The first pill I took in Miami lit a fuse that left me with a low-level craving for a mood altering substance at all times and yet I don’t remember any drug induced humiliating debacles my freshman year at college. What I remember: dark snowy winter afternoons walking through the woods in the enclave of Lawrence Park West, the neighborhood in which Sarah Lawrence stood smack dab in the middle. It had all been the property of the Lawrence family at one time and looked like Narnia, but now it was a neighborhood with homes surrounding the campus interspersed with homes that belonged to the college and used for academic purposes. This is where my parents would buy a house—a house that had originally been the Sarah Lawrence family’s hunting lodge—and technically on campus. Bob and Doris White lived in Lawrence Park West too and I remember spending more time with them and Jackie Cooper, my roommate and best friend from Miami, than with many of the other students on campus.
Bob and Doris, as I’ve mentioned, were friends with Jackie’s parents and with mine. They were a fun couple right out of the sixties—of the commuter MAD MEN ilk. Bob worked on the stock exchange and Doris worked in home design. They lived in a beautiful French Norman house with leaded glass windows which Doris had impeccably decorated. Their son Douglas wanted to be a jazz sax player and spent most of his days smoking pot in his room and listening to Charlie Parker and Dexter Gordon. His temperament and mien as opposite Bob and Doris’s as was possible, but Bob and Doris worshipped their only son, especially for what they perceived as his hipness. On Saturday nights my parents, Mary Jane (my mother’s BFF), Jackie and I and Bob and Doris would go to a great Italian restaurant in Tuckahoe called Roberto’s, where after a few drinks, Bob and Doris would usually gush about Douglas. The main thrust of the conversation one evening at dinner was that Douglas, according to a sloshed Bob, was the greatest man who ever lived. “No really, I think Douglas is the greatest man who ever lived.” He’d say rubbing his hands together in glee.
My mother and I exchanged glances with Mary Jane throughout his treatise on Douglas the Great until my mother demurely asked Bob, “Greater than Franklin Roosevelt?” to which Bob responded “yes.” But as carried away as they got over Douglas, they were wonderful people and I enjoyed every minute being with them.
That these are the memories that stand out and no major drug crisis’ haunt me from freshman year astonishes me. Could I simply have forgotten them? The defining incident that sets me apart from the way other college kids drank (which was a lot as most of you know) was something that happened during the summer after freshman year on my way to Italy to spend June and July in a program in Florence studying art history and literature. This summer program—a joint project hosted by Sarah Lawrence and the University of Michigan—was housed in a gorgeous villa called Villa Il Salviatino which is now a four star hotel. It stood in the hills of Fiesole set among the Cyprus trees and Umbrella Pines and overlooked the city of Florence showcasing it’s Baptistry and Duomo. This would become my first moveable feast, so magical was the summer.
But the plane ride over was another story. All the students going to Florence were assigned to a section of the cabin of the AlItalia flight. We were making our way to our seats when what do I spy? A cute Italian hunk, not part of our group. And when I say Italian, he was an Italian of the Tony Manero SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER variety. Italian by way of Long Island not a Florentine businessman. I abandoned my group and plunked myself down right next to him. I was still confused about my sexuality at this point, but in this place and in this moment this guy was all I wanted.
With the drinking age being 18 at the time, Victor (that was his name) and I made ample use of the beverage cart. The first drink I ordered was a scotch because it made me feel very grown up. Bob White drank scotch. Victor ordered one also. Every time the cart came by I ordered another scotch with Victor keeping up with me drink for drink. Victor told me he was going to meet his Italian relatives whom he’d never met. “S’nice” I slurred, “Wanna nuther drink?” and I pushed the call button for the flight attendant who came round with more scotch.
I could see the group of students on my program sitting a few rows ahead of me all behaving themselves while I drank myself into oblivion. So Victor and I did what two people do after too many drinks at high altitude: we started kissing. I had no concern that my group of fellow students could turn around and see their classmate behaving in the most undignified and unladylike way. I remember next to nothing of what Victor and I talked about, if we did any talking at all, when I mentioned I needed to visit the bathroom. “Be back” I told Victor and staggered down the aisle toward the potties. I entered the bathroom when the door slammed shut behind me. I turned around and Victor had followed me in. He thrust the occupied sign on and we got down to business. So while the rest of the students were brushing up on the Michaelangelo’s and the Ghiberti doors we would soon be seeing, I was having bathroom nookie with a stranger on a plane. When we got back to our seats I told Victor he’d taken me by surprise. “I always get what I want.” He said.
“Victor . . . “ I responded, “know the expression ‘to the victor go the spoils?”,
“Yes.”
“Well Victor you’re vey vey spoiled.” I said poking him in the chest for emphasis. That’s the last thing I remember until we landed in Milan. I would see Victor when we were both back in New York but he held no attraction for me at sea level. He was very confused by the sudden change in my passion.
But Florence was another story, It had a hold on me from the minute I’d arrived in this magical town. I had my Sarah Lawrence friend Marla there and made good friends with a girl named Kathy and her soon-to-be summer boyfriend Mark. I also made friends with a boy named Hans Kraus whose family made a fortune in illuminated manuscripts and owned a Guttenberg Bible. And we drank. We drank in the restaurants and clubs of Florence and right there in the Villa. They served wine with meals and there was a bar right outside my bedroom door. You could go up to Septimo the bartender and order a drink any time of day. But I didn’t distinguish myself as a problem drinker—not the way I distinguished myself as a problem drug user in Miami during High School. Not an easy thing to do. I drank in Florence out of the joy of the moment and the joy of being with my friends. I drank to enhance the joy, not to escape the darkness and self-consciousness within. I didn’t black out and I didn’t embarrass myself as I had on so many occasions prior to coming to Italy. Maybe it was because I was no longer took pills; maybe it was because I was already drunk on Italy.
One day toward the end of my stay I was sitting by the pool when I heard the one phone in the villa ring. I knew it was for me. It was almost a supernatural knowing as there were 40 students for whom the call could have been intended. I jumped up from the pool and ran up the five flights of stairs to the phone. As my hand touched the receiver the phone stopped ringing. I stood there breathless and worried when the phone rang again. I picked it up and it was my sister, Jackie who would not be calling me in Italy save for an emergency.
“Cara, your mother’s fine, but she’s had a heart attack.”
I knew then that leaving my mother could kill her
Lucky Victor--at least he had a moment.
Florence is my sister, Laura’s, favorite!! Your story is so entertaining and easy to get lost in. Italy sounds like it was magical for you, yet addiction followed you even in Paradise. Love your stories that include your friends and adventures!