Julia and I

Her name was Julia. She was from London, 26 years old, beautiful, and (apparently) of independent means. Me? I'm almost 45, most say youthful for middle age but not handsome; a balding, greying, wearer of bifocal lenses. I'll almost certainly never see Julia again, but I'll definitely never forget her. This is our story.

It was a record setting October day for heat in the San Francisco Bay area; people kept calling it "Indian summer," unaware that the phrase only applies after a hard freeze. (Which, of course, never happens here.) As hot as the weather was, it was nothing compared to the unexpected fires of passion that would burn that night and forever after in my memory.

I had to stop by my attorney's office on the way home from work. By the time I left there, I was physically tired and emotionally drained. That, compounded with experiencing the worst heat since leaving Georgia, led me to dine at my favorite Italian place, rather than suffer my own attempts at food preparation.

There were few patrons as the dinner hour approached on a Monday night. A fairly large party at one table was noisily celebrating something-or-other. The family matriarch tenderly lifted herself from her seat wanting to take a photo of the festive group. I offered to take the picture so she could join her fellow celebrants. I congratulated myself on having conquered my shyness to the point that I could offer small kindnesses to people in such situations; although approaching women was something I rarely could bring myself to do. That was about to change, if only for the evening.

After imitating a portrait photographer, I sat back down and ordered the garlic bread, a garden salad, and mesquite grilled chicken pasta. A few moments later, a stunning woman(whom I later learned was called Julia, like the John Lennon song), walked in. My first reaction was to try to ignore her, still mending the wounds from my most recent failed relationship. I now wonder if the waiter planned what he did to see what would happen; by now virtually the entire place was empty, the happy table empty. Ignoring all the available spots, the waiter offered her the table next to mine, and that is when I looked at her and was stricken by more than her beauty as something clicked when our eyes met briefly.

The waiter and Julia began a conversation, which I could not help but overhear (god, I loved that accent!) She had been in the restaurant several times, and I at first thought that she said that she was leaving the next morning for Mexico. Julia had been in California for about two weeks in the midst of extended world travels. I joined the conversation when the weather became the topic. Newt, our waiter, related that it had been 102 in Monterey that day. I noted with astonishment that it was never that hot on the coast, and he agreed. He then mentioned to Julia that she should definitely visit the Monterey / Carmel area. Forgetting my shyness and warming to the presence of my unexpected dinner companion, I enthusiastically agreed. I had visited that area four times during the 10 months I had been in California, and it remained my favorite weekend sanity break; and I told Julia so. My garlic bread appeared. Julia asked about it; it appeared strange to me that a world traveler had never tried it, and I offered her some.

Julia then clarified what she was actually going to do; she had a week to get to San Diego (where she would begin her scheduled trip into Mexico), and wondered what I would suggest. My chicken pasta arrived about that time (as her main course soon followed), and we ate, I talked, and she took notes (funny how Newt suddenly became very unobtrusive.) Something magical and wonderful was beginning.

I suggested that she begin her trip by taking 92 across the San Meteo Bridge to Half Moon Bay, or by taking 17 to Santa Cruz (bypassing Half Moon Bay) and then following Route 1 south to Monterey, Carmel, the Highlands Inn, Big Sur, Morro Bay, Hearst Castle and on down to the beach at Malibu just before the infamous Santa Monica freeway. I told her a little of my trip to California in December, concentrating on my travels up Route 1 from L.A. to the City (as the locals call San Francisco). I told her of calling my Mom from the beach at Malibu, of the majesty of Big Sur bringing tears to my eyes, of other such details as come to mind when telling someone else of a place one has recently come to consider one of the greatest spots on the blue marble.

The conversation slowed down a bit, as we finished our meals. I was thinking of how to take my leave of her. She was leaving the next day, definitely out of my league anyway, and resided in a foreign country; should I bother exchanging contact information? She ordered more wine, and I decided to have a cup of coffee and see what the gods had in mind next. I felt something greater than me (than both of us) was in control.

She then told me she wanted to visit more of the States when she returned from Mexico. I told her not to miss Yosemite, Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon (funny, I forgot Tahoe). She then asked me what I would suggest she do and see in the East.

At this point, I did something even more out of character and I will forever thank myself that I did. I told her I had a guidebook to the California coast that we could use to plan her trip. I told her of my books, maps and personal photographs of the East Coast. I even told her I had three different wines of which she could have her pick, or have all three bottles for that matter. To my surprise, this wonderful, funny, personable (young!) woman accepted my invitation.

I am too much of a gentleman to detail all that transpired that night. Suffice it to say that I am certain that the passions unleashed on my first honeymoon, while still a teen, did not surpass those of Julia and I that night. We laughed, talked, drank wine and planned her trip until the dawning of a new day. I told her of St. Augustine, of my love of Savannah, of Colonial Williamsburg, the Smithsonian Institution, the Liberty Bell in Philly, the old city of Boston, and Vermont in the Fall (the Big Apple she had done already, and had great praise for the new Mayor).

Then, it was time to take her to the Oakland Airport to pick up her rental. She grew silent and pensive; I was also sad that this woman was leaving my life forever, but grateful for the luck that brought us together for this one night.

An evening of surprises held yet one more. She asked if I would go with her, if I would leave my life behind and be her companion, her partner, her lifemate.

I held her close, kissed her tenderly, said "No" and left before she could see the tears in my eyes.

I will never know if I did the right thing. Years later, I am still alone; I may never be with another woman; I may never feel a bond like ours with another human being again. But for that one night, for one long (yet too brief) moment, I finally knew what Hemingway meant when he wrote of the earth moving for two people.

And noone can ever take that from me.

10/8/96 Timothy Baye

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