Adventures in Istanbul: Day 4

With Amanda in Ephesus from sun up to sun down, I had the whole day to explore Istanbul on my own. Or not, because after a few messages with Jonathan, one of the San Franciscoans from the previous night, I had a lunch date with them at 2pm. How easy it is to make new friends abroad! I thought, scarfing down the chili-flaked omelet and Turkish cheese that had become my morning staple. Until then, I’ll go shopping!

Now, I am not one of those travelers who empties their bank accounts on clothes and souvenirs. In fact, I almost never declare more than $20 on my custom’s form, intentionally bringing only a stuffed carry-on to prevent such impulse buys as 400 Euro army green coats in Paris (so happy I didn’t pick up that one– thank you tiny Samsonite!) But I wanted to bring back something for my boyfriend, and I’d heard Istanbul had great leather products, so I headed to the Grand Bazaar.

My first instinct when I stepped into the legendary shopping mecca was to take a selfie. Maybe it was because the myriad of colors and shimmering objects brought out my pink lipgloss, or more likely because the frenzied consumerism spurred on the “me me me” philosophy, but that’s exactly what I did. Then, I faced the madness.


And I do mean madness. My friend Lauren had warned me before I left to go in with a plan, but I felt in no way prepared for the onslaught of men aggressively hawking their wares. The second I stepped into the leather section it came at me from all sides.

“Miss, over here, I know what you want,” one called. You do?! Awesome, please tell me so I can stop stressing about what to give Daniel!

“Everything almost free!” another regaled me.

“Ha! Almost!” I laughed.

“You can try on, you don’t have to buy,” a younger guy pointed towards some quite cute jackets. The fact that that was even a commendation made me run the other direction.

To twenty more men saying the exact same things. Overwhelmed, I snapped a quick photo of some man bags and rushed back into the main hall. Or a main hall. The Grand Bazaar has so many entrances and exits and aisles and off shoots that even Google Maps can’t figure out where you are. I decided to just browse the stalls, collecting iPhone shots as souvenirs.

Pretty lanterns.

Pretty lanterns.

When I’d tired of pretty lanterns and Turkish tea sets, I set out for the Spice Bazaar. While not as big as the Grand Bazaar, my mom had assured me it was more “photogenic.” It was indeed – no need for selfies here.


The second I stepped in a big goofy grin spread across my face. The baskets filled with nuts and spices and Turkish delights, the colorful store fronts and old men holding out sample – I was in heaven. And Daniel would’ve been too. I suddenly knew exactly what to get him.

I walked into the very first stall and bought “Love Tea,” red peppercorns, traditional kebab seasoning, and Turkish delights. Was this the best economic strategy? Probably not, but I didn’t feel like haggling. Besides, the prices were lower than the states and the short good-looking salesman flirted respectably.

“Your boyfriend would want you to go out and experience the city with a nice Turkish guy,” he insisted, offering me his card.

“I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t, but I’ll ask,” I smiled, paying for the items and stepping back into the market.

Flirtacious spice seller.

Flirtacious spice seller.

I wandered the aisles for a bit, sampling sweets from trays when the shopkeepers weren’t looking. I found my way outside o the cheese and olive and fish vendors. Now that’s what I’m talking about! My mouth watered over the huge vats of creamy white goodness. I couldn’t bring it back to Daniel, but I could at least dedicate a photo to him on Instagam.


By the time I’d finished at the market, I had just enough time to walk to the restaurant for lunch. I took side streets, weaving through less touristy, more raw parts of Istanbul. There were no kebab shops here, no throngs of people. In fact, there was no one. I tried not to be intimidated, and picked up my pace.

When I arrived at the aqueduct, a block from the restaurant, I still had 20 minutes to kill. My feet hurt, my head ached, and my illness flared – I needed to meditate, if not medicate. I sat down on a bench looking out at the centuries old waterway, closed my eyes, and focused on my breathing.

Fifteen minutes later I felt like a new person. I stood up to leave, and was immediately stopped.

“Excuse me, would you mind, uh, sitting there again. For a photo?” the man asked in broken English. I stared at him, incredulous. What are you trying to sell me?

He sensed my hesitancy and showed me his camera. “I took this of you, but it would be better centered. I can send to you if you like.”

I liked the photo, and seeing he had pure motives, agreed to model again. I wondered how many other photos belonging to strangers I appeared in. Hundreds, no doubt, intentionally or otherwise. It didn’t seem a coincidence that this one happened to be brought to my attention while meditating, a practice I’d only recently begun. The universe guides us in mysterious ways.

Courtesy of Gökçe Ülgen

Courtesy of Gökçe Ülgen

The San Franciscoans were running late, so I waited patiently at the restaurant, perusing the menu. When they finally arrived, it felt like a mad rush to make up for lost time – the 20 minutes of tardiness, the lifetimes we’d lived ignorant of each others’ existence. Jonathan talked faster than any New Yorker I’d ever encountered, and it thrilled me. He spoke of his current nomadic living situation, of jumping from one country to the next, not knowing where the following week would take him. Of giving back to the community and saving lives (he gave bone marrow – twice!). Of the company he was currently launching involving online dating.

“Online dating?! Are you serious?! I knew we met for a reason!” I told them about my Tinder escapades and my forthcoming book, and we laughed at the serendipity.

“Maybe we’ll be able to team up!” Jonathan exclaimed. I concurred. Again, mysterious ways.

After lunch, the four of us made our way to the Suleymaniye Mosque, Istanbul’s largest. While not as beautiful or crowded as Hagia Sofia or Sultanhamet, its austerity provided a stronger sense of spirituality. It invited mediation, contemplation, mindfulness…


But right then we were more interested in mayhem. Heather wanted to buy a few things from the bazaar, so I led the way back to the shopping jungle. This time, though, I felt more confident with friends by my side in the bartering battle.

“I’ll pay ten Lira for this mug,” I told a salesman. He shook his head, and I walked on. But Jonathan stayed to fight the good fight. He lost, but we won at the next vendor, scoring a coffee cup sporting a Turkish flag.

“Why did you want that mug?” Jonathan asked, trying to mask his judgment of my souvenir predilections.

“Well, it’s what my boyfriend and I are collecting when we travel. He’s already been doing it for years with his mother, and then I got him these mugs for his birthday, with this hashtag we created together, team no days off–” I blushed. “Oh god, we are so crazy cheesy in love, it’s disgusting.”

“No it’s not, it’s amazing! You’re glowing,” he smiled. “I love romance, tell me more.”

I told him we’d only been dating for a few months, but that we both just knew right away, like my parents. That I’d also given him a puzzle of us for his birthday, because he had all the pieces I’d been working on putting together for years. That he completed my puzzle.

“That’s funny, because my ex and I had a similar thing between us. We used to say we were each other’s corner pieces,” he confided. I smiled, feeling more and more comfortable being my hopeful romantic self.

The bazaar was now closing, and we all felt in need of a nap. But I didn’t want this to be the end of our journey together.

“Amanda and I are going to a restaurant at 9 in Beyoglu with a friend of a friend. Would you guys want to come?” I asked.

They loved the idea, so I confirmed the reservation change, and we agreed to meet a couple of hours later in Jonathan’s lobby. We had a quick drink there, then ubered over to Antiochia Concept, the restaurant chosen by Ally’s English friend Andrew.

It. Was. Delicious. Of course, I had expected it to be – Andrew is a chef currently working at an upscale French restaurant in Istanbul. If I was going to trust anyone aside from TripAdvisor, it was him. And he did not lead us astray with this hip place specializing in Hatay cuisine. From the stylish décor to the stop-my-heart-right-now fried cheese to the chef de cuisine sending us out extra dishes and feeding them to Jonathan with his eyes closed (don’t ask), everything was divine.

This steak though!

This steak though!

Especially the company. Sometimes bringing together complete strangers can be awkward and terrifying. But with Andrew, Amanda, Heather, Tony, Jonathan, and myself, it felt as organic as a health food store in Marin County. The conversation just flowed. I felt like I could talk to them about anything and everything.

And in fact, we did. Before dinner, during dinner, after dinner. The conversation just flowed. I won’t go into it here, because it got so deeply personal and unbelievably intimate and doesn’t belong on a blog, but in just 48 hours, I had managed to delve into topics with these five former strangers that many people spend their whole lives avoiding. The experiences they shared humbled me. Through each of them, I was beginning to see why we really travel: to expose ourselves to the stories of others.


Adventures in Istanbul: Day 2

From Galata Tower

From Galata Tower

I woke up at 7am with the last remnants of a Strepcil buried under my tongue. I’d placed it in my mouth several hours earlier, and by some miracle it had survived until morning. It quickly dissolved along with the rest of the night’s sky.

Breakfast didn’t start until 8, so I made myself a cup of the complimentary instant coffee (3 in 1!) and did some research for the day. Amanda got in around 4, so I had plenty of time to explore Istanbul on my own. However, I didn’t want to hit any of the major sites, which I would be doing with her, so I took the advice of Lonely Planet and opted for a Bosphorus River Cruise.

After breakfast I showered and got ready. I still felt pretty crummy, and looked forward to the passive enjoyment promised by the boat tour. I plugged the destination into Google Maps, and set off on foot.

I walked briskly but attentively, taking in the cobbled streets, tiny shops, and shameless cats. Daniel had sent me an article that morning declaring the city should rename itself Catstantinople, and indeed there were ally cats everywhere. Locals cared and loved for them, so they were unafraid of brushing against a bare leg or asking for food at an outdoor table. I thought of Marshmallow, the stray my family had adopted on my behest as a child. He would have loved Turkey.

Cat of Turkey

Cat of Turkey

As I waited for a stop light near the water, I checked my phone, not sure where exactly to go.

“Do you need some help?” an attractive Turkish man asked me.

“Oh no, I’m fine,” I lied, not wanting to encourage this would-be Lothario.

He tried another strategy. “Can I take you out for a drink tonight?”

“I don’t think my boyfriend would appreciate that, but thank you.”

“But you look so beautiful,” he persisted. “Please, can I change your life tonight?”

“Nope!” I laughed, amused by his proposal, and sauntered across the street.

I found the dock, and purchased my ticket for the Sehir Hatlari. I boarded the ferry and did a quick round, searching out the best available seat. I settled on a row near the back next to another single female. I was dripping sweat and red-faced from my sickness. The beautiful young Italian girl across the way studied me. She had a notepad and pen in hand, and I wondered if she was going to document me the way I would undoubtedly document her. “Another out of shape, sunburned American” I imagined her writing in her native tongue.

We disembarked at 10:30, and I was grateful for the breeze and the smell of the water. The other passengers went wild with photos immediately, but my seat mate and I simply sat observing in silence.

From the boat

From the boat

After a few minutes, my attention shifted from the Turkish flag specked banks of the Asian and European continents to a bizarre cottony feeling in my mouth. It was making it difficult to swallow, and was unlike anything I’d experienced before. My first thought was an allergic reaction – could it be the Turkish cheese from the breakfast buffet? It did taste strange, if not delicious. Or the omelet? I knew this made no sense, I’d eaten hours ago, but what else could it be? Maybe I have a new strain of Hungarian bubonic plague! My hypochondria kicked into overdrive, and I quickly regretted the entire trip. Who was I to think I could travel alone? What on earth was I thinking?! I don’t even have my inhaler!!

I pulled out my phone and started typing affirmations. “You are fine. It was probably from falling asleep with the cough drop. There are plenty of people around you if anything happens.” They didn’t work. My eyes welled and my chest tightened. I was panicking. Then I remembered what I did when this happened during 40 Dates: put my attention on someone else.

“How amazing is that place? Do you think it was once a residence?” I asked my seat mate shakily, nodding to a majestic but deteriorating palace.

“Maybe! It’s beautiful,” she responded. We started chatting and I learned she was from Brazil, on a one-year travel sabbatical.

“A whole year by yourself?!” I was amazed. I was barely making it through my first full day. “How has it been?”

“Incredible,” she smiled. “But not without its challenges.”

She told me about her experiences in Southeast Asia, through Vietnam, Thailand and Cambodia. We agreed Angkor Wat was one of the most magical places on earth, and swapped stories from Thai beaches. My anxiety slipped away, and before I knew it we’d docked at Anadolu Kavagi.

“We’re here for three hours,” she informed me. “I’m going to get lunch if you want to join?”

I thanked her for the offer, but opted to walk up to the old castle instead. I wasn’t hungry yet, and besides, I wanted to check out the view from above.

It was fabulous. While the castle itself wasn’t much to speak of – crumbling ruins from the 12th century – the sweeping panorama took my breath away. (Actually, the winding pathway up the hill did; I was once again pouring sweat.)

“Would you mind taking a photo of me?” I asked the young Asian man near me.

“Yeah no problem! Where are you from?” He replied, clearly American.

“New York, but originally California. You??” I grinned, pleased to have found another solo English speaker.

“Same! San Diego and San Francisco!”

“Awesome, wanna grab lunch on that terrace over there with the epic view?” He did, and so we grabbed a table.

Breaking the bridge.

Breaking the bridge.

Over fresh caught seabass I learned Brandon was studying cellular biology at UCSD (my boyfriend’s alma mater- go Tritons!!) and had just completed a summer program in Paris like the one I had done in 2010. We gushed over our shared abroad experience, reminiscing about the art, the nightlife, the wine. He’d spent the last four days in Istanbul with his mom, and gave me some tips. Budapest was his next stop after a night train to Bucharest, so I gave him the 411 I’d received from Ally and her crew. There was something effortless about our conversation. Travel had obliterated the fact we were complete strangers.

After lunch we meandered the small fishing village, heading down the one main road to the “beach.” We picked up a tour guide- a stray dog who eagerly led us out onto the rocks emerging from the cobalt water. I took off my shoes and splashed around with him. We laughed and declared him our spirit animal as round, old Turkish men bathed nearby. I could think of worse ways to spend a sick day.

Brandon and I at the beach.

Brandon and I at the beach.

By the time we returned to Eminonu, it was 4:30. I texted Amanda via tethering to Brandon’s phone,* and got the address for her hotel. Brandon walked me across the bridge before peeling off to try a baklava place two other passengers had highly recommended. We hugged goodbye, aware that we would most likely never see each other again, and wished each other well on our journeys.

I met Amanda at her hotel, and instantly had booker’s remorse. At $65 a night, The Banker Han by the Sofa was a gem. Opened in April, the luxury boutique oozed sophistication on a budget. I wished I hadn’t been in such a hurry to book and spent more time researching hotels. But then I reminded myself of the wonderful service at the Blue Istanbul, and the green slowly left my cheeks.

Our first and only real event planned for the evening was the Galata Tower. The wait was half an hour to go up to the viewing deck, but Amanda assured me it was worth the time and the $12. She was right. Not just because the view was even more spectacular than from the castle, but because it gave me the opportunity to get to know Amanda better. Up until this point, all I had really known was that we shared a mutual appreciation for margaritas. Not a bad start, but… the more we spoke about work, writing, travel, life, the more certain I felt that we would become long-term friends back in LA.

At Galata Tower

At Galata Tower

After taking in Istanbul from every angle, we made our way up the Istiklal, the famous shopping and night club street that dissects Beyoglu and ends at Taksim Square. We mistakenly believed we could find a decent restaurant amidst the hubbub of chain stores and kebap shops, and lamented having not done more research. We entered a Starbucks in search of wifi and tripadvisor, but to no avail. Alas we succumbed to our hunger and returned to Galata Tower to dine at an unremarkable tourist trap, promising ourselves a formidable culinary experience the following night.

“Hey, at least it’s a beautiful view,” I remarked, the sun long gone and the tower lit up in green and purple hues. She agreed, and we snapped a few photos before heading back to her hotel and meeting Will.

“Hey, where you guys from?” The boisterous American popped up next to us in the street, obviously having overheard our conversation. We told him LA, and he began giving us a lively account of his love for Istanbul. He walked with us down to the train station, and Amanda peeled off to go to her hotel.

“I’m going to take some photos from the bridge,” Will informed me.

I hesitated. Did I trust this stranger? Absolutely. “I’ll join you,” I said, and we set out on foot across the Galata Koprusu. On the other side, we posted up next to a few fisherman, and admired the Rustem Pasa. Below, brightly lit neon boats jostled back and forth next to the shore.

“What are those?” I asked, then answered my own question. “Oh my god, those guys are cooking on there!” I laughed as I watched the chefs perform a balancing act over large central grills.

We took a few photos, shared a couple more stories, then parted ways. As I walked the mile back to my hotel, I couldn’t stop smiling. The views. The architecture. The people. In less than twelve hours, I had made four new friends to enjoy this extraordinary city with. So much for traveling alone!

Night View from the Bridge

Night View from the Bridge

*Travel tip: T-Mobile offers free world Internet. It’s dial-up slow, but it’s FREEEEEE!

Adventures in Istanbul: Day 1


Author’s Note: I’ve decided to make my travels in Istanbul a series, since I experience so much in my six days there. Thus, this read will be a little longer than usual, for you faithful blog readers accustomed to my 1,000 word essays. Thanks for following along!!

The idea of traveling alone can be overwhelming, especially to a foreign country. From the flight to the accommodations to the process of ordering at a restaurant, everything just seems easier with a partner in tourism. There’s no silent battle waged over the armrest, no terror over booking an Airbnb, no intense inner turmoil and self-loathing over having made the wrong choice with the mousakas. It all just feels better shared, particularly when prone to anxiety attacks. Which is probably why I’d never taken a solo trip until Istanbul.

I hadn’t planned on visiting Turkey by myself this summer. When I’d booked my flight to Hungary, I’d allotted an additional six days to hit another country, but I’d assumed I would meet up with friends somewhere. There was Sophie in Tel Aviv, Sam in Ibiza, Danielle in San Sebastian. I had plenty of options.

But I chose Istanbul. Why? Well, for one my parents had been in the fall and raved about it. “In my top five cities, right up there with Bangkok and Paris,” my mom gushed. For another, it was a cheap, quick flight from Budapest, and how often did I find myself on that side of the European continent? And finally, I longed for a strong dose of culture. Not that beautiful beaches with beautiful people doesn’t constitute a culture of a certain type, it just wasn’t what I was after (especially since I’m dating the love of my life and not interested in a hot summer fling.) I booked my trip.

“It’s going to be amazing,” Daniel reassured me before I left. I was starting to get nervous.

“I wish you were coming with me,” I said, knowing full well he couldn’t take the time off work.

“Australia, love. Anyway, you need to have this experience.” He kissed me deeply, only strengthening my desire for his travel companionship. But he was right. I did need to have this experience. Because after 29 years of globetrotting with family and friends, it was time to achieve travel independence. And learn that I’m never actually alone.*

In fact, before I even got to Istanbul I discovered I would have someone to ooh and aah over the Hagia Sophia with: Amanda. One of Ally’s friends in Budapest, she had recently booked a quick trip to Turkey, arriving the day after me and leaving the day before. We exchanged information immediately, and rejoiced over being able to stay out after dark. (One of the promises I made to my parents – I would not explore nightlife by my lonesome.)

I flew in on a Wednesday afternoon. I was quite ill, battling some Hungarian malady, but excitement still coursed its way through my achy, overheated body. I took the train into town, because A) I love public transportation in other cities and B) it cost only $2. As we passed through the outskirts, kebap shops and local mosques whirring by, I felt a sense of rightness. I’m meant to be here. This city is incredible. This adventure is mine.

Following the emailed instructions from my hotel, I exited at Cemberlitas. I opened up Google Maps to where I’d marked the hotel, then made the mistake of clicking the locate button. It sent me back to Hungary and spiraling into self-doubt. Why didn’t I print out instructions? Haven’t I learned anything from my mom and Rick Steves? I can’t believe I’m here alone dependent on my iPhone! I took a deep breath, and reminded myself there was such a thing as wifi. It took all of three minutes to find a café and jump on their network. Crisis averted. I relaxed – this wouldn’t be so hard.

Google maps reliably directed me to the Blue Istanbul Hotel, a short five minute walk from the train stop. I paused in front of my new home for the next six days. It wasn’t exactly what I expected, with its kitschy old patio furniture, chipped paint, and rather ominous blue lighting, but it had a certain charm to it. Like the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, I thought hopefully, entering.

“You must be Emmy,” the concierge smiled, pronouncing my name the same way the Turkish waiters at my first ever restaurant job did.

“That’s me,” I confirmed. I must’ve been their only single American female customer.

“You didn’t want to be picked up from the airport?” he asked, surprised.

I shook my head and grinned. “Nah, I like people-watching.” He nodded, his eyes meeting mine, twinkling with understanding. I liked him. He took my passport and started checking me in.

“Would you like a coffee or tea?”

“Sure, that’d be great,” I replied.

He sent one of the young staff to grab the welcome drink, and he returned a couple of minutes later. I sniffled slightly as I reached for the cup.

“Oh, you’re sick!” the concierge intuited. “You must have mint tea! One minute.” And he sent the boy off again. “Please, sit, relax. And you must also have some soup. We will get you soup.”

I drank the tea in the lobby, then was directed to the dining room to wait for the soup. I wondered if they treated all the guests this way, or if I was receiving extra care because of my solo status. Either way, I felt warmed by the gesture, literally and figuratively. The flavorful golden soup tasted amazing going down, nevermind I had no idea what it was.

I finished my soup, thanked the concierge, and was shown to my room on the fifth floor. The space was painfully cramped (no morning yoga here!), but had a beautiful view onto the Sea of Marmara. I wheeled my suitcase in, careful to avoid knocking over the tiny table, and placed it in the armoir. I pulled back the gauze curtain, opened the doors onto the one foot “balcony,” and stepped out into the warm evening air. To the left minarets emerged from Little Hagia Sofia, out in front dozens of shipping boats peppered the water, and to the right the sun began its descent. Perfection.

I enjoyed the stillness for a few minutes before heading back out. Even though I felt wretched, I was determined to at least see something around the neighborhood before nightfall. The concierge was of course eager to help, providing me with a map and a list of destinations.

“You’ve been so helpful,” I said gratefully, pocketing the materials. “What’s your name?”

“Bahattin,” he replied. “It’s my pleasure.” Any imperfections in the décor were quickly erased in the presence of that smile.

I left in search of the Hagia Sofia, less than a mile walk from my house. It was closed to visitors, but I figured I could at least see the outside. I stumbled first upon the Arasta Bazaar, the shops closing for the evening. I browsed freely with no pressure from salesmen. Lanterns, carpets, scarves, spices.

From the bazaar I found myself around the back side of Sultanhamet, also called the Blue Mosque. There was no one in sight. Am I allowed in? I wondered, creeping up the stairs to the large entrance. Two woman in shawls meandered in my direction. I guess so.

I made my way into the outer arcade and found other visitors and worshippers weaving in and out of its walls. Stairs led up to the enclosed courtyard. I felt underdressed, in my jeans and tee-shirt, but I followed the other tourists and ascended the steps anyway. Only Muslims were allowed into the covered prayer hall at this time of day, but I was quite content to simply stand in the middle of the open courtyard and admire the crescent moon hanging delicately above the domed walls.

I don’t know if it was God, or the history of the city permeating the air, or just the fact of being alone in a foreign land, but I felt transcendent in that moment. I’m doing this every night, I thought, caught somewhere between tears and laughter. I lingered a few minutes longer, then headed back to the hotel, careful to keep my promise to my parents. I walked in my room just in time to hear the nightly prayers echo across my balcony. What a life, I smiled, what a world.

*Unless I decided to pull a Christopher McCandless. Or got stuck up in space like Sandra Bullock in Gravity. But that’s not happening anytime soon. Or ever.

Main Girl Productions
Los Angeles, CA

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The Art of Living Alone


Candlesticks. Photo by Amy Main, at her house, 2010

I’ve lived alone for nine years now. That’s nine years of leaving the door open when I go to the bathroom, of letting dishes accumulate in the sink until I can smell them, of doing lingerie pilates in my living room while watching Game of Thrones at unreasonable volumes. It’s almost a decade of coming home from nights out to nothing but my fridge and my computer, and crying or dancing or Reese’s Peanut Butter cup eating by my lonesome at 2 in the morning. It’s nine years of paying bills solo, of grocery shopping for one, of having no one to blame but myself for the dead grass and wilted plants in my yard. It’s a third of my life spent sleeping alone under a roof, of having quiet when I want it, of not having to answer to anyone. It’s nine years of learning to live with myself, and only myself.

In the beginning, living alone wasn’t so much of a choice as something I fell into. In fact, my time in LA actually started off with a flurry of roommates. First, there was the chronically high chick I shared a bunkbed with at a USC fraternity for a summer. This was just as awful as it sounds: three months of being accosted with inane questions like “Have you ever tried Flaming Hot Cheetos?” and being kept awake by bros cheering over beer pong victories at 4am.* This was followed by my freshman year roommate, a lovely laid back Hawaiian girl I occasionally hung out with and easily co-existed with in a spacious “dorm” room at the Radisson. After I dropped out of USC, I temporarily couch crashed with a fellow film student in West Hollywood (an experience I pray never to have to repeat, although she was wonderful), and subsequently found one of those ugly, white, wall-to-wall carpeted 2br/2ba apartments near the Rock ‘N Roll Ralph’s. This ended up being a boring, complicated disaster, but suffice it to say this living situation lasted less than two months and ended with me getting screwed out of a refrigerator and mattress. Finally, I ended up down at an incredible two story townhouse on the Promenade with balconies and a view of the ocean for a criminal $500 a month, only to have the girl who invited me into this heavenly situation move out a week later. Luckily for me, her parents decided to hold onto the place a year longer with me essentially playing house sitter, and thus after 15 months and 5 moves, I was introduced to the joy and simplicity of not having roommates. The rest is nine years of history.

* * * * * *

When people find out how long I’ve been living alone, I’m usually met with one of two responses: “Wow, that must be so wonderful” or “Ugh, that must be so lonely.” I tend to lean towards the first, obviously, or I wouldn’t have chosen bachelorettedom for so long, but there are pros and cons to this style of living. As with so many things in life, each positive can also be a negative, each weakness a strength. For instance, living alone has taught me to be fiercely independent and comfortable in my own skin, but it’s also made me uneasy navigating other people’s spaces. I often find myself unsure of the etiquette when staying at someone else’s place, or even hosting a guest at my bungalow. Growing up in a house with my parents and my brother and only one full bathroom I certainly knew how to share space, but it’s an art I seemed to have lost (and one I will need to relearn if I am to achieve a couple of key future goals).

For me, the biggest pro of solo living is the freedom to do whatever I want, whenever I want, without the distraction of another human being within my space. I find this especially important as a writer and artist, because my creativity necessitates solitude. Yes, I work in a collaborative medium (film/tv/commercials), but most of the hours I put into my craft are spent in the confines of my own mind. I write and work on stories almost exclusively at my house, and I find it exceedingly difficult to get anything done when other people are around. Other advantages include but are not limited to: being able to scrub the kitchen floor naked; not having to rely on another person to get a rent check in on time; being able to leave underwear everywhere; not having to remember what stuff in the fridge belongs to you; not having to listen to somebody else have sex.**

Judging from people’s responses, the biggest con of living alone would appear to be loneliness. While I occasionally feel lonely, it’s not because of a lack of a roommate, but rather a longing for intimacy, mostly in the form of a healthy romantic relationship. Conversely, I’m around people so much in my day to day activities as an Angeleno that I find the solitude essential, a respite from the constant social bombardment of 4 million counting. No, I would say the biggest downside is not having a larger space. Two or more people = more rent money = more square footage. I love my bungalow, but I wouldn’t mind being able to host a dinner party, or walking into a closet, or installing a pole in the living room. By the same token, it would be nice to have someone to split the bills with (I might actually consider getting cable) and to divide up the chores (maybe I would still have grass). And of course, there’s the socialization aspect I mentioned above: I feel woefully ill-prepared for any future co-habitating (apologies in advance, Mr. Right.)

* * * * * *

October 1st marks my 8 year anniversary in my Hollywood guest house, longer than most celebrity marriages (my landlady considers me a surrogate granddaughter). I think it’s pretty safe to say I’ll be reaching my 10 year anniversary of residing solo next year without much difficulty, and I feel like that milestone deserves some sort of award- perhaps a PhD in Bachelorettedom, or a radio dedication of “Independent Women.” At any rate, recognition or not, I’ve mastered the Art of Living Alone, and am proud to have achieved this in my 20s. But as I barrel headlong towards my 30s, I have to admit, it might be time for a change. For something just a little less solitary. For just a bit more companionship. Yes, folks, that’s right. It might finally be time for…

A cat.

* Thinking back on that experience now, it seems only natural that I’ve ended up where I have, like something Freud could have predicted in his sleep.
** I realize for some this last one may be a disadvantage, if you’re into that sort of thing. Again, two way streets.

Flying Lessons



I hate flying. If my love for travel weren’t as deep as it is, I may be one of those trains, ships, and automobile girls. But alas, my heart breaks if I don’t touch down in a foreign country at least once a year (and quite frankly, who has time to participate in trans-oceanic cruises aside from the elderly and my parents?) Thus, in order to strengthen my 28 year marriage to traveling – yes, I began my adventures as an infant in Thailand – I have had to overcome my dreaded fear of airplanes. And oh, what a trip it’s been.

Like many sufferers of pteromerhanophobia, I didn’t always picture horrific scenes of airplane shrapnel piercing my liver while my left arm was on fire the second I stepped into the aisle. No, there was a time back in the early 90s when I actually enjoyed being up in the clouds, viewing the world as a red-tailed hawk or Superman. “Daddy, daddy, look! There’s a McDonald’s!” my excited 7 year-old self would proclaim from 2,000 feet as we ascended into the heavens. Back then, I somehow could trust that the wheels would always touch down on the other side of the planet, that our odds of winning the airplane crash lottery were a slim 11 million to one. My greatest fear as we crossed the ocean in a Cathay Pacific 747 was a dearth of honey roasted peanuts. Those were the days.

I still remember the flight where everything changed. It was a dark and stormy night in Southeast Portland, the perfect night (pregnant pause) for a plane crash! That’s actually not true at all. It was a sunny morning in Northeast Portland, and I was awoken at 6 am by a camera crew, ready to escort me to PDX. At 16 years old, I had been cast in a reality show for ABC Family (one of the first of its kind), and I was being shuttled across the country to switch lives with a girl in Pennsylvania. I kissed my mom and dad goodbye on cable TV, and boarded that flight alone. That’s right, you heard me, ALONE. It was the first time I’d ever done such a thing, and the second we took off my mind could thing of nothing else except dying in the comfort of two hundred strangers.

Reflecting on it now, I find it quite ridiculous that this solitary flight birthed my crippling fear of flying. For one thing, how selfish of me to want my friends and family to die with me in a fiery crash. Isn’t it actually better if I go down with strangers, my loved ones spared the horrific demise? I guess not; misery loves familiar company, as they say. Secondly, and this is getting a bit more philosophical, we all technically die alone, so with or without my mother present, the fear should have been the same. Again, the irrational wins the day, and even now my fear of flying is exponentially increased when I’m traveling solo.

But enough of all that psychobabble, I know what you’re really wondering – “Amy, how have you been able to overcome such a dehabilitating condition as pteromerhanophobia?” Well, I’ll tell you, dear reader, and it’s really very simple: Xanax.

I came across this miracle airplane drug a blessed three years ago, on a return flight from Dusseldorf. Until this point, my tried and true weapon of defense were those mini wine bottles they serve free of charge on international flights. Lots and lots of them. For several years, I had found that a drunken stupor greatly decreased my sense of panic, and also significantly improved the quality of film programming (I don’t know what rottentomatoes was talking about, “Good Luck Chuck” was hilarious!) But as any alcoholic can tell you, the buzz eventually wears off, and on my flight to Paris a month B.X. (Before Xanax), I had succumbed to a full blown panic attack halfway through The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian. What makes this incident all the more surprising is the fact that I had also consumed a Tylenol PM, and the combination of the two had caused me to conk out. But do not underestimate my sensitivity to turbulence, because the second that plane started to tremble, I came to with a jolt, and my pulse went off the charts. (In retrospect, I wonder if the red wine and sleeping aid may have been the real cause of the panic attack. Who will ever know.)

Needless to say, after that terrifying experience over the Atlantic, I knew I required something much more potent than the poison of Dionysus to return me safely to Los Angeles. Luckily, my friend Zoe, an ex-pat living in that oh-so seedy arrondisement of Montmartre, prescribed just the thing. She gave me three little white tablets, and suggested I take one based on my slender frame. Knowing she was incapable of truly grasping the gravity of my condition, I took two before boarding AirBerlin Flight 790 to LAX. As I settled into my seat next to a 20-something Brit, I crossed my fingers and said a short prayer – “God save us.”

Twenty minutes later, suspended in a 400 ton piece of metal 10,000 feet above sea level, I was in heaven. I’d never felt so weightless, so content! The Brit could have told me he was secretly Al Qaeda and I would have smiled- “Bloody wonderful, good chap!” Every fear I’d ever had – spiders, ghosts, those pink flamingo yard ornaments – just evaporated into the oxygen deprived air of the stratosphere. “Life is beautiful! I’m on Xanax!” I proclaimed joyfully to my seatmate. “Do you have anymore?” he inquired, and I handed him my final pill. Wonderful! I thought, if this plane is to fall out of the sky, I will not be alone!

As chance would have it, a mere 12 hours later we arrived at the Tom Bradley terminal, as intact as two Xanax induced travelers could be. I retrieved my luggage from the baggage claim, phoned my friend who was circling the airport, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. I’d found my cure.

(Now off to London!!!)