This is a Romanov. She is strikingly beautiful. Though she is not the woman whose photograph would later captivate me, when I saw this image of Princess Olga and she took my breath away...I felt she was a good way to convey how I felt the day I DID see the visage of the stranger on the other end of the phone.

Dear Ether,

Somewhere in Odessa there is a photograph of me.  It might be stored away gently in a envelope.  It may be crudely covered in rubble in a dump.  But somewhere…..somewhere in the Ukraine there is a snapshot of me taken when I was in my mid 20’s.

The original keeper of the photo was a woman I never met.  She spoke no English and I no Russian.  My glossy print sat on her mantelpiece for about 5 years in her modest studio flat.  It shared space with images of her grandchildren, husband and daughter and a few tattered black and white photos that survived the war.

English gent is half Russian.  His mother is this woman’s daughter.  To me she was only known as Babushka.

I only spoke to her a few times on the phone.  I muttered foolish statements that English gent had taught me.  “Ya Loo-Bloo Tibia” (I love you).  She laughed with good nature into the phone and repeated. “Ya Loo-Bloo Tibia Tour-Jah” (I love you too).  It felt sad that I was crippled by language and couldn’t communicate with a woman who I knew had a tremendous history and warmth.  I had never been handicapped by language before—in fact, it was something I was so good at.  I always handed over the receiver feeling like a puppet who’d just done her job entertaining.

One day, I asked to see her photograph during a visit to English gent’s house.  His clan are a family of pale, fair-haired, light eyed, slim people.  Babushka was in her twenties in the photo I was shown.  She couldn’t have been more than 5 feet tall.  She had coffee-colored hair and brown pupils. I know it seems crazy, but I felt a sudden closeness to her.  I felt she was from my stock.  That English gent’s genes had all come from his father’s UK side (and even his mother was shockingly fair—she didn’t resemble Babushka at all).  Though I’m much taller, we were both the dark horses.  I asked English gent’s mom if I could send Babushka MY photo.  I felt if that made me feel a connection to her where words couldn’t, maybe my photo could create the same spark.

When she received my photo, Gent told me she cried.  That she “understood.”  She loved my dark looks—and it made her so happy that he was with someone who reminded her of her heritage.  After that, I made sure no longer to be a marionette on the phone but to have a translator and convey true feelings across the line.

But, as we all know, time is a harsh enemy.  And she was not young.  She no longer could speak on the phone or read letters.  And then she died.  When English gent’s mother went to her flat for the last time, she said she noticed my photo immediately.  It stood out more than the others and looked as though it had been fingered the most.  It was slightly dog-eared and had many fingerprints on its finish.  I like to think that she passed it around for many to see.  By the time Gent’s mom came back to clean the flat, the mantle had been tidied and to this day, those pictures have never resurfaced.

Though we never got to know each other, when we looked into one another’s eyes from so far away, we had an understanding.  I often wonder what my photo got to see in her little flat?  I wonder what aromas surrounded it as she cooked her traditional meals?

Wherever I am in Odessa, decaying in a landfill or safe in a drawer, at least I can say for a moment in time a picture spoke a thousand words for both of us.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

6 Feet Tall. 300 Pounds. And I Wasn't Giving Her The Padlock Key For The Fridge. Nope. Not After What She Did!

Dear Ether, 

He name was Carolyn.  CARO-LIN.  NOT line.  She stood over 6ft tall, had naturally white-blonde, thin hair and bangs. I remember her very swollen red face and that she could have invested in the company North Face (it seemed to be her brand of choice)—AND girlfriend weighed about 300 pounds.  

This was the first person who greeted me when I entered halls at University in London.  She was holding a large tub of Wine Gums.  She just kept shoveling them into her mouth without even looking at the candy first.  We stood at two ends of the hallway.  It was like a David and Goliath duel.  I was armed with luggage and she, with a projectile of confectionary.  She was sort of transfixed.  And, that looked like a shit load of candy, and she was piling it away like a model hungry for a garden salad.  Hmmm….

It was a bit strange to me that she was just standing waiting for flatmates to arrive.  I mean, it could have been hours until anyone else showed.  But I guess the Wine Gums kept her occupied.  I knew she was American by the way she was dressed (terrible stereotype, I know…).  I also knew she wasn’t from New York or L.A.  In a very heavy Mid-Western accent, through a gooey smile, she said “Hi.  You’re the last one to arrive.  Where are you from?”  When I told her I was from the States, she (seriously) began jumping up and down (I swear the floor shook) and told me we were the only two Yankees out of 10.  She gave me the tour (the kitchen) and then told me that all the cupboards had been taken—I had the crummy one on the floor.  I actually later found out she took TWO cupboards on the top tier (selfish git) and secretly cleaned out my area where the cleaning supplies were kept so I’d have somewhere to keep my food.

Now, you have to understand.  I really didn’t dislike Carolyn because she was overweight, or fit the hideous stereotype of a loud American.  I disliked her because she was a snoop, a thief and ANGRY!  I specifically wanted to go to a Uni in London that immersed me with the culture.  I didn’t want to hang out with Americans.  So, she glommed on to me, but I really had no interest in checking out the city with her.  I wanted to see what Brits were like—see insider stuff.  Not be a tourist.  This really offended her.  We also had NOTHING in common.  I liked fashion she liked food.  I liked theater and music.  She liked food.  I liked markets and clubs.  She like bloody FOOD.  And she was very possessive of the kitchen.  She was so huge, no one could cook when she was making her meals because she took up the whole space.  And, we had 2 tiny fridges and she used all the shelves.  And her meals—my god.  She must have spent a tenner on every dish.  Her lunch was a 12inch baguette with brie and bacon and…well you get my drift.  She used a fucking mixing bowl for her cereal in the mornings.  But, then things got bad.  Our food started to disappear.  First it was little things.  “Hey, guys, did you see the crisps I bought.  I swear, I got like a 12 pack?”  Then it was major things.  “Ummm….I bought a  ton of cheese….like 10 quid’s worth and it is GONE.”  And Carolyn would always, whenever you sat down to eat, ask for a “bite” of whatever you were eating.  Yeah, a “bite.”  She usually ate half.  And my folks would send me care packages with American candy or food—bullion.   And she would come into my room, plop down, and without permission eat a coveted Hershey bar or rip open a bag of Twizzlers and eat them.  She was a food bully. 

One day she popped out to get something and left her door open.  A few of us were eager to see her inner sanctum.   She never let us in her room.  When we opened the door further, what we saw amazed us.  Here room was a pantry!  She had a whole set up….a microwave, hot-plate, kettle.  And……..so much food……..it was like a convenience store.  But she got back before we had time to leave.  And she was MAD!  Like a giant beast, she wailed and turned crimson.  We tried to defend ourselves and told her of our suspicions of her thievery and her sampling our food—and how we were sick of it.  I swear to you, Ethers, I have never seen someone who appeared so jolly, become so vicious.  She picked on each one of us, throwing insults our way—calling me an “Anglo-fucker” (HA!) and sending all of us into a state of shock.  The next day, as if nothing happened, she ate her cereal, smiled and left for class.  It was like the food exorcist.  We all bought padlocks for our cupboards, put our names on post-it notes on our food in the fridge and ignored her.  

When it was time for her to go, she left silently.  But she did something that I still think is ingenious.  The next day we each received a package.  It was beautifully wrapped.  The note said, “Have a good rest of the year, Love Carolyn.”  Surrounded by dainty lavender tissue, was a plastic bag with a note that said “You’ve been sent a Crap-O-Gram.”  We had been informed that Carolyn had sprung for medium sized dog shit (you could go for a small pup  all the way to a bruiser) scooped out from the fine English countryside.  I think we were just grateful it wasn’t her OWN shit.  Because from all that food she had been consuming, I’m sure she could have made a “LOAD” of presents for us all.  

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

And it wasn't because we didn't pay our electric bill........

Dear Ether, 

August 2003.  New York City.  I’m living in Manhattan with the Big Apple Beauty until yet another one of my visas is approved for England.  It is SWELTERING outside.  And in the East Coast of the United States in August that usually also means humidity—like the bloody AMAZON!  It’s like an unremitting furnace.  Big Apple Beauty, thank goodness, had air-conditioning in good ol’ #1403. 

We had made plans that day to go to the Lower East side (we lived on the Upper East side—-the total opposite end of the city) to go and get a delicious deli lunch, visit the famous pickle lady who sells the best sours out of a barrel on the street (you could die from palette joy!).  We also wanted to check out some of the groovy shops and funky new cafes that had been opening up down there.  Both of us had been complaining that we were SO lazy and unmotivated.  That we always made plans and never stuck to them.  We had made this date over a week a go, and rain or shine (and what shine it was) we were going to schlep down there and keep to our schedule.  I wore a nice vest-top, skirt and refined flip-flops with a heel and she wore trousers and a T-shirt and sneakers.  We were set to go.  The second we stepped out, we were soaked.  I mean, thank GOD for deodorant.  But we marched to that Subway station, and dammit, we made it. 

We poked our head into some cute boutiques and then got completely waylaid by this famous bra shop.  The shop, owned by an Orthodox Jewish couple, was known for brand name underwires for bargain prices.  AND, the wife could take one look at your boobs and tell you what bra size you should be wearing and type you needed.  Basically, a really ghetto Rigby & Pellar.  The store was a total dive, had no air-con and Big Apple Beauty and I were sweating while a stranger fondled our breasts.  It was…..errr…..charming to say the least.  But hey, anything for a deal, right? 

Pleased with out new over the should boulder holders, we walked out onto the street and noticed proprietors of shops standing outside of their properties and people rushing to grab taxis.  It looked like Armageddon.  We went up to a shopkeeper and asked what was going on and he told us that the whole city had lost power.  Too many people had overused air-conditioning and busted the system.  Shit.  Okay.  That meant it was going to be sweltering in the apartment, and we didn’t have a fan, but it’d get fixed soon enough.  All we had to do was hop on a bus and get home.  OH.  RIGHT.  The city was in a deadlock.  The streets were filled with people walking and no cars or buses could pass.  The Subways were dead because of loss of electricity.  You have to remember we were at least a 2-hour walk away in bad shoes, horrible heat and in with a mass of other desperate people.  The worst part was that convenient store owners who had cold water hiked up prices to $5 a bottle.  People were fainting on the sidewalk.  It was hideous.  Big Apple Beauty, no youngster, often felt lightheaded.  We’d hop on a bus—packed to the limit—just to have a break and some air-conditioning.  The bus, of course, wasn’t moving. 

I’d say we left the Lower East side at around 4pm and didn’t get to the Upper East side until at least 7pm.  At that point our feet were bloody and blistered.  Big Apple Beauty couldn’t take her shoes off because they had swollen so badly.  To make things worse, we were really badly dehydrated.  You have to remember, we NEVER ventured that far EVER.  Of all the luck.  The day we get motivated, and look at our reward! It was really eerie seeing the city, one so famous for its skyline, pitch black.  The heat did not cease, so we sat by the East River to try and get some of the breeze.  All you saw were candles flickering all around.  It looked like it must have done during the 19^th century. 

Of course none of the lifts worked in her building, and she lived on the 14^th floor, so we had to walk with a doorman and a torch up steep steps in a narrow corridor which was a heat trap.  By the time we reached the apartment we both were so sick.  The water had been turned off, so no showers to get rid of the sweat and using the toilet was dangerous!  We only opened the fridge when necessary and we sat listening to a radio dripping wet in her stuffy apartment looking out of the window seeing a million other people with candlelit flats doing the same thing.  Eventually the power came back to certain areas, but not until very late in the evening.  There were many people (elderly mainly) who had perished.  It was the worst blackout since 1977—and even then it wasn’t as bad as in 2003. 

I don’t wear that bra anymore.  But when I did wear it, man, it was like a badge of honor.  I earned that sucker.  Big Apple Beauty and I swear, no matter how tempting the pickles are or the lingerie bargains may be, we can’t imagine going down to the Lower East side again.  That place was literally hell…actually…probably hotter than. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

Not the bra I got from the joint in the Lower East side.....but this million dollar baby made of diamonds is how I think of it when I look back on how much it cost me to get it!

Crazy how these foxes just roam around like a common house-cat!

Magic......and yet so many haven't experienced it across the pond!

Dear Ether, 

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw a fox for the first time roaming the streets in London.  To me, a fox was an animal you saw in a forest or a cartoon.  I never thought I would ever come face to face with one—especially one so bold as to stare me straight in the eye and then go back to rifling through the trash as if we were equals in this concrete jungle.  I was slightly afraid that a fox might want me for dinner, but my mates said that they could care less.  In fact, if I came too close, they would scuttle away.  I learned very quickly that the fox was as common as a cat patrolling the streets around the neighborhood.  

And just as I had been surprised by a fox being as common as a roaming house pet, I was surprised when I learned that certain things DIDN’T exist in ol’ Blighty that I took for granted in California.  English gent and I moved into a flat with a typical Victorian bay window that was bright and sunny (well, when the sun actually shone).  I told my folks that we’d finally moved up in the world (literally—we’d been living in a basement flat before) and they sent a hummingbird feeder to attract the lovely creatures so we would have a delightful view.  When I attached it to the outside of the window and proudly showed gent my handy work, he laughed.  He told me that hummingbirds didn’t exist in England!  I couldn’t believe it.  It was so foreign to me because I had grown up in a place where the sound of their buzzing wings and their iridescent bodies were so common. I was shocked to hear that many of my English peers had never seen one before.   I kept the damned feeder up for nostalgia’s sake, but it made me really think about how big the world is and how many things out there that I will never see that are magnificent.  

When English gent came to Los Angeles, we sat outside on the patio where we have a beautiful Cape Honeysuckle tree.  Its orange blossoms, though not fragrant, are vibrant and plentiful and are shaped like trumpets.  In the middle of lazy chatter, I heard the familiar buzzing of wings only a hummingbird makes.  I told English gent to quickly look over at the honeysuckle.  There, like a baby helicopter, it hovered.  He couldn’t believe its little body and long beak darting from bloom to bloom.  It’s chest reflected jewel tones of ruby and emerald in the sun.  He thought it magnificent.  

I love to travel and to discover.  And I hope that I will get a chance to jump back startled and then bemused by a fox like I did in London or have the same wide-eyed wonderment that English gent did when he spied the hummingbird. 

How vast a world we live in, eh? 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

This gorgeous antique print from the 19th century is of the Spathiphyllum, otherwise known as The Peace Lily. A common house plant, it's quite resilient and tough to kill and constantly reminds me of one of the many fond memories of English gent before he became MY English gent. I make sure always to have this cheap and cheerful plant in ANY residence I occupy.

Dear Ether, 

I ran into him at the vegetable section at Sainsbury’s in New Cross Gate.  I was 21 years old and he was 19.  He was carrying one of those dainty ferns that have delicate, petal like leaves that sadly die unless you have a masterful green thumb.  He didn’t have a basket and was carrying too much in his arms.  His face was slight obstructed by the plant.  “You might want to try a Spathiphyllum instead.  They’re almost impossible to kill and they let you know when they’re desperate for a drink—their leaves totally droop and look depressed.”  He looked past the greenery to see who the voice was coming from and grinned when he saw me.  “Hiya.  I don’t know what the hell a Spathiphyllum is but if you know a plant with a fucking name like that, I better take your word for it and put this one back.”  He was so damned good-looking and that accent then was still so novel.  So classy!  I felt like I was chatting with someone Bertie Wooster might know. 

I was doing my midnight shopping as usual because I was a night owl and the store was dead.  I still found UK supermarkets a marvel.  They were so different than the large American ones and I loved strolling down the aisles and buying things I’d never heard of before to taste (though Mr. Brains Frozen Faggots never did make the tick-list).  English gent was wearing a very hip beanie covering his hair so I didn’t see his normally trendy blonde hair cut.  All I could see were his beautifully sculpted features and his dark eyebrows and lashes with his rare peridot green eyes.  I noticed he had a bottle of Jack Daniels as part of his shopping along with writing paper, some pens and oddly a prayer candle.  “What are you up to tonight?” I asked him nonchalantly.  I had been hanging out with him along with a few of my flatmates recently.  He went to boarding school with one of the guys I was living with and was particularly friendly with him and came over to our halls a lot.  The three of us often stayed up talking, drinking, smoking weed and listening to chill music.  I only bothered with this banter because of him.  I felt when we argued over a political point or some other runaway discussion there was some sort of sexual tension.  But then he would just act as mates when we would run into each other.  

“Tonight.  Fuck me.  I have a paper to write.  The whiskey always inspires me,” he chuckled. “And is the prayer candle lit to give you a hope from god to help you finish the thing?” I asked.  He laughed.  “No, I love to write poetry by candlelight and these last forever.” He writes poetry too….oh man……! “Well, I’m not up to anything, so if you finish your paper and you wanna pop on over when you’re done it’d be cool to hang out.”  He nodded his head negatively. “This one is gonna be an all nighter.  But thanks anyway.  I better get that plant—the—Spatha—that whatever you recommended and get going.  Cheers!”  I was gutted.  I just didn’t get it.  I guess he knew I liked him and wasn’t interested.  I meandered around Sainsbury’s a bit more, no longer keen on the novelty of the place and saw him, well, the tall leaves of his plant, in the check-out line, and watched him go.  Sauntering home with, I think that night, Marmite flavored crisps (a nasty surprise) I was bored stiff and cozied up with a book and passed out.  But at 2:30am my mobile rang.  It was English gent.  I was excited, but had to sound calm and cool.  “Hey, what’s up?  How’s your work going?”  He sounded relaxed and relieved.  “I’m done, actually and have a full bottle of whiskey and not a friend in the world tonight.  Mind if I come over?”  MIND?  Of course not!  But, as we Americans say, this was NOT going to be a “booty call.” 

I feverishly threw on something cute, but not trying “too hard cute,” stashed away my candy wrappers and waited with my heart in my chest.  He didn’t knock–he just texted saying he was about to come in the flat.  I jolted up from my bed, opened the door and there he stood.  Diesel jeans (perfect cut), vintage top with a fantastic toggle coat, chic boots (rugged and manly, yet still on trend) the bottle of booze and that damned dashing grin.  Two kisses on each cheek he was in the door, 3 hours later we were drunk, and an hour later I was ready to pass out.  “Can I sleep here tonight?  I can’t be asked to head back to my flat.” Okay.  Remember. NO BOOTY CALL.  SINGLE BED.  SO…WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO?  “Sure, do you mind sleeping on the floor, I have a spare duvet and a pillow—it’ll be padded and comfy.”  He looked taken aback, but not too shocked.  I think he thought I was going to invite him to sleep with me.  

By the time I came back from the bathroom where I changed and brushed my teeth, he was passed out.  He was like one of my English novelties I had brought back from the supermarket.  Except I hadn’t tried him—yet.  No, this one I was going to savor, because I didn’t know if it had a day old expiry date.  I stared at him.  His lashes spread out like fans almost touching his cheeks, a slight squint as if he was thinking in a dream, his lips slightly parted blowing air out making a feather from the duvet flicker.  I knew he couldn’t hear me.  He was way too drunk and way too deep in sleep.  So I whispered, “I think I love you.  And I have a feeling we’re going to be together.  You’ll see.  When I want something and I try hard enough, I get it.”  Oh if only the two of us knew how right I was to be that night.  

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365