My First...

My First Love

    

    I've been blessed to experience love in my life. A lot of love, and in fact, it started sort of early, so I wasn't sure who I'd write about until a few months ago, when I found a diary from 1986 which detailed my meeting and ultimately falling for the young, handsome and slightly dangerous Mr. Tony Zucker. 

    Finding the diary while packing up my apartment to move was thrilling at first, so I dove into it excitedly, curious to connect with a younger, less cynical Marika. Then, as I read more and more, I was struck by a nostalgic melancholia that I couldn't shake for days. I met Tony when I was 15, so the pages are filled with hopes and dreams, and excitment about love, for Tony in particular. Not necessarily sad, but I suppose I always gave myself a bit more credit when it came to men. That maybe I wasn't one of those girls who would give up wants, needs, opinions, and goals for some guy. But boy was I ever.  

        The diary is quite something, because it's detailed in more than matters of teenage Marika's heart. I wrote about what I wore - a turqoise skirt with a zipper in the back, I wrote about his hairstyle - dark brown hair in a quiff, and how cool I felt wearing his beat-up leather jacket when I got cold. I also wrote about how handsome he was and about how much I wanted to kiss his fantastic lips. I drew hearts around his initials, and wrote my first name with his last name over and over, so I would be ready to sign my new name when the time came. Which of course, it didn't. 

       He was 17 and I think he had a girlfriend at the time. Let me rephrase that. He had a girlfriend. For sure. It was 26 years ago, and I'm trying to seem less of a home wrecker by fudging the truth. Emma, if I haven't apologized before, let me do so now. So, Tony and I met at a pub with mutual friends although I was way too young to be drinking. We talked and I found him mesmerizing beyond belief. I sat in Mike Newman's lap and he leaned over and said he was jealous. 

Tony & Marika, 1986

         At the end of the night, my friend Abigail said "Tony thinks you're horny," and I was offended and embarrassed, not understanding that "horny" was a term for "sexy" in British English at the time. I was flattered when it was explained to me. We saw each other at a party a couple of nights later, and my heart started beating faster, until I realized he was there with her. At some point, we both found ourselves in the kitchen just as someone dropped a bottle of wine on the floor.  We bent down to pick up chards at the same time and our heads bumped together. According to my diary, at this point, he said "I think you'd feel better if I kissed you, but you probably don't want that." He obviously didn't know me at all. 

    A day or two later Emma had gone on holiday, so we met at Golders Green station, the local meeting place at the time, and went to the cinema, but ended up not seeing much of the film. People smoked in the movie theatres in those days so there was a giant smoke cloud blocking the screen. That and the snogging. There was another night with a bottle of his parents' Bollinger and the Tracy Chapman record everyone listened to back then. Fast Car. And then it was time to go back to Sweden and start writing longing letters to Tony, at 46 Brim Hill. 

    Over the course of a few summers, I came to London and would spend time with Tony when he didn't have a girlfriend or was away at University. Or Richard. This is the part I don't know how to write about. Because there was also Richard, and it impossible to write about my summers in London without including Richard. Tony and Richard were best friends and although I met Tony first, I loved them equally and however things unfolded, there didn't seem to be a lot of jealousy in this "love triangle."

Richard & Marika, 1987

         Tony smoked, was arrogant, had a self-assurance that was dangerous, and he never replied to any of my letters, while Richard played the guitar, sang, and had a depth and a sweetness that made you never want to leave his side. I still have his letters from 18 Sheldon Avenue. It was a time of delirious happiness and fun beyond my wildest dreams, but like all stories of teenage love, this one - or both actually, had to fade at some point. When it did, Tony took off on some adventures while Richard and I settled into the sweetest of friendships. With a few of exceptions, I've seen Richard in London on my way to Stockholm every time I've gone back home, and have always felt at home with his family; his mum Susan, sister Kate and her Markus, and of course his son Sebastian, who is a beautiful, feisty mini-Richard. 

Tony, 90's

        As for Tony and I, we had a quick romance resurgence during a visit to London in the mid-nineties, which had Richard, who was now married, thinking Tony and I would end up together after all. But I was already in Los Angeles, and Tony was Tony, so it ended up just being a nice visit with someone I had loved since I was 15, with a bit of swoony email correspondence after I got back to LA. 

        This story of first love(s) came full circle this past March, just a few weeks after I had found my old diary, when I traveled to London for Richard's (second) wedding. Tony, who is now happily married with twin boys in Colombia, where he is an emerald dealer of all things, was of course there. He was just as arrogant, but with a lot less hair, and the cigarettes he used to suck on had been replaced by rechargeable electric ones. An emerald ring adorned his pinky finger, and to be diplomatic, he was just slightly less fit than he used to be. Still, when I looked at him, all I could see was my Tony at 17.  

Rachel & Richard Zamet        

        Richard and Rachel's wedding was undoubtetedly the most fun wedding I've ever been to. Held at The Landmark London, the food was kosher AND incredible, the band soooo good, and Rachel was a stunning bride. Most of all though, it was being with Rachel, Richard, the rest of the Zamets, and the old "Golders Green" gang from my summers in London that made it so special. I sat with Tony, Julian, Mike Newman - whose lap I sat on that night 26 years ago, his lovely wife Lucy, The Solomons - Dan & fun, fantastic Tara, and Paolo & Karen Rodrigues, who put us all to shame with their dance moves.

The drunk Zees the night before the wedding

        Even with that, I have to say that the night before the wedding is the night that will go down in history as a night of fun by epic proportions, as well as heart warmth. How I got to be the lucky (and only) girl to spend the night before Richard's wedding with Richard and Tony, I have no idea. We drank 8 bottles of champagne between the three of us at Richard's local pub, and stories from the good old days were pouring out of us with each glass being refilled. And refilled. And refilled. Anyone who knows me at all, knows how drunk I get on just one glass of champagne, and given I probably had two bottles, well you can probably begin to understand my demeanor towards the end of the night. And inability to speak clearly or stand up. The hangover was definitely in proportion to the alcohol and fun intake. But if there's anything that warrants that sort of indulgence it is a solo night with The Zees (Zucker and Zamet.) 

Tony & Marika 2012

        When I told Tony that I had found my diary from the summer of 1986, and started to tell him that I had even written down what I wore the night we met, he looked at me and without missing a beat, exclaimed "a bluish skirt with a zipper in the back!" My heart skipped a beat. 

My First Wave

        I have a complicated relationship with the Pacific Ocean. I'm singling the Pacific Ocean out because it's overwhelmingly powerful, temperamental and super salty. And because I had what I refer to as a "near death" experience in it. You know, one of those experiences when you're drowning, and your significant other thinks you're waving. So they wave back to you, and continue doing what they're doing. As your head is bobbing up and down, under and over the surface. As you panic and swallow a ton of water. As coral is cutting your legs and the tide is pulling you around like a rag doll.

        The problem with the argument that happens afterwords, on the beach, is that no matter how much you emphasize the danger you were just in, or how hysterical you are, they win, because after all, you didn't drown. They find the whole experience funny and cute, and there you are, having just stared death in the face, which isn't funny. I remember wishing I had died, just to be right. 

Where I "learned" how to swim, Rösjön

        But let's start from the beginning. I cheated in swim school. I took swimming lessons in the local lake where I grew up. The water was dark and so was the bottom of the lake, so the teachers couldn't really see what was happening with your feet, just whether or not your arms were breast stroking. So there I was, breast stroking with my arms, and walking on the bottom, because I was too lazy to make the effort. At some point I had to learn how to swim, because it was widely assumed I already could, and that was really hard. The other swimmers had moved onto more complicated and flashy strokes, but because of my earlier laziness, I got stuck with the breast stroke. For life, I figured. 

My Australian crawl...

        Until my honeymoon in Cabo San Lucas. I had a swimming lesson every day, which was weird, because I hadn't signed up for it, but that's how great the Palmilla resort is, I suppose. I learned the Australian crawl, and couldn't get out of the pool until my "teacher" was happy with my progress. Yeah, same guy who would wave at me while I nearly drowned in Tahiti, a couple of years later. I will say that the involuntary lessons paid off, because I got more comfortable being under water and actually started to feel like a real swimmer, having more than the breast stroke in my repertoire. 

        Months and months ago now, I was talking to the sweet and multi-talented Conor Gaffney, after a Makepeace Brothers gig, and the topic turned to surfing. "Do you surf?" he asked. It was a harmless and geniune question, yet, I couldn't answer. And not just because I had partaken in some herbals. I wanted to say yes, but the correct answer was no. And when you can't answer yes or no to a question, you know there's something to work out. In this case, it was my relationship with the Pacific Ocean. 

Vincent, River and Linda...

        The lovely Linda was visiting me from Sweden at the time, and we went down to the beach a couple of times, where she ran into the ocean fancifull and free, without any preparation in the form of breathing, counting or clenching of fists, making me insanely jealous. Without thinking, I grabbed Vincent, one of the more grounded people I know, and went in. Not as fast as Linda, but at a steady pace for me. It was great. Fun even. I swam. Went under the water. At some point a huge wave came toward us, and I quickly yelled "uppie" like Vincent's son River does, jumped into his arms, and stayed there until the wave had passed. 

    There were many attempts to move from swimming in the Pacific to surfing in the Pacific, but none worked and it was mostly my hesitation to jump in. Pun intended. Until my friend and Exhale super yoga teacher Cristi Chistensen started her Yoga & Surf Camp for the summer. I figured doing yoga right before swallowing copious amounts of salt water would make me feel "ready to calmly swim into the light," if that was my destiny, so I signed up for the next to the last class of the summer.  

Cristi in "surf pose"

    Starting the day doing yoga with Cristi is always a treat, and doing it with just the right amount of sun and breeze, next to the beach was definitely the way to start Surf Sunday. It made me calm, relaxed and sufficiently warmed up. Next up: The Pacific Ocean. 

    If you ever have to follow a surfer dude to a beat up van in a parking lot in Venice, it helps if he's hot, as was the case with Luke. He came and got us at the grassy area we had practiced at, and lead us over to the Aqua Surf van which was filled to the brim with boards and wet suits, and this is when my nerves got a little funky. I started to think of the ocean and how much I hate being under water, and was seriously doubting myself and my ability to even get in. It was at this exact time the universe sent Luke over to help me get into a skin tight wet suit. It helped. 

Before. Very scared. Doing some sort of surf hand gesture...

    After a quick land lesson in the sand by Alan, consiting of faux paddling and faux popping up, which I mastered quickly, I put my banana yellow board on my head and walked down to the water with the other first-timers. The more experienced surfers were already in the water, doing that cool-looking thing where they straddle the board and wait for a wave. Envy.

    As I got closer to the water my brain caught up to me and I started to giggle. I can't surf. I mean, don't these people know me? The answer was of course, no. And perhaps I could use that to my advantage. Perhaps I could pretend like I was comfortable and happy in the ocean like everyone else. So, I got in the water and sort of did what everyone else did. Paddled out a bit and then attempted to turn my board around.

    The Aqua Surf instructors were all over the place, so it didn't take long to get help. I think it was Luke who first came up, turned my board around, and attempted to help me catch a wave. It went so-so. And when I say so-so, I mean, I fell off, I got water in my eyes/nose/mouth and tumbled around a bit and then got hit by another wave. Not a great start. 

What my wipeouts probably looked like...

    After a while of trying and failing I thought...well it's not the end of the world if I don't actually catch a wave. The blog could always be about what happened when I didn't catch my first wave, like some of those cool documentaries that start off being about one thing, but then turn into something else, something more riveting even. That's when Peter, another instructor, found me and took charge. He was firm but gentle. Explained a couple of things Alan had gone over in the sand, but that made more sense hearing on the board, in the water. 

    I got closer. And every time I failed, and I felt like I was in a washer on spin cycle, I got right back up on the board. It turned out the best way to learn to surf was with people I didn't know, so that I couldn't be coddled or pitied or babied as someone who has trouble in the Pacific Ocean. Peter yelled, "get back on the board" and I did. Every time. I blew salty snot out of my nose and crawled back on. Paddled, paddled, paddled, and fell. I even got run over by another surfer and her board and just shook it off, like I imagine a real surfer would. 

It felt like this...

    I wish I had a photo of myself on the board when I caught my first wave, but of course we left all our belongings in the van. Peter told me to breathe and relax. I did. Then I paddled, paddled, paddled and when Peter yelled "pop up" or "stand up" or whatever it was he yelled, I did. I popped up. And I stayed standing. And there was a momentum and a feeling and a connection that was unlike anything I've ever experienced. It was glorious.

    When there was nothing left of the wave, and I ended up in the water, not only did I have the most ridiculous grin on my face, but also what my friend Debbie Dancer calls "a bhakti moment." How I know I'm having a bhakti moment is, I get goose bumps all over my body, waves of joy come over me, and I burst into tears of happiness. Given how cynical I am, it's a weird experience for me to have, but at the same time a nice relief. For a few seconds I experience life with a quiet mind, and that's worthy of tears in itself, as my mind has so much noise usually. 

After...    

    During Forty by Forty days, I would have these moments almost every week because I was having so many fun and exciting adventures, so I was used to it. Today, however, I was not prepared. So I stood there, in the water, with a surf board attached to my foot, just letting a few happy tears mix into the salt water, sand, and snot on my face. And then went back in for my second wave. And my third. And my fourth. And then I was tired. From paddling, and popping up, and being unafraid, and from swallowing water.  

    So I sat at the edge of the water for a bit, while everyone caught their last wave, and just smiled to myself. Surfing has always been that scary thing that I'd never be able to do. And today I did it. 

 

 

My First Time Being Bullied

        This is a hard one. My heart is already heavy and I haven't started yet. When this was first added to my list, I wasn't sure what I'd write about. I wasn't sure I had ever been bullied. But as I've been writing more and more about my childhood and teenage years in this blog, I've started to remember more. And that's been mostly great and fun. This will be the exception.

        The year was 1982 or 1983. I was attending Hillel school in Stockholm at the time, and because it was a Jewish private school, every year the six graders went to Israel for two weeks. So I went to Israel with my whole grade, probably about 25 or so other students. The trip was structured so that we traveled around for a week and then stayed at a boarding school for one week for the more studious part of the trip. 

 
                                                 The Wailing Wall & Masada

        I remember the traveling around part was pretty cool. I think we went to see the wailing wall in Jerusalem, and I remember Masada because someone dropped their camera close to the top. And we probably visited the Dead Sea as well.

        Then it was time for B'nei Brak, where the boarding school was. I remember the school was quite religious, and that whatever classes we had were boring, compared to the traveling around part. I remember that there were stray, skinny cats all around the school, which we were told not to pet or feed. Of course we did anyway.

        I remember that we were divided into foursomes for the sleeping arrangments. I was with my three closest friends at the time and we had pushed two large beds together to make one giant bed, which we all piled into like sardines. The first night I slept on the edge, which I really didn't like, but we had made arrangements that we would switch each night, so that each of us would sleep in each position.

        After that first night my three friends decided that they were happy with where they were sleeping and that we wouldn't switch. Not the biggest deal in the world, but I was a bit upset because I really didn't like where I was sleeping and had only agreed to sleep there the first night because we were switching. So there was a set up, or a feeling already, that my opinion didn't count, or I wasn't important or my discomfort didn't matter, and that certainly didn't make me feel good.

        What came next made the whole sleeping thing seem quite silly. The next day I was wearing a romper. It was one of those terry cloth strapless numbers. Mine was white and it had dots in all the colors of the rainbow, all over it. I loved that thing. My three friends pulled the top of it down and shoved me out in the hallway where all the boys were playing. They shut the door behind me.

        There I was with the top of my romper at my waist. I didn't really have any boobs at that time, but it was humiliating and embarrassing nonetheless. Everyone was laughing at me, including my friends from the doorway of "our" room. I think I pulled it up, ran off somewhere crying, and I don't remember much else from that day, or the last few days of our trip.

        I do remember refusing to go back to the same school because of that Israel trip, so after our summer break, I started a new school, a public school, in the suburb where we lived. That was a big change and adjustment for me, and I had a bit of a rough go of it there too, before I found my groove. Ultimately there were both good and bad things to come out of it, but I suppose my first choice would have been to remain in my first school, where my brother Ulrik was.

        If I had to pinpoint a specific life lesson or realization to come out of that incident, it was probably something about not being able to trust women. That women can have this sort of cold, evil, competitive, or dramatic flair, and it's stayed with me throughout my life. I don't think it's a coincidence that I have more male friends than female; men make me feel safe, relaxed, calm and nurtured. Of course, that could also be attributed to the fact that I have four brothers and probably attempt to replicate those relationships wherever I go, to have that feeling of "home."

        I'm 100% responsible for my life, so there are no hard feelings or hate towards my friends who bullied me back then, even though it's a bit tricky to revisit. It was something that happened that impacted a lot of things in my life, but I firmly believe that it is the sum of all my experiences that makes me who I am, whether those experiences are happy, sad, or traumatic. 

My First Fløde Is

    This might sounds like a weird thing to blog about, especially if you don't speak Danish, but if you've ever had a "fløde is" from "Brostræde Fløde Is" in Helsingør, Denmark, you understand the need to forever immortalize the experience in this blog. For those of you who are Shakespeare fans, Helsingør is where you find Kronborg's Castle, of Hamlet fame. (In English it's called Elsinore.) And, a "Fløde Is" is simply an ice cream, but not just any ice cream. 

        Right across the water from Helsingør, Denmark is Helsingborg, Sweden, where I was born. Helsingborg is one of the oldest cities in Sweden and has a medieval fortress that's 600 years old. It became a Swedish city in 1658, when the Danes had to give it up in a treaty. It's Sweden's closest point to Denmark, with Helsingør only 4 km away - a quick ferry ride. 

     Although we moved to Stockholm when I was very young, my Dad and both sets of grandparents were still in Helsingborg, so I'd go back and visit often. Helsingborg is where I had some of my fondest childhood memories, and therefore where my heart is. My father, aunt and uncles, my grandmother and my sister Jessica all still live there.

        Being able to jump on a ferry and be in another country about twenty minutes later is pretty cool, even if that other country is Denmark, a country very similar to Sweden, in both language, history, food etc. You get there by ferry and all the ferries have strange names that end in "la" and that I think are all supposed to be women's names. Regula, Carola, Betula, Ursula, Pendula, Primula. The trip takes about 20 minutes and I've made it many many times. It never gets old, mostly because of the treat that awaits on the other side of the water.   

    Once on the other side, in Denmark, "Brostræde Fløde Is," which opened in 1922, is on a street called...you guessed it...Brostræde! The short walk from the ferry seemed to last for hours when I was a child, but it's really just a quick two minutes to get there. 

        "Brostræde Fløde Is" has the best ice cream in the world. It's not the ice cream flavors themselves, although they have delicious vanilla, nougat, chocolate, strawberry and pistachio. It's the whole package that makes this a spectacular ice cream experience, one worth crossing country lines for.  

        The cones are homemade and as you get close to the ice cream shop, you get that delicious freshly baked cone waft in the air. You pick your flavor, and after they fill your cone with your choice of ice cream, they add fresh whipped cream, warm homemade jam and a flødeboll on top.

        It's hard to explain what a flødeboll is...you should really experience it, but it's sort of a wafer bottomed, chocolate dipped ball with delicious sweet sticky cream inside. And they just smush it on top of your cone. 

        I remember my first ice cream here, and I remember having to hold it in two hands because it was so big and filled to the brim with pure, heavenly sweetness. It wasn't easy to finish one of these as a child, but as long as I got the flødeboll, jam, whipped cream, some of the ice cream and a bit of cone in, I was deliciously satisfied.

My brother Max with his cone...in his fire truck

    Also, the ice cream became synonymous with family, fun, travel and adventure as the years went on. Going with my Dad, or my grandmother Celina, Mom, Ulrik, and most recently Max, it's sort of a thing to go to another country just for ice cream, even if it's as close as Denmark. My First Fløde Is was a experience I will always remember, and it's what keeps me taking that ferry back for more. 

My First Tattoo

     It was December 10th, 1988. My 18th birthday. I had just graduated from high school and was in Israel for a few months, taking some time off to work on a kibbutz, as all good Swedish Jews did at that time. It was a way to get away from ones parents, while still being somewhat protected and productive; connect with the "homeland" and Israeli Jews, learn to speak better Hebrew - all while figuring out what to do next in life. 

    Located near Rechovot, Kibbutz Na'an was where I ended up. I arrived a few days before my Ulpan program was starting. It was a work/study program so you'd spend half of the day learning Hebrew and the other half doing some menial job. The structure of the kibbutz was such that parents felt safe sending you there; you lived in barracks with other Jewish "kids" from all over the world, there was a communal dining hall, you'd get a small credit in the kibbutz store to buy candy and snacks, and last but not least, in true 80's fashion, if you smoked, you got a carton of cigarettes every month.

Jackie in our hotel pretending to make a phone call for the camera...

    The ulpan was located in the nice part of the kibbutz and most of the people that came there were somewhat sheltered Jewish teenagers from well-to-do Jewish families of rich, industrialized countries. Jackie Gruber of Winnipeg and I were the exceptions to that rule, both having a bit of a wild streak.  Just hours after we'd met, we went to Tel Aviv for the weekend and blew the "emergency" funds we'd both been given by our respective parents on a hotel room and booze. 

     Last minute, the course I was supposed to be in - kitah gimel (level 3) - was cancelled because there were so few participants. My choices were to go in the lower class (bet or level 2) and be bored, go to another kibbutz for a program at my level, or stay and be a volunteer, which meant just working and not studying. I chose the latter.  

    So I ended up in the volunteer barrack, which was located in a less pleasant part of the kibbutz. The regular kibbutz folk didn't like the volunteers and preferred that they stuck to their own area, which was fine with them, as they even had their own bar. Most of the volunteers were in their mid-to-late twenties, not Jewish, and not exactly from well-to-do families. But certainly an interesting mix. A gaggle of drunk, loose girls and skinny lads from Manchester & Leeds, a couple of handsome African guys from Ghana, some weird Austrians, a perverted Scot, a tall Dutchman, some fun Aussies, and more. 

    There was a score board at the volunteer "camp," and it proved to be a great source of entertainment, as well as the catalyst for the end of many relationships, as everyone's sexual escapades were captured on it. There were two lists; one which had everyone's name listed, and one that listed each country represented by the volunteers, and next to it, a number. The number was the points you would get if you slept with someone from that country.

    It was a system that was well worked out; for example, English men were worth only 1 point since there were quite a few of them, and they were eager to sleep with anyone who'd have them. Swedish girls were worth 5 points, because there was only three of us, and we tended to be a bit more exclusive. A threesome would give you a 10-point bonus, plus the points of each participant. It didn't matter if you wanted to play or not. Someone always found out your business, and wrote you up before you had a chance to pee or brush your teeth the morning after said incident. 

    I was the youngest volunteer at 17 and-a-half, and quickly found myself under the "protection" and tutelage of a 28-year-old South African Jew named Stephen. Meaning, he showed me the ropes and became my pseudo-boyfriend. (Three points.) Stephen's job on the kibbutz was to run the bar, so he had access to alcohol and snacks all hours of the day. In other words, a good prospect. I know the age difference sounds creepy now, but it was a cool experience and he was nothing but sweet to me. He left for England a month after I arrived, and I got stuck with his dog, a flea ridden but sweet mix named Picky.

Jackie and I with dreamy Welsh Dave

    That's when I took up with Dave, a lovely Welshman in his early twenties, who most of the girls craved. (One point.) He was super fit and had dark brown hair, deep blue eyes, full lips and the obligatory Welsh bushy eyebrows. I'd work during the day and hang out with Dave and everyone else at the bar at night. Poor Jackie was left in the ulpan barrack, studying Hebrew, but would come down to "skid row" every night when she was finished, and get loaded.  

My "friend" from Gothenburg

    The jobs I held included the laundry, (where I sorted soiled sheets) the hospital (where I swept and restocked medical supplies) and last but not least, I worked the night shift in the water sprinkler factory. I'd get to work at midnight and work till 5 or so, and this was the beginning of the end for Dave and I, as the hours between midnight and 5 am was when "it all" happened. I found him naked and hungover in Swedish Helene's bed one morning. Not surprising, as she was from Gothenburg...  

    But back to the tattoo. Heartbroken and promising myself never to trust another Welshman, I went to Tel Aviv on my 18th birthday, eager to avoid the mass discovery of that additional 5-pointer under Dave's name on the scoreboard, and its subsequent humiliation. Danish Martine had decided to get a tattoo and I had volunteered to accompany her on the adventure.

    We found a tattoo parlor, walked in, and some guy quickly turned his desk into a table of sorts, and handed us the photo binders, a staple at every tattoo establishment. It was definitely one of those "spur of the moment" occurrences, I had never thought of getting a tattoo until about a minute before it happened. I decided that it would be best to have it on my ass, because then, depending on what kind of underwear I wore, you could either see it or not. I flipped through a couple of binders and found a butterfly that Martine liked too. I picked some pastel colors and got ready. 

    I climbed up on the table and the guy started with the outline. Not as painful as I had expected, but not comfortable. Definitely not as bad as the pain I was experiencing in my heart thanks to Dave. More painful than the actual tattoo-ing? The fact that the tattoo "artist" kept on insisting I take my shirt off. This confused me, since the shirt I was wearing wasn't particularly long and was nowhere near where he was doing some of his finest work. At the end, there was the obligatory photo to be taken. Not surprising, he asked me to bend over...said the tattoo would look better from that angle. I declined. Again confused of the purpose.

The only other person in the world who has the same exact tattoo as I do...

    Martine was up next and she got the same butterfly I had chosen, but on her ankle. Which turned out to be way more painful. He wasn't as creepy to her as he was to me. He didn't ask her to take her pants off, he said to just roll the one leg up. Probably because this was the eighties and Martine, as any good Danish girl at that time, didn't believe in shaving her legs. 

    Back at the kibbutz, I showed off my tattoo and boozed it up with my fantastic BFF Jackie for another month, before Dave trashed my room in a drunken jealous rage. Or as he explained it, a romantic gesture of apology and love, to win my heart back after his "mistake." Either way, it was time to check out of kibbutz life and head back to Sweden, which I did. But not before I scribbled a few numbers under my name on the score board, to confuse and puzzle everyone, and of course, to upset Dave. 

    It took me about two years to tell my mother about the tattoo. If you have a tattoo you can't be buried in a Jewish cemetery, and I was pretty sure that would be upsetting to her. I had worn larger bikinis and full-back underwear around the house but finally opted to tell her. 

    I chose my timing perfectly, burying the tattoo announcement under a rather devastating piece of news. I had broken up with my boyfriend David, who my mother really adored. David was Jewish and happened to be just about the nicest, smartest, funniest and most handsome guy I'd ever had as a boyfriend. He also happened to be the son of the Chief Rabbi of Stockholm, which was an obvious added bonus to all mothers whose daughters he courted in those days. So there wasn't much of an argument or punishment for the tattoo, just a tired nod. 

    Unfortunately for me,  I've now come to the end of this blog, and accompanying my feeling of "blog completion" comes the realization that I can't really post this without showing the tattoo. The thing about it though is, it's now 22 years old. So it doesn't exactly look fresh and crisp. But I guess neither does my ass, compared to when I was 18. Boy, do I wish I had taken this photo of then. But here it goes. My first (and most likely last) Tattoo. 

My First Husband

   There has been a big demand for this one, so instead of saving it until the very last moment, like I did with the most confronting tasks in Forty by Forty, I thought I would get it over with early on. I thought writing about my first husband, the person, would be better than writing about my first marriage or my first wedding, which were also demands/suggestions/requests, because I wouldn't really have to go into the nuts and bolts of my separation and subsequent divorce.

    I'm not sure it's grammatically right to blog about my first husband since I don't have a second husband, and it's entirely possible that I won't. Not because I'm cynical and don't believe in love, but having been married, I've come to understand and believe that it isn't necessary to be married in order to have a passionate, honest and fulfilling relationship that lasts. The thought of being eternally engaged strikes me as much more interesting and romantic. 

   But let's get to it. Here he is. My first husband. Richard Gerety Condon. Born in Chicago, the same year as the state of Israel and my mother, 1948. I know. That makes him super old. 22 years my senior. But Mr. Condon was, and is, youthful, fit, handsome, extremely funny, and an extraordinary man. 

Richard at the far left with fellow "Fat Jack" band members in the late sixties

     Before we met, Richard had already had a full and exciting life. He had been the drummer for two bands in the late sixties and early seventies in Seattle; "Fat Jack" and "Kiss Porky" (the latter of course lending itself to all kinds of puns in our relationship...depending on which of us was most overweight at the moment.) One of his bands was hired to be the house band at a local arena and subsequently, Richard's band ended up being the opening act for bands like "The Grateful Dead," "Country Joe and The Fish" and "The Doors."

    Eventually, (and I'm skipping a lot of years here) after running a few marathons and spending some time as a restauranteur - he and identical twin brother Michael opened the first vegan restaurant in Seattle in the eighties - he became involved in Landmark Education and has lead transformational programs there for over twenty years.

    I participated in their first program, The Landmark Forum, in 1997, and I truly believe it is one of the things that makes me a somewhat insightful, open, well balanced and generally happy individual, with not a whole lot of baggage, as the program completes whatever is incomplete in your past and your life in general. 

    We'd run into each other and when we did, Richard would say "we should have a drink sometime," and I would say "sure." This went on for months until I one day said "are we ever going to have that drink, because if not, we should just stop saying it..." We made plans for the next night.

    On our first date we went to see "The Battle of Algiers," and Richard was surprised to find I knew something about the conflict between Algeria and its French Colonial rulers, probably on account of my blonde hair. Afterwords, he couldn't find his parking ticket but instead of getting irritated about it, making the long line of cars back up so he could look through the car, find the ticket, go upstairs to validate it and come back, he just paid the $30 for a lost ticket and we left. On the off chances that I was hungry, he had already made reservations at AOC, coinciding with the end of the movie, plus driving time.

    Having dated mostly men my age and younger, this was a refreshing experience. Someone was handling things like a grown-up, so not your usual indecisive and juvenile type banter of "what do you wanna do tonight?" "I dunno... what do you wanna do?" "I dunno, what's around here?" etc. I'm not against the feminist movement by any means, but I do believe in traditional gender roles and nothing irks me more than a wishy-washy, reluctant man who doesn't take charge.  

    Richard spent the night, but I didn't want to admit to having condoms right there in my bedside table drawer, so we didn't have sex. I had been told it was a sign of promiscuity to have condoms, when in fact, it's really just a sign that you practice safe sex. In the morning, his car had been ticketed, which prompted me to announce that it had been worth $35 to fool around with him, tucking the ticket in my purse. He asked me what I was doing that night. Then the next night. And the next night. And the rest is history. 

    Although we might have fallen short in the "staying married" department, Richard and I did many things well together. We communicated openly and honestly with each other. About everything. It wasn't always easy, but it was something we were both committed to, and as a result, a lot of stuff got worked out for us as individuals and as a couple. We bought a house in Ojai that was in complete shambles, moved there, and made it the most peaceful and beautiful place imaginable. It wasn't easy; it took a lot of time, effort, energy and money, but the end result made it all worth it. 

    If one of us had a rough day, we would take the motorcycle out for a ride; riding it through dirt roads and quiet highways around Ojai would solve everything. It was a 1969 BMW R-69S and its vintage coolness factor legitimized us at both shabby motorcycle bars and finer establishments. I had my own 60's looking helmet, and a separate seat in the back with a leather strap to hold on to, like a real cowboy.      

               

        We traveled a lot together, which was big for me because I usually prefer traveling by myself. I need space and alone time, and find it hard to be around people for long periods of time, even though I love them madly. In Richard I found someone who wasn't offended if I wanted to go off on my own for an hour or two, or take a nap while he went on a walkabout. We both loved active trips to bustling cities in challenging weather, as much as sunny, exotic, read by-the-pool trips, so during the years we spent together, we did plenty of both.  

    We went to London, Stockholm & Helsingborg, Paris & Themines, Maui, Tahiti, Cabo and India together. And a bunch of places in the US. If it was possible to take trains, buses, subways, or ride bikes where we went, it made our trips even more fun, as we are both huge fans of public transportation. Every time we left a place we would take a picture of us with super sad faces that the vacation was over. Funny stuff.

    During one of our trips to Paris, Richard accidentally smacked me on the lip with an umbrella and as I started bleeding, I decided to indulge my flair for drama, and milked it for all it was worth for the rest of the trip. I even went so far as to make a small print of the above photo and taped it to the inside of his wallet. So he would remember to be nice to his little wife, whom he had punched in the face right outside the Louvre. 

    Richard made me laugh, but mostly, he made me laugh at myself, and that is one of the biggest things I learned from him; to be less significant and rigorous, to laugh and let go of things. I can be pretty uptight, and have a hard time with change of any kind; change of plans, change of minds, change of schedules. One day in Ojai, I had been particularly uptight, and he teased me about it, so when he walked outside for a minute, I locked him out of the house to get back at him.

    He quickly ran around to the backdoor, but I managed to get there a few seconds before him, and locked it. He yelled through the door that I'd be in big trouble when he got in, but I kept him out there for a bit, until he slid a window open and climbed through it. He chased me around the house and when he caught me, he promptly picked me up and announced I was going in the pool. Which doesn't sound that awful, except for it wasn't summer, and the pool wasn't heated. I struggled but couldn't get free.

    The whole way over to the pool (it was across a pretty big lawn) I tried to talk him out of it, but no matter what I said, he wouldn't listen. I told him how expensive my shoes were, that my watch wasn't water proof, that I was getting a cold, etc. but he didn't care. I wanted to seem angry, and have a straight face, so he would take me seriously, but I couldn't because the whole situation was so funny, and I knew that regardless of what I said, I would be going in the pool. So I laughed in between the pleadings/bribes/threats. As did he. And I ended up in the pool, fully clothed. And when he gave me his hand to help me out, I obviously pulled him in...

    Richard respected and loved my family, and although we didn't have a Jewish wedding ceremony, he wore a yarmulke during it, to honor them, my heritage and religion. Between the two of us, we had nine brothers and during our wedding festivities found that they connected really sweetly with each other, across blood lines. Richard still lets me "share" his cool Uncle Pete, although we are officially divorced as of last December. 

    Someone recently asked me if I regret getting married. Tricky question because although it would have been great to have been spared the heart ache and pain that we both went through when our marriage ended, there are so many things I wouldn't have learned or experienced if I hadn't been married to Richard. About myself, about relationships, and about marriage in general. And I wouldn't have applied to the AFI had it not been for his encouragement, and that's worth more than words can express. 

    I wasn't a "bridezilla" by any means, and put our wedding together in a month or two without much drama, but if I do get married again, I feel fortunate to have gotten all the dress/flowers/ring concerns out of the way. All girls need to. I got to have a really fun and beautiful wedding day, and thus, feel a bit more relaxed and easy-going about my next potential wedding. 

     One of my favorite things to come out of my years with Richard is that I've given up trying to fix or change people. I don't know if it's because I tried so hard to change him, (unsuccessfully of course) that I exhausted myself, or if it's just that I've become more evolved, but I used to spend a lot of time and energy on that stuff. Now I don't. I love friends and family just the way they are, and the way they are not. I find grace and compassion for imperfections and struggles, instead of judgment. 

    I guess one way of putting it is that my first husband didn't give me everything I ever wanted on a silver platter, but instead empowered me to create and manifest everything I ever wanted for myself, and that is way cooler...