Being The Other Woman: Who we are, what every woman should know and how to avoid us (3 page)

Chapter 3
 

The Adventures of
Falling in Love
 

A saint I am not, nor will I ever be because frankly, it doesn’t sound fun and as far as I know, I’ve only got one shot on this planet. I’ve always been very noncommittal when it comes to promises of boredom. Perhaps not every woman would have taken the bait, but can anyone say that she would not have been tempted to take the vacation of her dreams with a man she adored and loved sharing every minute with? At least for a millisecond? Or is it only me and my trampy-tramp friends who understood this dilemma? Honestly, I was very apprehensive, but the temptation was easier to yield to than the regret I thought I’d have if I didn’t go.

Just before we left my friends threw me a huge thirtieth birthday party. Blake was one of the many guests, and I thought that I did an excellent job of working the room and not focusing too much attention on him. In fact, I thought I had barely paid any attention to him at all. I was corrected the day before we left. My friend, who hosted the party, confronted me and let me know that he was on to us. But I danced around his implications, saying “It’s not what you think.” I am a horrible liar, and to tell my friend that I was not dating Blake would have been worse than trying to dodge the topic. I avoided my friend thereafter and, though today he seems to have forgiven me, I am still unable to hold his gaze before I hang my head with lingering feelings of shame.

I don’t think that I ever really believed that I was going to Italy until I arrived at the airport. One never knows what to expect of plans while having an affair. Plans are always subject to change at any given moment, and so I never took in that I was for sure traveling. I kept myself on guard for cancellation. Because of the secretiveness of the ordeal, I wasn’t even able to brag to friends or acquaintances that I was going abroad. I was able to share my anticipation only with my best friend and my family, but they were concerned with my decision making and only sucked the wind out of my joy. So I internalized most of my anticipation, choosing not to listen to well meaning advice. This wasn’t normal but, what the hell, I was going to Rome!

At the airport, we pretended not to be accompanying one another. It was pretty lame, actually. What kind of lovers’ holiday is this? I asked myself. We can’t even wait for our flight together in giddy anticipation? I think my original fantasy of traveling to Rome had something to do with a Cinderella-style poufy white dress, a horse-drawn carriage and public displays of affection at an airport filled with rice throwers. Instead, we sat in distant seats for three hours until we reached the lay-over in Seattle, which was also spent on nerves’ end, with Blake constantly looking over his shoulder. Before we boarded our international flight, Blake spotted someone he knew, and I was then forced to delay boarding so as not to be seen climbing into the aircraft with him. I chose to spend my time in the restroom, popping a half surfaced zit on my forehead that was irritating me. I became so fixated in diverging my frustrations by my attempt to burst it that I almost missed the flight. I heard the final boarding call and scrambled to the gate, unprepared for a final search before boarding. I was then faced with having to unpack my carry on while being pressured to hurry, as I was holding up departure. Perhaps this was my final notice from God to throw me off the primrose path, but the devil on my shoulder looked like Caesar and was shouting “To ROME!” I quickly jumped onto my chariot.

All passengers had boarded while I walked down the aisle shaking and sweaty. I had fingernail gouges in my skin and blood oozing at the top of my eye from the zit I had attacked. In between Blake’s on and off freak outs about where his acquaintance was seated, he looked at me aghast for the damage I had done to my face while poking fun at me. The awakening from my fairy tale pissed me off but the humiliation made me wish my seat would swallow me. Eventually, as passengers began to snore, the redness went down, the blood stopped and we resumed our fun and laughter—and accomplished admission to the Mile High Club. The farther we flew from the U.S., the farther we flew from the troubles of our reality.

Words will never convey how I felt arriving in Rome. I had never been out of the country before and everything was surreal to me. While claiming our bags, I watched the most beautiful young Italian couple retrieving their Louis Vuitton luggage and wondered what lovely things they could be saying to each other in their romantic tongue. For all I know, she could have been chewing his ass, but the language itself sounded like sweet-talk. The bus ride from the airport to the hotel was worthy of thirty journal entries alone. As we drove, I was tossed so thoroughly all over the cabin that a whiplash law suit in America might have covered the expense of the trip. At each stop light I began to fear that I might be a passenger in the movie
Speed
. I stared at my surroundings as if they were movie sets. My senses were in shock. It was as if I had landed on another planet experiencing life for the first time. Blake was mesmerized by my excitement. He loved giving this to me, loved watching me take in the experience. His face softened every time he looked at me, which he did constantly—almost to the point that I felt discomfort in his gaze.

Our hotel had been built in the 1800s as the residence of a noble Italian family. Marble architecture and paintings filled every vista. We were perfectly positioned near the Piazza del Popolo, the Trevi Fountain, and the Spanish Steps, where hordes of people gathered to rest after shopping at the pricy boutiques that surrounded us. That night, after Blake fell asleep, I wrapped a sheet around myself and followed the moonlight to the thick, antique, double wooden shutters of our grand window and leaned on the brick ledge to watch two Italian men yell, “Arrivederci,” to every mop head or car that passed by. To say that I was swept away is an understatement.

Everything in Italy is better. Tomatoes (which I formerly hated) were eaten like apples. Real cream is used in cooking. We do not know true mozzarella in America. Every second, it was as if I were taking my first breath. Every bite was tasting food for the first time. I was present in Vatican City for Pope John Paul II’s anniversary. We did not miss a ruin or museum within the city—the Square of Augustus Caesar, the Coliseum, the Pantheon, Mausoleum of Augustus and St. Peter’s dome are priceless memories. Yet they are not the things that touched my soul the most.

What reached inside the depth of me was a sort of connection I had never shared with anyone before. It was not the fact that I had traveled to such an exotic place, though I’m sure it helped the amore, but that Blake and I had studied Roman culture with the same like mindedness all while no one was able to interfere with our falling in love. Who could resist falling in love in Rome? We walked cobbled streets hand in hand, dined in romantic cafes and drank wine by ancient fountains, usually the Trevi, where we tossed our pennies each night to make our wishes come true.

Blake had asked me if I could go anywhere in the world, where would I choose to go. He delivered it in splendor. He gave to me Rome. Not only did he give me my own dream, but he also shared his with me. Our trip did not end in Italy. After two weeks there, we went to Istanbul, Turkey.

I was apprehensive, to say the least. Actually, scratch that. Scared shitless is the proper term. A year had passed since 9/11. America had already declared its intent to go to war with Iraq. Vacationing near Iraq’s boarder was not my idea of a romantic time! I figured I had already lost my mind. Perhaps I could keep my head.

I knew I was leaving the comforts and romance of Italia when the flight attendant set a sliver of raw fish, a boiled egg, and a piece of golden cheese on my tray. The airport at Istanbul was empty and stale, and all I saw were walls of large stainless steel doors, which (I was certain) were there so the blood of unveiled and disobedient women could easily be cleaned. Blake sent me to have my visa stamped while he exchanged our money, and a turbaned, rifle-carrying man behind glass peered over his large pointed nose and demanded to know with pure hatred why I was in his country. I was asking myself the same thing! I obediently said, “Holiday.” If it were possible, he might have punched a hole through my passport. Blake returned with a fistful of Turkish money and we grabbed our bags. At the same moment, the steel doors slid open, a hundred angry rioters with black hair and beady eyes came into view and began to violently grab my luggage from my hands, obviously intending to pillage my belongings. I clutched at them in panic, wondering how Blake would protect me. This is it! This is where it’s all going down, the day I dreaded—my death, I thought while deciding to be religious again and beginning to pray. “Give the cab driver your bag,” Blake said, his voice filled with irritation as he pulled my white-knuckled fingers from the handle of my suitcase.

I was completely on edge during the nerve racking ride to our former prison, now hotel. I was expected to feel excited like Blake was and to ignore the minivans unloading men armed with weaponry I had only seen in Wesley Snipes movies. I lost all trust in my traveling companion. He seemed to be totally naïve in believing that we were safe. I thought, holy shit, I’ve traveled with an imbecile! My attitude was pissing him off. Thankfully our converted prison was now a four-star hotel
.
I began to relax in luxurious comfort, and though many might have died gruesome deaths in the courtyard our room overlooked, the overgrowth of floral hid the despair. From my window I could see the towering minarets of the Haghia Sophia Mosque and hear the calls for prayer that bellow every hour.

The next morning, I decided to embrace my experience and vowed to trust Blake as my guide as we explored several historical sights. Blake did not like to travel in any traditional fashion. He said that a person could only truly embrace culture by getting in with locals. Men running small shops (in order to create a bond) claimed to have family in our home town. They invited us into their homes, where Turkish rugs were rolled out for us in hopes we’d buy one and apple tea was forced down our throats. I was reluctant to drink the poison until Blake had finished his. My mama did not raise a fool. Seeing that he still functioned normally, I went ahead and sipped more culture. It was quite good, actually, something like warm, liquid Jolly Ranchers. The rug ordeal took up half of our first day and got old fast. We had found a lot of extended family that day, and I was itching to get onto the streets where I could stare at women wearing black wool tents in 98-degree heat. So I hurried to surrender to my great uncle twice removed and chose a rug to purchase. I didn’t like the traditional styles and pointed to a more modern, hand-woven, hand-died rug. Blake insisted that one should never leave Turkey without a rug and, saying that someday it would lie in our new home, he purchased it.

Later that day, we met backpacking college kids from all over the world who were experiencing life with reckless abandon. They gave us the idea to do some abandoning of our own. We booked several adventures to fill the remainder of our week.

One day at lunch, Blake insisted that I should have a Turkish
donor
kabob
(something resembling a gyro). While ordering our food, he instructed the vendor to load his with peppers. “Are you sure?” the man asked. Blake confidently replied, “Some like it hot,” with a cocky chuckle. Later, as we were walking through a city lined with political flags and viewing goat heads available for purchase, I turned to realize that Blake was not behind me. Backtracking through the crowd, I found him leaning against a light post near a trash can with snot running down his nose, tears streaming down his face, and his arms hanging limp as if they were paralyzed. He could not answer my desperate pleas to tell me what was wrong, and it appeared to me that he was in cardiac arrest. I must have looked to the non-English-speaking pedestrians around me like a chicken flapping around, warding off prey of her young. How was I to communicate my need for an ambulance? I looked frantically over his body for what might be causing him this near-death experience. In his right hand he was clutching something. I was able to pry his fingers apart and released the pepper filled
donor
kabob
into the trash receptacle. This was my first experience of having deep concern for his well being. This also was my first experience of pee-your-pants laughter. Those kinds of experiences would continue through much of our relationship.

As Blake came back to life, we decided to take a boat tour along the Bosporus and into other parts of Turkey that offered us yet more culture shock. This land has such beauty and rich history, it was a glorious trip. There were historical homes, along the river, one of which took my breath away. “I would love to design a home like that!” I said. Blake went quiet. Then spoke sadly “But I’m building you a house.” Just before we met, he had begun construction on a large lake home he anticipated someday retiring in. He had shared his plans with me and asked for my input, which I had enjoyed giving him. Now he had revealed his secret heart.

As we neared the harbor, the captain slowed the boat and began to ask each of us a question. This caused a forty-five-minute slow down in docking, as it seemed we were anchored. While the captain was making his inquiry of a Dutchman, Blake began to agonize in pain and was unable to speak. The captain approached him with his question, and while Blake struggled to understand what was being asked of him, the Dutch couple began to make conversation with me, complimenting Blake and me as a couple and remarking on our obvious “soul mate” relationship. (In fact, everywhere we went, people commented on what a delightful couple we were or how connected they observed us to be in our wordless communication with each other.) The Dutchman was tall like Blake, and I realized at that moment how attracted I was to Blake’s height. Each time something like that happened, I found new appreciation for him, and my heart would go deeper. I looked at the Dutch couple, who also looked very much in love, and thought of Blake and me growing old together, imagining we would be the same. I began to be very distracted by my conversation with the couple, though I could still hear Blake’s frustration in trying to understand the captain’s question while he was doubled over in pain. I saw the captain holding a Turkish-English dictionary and he pointed to an entry. Blake looked up at me and said in disbelief, “He’s asking me,
Do
you
feel
heartfelt?
” I was genuinely confused until I saw Blake reach into his pocket and hand the man a large tip while holding his abdomen (the peppers were acting up again) so that the captain would pull into the dock. I’m unsure to this day how much that poop cost him.