped out, smoothed my dress and took my precious cargo out of the backseat. Armed with two large and unwieldy picture frames, an inner monologue of pep talks and a good friend by my side, I made my way into the reunion. Stepping into the cool, dry air I simultaneously wanted to be no place else and anywhere but there. Because it was not my 15 year reunion. It was not my party. This class belonged to my sister, Wendy. And the only reason I was there last night is because she’s gone.

About a week ago, I was touched to receive an invitation to attend Wendy’s reunion, and even more moved by the effusive response to my acceptance. A reaction that was multiplied tenfold that night. The hellos, the hugs and the “thank you so much for coming’s” kept, well, coming. I started to realize that my presence there meant as much to her classmates as it did to me. If not even more. Which made me think about it from their perspective. Wendy and I went to a small, private girl’s school. A hard school, the kind that either chews you up or spits you out as an Ivy leaguer. You don’t just get a degree from Hockaday, you fight for it, earn it. The girls in your class are your teammates, your allies and your strongest survival asset. My graduating class totaled 84 and I think hers wasn’t much larger. And they had lost one of their own. It’s a big hole in a class that small. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

Throughout the course of the night, and fortified by more than a few glasses of wine, I listened to stories about Wendy, caught up with bright, successful women who I had last seen when they were just girls and watched as her class raised almost $1000 in a raffle to win one of two signed reprints of Wendy’s artwork. Money that will be going to our school, to help promising art students pay for supplies. And then a moment came in the evening, sometime after my early bout of nervousness and discomfort and before to the effects of the wine had rendered me comfortably numb, when I found myself alone, sitting on a barstool, watching the class of 1996 swirl around me, chatter and laughter drifting over the music. In that standstill I suddenly tried to imagine what the scene around me would look like if Wendy was there. I pictured her, head thrown back in laughter, arms gesturing freely as she described her latest adventure. Ever the social butterfly, I could see her making her way from group to group, hugging and kissing with gusto. Later, when the band went on, she would dance with wild abandon, even though if the music was terrible.

And then I desperately wanted to see her at 33. I wanted to know who she was, what she had become. Just like I was seeing with the rest of her class. But I couldn’t, because in my head, she is always 22. She will always be 22.

It wasn’t until today that I realized that Wendy never made it to any of her class reunions. She was killed in the fall of 2000 and her first reunion would have marked five years in the Spring of 2001. She was never there to mark these passages of time with her class, gatherings that until today, I took a little for granted. Reunions are kind of a context for where we’ve come from, who we are now and where we are headed. Like mile markers or checkpoints. I suppose that might not be the case in a bigger school, or one that isn’t fraught with the same level of stress and academic challenge. But for anyone who went to Hockaday, those years are a defining piece of our personal history. An experience only shared by those who survived it next to us. And our lives are still marked today by relationships that started in the trenches with those girls around us.

So, not for the first time, and probably not for the last, I willingly took her place last night. Did my best to walk in my sister’s shoes even though they are too big for me to ever fill. Did my best to help her be at her reunion with the rest of her class. For her. For them. For me. I laughed with her friends, some of whom have become dear friend of mine, knocked back more than my fair share from the bar and partied like it was 1996. And then, today, I cried.

The Unforgiven

The Oxford English Dictionary defines the word forgiveness as “to grant free pardon and to give up all claim on account of an offense or debt.” Just let that percolate for a minute.

Last Tuesday evening, I plugged the address of a downtown Dallas parole building into my navigation system, still relearning my way around a town that has changed and grown in the eighteen years I’ve been gone. This part of South Downtown Dallas has always been around, but until last week, I’ve never had much cause to be in the area, nowadays a hodgepodge mix of dicey streets and artists lofts. In short order, I would be sitting down at a long table in front of somewhere between 40 and 50 convicted offenders, now out on parole and required, because of the high degree of their crimes to participate in what is called a “victim’s impact panel.” A chance for them to listen and talk to some of us who’ve been on the receiving end of crime, and hopefully learn a little something.

I honestly wasn’t nervous. I’ve spoken many times before about my sister’s murder at the hands of a nineteen-year-old girl. I’ve spoken to large crowds from a microphone on a podium, on panels and in small intimate circles. I’ve talked to other bereaved siblings, to politicians and celebrities. And to defensive, heartbroken bereaved parents who don’t understand why their surviving children won’t speak to them. I’ve got this, I thought to myself as I swung into a parking lot slowly filling up with parolees. No problem. Even the size of the security guard who was as almost as wide as he was tall, taking up the majority of the height and breadth of the hallway, didn’t set me on edge as I walked with him and the panel facilitator to a waiting room where we would stay until the everyone had arrived and was seated. Together with two other women and the moderator, I filed into the room and took my seat. These women next to me would tell heart-wrenching stories of violence and abuse, time spent in hiding and pleas to the parole board to keep a husband hell-bent on murder safely tucked away in prison.

“You are here tonight because you have to be here. It’s a condition of your parole,” the moderator began as the audience rustled and adjusted, some leaning forward and listening, others sizing us up and some clearly wanting to be just about anyplace else.

“I’m here because I have to be here too, it’s my job. And he has to be here, because it’s his job,” she continued, pointing to the security guard. “The only people who don’t have to be here tonight are these three women, who have given up their free time to come and talk to you. Remember that.”

I listened quietly along with the audience as each of the other women spoke. And then it was my turn. As I looked out at a sea of faces and wondered what each of them had done to another person to end up in that room listening to me, my voice began to stick in my throat. My words came out slowly and I was surprised by the effort it took to form the shapes that make the sounds and then push them out of my mouth on a current of warm air. I chose my words carefully, laying out my story. All the while, trying to be mindful of this particular audience. What I could say, what should I say to a group of offenders, many of them with multiple stints in prison and all of them currently walking free. Don’t be too specific, I reminded myself over and over again. No last names, no exact dates, no detailed locations. But really make them think. They had heeded the moderator’s opening words though and were quiet and respectful. I was lucky that night. I had been warned that isn’t always the case. That next time they might be rowdy. Offensive. Thoughtless. They might act like criminals. It was during the question and answer session that things really got interesting. As the moderator opened the floor, the hands started to come up.

“Have you forgiven the person that did this to you?”

“If you can’t or won’t forgive them, then how do you live with that in your heart?”

“Forgiveness is a blessing and it’s what you are supposed to do, don’t you agree? Cause forgiveness is a gift.”

It became clear to me that these offenders were seeking a very specific response from us. Something along the lines of “Yes,” and “Of course I forgive him. Her. Them.” It was intriguing, to suddenly be put on the defensive by a room full of parolees. Tables turned. On the issue of forgiveness. It was obvious what they were looking for. If they could hear that we had forgiven the men and women who had hurt us, then each person in the room could infer that their victims had forgiven them too. They could be let off the proverbial hook. And I wasn’t okay with that.

I drove home and looked up the definition. Those words “to grant free pardon and give up all claim” leapt out at me. Free pardon. All claim. Serious business, this forgiveness. Is it really a gift? Forty some odd criminals would like me to think so. Do I just hand it over, like a pretty package at a birthday party? Hand over free pardon and give up all claim so we all can feel better and move on? That girl took my only sister away from me for good. My first thought? Not a snowball’s chance in hell. My second thought? Not a snowball’s chance in hell. There might be some people in the world who are that magnanimous, but I am not one of them. And I’m okay with that.

It suddenly occurred to me that this was the second time in a week that the issue of forgiveness had come up and I looked back at a recent email from someone who’d committed some significant wrongdoings against at me one time. In it, an expression of hope that perhaps my forgiveness might be offered someday. My first thought? Doubtful. My second thought? Okay, possible in theory, but what have you done to earn the right to ask? Which begs another question. Is forgiveness less like $10 you get from your aunt on your birthday and more like $10 you get from your parents for cleaning the kitchen and taking out the trash? Maybe. But if you can earn forgiveness, does it becomes an absolute, something you can lay claim to if you complete some prescribed set of tasks? A chance to buy or work your way to absolution?

So as not to knock myself out of the equation, and lest you think I’m coming at this from a holier than thou approach, I thought about times when I was seeking forgiveness. Because I screw up too. And I’ve learned over the years from my own mistakes that a genuine apology can go along way when you’ve committed a minor transgression. And those unrequested words might be all it takes to garner true forgiveness in some cases, like drinking the last of the milk, but most of the time a little extra effort is in order. A replacement for a broken item that you’ve borrowed or lost, dinner and movie to make up for a forgotten plan, flowers and a kind card to show that hurtful words were spoken out of turn. I’ve tried pretty hard to live a life where I can usually clear something up with a genuine apology and possibly the help of a cookie bouquet. And would I forgive someone in those cases? Grant them free pardon? Give up all claim? My first and only thought? You betcha. Which makes me think forgiveness is really most like the $10 your dad suddenly hands you to spend at the store when you’ve done a little extra around the house that wasn’t asked of you. Maybe you asked for it, or maybe you didn’t, but he saw the extra effort you made, not because you had to, but because you wanted to.

I’m not sure I have a solid conclusion to offer, because for me, this seems to be a question that mostly begs more questions. And on the great sliding scale of forgiveness, sometimes it comes easy, sometimes really have to work for it and sometimes, to be quite frank, I just can’t even figure how it’s a viable option or why the matter should even be coming up. And when you’ve done wrong by someone, there’s no guarantee that you can make it right. That’s the kicker. No one can tell you how to ask for forgiveness, to earn it, or if you’re ever gonna get it. Because what it takes for someone to grant “free pardon” is different for every person and every situation. Plus doing something to make amends without being asked is kind of the point.

I sat on a second panel last night in the same parole office and one of the offenders wrote in her evaluation that if she had the chance, she would tell her victim she was truly sorry. She also wrote that she didn’t think her victim should forgive her for what she had done. I don’t know what she did, but I can safely assume it’s not something that could be rectified with the extra-large cookie bouquet. But I applaud her honesty and her willingness to own up to the choices she made and the consequences of her actions. Which is probably the best first step anyone can make down a road that might or might not lead where you want it to go.

Writing is a Beach

In retrospect, I should have gone the other way first. Or just stayed inside. It was the windiest, coldest day out of a week of cold, rainy and altogether less than picture-perfect days in St. Petersburg, Florida. Leaving me questioning the “Paradise” part of the name of the workshop I was in town attending. “Writers in Paradise” had just drawn to a close and I had a few hours before I was due to meet new friends for dinner and then head to the final literary reading and farewell reception. Drained from an intense week of reading, writing, learning, listening and critiquing, I wanted a chance to clear my head and was in need of some fresh air and a little exercise. Plus I was staying right on the beach and had only had time for one stroll down the sandy shore during a mid-week day off.

Perhaps not quite this much fresh air, I thought as I turned south, against my better judgment, and began to make my way along the water’s edge. I knew in the back of my head that the strong wind that was nearly propelling me along was going to be pushing against me every step of the way once I turned around to head home. But it felt so easy to be carried along by the wind that I dismissed my practical notions and allowed my body to be guided further and further away from my warm hotel room. My thoughts drifted as I watched the waves rush up on to the packed sand. It looked like hands, with fingers crawling frantically up the shoreline. Each time the tide pulled back out, the wind would whip the foamy remains and send it skittering along the sand in front of my feet.

A handful of kite-surfers were skating across the top of the waves and then alternately being yanked into the air or dunked into the water beneath their kites, depending on which way the wind took them. Brave souls. Or stupid. Willing to risk a little cold and perhaps an injury to take advantage of the ease of flight provided by the day’s conditions. As I watched them and continued down my path, I wished for a big, strong wind behind my writing pen. I felt like it could be that easy, for the words to just flow and for some higher power, if you will, to send my hand in the direction it should go. I don’t write, I type, but that’s beside the point. I had been thinking about my writing and talking about my writing and learning about my writing all week, and I was good and ready to write. Come on wind, get behind me and let it rip.

I had been walking at what felt like a brisk pace for a good bit, lost in my head, when I came up to the first dead bird. It was then that I realized the colorful kites were far behind me, and that I appeared to, at least for the moment, be the only person on the beach. Partly buried in blowing sand, the sea bird was twisted, like it had been desperately avoiding a crash landing. A few paces beyond it, I passed another one, in much the same position. And then a little further down, another bird was in my path. This one alive but happily munching on a dead fish that had been washed to the shore by the violent waves. An opportunist if there ever was one. By the time I passed a lone yellow child’s beach chair, sitting next to a large pit that had been dug in the sand, my calming stroll on the beach had lost its charm. I was nowhere near sunny St. Petersburg. I was wandering in some post-apocalyptic landscape. This was the place ideas came to die. I was terrified that would be me. That I would come home from this conference and sit down, ready to create and nothing would come. That I would hold my fingers over the keyboard, ready for it to be easy, for the words to flow, and all I would have was dead carcasses and empty chairs and unexplained holes.

I pressed on. A glimpse of more kite-surfers farther down the beach gave me renewed hope and then the little timer on my iPhone rang, telling me I had been walking for thirty minutes and it was time to turn around. The brunt of the wind hit me full-force in the face. I had to pull the hood of my thin sweatshirt over my head and tie it tight under my chin to keep the wind out of my ears. The top layer of sand was dancing and swirling like angry fog over the packed earth beneath it, coming at me, pelting against my sunglasses and looking for openings in my shoes, trying to find any way in. Every step was its own journey. I tucked down and leaned in, pushing back as hard as I could at the wind. Try and stop me, I thought, digging my feet in. I suppose I could have cut between the hotels and made my way to the street, where the buildings would have blocked some of the force, but by then I was in it to win it.

The dead birds became landmarks and I scanned for them regularly as I pressed forward, knowing that passing each one would be an accomplishment, steps closer to home. The bird with the fish was long gone, having either finished his meal, or lost it back to the ocean, surely to be re-gifted by the waves to some other lucky bird farther to the south or north. I averted my gaze as I passed by the fallen, not wanting to see their twisted forms, thinking that they had lost the fight that I was going to win. As I got closer to my hotel, I passed a person. And then another. Idiots, I thought, counting myself and as one of them, wait till you turn around. You should have gone north first and gotten the hard part out of the way. I imagine I looked like an overwrought alien, my giant sunglasses protruding from my tightly-tied hood, which was no doubt pressed close against my head. My body hunched forward and my lips pressed in a tight line in a largely unsuccessful attempt to keep out the sand.

When I finally turned inland, the finish line in sight in the form of a large hotel, I allowed myself to revel in my victory. The journey back had been so much harder with the wind fighting me each step of the way. But I had made it. I was a little sweaty, despite the cold, I would be sore the next day and I would be taking home an inordinate amount of sand buried deep in my tennis shoes as a reminder of the day. I looked at my timer. It had seemed like an age, but it had only taken me eight extra minutes to make it back against the wind. Writing is like this, I realized. All of this. Sometimes the wind is at your back, and the going is easy. Roll with it. Sometimes it’ll be in your face, possibly blowing sand up your nose to spite you, but you can still keep going, and it really won’t take you much longer to get there if you just dig down and put one foot in front of the other. Maybe, don’t try to fly, just settle for a good slow pace. If a fish washes up on the shore, by all means, eat it. You know what I mean. And sometimes, all you will have are dead carcasses and empty chairs and unexplained holes. All I can say then is keep scanning the horizon for your proverbial kite-surfer. And when in doubt, try just turning around.

The Supper Club

Over the past 18 years, I’ve lived in a city where last minute plans and frequent cancellations are the norm. I often think of the moment in the movie The American President when Michael J. Fox says “I tell any girl I'm going out with to assume that all plans are soft until she receives confirmation from me thirty minutes beforehand.” Life moves at a rapid-fire pace around here, and it’s often hard to pin down some quality time with your friends. But I’ve discovered over the last couple years that a concerted effort makes all the difference in the world. And you just never know what might come out of it. In my case, it has been what I would call, for lack of a more original moniker, The Supper Club. A monthly moment in time when four unlikely friends make it a point to sit together over a meal and share their lives with one another. Swapping stories, lending moral support and offering advice. We laugh, sometimes we cry, we accept and celebrate our unique personalities and our difference. And we always make it a point to tell it like it is. Because this world could use a little more honesty and a lot less attitude.

I’ve already said we are an unlikely quartet, cobbled together in a random series of meetings over the years. Jodi and I first met when I was just twenty-one, on the set of a Saturday morning TV show, where we played background high school students together for over a year. We lost touch for almost two years in my mid-twenties but then one day, out of the blue, I got a phone call and we picked back up again. From that friendship, I met Dana, a longtime friend of Jodi’s and though we at first just saw one another once or twice a year at one of Jodi’s parties, a brief, unexpected romance with Dana’s brother brought us deeper into each other’s lives. Miriam came to us during a stint at La Knitterie Parisienne, when I was channeling my angst over the loss of my sister into weaving endless spools of yarn into all manner of projects and Jodi was amassing an unending collection of scarves. We tried to get Dana to knit. That lasted about a week. And somehow, I don’t even remember when, we started to plan dinners together. Upon discovering that we made a good, if random foursome, we made it official. Once a month, most of the time. No one else allowed. Just us four women, with different lives, backgrounds, social circles and personalities.

Jodi
Jodi is the inquisitor and the organizer of the group. The only mother in our club. Of twins. The only one of us married, for that matter. She is the tie that binds us together, the one with the iPhone on texting overload, who always make sure we know the date, the time, the location of our next dinner. She is also the curious one. We often spend a good deal of time answering Jodi’s questions. Detailed questions. And let me just say that no, and I mean no topic is off-limits or beyond the scope of her close scrutiny. She’ll get the story out of you, whether you want to tell it or not, though in the end, you’re usually glad that you did. She often maintains that her life isn’t as interesting as ours and usually spends more time pulling questions from our stories than telling her own, but I actually think she likes her role and it has nothing to do with how interesting her life is. We still make her spill the beans anyway, no matter how bland or spicy they may be. Because everyone has to tell their story. That’s part of the deal.

Dana
Dana is the color, the light, the energy of the group. As an actress, model and voice-over artist, she reinvents herself on a daily basis. Where Jodi can always be counted on to show up in jeans, braids and a baseball cap, Dana’s outfit is never the same and often a feat of both style and bravado. Nothing is off-limits, from hats to shoes to new haircuts. I often wish I were that brave. Or even that creative when it comes to my style. She is tiny in stature but like a brilliant chameleon you cannot take your eyes off of. Her stories are equally colorful, and she lives life with a sense of humor and adventure. She is outspoken and outgoing and yet surprisingly, almost unexpectedly sensitive, thoughtful and even a touch old-fashioned.

Miriam
Miriam is our heart. I don’t know if it’s the Latin background, Miriam is Puerto Rican and speaks with a soft and lilting accent, but she radiates warmth and love whenever I’m around her. She’s nurturing and takes care of those around her, even when it taxes her own life to do so. She is emotional and caring and offers advice and thoughts in a sensitive way, designed to make you feel better even when you can’t imagine better as a possibility. She is a romantic, and her stories are often filled with hope and dreams and sometimes the troubles of unrequited love. I think she is stunning. And though I don’t think I’ve ever told her before, in some ways, she reminds me of my sister.

As for me, I suppose I’m the observer, the intellectual. I’ve seen all of these women through the lens of my camera and now I’m spelling them out in my words. Though such short descriptions do them little justice. I consider myself lucky to have been in their presence every four weeks or so for the last several years and despite my imminent move to Dallas, hope to continue the tradition during my frequent trips back to LA. These women, so different from one another and from me, not my closest or longest friends, though by no means less special as a result, have taught me to be more open, more daring and more honest. They’ve been there when times have been tough and I’ve had the chance to be there for them. Most importantly, we’ve managed to keep it real and reliable. Which is a pretty impressive feat in a town of fake and flaky. Thanks ladies for making my life richer, more interesting and full of love and laughter every month. It’s an honor.

Legacy & Legends: A Tale of the US Snipe Masters Championship

In an idyllic little spot some three hours north of Indianapolis and miles from anywhere recognizable to this city girl, my father and I unhitched our trusty trailer, which had safely delivered it’s cargo, a 2006 Persson Snipe, all the way from Dallas. It was night and the shores of Lake Wawasee were dark, but in the morning we would be greeted by sunny skies, perhaps a little less wind than we had hoped for, and most importantly, the stories, people and sailing that I believe make the U.S. Masters one of the most unique and truly special Snipe regattas of the year.

To even qualify to sail in this regatta, the skipper has to be at least 45 years old and the combined age of skipper and crew must tally up to at least 80 years. A naysayer might scoff that that would mean easy competition, but what it really means is that some of the greatest legends and most seasoned sailors in the class are on hand, so you’d better bring your A game. Despite a 31-year history of sailing Snipes, and the fact that my favorite skipper, dear old dad and I had been in the qualifying age range for more than a few years, this was my first trip to the Masters. And at what sometimes feels like the ripe old age of 36, I was about the third youngest person competing that week. The total age range of the competitors impressively spanned seven decades. And the lineup included some well known Snipe sailors, like Buzz Levinson, Terry Timm and Regatta Chairman Dick Tillman, as well as the first competitors in the Great Grand Master Category, which is over the age of 75, the well-loved Ken and Mary Ann Rix.

The sailing was the purpose of the event, so it deserves to be well mentioned here, despite the fact that conditions were less than favorable throughout the three-day regatta. Day one was called after a few hours of drifting, thanks to Mother Nature’s lack of interest in mustering up even a modicum of wind to fill our sails. Day two, she gave in a little, and we got off three well-orchestrated races in the light wind on the pretty little lake. Which is when I realized that one of the beauties of sailing, or at least sailing Snipes, is that age truly has nothing to do with prowess, and even that with years, comes wisdom and a greater understanding of both the wind and the water. There was some great interplay out on the water that day, including a few course changes and more than one recalled start.

The final day of the regatta broke dark and stormy, and though a number of sailors decided the high winds and rainy conditions weren’t for them, the rest of us put on brave faces and foul weather gear, and the intrepid race committee managed to pull off two races with only one capsized boat in the rough waters. And to give credit where credit is due, when Lanny and Margie Coon went over in the high winds, they righted their boat and went on to race the next race, finishing it with a solid Fifth. Even for me, it was a hair-raising day on the water. Especially when the wind picked up even further and I had to adjust the staymasters on the shrouds under the explicit warning from my father that if I dropped the teeny, tiny clevis pin and ringding into the water, while I was precariously balanced on the side of the boat, and the wind was blowing water in my face, that we would be out of the races for the day. Lady luck was on my side, and though I came in with sore legs and bloody fingers, I also came in that day with unending admiration for those senior to me who were right out there beside me.

My father and I took Fourth Place overall and First in the Grand Master division, for skippers over the age of 65. Which is great, because if I’m being perfectly honest, I’m competitive as heck. But I was surprised to discover that the real reward wasn’t a high place finish, or a shiny trophy. It was the chance to sit at dinner and listen to seasoned sailors tell stories of Snipe sailing over the years. Tales of practical jokes, and the days of wooden boats and more than one story about some guy named Freddie Schenk, who was well remembered and apparently quite the character. It was about having a moment or two to pore over old newspaper clippings and photos from races dating back to the fifties and realize the history of a sailing class I’ve long been a part of, but never fully understood. The U.S. Snipe Masters is a more than a regatta, it’s a history lesson. And for me it was also a humbling experience that I would love to take part in again.

Taking Aim

October 28th will mark the ten-year anniversary of the death of my younger sister, Wendy, whose life was taken at the hands of a nineteen-year-old girl with an illegally possessed handgun and a deadly desire for some quick cash. That one bullet’s speedy path put my life on a new and different trajectory as swiftly and surely as if it had exited that barrel and sliced through my own body after it went through hers.

I never knew much about guns. They weren’t something we really grew up around, despite living in Texas, one of the gun capitals of the U.S. Even as I moved to L.A., amidst a time of riots and cultural warfare, it was still far removed from my sheltered existence. Many years after I arrived here, my sister moved to L.A. and into a home with me while she went to college and I went to grad school. Oddly enough, she had a fascination with guns and liked to go to the range and shoot. I remember her coming home one day and taping her target to her bedroom door, proud of her bulls-eye shot to the chest of a faceless paper man. She said I should come with her sometime, and though I intended to, thinking it would be a good idea to know how to shoot a gun, to understand what it feels like in your hand and how it works, we never got the chance.

Three weeks before she was killed, she told me that someone had brandished a gun at her out a car window while she was stopped at an intersection in Hollywood. I can remember the fear I felt as she told me how she had floored the gas pedal and sped through the red light away from any potential danger. Little did either of us know that such a short while later, she would come quite literally face to face with a similar weapon and, despite her cooperation with the young female robber, would not have such a chance to escape.

Suddenly, the power and danger of a handgun was part of my terrifying reality. And advocating for safe, sensible and legal gun ownership laws became a personal platform. But I had still never seen a handgun closer than across the courtroom glass, never held one in my hand, never pulled a trigger. And as much as I was deeply afraid, it was actually still something I wanted to do. Yet for almost ten years, I avoided it. And then, a couple of weeks ago, the opportunity presented itself, rendered in a thoughtful and pressure-free manner, leaving me only to ask myself if I was really ready. It turned out to be an unexpected gift, strange as that may seem. And it turned out that I was.

As we filled out our paperwork at the gun range, I watched the steady hand of my soon-to-be firing instructor tick off expert in each of the categories. I took surprising comfort in the fact that I was in the company of a professional sniper, currently serving a commission with the U.S. Special Forces. His energy was calm and positive, and it steadied me as much as anything could have at that moment. We donned the prerequisite gear – eye and ear protection before heading into the range. I had held the gun unloaded the day before when we had first retrieved it, and even then, essentially harmless, it had caused my hands to go clammy and my heart to palpitate. Loaded was a whole different story. But as I learned to load the bullets and position myself, I tried my best to focus on the process, and distance myself from the potential outcome. Which worked, mostly. Until I took aim and pulled the trigger for the first time, and felt the recoil that accompanied the loud crack as the bullet sped out of its chamber. And then the shaking started and I broke out in a cold sweat. I placed the gun on the shelf and took several steps back to catch my breath.

In that moment, I suddenly knew, if nothing else, the gravity of holding a loaded handgun in between your palms. I knew the fine line when the trigger hit its release point. I felt the strength of the gun as it kicked in my hands, as if wanting to be free of me. And I suddenly couldn’t imagine, all over again, how a nineteen year-old girl could have done what she did that night. There is nothing that feels careless or cavalier about holding a gun. There is nothing easy or simple about it. And holding one that day made me all the more committed to making sure people understand what a dangerous thing it can be in the hands of the untrained and unskilled, and how important it is for lawful gun owners to do everything in their power to keep these weapons from finding their way into the wrong hands.

We stayed for around an hour, and I only fired a handful of rounds. That first shot was probably my best and I think it was because it took that first pull for reality to actually set in. But I sucked it up, and forced myself to shoot again and again, grateful for the steady, even energy at my side – gently teaching and explaining and guiding me into the correct position. Grateful to him for making me feel safe and secure as I faced my fear. It will not be the last time I shoot, for comfort, security and knowledge only come with practice, patience and experience. I am certain it will make me a more thorough and well-rounded speaker when I raise my voice on the subject of gun control. And I’ve been promised that the next time, we can try something with better aim, less recoil and a little distance from such a painful association. Which, quite frankly, for now, sounds good to me.

Travel 101

A couple of weeks ago, despite a volcanic ash cloud’s largely successful efforts to thwart travel plans throughout Europe and the world at large, I managed to make it back home with only minor delays, comparatively speaking, from a twelve-day sojourn in London and Paris with my good friend Nikki. But it isn’t the “will they or won’t they make it to their destination?” Iceland ash cloud saga that makes the story of this trip interesting. Although said natural disaster did earn us two and a half extra hours on the plane back from Paris, a much-appreciated free round of cocktails from American Airlines and a missed connection and resulting overnight stay in Dallas.

Here’s the thing. I am a travel junkie. I have five suitcases of varying sizes, I own two travel hair dryers, I’m on my third passport and I’ve planted my feet in the soil of more than fifteen countries. Prior to three weeks ago, my companion, save one trip to Mexico, had never been outside of the U.S. So there I was, an unofficial “expert,” off on an international journey, with a certified travel “rookie.” Which could have had disaster written all over it. But somehow it didn’t, and despite being perhaps an unlikely pair of travelers, we ended up making a pretty good team. And Nikki’s new adventure, in my familiar stomping grounds, ultimately made it an unforgettable trip for the both of us.

A little back story. In late 2009, on the verge of receiving her long-sought-after, well-earned bachelor’s degree, looking for a way to celebrate her success and facing a brief hiatus before diving headlong into her master’s program, my very good friend Nikki came to me with a question. She wanted to go to London and Paris, and she wanted me to come with her. It wasn’t a difficult decision, really, London being one of my favorite cities in the world, with Paris coming in close behind. And as April rolled to a close, we packed our bags and crossed the Atlantic.

I can now admit to having had some trepidation at the time about the potential downfalls of such a trip. This would be Nikki’s first real experience with things like extended airplane rides, jet-lag, foreign language barriers, hauling your suitcase everywhere, and the French hotel version of a shower, which involves a tub and a shower head on a hose, but no hook to hang it on, and no curtain. Not to mention the fact that I’m pretty used to my way of doing things on a trip. I like to walk, a lot. I have favorite places that I always go. I can sometimes, yes, I’m not too proud to admit it, act like a “know-it-all.” For the record, I don’t know it all, far from it, in fact. Though in fairness, I do know a few things, so I might still be worth listening to, at least part of the time.

Regardless of your experience level, there are many aspects of international travel that are designed to test your patience, your energy level, and your general attitude. Throughout the trip, Nikki proved herself to not only be a good student, again, but she was also a good teacher, which is convenient, since she’s headed towards a career as one. In the end, we managed to teach each other a few new things about the wonderful world of traveling. While Nikki may have benefitted from the tips I know, the experiences I’ve had and the connections I’ve made in my prior trips – all things that I hope made her trip an experience that was both easier and richer than the one she could have had on her own, I was also given a gift – a chance to look at familiar places with new eyes, an opportunity to share an experience with a special friend and a lesson in finding the joy in doing things a little differently. The bottom line is simple. If you’re an old pro at this travel business, find a rookie, check your expectations at the door and go have a new adventure in a familiar place. And if it’s your first international rodeo, bring a friend with a fully-loaded passport along for the ride. Having the inside scoop will help you make the most of everywhere you go. You might also want to take along with you the handy list of advice I’m about to give, in no particular order. It’s just a handful of things that I think Nikki and I taught each other and/or learned together over twelve exciting, tiring, funny, fabulous and rather chilly spring days in Old Blighty and the City of Lights.

1. You will need less pairs of shoes than you think you will. Pack your bag. Then take half of the shoes out and put them back in your closet. You won’t end up wearing them anyway and your back will thank you when you start hauling your bag up and down staircases at train stations. Plus you’ll have more room for souvenirs.

2. It is perfectly okay to drink alcohol with almost every meal. You’re on vacation. Besides, you want to really soak up the local experience, don’t you? Well, that’s how the locals do it, at least in London and Paris. If you’re not in one of the great alcohol-imbibing capitals on your particular journey, then you might want to skip this one.

3. If you walk your ass off every day, then you get to see more – more sights, more scenery, more of the local flair. Plus you can eat more pastries and cheese, and drink more champagne, Guiness or Strongbow, because you’ll burn it all off. I’m just saying…

4. 3:30AM may well be the “magic hour” for staying out in a foreign city. Everything before that time is fun, interesting and exciting. Every half-hour after that time, there’s an exponential increase in the likelihood that one member of the team may stop having a good time and will just be along for the ride. On a side note, a camera and a bag of Cheez-Its are a good way to round out the night at said “magic hour.”

5. Suck up your courage and talk to strangers. It can lead to unexpected adventures, a chance to discover how the locals hang out, and if you bat your eyelashes and maybe show a little leg, probably garner you some free champagne and entrée into a nightclub or two. Note that the last one generally only works if you are female, though if you are a guy with really sexy man legs, it just might work for you too.

6. Share meals. It’s a good way to save some money, but more importantly, you can eat more often and try more things. Which means you can have a chocolate croissant for breakfast, a crepe for a midmorning snack and a filet with French fries for lunch. Not that I have a thing for food. And speaking of meals, if the first place you go to doesn’t meet all your needs, stay for a bit, and then move on. A progressive dinner is perfectly acceptable.

7. If you’ve done this all before, take your friend to your favorite haunts, because there’s nothing quite like Borough Market on a Saturday afternoon or a meal at Sergeant Recruiter on Ile St. Louis. But be sure to let him or her pick a few new places, because there will definitely be some you’ve never been to, even if it is your fifth, fifteenth or fiftieth trip. While it’s damn cold at Stonehenge in early May and it’s smaller than I expected, it was well worth finally journeying out there. And the Dali Museum next to Sacre Coeur is really cool. Never even knew it was there.

8. Learn to say please and thank you in the local language. Everyone will be nicer to you. And if you can, bring a friend who speaks said language, at least a little. Culture shock isn’t easy, and it helps to have someone with you who kind of knows the ropes, or at least how to order your dinner.

9. Make sure you travel with someone you don’t mind seeing naked or sharing a bathroom with. Even the nicest of European hotels often have close quarters. So unless you’re prepared to splurge for two rooms, pick a travel partner you are comfortable with. Or just wait in the hall.

10. Be flexible. There’s two of you. Which means two agendas, two different personalities and two different sets of priorities. One of you is never going to make it all your favorite spots and the other isn’t going to hit everything on his or her first timer, must see list. Which really is okay. Because you’ll see and do plenty, including things you never expected, like have an awesome evening with the locals at a little bar on the Left Bank or take a carousel ride in Montmartre. Enjoy every moment as it comes, because you’ll never have this exact experience ever again. And it’s good to leave wanting just a little more, because as long as a volcanic ash cloud doesn’t get in your way, you can always go back.