Without Reservations

There are years that ask questions
and years that answer.

—Z
ORA
N
EALE
H
URSTON

For making this book possible, the author wishes to thank Gail Ross, who, from the first, stood behind its publication every step of the way. I am also deeply grateful to Kate Medina for her elegant eye and insightful editing. For their invaluable contributions, I thank Jean-Isabel McNutt, Robin Pinnel, and Meaghan Rady.

I am also indebted to the
Baltimore Sun
, where, over the years, many of my writing thoughts took shape.

I
  write this sitting in my cozy kitchen on a wintry morning, my old cat dozing beside me on the warm, hissing radiator. An ice storm passed through Baltimore last night, and I can hear the evergreen trees outside my window creaking under the weight of their glazed branches. Six years ago, on a winter’s day not unlike this one, I sat at the same table and made a decision that, for me, was quite daring: I decided to take a chance and temporarily jump ship, so to speak, from the life I’d fashioned for myself.

This morning I got out a box containing some reminders of where that decision took me. Although I’ve been searching for a particular item, it’s fun seeing whatever turns up.

Here, for instance, is the bill for the ten-dollar cappuccino I drank one morning in Venice at the caffè Florian. And here’s a program from a student production in Oxford of
Much Ado About Nothing.
Next comes a ticket to the Museum of Garden History in London, and the receipt for a pair of black silk pumps with four-inch heels, bought in Milan and worn once. The menu from a dinner enjoyed in the Umbrian town of Perugia follows, reminding me of how delicious the Veal Escalope with Red Chicory was that night.

Finally, in a smaller box labeled PARIS, I find what I’m looking for: a postcard with a view of the city’s loveliest bridge, Pont Alexandre III. Dated 9 May 1993, and sent from me to me, the postcard signals the beginning of an adventure:

The postcard is signed:
Love, Alice.

It is the first of many such postcards that I would write and send home to myself as I traveled over the next several months. Or, as I affectionately came to call that interlude in my life, The Year of Living Dangerously.

Most of us, I suppose, have had at one time or another the impulse to leave behind our daily routines and responsibilities and seek out, temporarily, a new life. Certainly, it was a fantasy that more than once had taken hold of me. At such times I daydreamed about having the freedom to travel wherever chance or fancy took me, unencumbered by schedules and obligations and too many preplanned destinations.

But the daydream always retreated in the face of reality. I was, after all, a working, single mother and my life was shaped in large measure by responsibilities toward my two sons and my work as a newspaper reporter at the
Baltimore Sun.

By 1993, however, I was entering a new phase of my life, one that caused me to rethink its direction. My sons had graduated from college and were entering new adult lives of their own; one as a translator in Japan, the other as a graduate physics student in Colorado. I was happy for them, and proud too. After all, watching a child march successfully into the larger world is one of the greatest satisfactions parenthood has to offer. Still, letting go of my sons left me feeling vulnerable in a way I didn’t understand. The powerful bonds between us remained; but physically the boys I had raised were gone.

If I close my eyes, I can see them still, on a long-ago summer’s night. Two boys, so different: one lying in bed listening to an Orioles game and bouncing a ball off the wall; the other outside in the backyard, setting up his telescope under a starry indigo sky.
Holy moments
, I think now of such times. Without such moments, the house felt quiet and empty.

At work my life went on as before. I continued to interview interesting people as well as write a column. It was a challenging, sometimes next-to-impossible job and I was completely invested in it. My work was not only what I did but who I was.

Occasionally, though, I found myself wondering: was I
too
invested in it? At times I felt my identity was narrowing down to one thing—being a reporter. What had happened, I wondered, to the woman who loved art and jazz and the feeling that an adventure always lurked just ahead, around some corner? I hadn’t seen her in quite a while. Had she disappeared? Or had I just been too busy writing about other people’s lives to pay attention to her?

There was nothing wrong with my life. I liked its order and familiarity and the idea of having a secure place in the world. Still, the image of that woman who had gone missing kept popping up. One
day, after reading about a photography course offered in Tuscany, I thought,
She would find a way to do that.
I had the same reaction when I read an article offering room and board on a Scottish sheep farm that trained Border collies:
I’ll bet she’d be on the phone trying to work something out.
I found myself wondering if there was some way to reconnect with this missing woman. I sort of admired her.