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A Different Road By Trainmaster Synopsis: Henry and Anna take their dream vacation to Italy but their trip is ruined by mid-air turbulence. As clouds obscure the plane and wrap around Henry's thoughts, something happens that he doesn't understand. Nothing prepares him for an in-flight transformation--but with the help of a Canadian girl, an Austrian journalist, and a fat priest, he struggles to accept the change. Note: This manuscript incorporates the Elizabeth K?bler-Ross model of five stages of grief into the main character's reactions. For more information, refer to the appendix. Chapter 1: Denial Somewhere over Central France, the Airbus encountered turbulence. Anna was in the window seat watching the cloud tops, hoping for a sight of ground so we could orient ourselves. I happened to be leaning over her as the buffeting started. She pointed to an increasing haze forming on the front of the wing and then the plane started to bounce and shudder. I had visions of dying if the plane broke apart. "A-Anna. Is it supposed to do that?" "I think it's normal," she soothed, rubbing her cheek against my ear. "Just relax." She's always been the stable, levelheaded one in our marriage. So many times, I've depended on Anna for support and calmness. The wing slowly disappeared into the haze. At first I could see through to the cloud tops below, and then the wing was completely covered. As fog thickened around the plane, the blue sky above us disappeared. I scrambled to fasten my seat belt but it was difficult since the plane bounced us up and down in our seats. I could hear noises--thumps and squeals--through the steady roar of the jet turbines beside us. I caught the bicycle girl in the corner of my eye. She turned the page of her book as though this was routine. Her composure was a contrast to the sinking feeling in my gut. We must have hit an air pocket, because I flew up from my seat and the seat belt wasn't tight enough. As I came down, I groped blindly for the buckle and pulled it snug. My head slammed back against the seat cushion and started to ache, in my temples at first and then across my forehead painfully. I also felt fuzzy, woozy, and light-headed--all at the same time--like my head was spinning. My mind seemed captured in a fog thicker than the one enveloping the airplane. And my stomach was trying to escape. I clenched my teeth to control the gagging reflex, but that made the headache worse. When I relaxed my jaws, I got that stinging sensation in the back of my throat with an accompanying foul taste. I groped for an airsickness bag, but there wasn't one in front of me and the horrid feelings finally passed. As the lurching continued, the fog abruptly evaporated, flooding the plane with brilliant sunlight. It was so bright that it hurt, even with my eyes squeezed tightly shut. I rubbed away tears but more kept coming. I tried to squint but the light was too painful and I closed them again quickly. The sunlight was close enough to burn against my cheek. Something in the Airbus cabin was loudly whining, the ventilation system or something, at least that's the way it sounded. The plane bounced roughly upward and rolled slightly, knocking my head against the plastic pane of the window. Window? Groping around, I discovered the side of the plane was mere inches away from my left shoulder. Through the dizziness and headache, I caught myself wondering--how could this be? I wasn't sitting in the window seat. But if I was in the window seat, surely Anna must have moved to the middle. She reached over to hold my hand and I squeezed back in desperate relief. She also patted me on the cheek. I turned my head and squinted through the tears. In the fierce sunlight, she seemed a little hazy, like she was inside a shower curtain. The bicycle girl had gone to the lavatory or something. Her seat was empty, even as the plane bounced up and around. Brave girl, I thought, getting up and walking while the floor refused to stay in one place. I couldn't hold my eyes open and the woozy sensation was getting worse. Anna jerked her hand free. "No, wait," I cried. I wanted the reassurance, the comfort of her nearness. I flailed my arm beside me groping to catch her shoulder or her arm. It didn't matter to me right then what I could hold on to, and I'd have settled for her chin or even an ear. My chest suddenly constricted around my heart as I blinked my eyes open. The seat was empty; she wasn't there. I was alone in the row with my head splitting; suddenly apprehensive. As I slammed my eyes shut from the glare, I bit back a feeling of panic. It wasn't like Anna to disappear without letting me know. With another massive lurch and drop, the plane turned and the sunlight-- some of it--moved past me. My legs were suddenly chilly as the warm sunlight abandoned me. I shivered, but at that moment being cold was less vexing than the increasing headache and queasiness in my stomach. I felt like I was going to throw up again, so I pressed my palms against my eyes. The plane rolled again and its other side lifted up, banging my head against the window one more time. When it settled down squarely, the lurching and turbulence was fainter and then the jet was flying smoothly again. Over the loud speaker, the captain spoke. "Sorry about that folks, we hit quite a pocket of bumpy air back there. We're out of it now and the sky's clear and beautiful. If you're on the left side, take a look down--Orl?ans and the Loire River are below you. If you're on the right, Tours is over there and way off in the haze is Le Mans." I gingerly opened my eyes. I could see beautiful green hills. A magnificent river snaked silently below me. The sunlight was bright and warm but not so glaring. My head still ached, but the sky was a cloudless bright blue. A lake down below caught the sunlight and winked intensely at me. I winced and shut my eyes to lessen the pain of my flaring headache. With my eyes closed high above France, I preoccupied my mind by thinking about our trip. That seemed a better alternative than waiting for another lake to make the pain worse. Anna and I were on our way to Turin, Italy. She'd reorganized her teaching schedule and finally took two weeks off. The planning was all done--ruminating over maps of Italy, deciding the itinerary, consulting the travel agent, checking and rechecking the weather, packing, and all the other little details. We'd transferred to an international flight at JFK, and flown to London where we boarded the flight to Turin--Torino, they call it in Italian--birthplace of the little vintage Fiat Spider that was my pride-and-joy at home. In London, we picked up a seatmate, an athletic girl in her early twenties, wearing a short khaki skirt and a revealing brown top. She had sunglasses threaded through the bunched fabric at her bust line. She never said her name but I managed to get her to tell me she was traveling alone from Montreal on her way to meet some friends for an Alpine bicycle journey north into Switzerland. I tried to make small talk, commenting that it sounded strenuous being all uphill and twisting. She shrugged. "I guess so." And that's as far as the conversation went. Beyond that, she kept her nose buried in a thick hard-bound book. From my seat, I couldn't read the words and didn't see a title. Mentally, I named her the bicycle girl. She was pretty--thin and young--with long blond hair that was a real contrast to Anna and me. Anna had recently started dying her hair back to its original brown color to cover the streaks of gray at her temples. Mine went to silver a few years ago, darn it. At 58, Anna still taught junior high. She worked a lot of summer school sessions because she believed in teaching with compassion and encouragement. Since she was working all the time, we hardly ever went any place. I was already retired, feeling my 63 years, and looked forward to Anna's retirement. That's why the trip was so important; we knew we might never be able to afford it again. As I struggled with my headache, I was keenly aware of two things. The seats beside me stayed unoccupied. No Anna and no girl. As thankful for the seatbelt as I'd been during the turbulence, I wanted to rip it off, stand up, and shout out loud for them. I wanted to, but I felt paralyzed. Because I was different. Really different. Really, really different. It took me a few moments to figure out what the changes were. Besides being in the window seat, I had blond hair. I could see it in my peripheral vision, so I pulled a handful around in front of my face to examine it, and the tug on my scalp proved it was real. I could feel something wrapped around my ribs. It was--I took a deep breath--a bra. I tried to resist but finally my hands crept up to cup-- them. Breasts. Small but real. And sensitive. A pair of sunglasses hung down the outside of the brown top I was wearing. "Oh shit ," I muttered and then hoped no one around had heard me. This couldn't be possible. How could I have--breasts? Then my fingers dropped, by themselves, into my lap to probe. A tan skirt was wrapped around my legs. Inside the skirt, I was--it was-- unmistakably ... Female. Huh? I leaned back in Anna's window seat with my eyes closed. This was impossible. I could not understand how such a thing could happen. It-- just--couldn't--be. I opened my eyes again and cupped my hands tighter around the breasts, staring down at the rise of the bunched brown fabric, hoping they were not real, not part of me. One of the flight attendants passed up the aisle, glancing at each of the passengers to confirm we were all okay. She leaned in and tested to see if my seatbelt was fastened and tight. Satisfied, she smiled broadly. But I noticed that when she turned toward the people across the aisle, her smile faded and it didn't come back as she continued up the aisle. Did she find something wrong with their seatbelts. Or--was that bright smile aimed only at me? Why did the flight attendant smile? Because she caught me playing with the breasts? Playing with myself? Didn't she notice that I was different? Alone? Didn't she notice that Anna and the bicycle girl weren't in their seats? But she hadn't said a word--just that enigmatic smile. Could that mean I was the only one on the plane aware of my transformation? My thoughts churned round and round. Nothing I could imagine accounted for the hair, or the bra, or the breasts. Or--damn it, it couldn't happen--the other thing--inside the skirt, where I expected to--no, no, no, I stopped listening to myself. The attendant was gone by the time I realized I should have asked for some aspirin and a cup of water for my headache. I waited but she never came back. Finally, I walked unsteadily to the rear of the plane and the restroom. Inside, I stared at myself in the mirror under the glare of the florescent lights. When I swept back the blond hair, what I saw reflecting in the lavatory mirror was not exactly the bicycle girl's face, even though it was in its early twenties. Oh, the eyes were definitely hers--they had drilled holes in me when I was trying to break the ice and make small talk with her. I remembered thinking back then, "I'll never forget your eyes, girl." Even though I could see myself in it, it was not exactly my face either. Under the almost invisible peach-fuzz that women's faces have, it was still my chin--or the female equivalent. I always thought it was too severe and chiseled. This was more feminine but with a slight cleft that anyone who knew me would recognize. The face had Anna's lips and more than a hint of Anna's exotic Hispanic appearance. Her complexion was slightly darker than mine or the bicycle girl's, and it showed. I was not wearing any make-up, didn't need it really, because of Anna's ethnicity. So there I was, staring at a person I only partly recognized. Was I going insane? Was I hallucinating about being someone else, someone I didn't know? Had I gone totally bereft of my senses? Who was the girl? And where was I--looking over her shoulder? It was tempting to swing my head quickly around but I didn't. I knew there was no one else in the lavatory, only me, and my head ached even more. I could feel denial welling up within me. It took a long time to admit that it was denial. What was it about the person in the mirror that I wanted to deny? Her existence? Her youth and loveliness? My soul staring out of her eyes? The reality of the whole bizarre situation? The fact that I was smack-dab in the middle of something I didn't understand? Something that was really weird? Even with my temples throbbing painfully, there was the insistent realization that I hated everything about me. I wanted to back up time to the moment the plane entered the cloud. I wanted to feel Anna's cheek next to my ear, to hear her tell me in her soothing tone: "Just relax." There was a knock on the lavatory door. In my sullen mood, the knock was a reminder that if this was a dream, I couldn't wake up soon enough. Denial? Yes. You in the mirror. You don't exist. Get out of my life. When I stopped to ask a flight attendant for aspirin, my voice was softer, huskier, and lower than either Anna's or the bicycle girl's. It sounded odd in my ears and I'm not sure I covered my surprise. What a story the two attendants would share that night at my expense. The pain medicine started working by the time I got back to my seat, and my stomach felt a little better, too. I sat with my eyes closed and realized I must have fallen asleep, because I woke up with a jerk and the headache was almost gone. The bicycle girl's backpack was jammed under the seat in front of her--I took it out so I could explore its contents and get to know her. The biggest item in the backpack, taking up most of the space, was the helmet she'd be wearing up the Alps. I thought, this is not me. She should be the one to wear the helmet. There was my denial again; I had no interest in cycling, so the helmet and the Alpine trip meant nothing to me. Hidden under the helmet were several changes of underwear and two extra bras so she'd have something, I supposed, in case her luggage was lost. Given my state of mind, that was a paradoxical relief; something I would not have to think about right away. Her billfold was there, too, with a Quebec driver's license. Her name was Clarice Dunlop and she was from Montreal. She was 22 years old, almost two-thirds younger than me--only a child, really, someone Anna might have taught. "This is not me," I repeated with the bitter gall of my denial welling up. I was still Henry, 63, a retired old businessman, white-haired and starting to be wrinkled. "I refuse to be someone named ..." Ummm--Clarice? Well, actually, it had a nice ring to it. As much as I tried to deny it to myself, I definitely wasn't male anymore. In this very real world, I knew I wasn't going to pass myself off as Henry. The breasts on my chest defined how others would see me now. So I needed a name, an identity that matched. The one on the driver's license was convenient. I didn't know until much later how--by making that single decision--my whole future would change. There on the plane, I wasn't really thinking about any future at all. It was all too complicated. I noticed that Anna had a book shoved into the seatback pouch in front of me. She read those infernal historical romance novels; gobbled them like candy. I've never been remotely interested before. This contained four different novels by three different authors. To distract myself, to choke back the denial, I started to read. The plane was on finally approach into Turin's Casselle airport when I looked up. I'd read my way through a third of the first novel, following the strong heroine and her wet dream villain/conspirator/boyfriend. My palms were damp (not to mention a few other places) and my pulse was racing. No book had ever done that to me before. Chapter 2: Anger When we landed in Turin, I waited until everyone else grabbed their stuff out of the overhead bins. After the aisle cleared a little, I pulled our day bags down. Anna's. Mine. But did I even need mine anymore? Time would tell. I pulled Anna's carry-on out from under the seat ahead of her. Her passport was still tucked into the side pocket where she could easily reach for it in customs. It was definitely not the new me in the photograph, making it unusable. For a moment, my eyes misted when I thought about Anna and wondered where she'd gone. I reached under the middle seat for my carry-on. It wasn't there. I felt a touch of panic. Without that bag, I didn't have a passport. Other passengers must have thought I was crazy when I suddenly knelt down and peered forward and backward to see if it had slid farther away. No, nothing. If it wasn't there, why was my day bag still in the overhead compartment? It was a terrible moment for me as I realized I'd been robbed of my very expensive, brand new digital camera. And another worry suddenly surfaced in my mind. My wallet was in my trouser pocket. Where had my clothing gone--the stuff I'd worn onto the plane? I looked around, between the seat cushions, under the seats, and on the floor. There was no sign of the wallet, which meant that my half of our spending cash was gone--several hundred dollars. Fortunately, Clarice also had a passport in the zippered outside pocket of her backpack--and surprisingly, it was issued by the United States, not Canada. The photo looked only a little like the face I'd appraised in the lavatory mirror, but the hair was blond, and I hoped that would get me through Italian customs. There was a suitcase in the overhead bin and since there were no passengers left nearby, I assumed it must be Clarice's. I took it down and set it in the aisle. Then I looked at the pile of bags I had to haul off the plane all by myself. I glared down at my body and shuddered. I was so thin. As I put the book in the backpack, I wondered, why had I so genuinely enjoyed reading about romance for the first time in my life? Could there be other things about myself I didn't know? No, no, no. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to know those things; didn't want to accept that I was a new me; didn't want to want to be here; still didn't believe it. It was beginning to piss me off. Fortunately, I could tow the suitcase behind me down the aisle toward the exit, with one of the day bags hooked over the handle. Wearing the helmet on my head and the backpack on my back, I juggled the second day bag and Anna's carry-on with their straps over my shoulders. There were no passengers left in the cabin, or I'd have bumped into them right and left. The flight attendant at the cabin door called me "miss" when she thanked me for flying with them. I smiled politely--inside I wanted to lash out, to angrily bite her head off for the insinuation. Part of my anger was displayed by the insistence of my eyes to fill with tears. I stumbled out into the jet-way half blind and groping. Whatever gods had arranged my fate; this surely wasn't how I expected to disembark. There were people outside customs greeting their relatives and friends. I had no one to welcome me. Not one person would know who I was behind the grim face, as I walked through the terminal to a taxi. In the taxi, it occurred to me that I should have gone to baggage claims for the rest of our luggage. Now it was too late to go back. The hotel had a reservation for Clarice Dunlop. I handed over the Quebec driver's license, cringing at what the desk clerk might say. The picture was so wrong, and I expected to be called out as a fraud. All he did was demand a credit card to hold open the myriad of items that hotels charge. I wasn't sure if Clarice's Visa would work for me and wished I had an excuse prepared if it didn't, but the impatient clerk took it anyway. Just like that, I was through check-in. The bell captain loaded my bags on his cart and took me up to the room. I found everything in Clarice's suitcase fit her--well, shit, okay -- now it fit me. For a few moments, I stood there with angry tears streaming down my cheeks cursing the demons who'd done this to me. Who was I? I was upset that I could no longer answer the question with the slightest bit of assurance. Some of the clothing was distinctly casual and loosely packed, unmistakably the style of a young energetic woman--a pair of blue jeans, a windbreaker, sandals, and durable athletic shoes for the bicycle trip. Some of it was carefully folded--a pretty blouse, a matching scarf, a pair of black shoes, and nylons. Perhaps she was meeting someone; a boyfriend maybe? Well, there was no need for that in my life. Those items took up the top two-thirds of the suitcase. The bottom section had a mesh bag with two candy colored outfits made of some form- fitting spandex--the label said Lycra--perfect for a lithe young figure heading for a trip up mountain roads. Perfect. Just stinking perfect. It suddenly occurred to me that her bicycle might still be in baggage claims waiting for a girl who would never come. I focused back on the suitcase. There was one more thing in it, folded carefully and wrapped in plastic. It was a dress, refined enough to have dinner at reasonably classy restaurants. I hung it in the closet because I would need it in Milan at the opera. The dress made me realize that I didn't know a thing about living in a female body. I didn't know how to walk like a woman, or stand, or use the right body language. And--in a country whose language I didn't speak, that prided itself on women being very attractive and feminine. I also became conscious that Anna's glass of wine was begging for release from within me. So was the club soda the bicycle girl had sipped while she flipped pages in her book. And my plastic cup of beer--all racing for the same exit at the same time. It was a painful reminder that if I didn't hustle, I'd have a serious case of girlish incontinence. Geez, it was raising my blood pressure. I hurried into the bathroom to pull up the skirt and meet my new plumbing. Also in the suitcase were hygiene products that I'd never paid any attention to before, but was suddenly aware that I might need fairly soon if the girl started her period. That image in my mind created another embarrassing vision, and I felt my face get warm as I blushed. The sensible voice told me to look at the bright side--this windfall meant I could continue the trip without worrying about where sanitary supplies could be purchased. Oh, there was no doubt I would continue. I'd looked forward to the trip as much as Anna, maybe more. I was dying to study the Renaissance masters as closely as I could. Even being stuck inside the body of a young woman wasn't going to interfere if I could help it. Yet there was no use denying the change anymore. I didn't want to be a girl. I was upset and grumpy, and--and very tired. It had been a long trip, including a shock of monstrous proportions, then the exhausting process of dealing with the baggage between customs, taxi, and hotel, using a body that was two-thirds as big and half as strong as I'd been before. All I wanted to do was crash into the bed. In the morning, I got my first lesson in why women remove their bras at night. The damn thing was bunched up around my breasts, pinching me in a thousand ways that weren't pleasant. It took me a couple of tries in the mirror to get myself re-arranged and out of pain. I called room service for breakfast to stop the grumbling in Clarice's trim belly. The full force of my anger was reinforced by the headache my hunger gave me. Yet by the time room service arrived with my order, I didn't want it--it didn't smell good or appeal to me, so I sent it away with a snap of my fingers. It was something Henry would eat--a hearty masculine banquet of eggs with sausage and hash browns, and gravy on biscuits. I burst into tears when I realized that Clarice's body wanted something delicate and light. But I still had the grumble. I called room service again and apologized. "I'd really like something lighter," I told the operator. In a few minutes, the bellhop knocked with a small plate of peaches on delicate crepes sided by a piece of very thinly sliced ham. After breakfast, I took a hot shower and felt a little better. There's something about a good soaping that brings a psychological boost, even if the body being soaped has some unfamiliar protrusions and recesses. Then I sat on the bed with my hands between my pale white legs, disturbed by knowing they were mine now. The romance novel book had repeatedly used the term "creamy" to describe the heroines' thighs, and I couldn't have agreed more. They were smooth, soft, foreign, and-- sensitive. Before I found myself doing something physical I knew I'd regret, I decided to get dressed. I buttoned the blue blouse and tucked it into the blue jeans. Then I got busy discarding anything that obviously didn't belong to Clarice. That meant what was left of my male stuff and all of Anna's clothing. I held up my razor and rubbed my chin. No, I wouldn't need that anymore. What I wasn't taking with me went into the suitcase, and I had the hotel ship it back to the United States. I packed all of Clarice's stuff and the essential toiletries and things into our day bags. I didn't know what to do with the biking shoes and helmet, so I set them aside. I also threw away the pantyhose. I was damned if I'd ever be caught dead in something like that. Before I put on the sandals, I sorted out what I needed to carry with me. The wallet, obviously, went into my back pocket. A pack of facial tissue went into my front pocket. She had some light pink lip gloss, so I took that in case my lips chapped. I thought about taking her hair brush. I'd spent half an hour conquering the art of getting long hair to look smooth, but decided not to. Then I changed my mind since it looked breezy outside. I shoved its handle into my other back pocket. In the hallway, I met an older woman. "Are you confused, dear?" she said in a sweet old voice. "Shouldn't you go back and get your purse?" I thought about blowing her off as a busybody--then stopped. She meant well enough and I'd nearly revealed my ignorance of being a woman. "You're right," I sighed as I stared down the hallway. "I was so anxious to start the trip that I totally forgot to pack one." She smiled. "There, there, my dear. You should look in the gift shop." She patted my hand as I held the elevator door open. She cautioned, "You be careful, dear, these Italian men are wolves." I wondered just how much she suspected. Was I that transparent? Or was she just being a polite old grandmotherly type? And why did I think of her as old? If anything, she couldn't have been much older than me,--mid-60s maybe, like Henry. I held the door open for her again in the lobby. Yeah, Henry, retired old Henry, who did the best he could with all his aches and pains. I looked down at the young and vital body I was in. Nothing hurt anymore. The conversation left me stunned at how vulnerable I was. No one would have stopped Henry and commented on his lack of some portion of his apparel, no matter how his pockets bristled. Would she have spoken to Clarice as she did to me? How would Clarice have responded? Would Clarice have made such a glaring error? And would Clarice need to worry about Italian men being wolves? Would I? Yes, I believe I would, and I certainly didn't know how to resist them. Henry could ignore a physical advance; I couldn't. Even though the lobby was warm, I shivered. Across from the hotel was a tourist trap with a variety of clothing. I walked around until I found a purse I didn't hate. It was tan with a small Torino 2006 Olympics logo, the least gaudy thing in the shop, and the strap was long enough I could wear it on my shoulder and hide it under my arm. I took refuge on one of the sofas in the hotel lobby so I could surreptitiously transfer all the things from my pockets into the purse. I felt really stupid and conspicuous. The rest of the day was scheduled for walking around Turin. Our itinerary gave us--Anna and Henry--more time in the city than we wanted but the travel agent had insisted we would need a good sleep after the long international flight. I remembered my night's exhausted crash and knew he'd been right. He told us our timing in Turin wasn't the best. The city had planned a lot of restorations. In fact, we wouldn't get to see the Venaria Royal Palace--it was soon to become a museum and was off-limits. Anna had been tolerant when she encouraged me--as Henry, of course--to visit the National Museum of Cinema, the tallest museum in the world. She had her books; I loved movies. My cute little Spider came out of the manufacturing works of FIAT, also known as the Fabbrica Italiana Automobili Torino. The city was also the headquarters of Lancia and Alfa Romeo--I smiled as I remembered when 007 stole the Alfa Romeo GTV6 in "Octopussy." Turin hosted the 2006 Winter Olympics, which might have interested Clarice but bored me to tears. Its legacy was the Olympic Arch, a parabola that tilted crazily across from Fiat's famous Lingotto rooftop testing oval. For a few peaceful hours, I could be Henry again (never mind the bra and purse), wandering the city, gawking at the sites, delighting in the enchantment of just being there. I stopped at one of their many coffeehouses to rest and savor an espresso. I really missed Anna as I walked around looking at things we'd marked in the travel guides. Where was she? Several times I stopped with tears flooding my eyes--I couldn't help myself -- when I found places I knew would have pleased her. I lifted my espresso in a silent toast to her and wondered if she could hear me. In the early afternoon, I discovered a quaint little funicular railway, with some old fashioned cars that are pulled up into the foothills by a rack-ratchet thing down the middle between the rails. A man at the station told me it was built in 1880. I thought of my young neighbor Will from home, who delighted in finding trains to ride. I wondered if he knew about this one? What would he think of me now that I was about his age, and--female? Oh, damn, my bitterness flared again. Our biggest disappointment was missing the CioccolaTO, the huge annual chocolate festival held in Turin every March. We'd tried, honestly we did, to figure out a schedule that included it, but the timing wasn't right for Anna's job. Still--chocolate--my mouth started to water at the thought of chocolate exhibits, samples, and all the other sweets that came with the festival. It was starting to get dark when I found a chocolate store and bought a small package with samples of their finest to take back to the hotel with me. I felt decadent that evening as I leaned on a pile of pillows and savored several pieces. Ummm-um, they were delicious. With that glow surrounding me, I fell asleep. Intermezzo: Paradox Even in the new day's glare, the auto rental booth was cramped and stuffy, with none of the racks of destination brochures I was familiar with. The counter was wood-grained, but the veneer was peeling up and the middle-aged clerk didn't seem to care. There was no carpet, the only window was in the wooden door, and the lights were yellow. The clerk didn't seem to speak any English. He gestured and tried to make me understand something was wrong when I handed him my passport and driver's license. Given that I spoke next to no Italian, I was stumped. And abruptly, he pushed them back across the counter at me. He tapped the driver's license a couple times and backed up with his arms crossed, glaring at me. So much for surviving in a foreign country with invalid credentials. My anger was a sting of bile in the back of my throat--aimed at the worthless ID, at Turin, at life, at the clerk, at Clarice, and at myself. "What's the problem?" I asked hesitantly. The clerk barked back at me, incomprehensible. Finally a handsome young man with broad shoulders and a squared-off semi-military blonde haircut came to my rescue. He'd been writing something when I came in but he set that aside and translated the clerk's words to me. Standing there at my side, he towered over me. "He says you can't use these here," he said with a soft accent, German, probably. "I think the problem is the rental insurance, since your passport and driver's license are from different countries." He switched to Italian and spoke rapidly, and finally the clerk nodded his head. I didn't know what they were saying. I felt my eyes start to fill with tears. Oh shit, that's just the thing to do, Henry, the girl thing. Play the tear game. Get some sympathy. Be the poor little lady. "What--what can I ..." Shaking his head, the German put his fingertip on my lips. "It's alright. He'll let you have it. He thinks you're pretty." With a shrug, he added, "Whatever it takes ..." "Thanks," I said, sniffing back the tears. The clerk handed me a short stack of forms. They were in Italian and therefore unfathomable. Once again, the blonde German rescued me, and I was grateful for his assistance as he talked me through the parts of the forms I needed to fill out. Soon I had the keys to an American Crown Victoria in my hand. He kept telling me it was "a great car, great car." I didn't have the heart to tell him that, to me, it was as utilitarian as a police car. I started out of the rental booth but he stopped me with a hand on my elbow. "Excuse me, Clarice." He knew my name? Then I remembered that he'd helped me fill out the forms. "I, uh, have a slight problem with my own rental. I hate to ask it, but your generosity will be appreciated." His reservation had never been sent by the agency that booked his flight. "Would you mind if I traveled with you?" He knew from the form that my next destination was Milan. I felt sorry for him. But I wasn't going to give in--until I looked him in the eyes. Beautiful bright blue eyes. The kind of eyes a girl could get lost in. A girl? Oh shit, what the hell had just happened to me? I guess I must have nodded. "Thank you. It's about an hour and a half to Milan from here," he said. "At least you've gotten me much closer to my destination." "Y-yeah. Okay," I agreed numbly. He carried the day bags to the car while I checked out at the front desk. He didn't argue when I got in the driver's seat. We talked as I navigated onto the expressway. His name was Gerhard. He was a journalist, a freelance writer, and had been asked by an English publisher to interview some Italian painter near Vicenza whose name I didn't recognize. Gerhard was Austrian, born and raised in Vienna but living in Salzburg now. That accounted for the ever-so-soft Germanic accent. His undergraduate degree was from Britain. "If you're going to write in English," he said, "where else would you go to learn to write?" We talked all the way, and the rest of our conversation was light and fun. But in an hour and a half, that's about the only personal information I got out of him. By the time we drove into Milan, I had a hunch that I'd said too much about myself. As the bell captain took my day bags out of the Crown Victoria's trunk, Gerhard thanked me for the ride and walked away, heading for his hostel. He would get a substantial paycheck when the article was published but he had to pay his own way for now. When I saw my bags on the ground, I realized I'd made a stupid mistake. The trouble with having no experience as a girl was that I did things wrong. I'd left the dress hanging in the closet of the hotel in Turin-- simply hadn't noticed that it wasn't packed. And I'd planned to wear it to the opera. Anna had our tickets to La Traviata in her day bag. But I didn't need two. Even though I wasn't finished checking in, I raced to the hotel entrance and yelled his name and held up the tickets. "Please--be my guest this evening." He nodded and smiled. I tried to ignore what the smile did to my insides. I was angry at myself for saying too much about me, and for letting him get to me. But I needed company to keep from spoiling the evening for myself. In return, he toured me around the best parts of Milan. It was a delightful city to explore and we visited every place he could squeeze into the day. There were many things that I enjoyed--as Henry. There were also sights that would have thrilled Anna--like the third largest cathedral in the world. Deep down, Anna was a lifelong Catholic, even though I was about as non-religious as it gets. She'd attended mass every Christmas and Easter for as long as we were married--and blessed me by never asking me to attend. I wasn't really impressed by Milan's cathedral, even though Gerhard seemed to think its Gothic edifice was magnificent. I guess, for a building dating from 1336, it is pretty majestic--at least it's had a long life. Actually, I learned that the facade I found so disturbing was built in the mid-1600s and the thing wasn't really finished until Napoleon decreed it would be the legacy of his 1804 coronation. I was interested that the cathedral faces the basilica, the public square, that's at the very center of Milan. Since Milan is the heart of Italy's industrial north, that puts the cathedral--"Duomo di Milano"--in the middle of the map. We found the "Centro Sperimentale di Cinematografia"--the National School of Cinematography. It's an exclusive place and only young people are accepted. Nineteen to 26 year olds, just my body's age. Uh huh, yeah. With my knowledge of films, I thought, maybe I should apply. In the late afternoon, Gerhard and I walked beside the canal on the Ripa di Porta Ticinese. It was just over an hour before the curtain rose at Teatro alla Scala, and we had maybe half a mile to go. He told me how, after the old opera house burned down in 1776, this new one was built on the location of the church of Santa Maria della Scala, hence the name La Scala. Again my ignorance embarrassed me--I had no idea that in 1776 anything else was happening except the American Revolution. Gerhard just smiled about it as we held hands. Wait a minute--held hands? I couldn't believe it! As we ambled back toward the piazza, I was even more confused about myself. Here was this big Austrian, holding my hand, reeking of male scent, making my head spin. I wondered what the hell I was doing. But I didn't let go and it felt good. It helped relieve the terrifying rage that had been building since I landed at Turin. Anger was not an emotion I--Henry--had much experience with. This was aimed at a cute Canadian girl that I couldn't fight. How dare she do this to me, use my hand as if it was still hers? I hated the anger. As strange as it sounds, I was mad at myself for being angry. Life was so much simpler when I was still Henry, before we'd lifted off from Heathrow. All these confusing emotions, they frustrated me. So I let Gerhard hold my hand, because I couldn't think of anything better to do with it. La Traviata was a live broadcast with a wonderful soprano, Angela Gheorghiu, as Violetta Val?ry, and the renowned Mexican tenor Ramon Vargas as Alfredo Germont. Planned as the highlight of our trip, we'd paid dearly for the tickets and traveled halfway around the world to see it. Yet I don't even remember it, because all I could think about was to resist, to stay steady, to keep my sanity. Sitting next to me was the one thing I suddenly desired more at that moment than anything else in the world. I just couldn't help myself and--it worried me. After the opera, Gerhard took me to a late dinner--his treat because he wanted to thank me for the opera, and also because in Europe it seems expected the man will select the restaurant and pick up the bill. I giggled at his attempts to compose American puns, but he didn't need to work very hard, he was naturally funny. We toasted ourselves with a large bottle of Italian wine. I don't remember what kind, because I overestimated Clarice's ability to hold alcohol, and got so tipsy that it didn't matter. He held me up as we walked back. The evening was warm and a light breeze blew off the Padana, the shallow plains to the south and east. Earlier in the day, he told me a third of Italy's population lives in this basin. I kept stumbling and giggling about it. Finally, I stopped and turned toward him so I could hang around his neck with both arms. He wrapped his arms around me and lifted me off the pavement, carrying me easily to the hotel, with my breasts pressed into his strong, masculine chest. When Gerhard set me down at the door to my room, I expected him to leave for his hostel. But instead he stood in the doorway. It occurred to me that he was staring, maybe cataloging my features, studying my face. I invited him in and he closed the door behind him. So there I was--an innocent female alone with a man in my room. I didn't want to be female but I couldn't change that. The man in my room was clearly attracted to me. He smiled and I smiled, and all my willpower was suddenly swept right out of my head. It had to be the wine, I told myself; the wine was making him desirable. The feelings I'd had at the opera came roaring back. I didn't want to admit I needed something. It was so wrong that I was ashamed of even thinking it. Then suddenly I didn't care. My alcohol addled brain realized that I really wasn't angry anymore; couldn't be, could I? In my inebriated condition, my totally out-of-control hands were busy untucking his shirt. I ordered myself to stop but my hands said no. He rested his hands on my back for a few moments, waiting for a signal from me. I think I nodded. He lifted the hem of my blouse and pulled it over my head and off without unbuttoning it. I remember the feeling of my breasts as he undid the bra. My whole body was chilly and his hands were so warm. It should be no surprise what happened. He was wonderfully gentle for such a big man, as I had my first physical experience being a woman. Afterward, as I lay there with Gerhard snoring softly next to me, I was- -well--confused. What the hell had I done to myself? Slept with a man. Earth to Henry-- can you repeat that--Slept. With. A. Man. Had sex with him. I didn't understand myself. There was no excuse for what I'd just done. I was a liberal person and fully accept that men could love other men, but I'd never been attracted to other men. And yet here I was, a man who was merely masquerading as a girl, and I'd slept with a man. Even worse, I realized in a lame-brained way that I'd slept with a man I didn't know more about than his first name and the city he came from. He might have lied about those, and about his upcoming interview in Vicenza, and a whole lot more that hadn't been germane until right there in the dark. Was it safe to be around him? I thought about another thing, too--oh damn, we hadn't used any protection. No condom. There was a good chance Clarice would start her period sometime during the trip and who knew where in the fertility cycle she was. The last thing my precarious state needed was a baby. And finally, there was something deeper and more subliminal going on in my head than I could understand. At the most conscious level, I was still Henry. Immediately under that, on the physical level was Clarice. Down another level was the anger I believed I'd shed and was still trying to analyze away. Somewhere in the stack there were remnants of Anna and her Catholicism protesting about my lascivious behavior. And deeper still were the biological urges that drove me into Gerhard's embrace. Below that, where I struggled to dig it out, was the nervous jangle of the past 24 hours. The disappearance of Anna and Clarice. The sex change. The flight attendant's mysterious smile. The cursory customs screening. The way everyone casually ignore the discrepancy between my appearance and the photographs. And who knew how many other levels deeper my abused psyche would have to dig to bring healing, if healing was possible. There in the dark, my head whirled, both from the wine and from the gymnastics my thoughts were doing inside my weary brain--in my brain--my brain--my ... I overslept. By the time I rolled over, Gerhard had the bags loaded into the Crown Vic. He'd left me one of the colorful, form-fitting biking tops but no bra. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, keenly aware that Clarice's nipples were visible through the embrace of the Lycra stretch material. The hotel had set out a continental breakfast and when we were satisfied, Gerhard informed me that he'd be driving that day. He knew the roads and where he was going; so it was time, he told me, to sit back and enjoy Italy. He knew I was troubled but not why. He knew I wasn't the person in the passport but not how. He knew more about me from carrying my bags to the car than I knew about myself. But he didn't know about Henry or Anna or the bicycle girl, and I felt compelled to keep it that way. I have to say it was one of the most enjoyable rides I've ever had. Freed from the tyranny of the steering wheel, I could look in all directions, as my eyes followed everything that caught my attention. The Italian countryside was gorgeous; and I relaxed. My inner self- examination was forgotten in the hum of the Crown Vic's tires. As he drove, we made some small talk. Gerhard was cultured, which I liked, and his knowledge of northern Italy was fascinating. We laughed together at things we saw and at his attempts at American-style humor. At a roadside stand, we ate peaches, and later, at a little cafe, he ordered some kind of salad with deliciously crunchy little nuts I'd never tasted before. Chapter 3: Bargaining Finally we reached Sant'Agostino, where the road to Vicenza departs northward. I misread the sign as pointing toward Padua. After Gerhard got me straightened out, I told him about the movie "Taming of the Shrew," filmed there with Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. He hadn't heard of it. The road was not the 80 mile-per-hour A4 Autostrada we'd been on earlier. We crossed over the tracks of the main east-west rail line, and passed through Vicenza. Once there, the signs called the road Viale Trento, and later it changed to Strada del Pasubio. At an intersection in the middle of nowhere, Gerhard said he'd leave me and walk the rest of the way. "It's only about fifteen hundred meters. That's about a mile." I told him, "I'm not in any hurry to get to Venice. It's--what--another 50 miles? I want to go with you to the interview, to meet your painter." "That is quite impossible," he replied. "He lives a reclusive life at a monastery. It took a long time for my associates to convince him to talk to me. It would be a disaster to have you intrude. Do you know how you look, my dear?" I looked down at myself, at the Lycra top that did very little to hide the nipples poking through the fabric. I bargained with him, "I'll just sit quietly in the car and read." I though back on all those years when Anna stayed with her book while Henry ran around looking at one damned fool thing or another. Now it was my turn. It took Gerhard until after dusk to finish. When the light faded so that I couldn't read anymore, I closed my eyes and listened. A little brook not far away splashed merrily, a family of crickets started violining, and a fat frog and several night birds all joined the song--relaxing and serene. Finally he came out whistling, carrying his notepad with a jolly stride. The look on his face shined all the satisfaction of success. I was happy for him. On the way into Vicenza, he couldn't stop talking about the interview. I think I heard every word the painter had spoken, told to me in English, German, and Italian. I got a preview of the article's outline and the process Gerhard would use to write it. He sounded so much like--like Henry whenever my life had taken an unexpectedly enthusiastic upswing. Before starting the car, he turned to me. "Look, Clarice. It's too late to think about Venice tonight. I know a little bed-and-breakfast where I've stayed before. It's only a few minutes from here." By that time I was so mellow that it sounded marvelous. He checked us in and then we smiled at each other. Standing in the middle of the tiny room, I let Gerhard undress me, peeling off the skin-tight Lycra slowly, carefully, sensuously. I had no idea why I let him touch me, but I did. And he did. No questions were asked. His fingers caressed my breasts, gently circling around my nipples and down my abdomen. They brushed slowly through the thatch between my legs. His hands were warm against my skin, soft against my rock-hard nipples, dry against the moistening spot at the top of my thighs. In the stillness of the evening, I shivered--all the while panting in anticipation. I tugged at his shirt and Gerhard undressed himself as I watched. This was not like the night before, when I'd clung to him out of ignorance and inebriation. This was something else; a deliberate attempt to recapture the intense pleasure of the previous night. He looked into my eyes and again those gorgeous blue irises captured me. He teased me to arousal, then back down, and then to a new arousal. When we finally consummated, my body needed him so much that I wanted to scream. The fog in the morning brought me crashing down from my mountain-top high. It was chilly and damp and seeped through the windows. In my white funk, I sipped tea and argued with myself. Gerhard was silent across the table, letting me nurse my wounds alone. I tried to bargain with myself- -"just give it time and things will get better." If great cinema plays good against bad; a protagonist against an antagonist, then who was the antagonist in this story? The bicycle girl? Henry? Anna? Gerhard? Me? I didn't know and with the fog swirling around the windows of the bed-and-breakfast, I wasn't sure I wanted to. What I really wanted was bright, warm sunshine; to roar down the road toward Venice with my scarf waving high like some modern Isadora Duncan, with Gerhard as a Teutonic version of F. Scott Fitzgerald, while Stravinsky strings encircled us. I looked up and he smiled at me, so I put my hand on the table and he cupped it with his. The drive to Venice was too short. The sun finally did come back out after we left Padua and I started feeling more alive. Gerhard and I talked about life in Italy, and in Austria, and compared it to the oh-so sheltered experience of living in the United States. Suddenly we were there--Porto Maghera, the shore end of the Ponte della Liberta, the causeway to Venice. Gerhard parked the car and handed me the keys. "I can go no farther with you, my dear. I will take a bus to the airport." I begged him to reconsider, tried to bargain for more time with him. Tears blinded me as he repeated that he couldn't delay his departure another minute--the magazine had a deadline. Finally, I convinced him to drive us together to Tessera and the airport. Inside, I kicked myself for the funk I'd indulged in that morning, wasting valuable time with him. I wanted to restart--do over-- the entire journey, from the time he'd kissed my nipples in the dark to our emotional arrival here in the sun. "Please," I pleaded silently to myself. "I'm not ready for it. Please don't do this to me." Outside the Alitalia terminal, he kissed me again. Knowing it was the end of our relationship, I pressed as close to him as my breasts would allow. I breathed in his scent for as long as I could, until he sighed and gently released himself from my embrace. As I watched him carry his bag into the terminal, I sighed, too. I knew his feelings well, had gently separated myself from Anna's embrace in exactly the same way when business called. It hit me in the gut; now I'd experienced it from the other side, from Anna's side. I sat in the car and read for several hours, filling up with the vicarious gratification of the second novel in Anna's book. The first had been satisfying. This promised more. More? More what? More subliminal programming to make me think I was a woman? Did I want more? Suddenly, the enormity of the situation came crashing in on me. I wasn't living in a world of romance any longer. With Gerhard gone, I felt numb, chilled, depressed, and frustrated. I set the book aside, vowing that I would never touch it again. Then I drove back to Venice, crossing the Ponte della Liberta to my hotel. I handed the keys to the valet and watched the Crown Vic disappear, then followed the bell captain to the registration desk. They had a room, fortunately, since my reservation as Henry was null and void. Venice was everything I'd read about and more, and the next day was only a hair's-breadth shy of being heavenly. The sky was clear with a light sea breeze. Wearing Clarice's windbreaker, I was comfortable. In the arms of this jewel of the Adriatic, my memory of Gerhard faded, leaving only a faint--a faint what? Echo? Ache? Lust? Maybe mixed with a little hate? It was so confusing. There's so much to see in Venice and it took the whole next day to finish. The city has been so over-written in the guide books and magazines that I hardly needed any help finding everything on my agenda. I visited the settings of all the movies filmed here: "Three Coins in the Fountain" with Dorothy McGuire; "The Talented Mr. Ripley" with Matt Damon; Al Pacino in "The Merchant of Venice;" Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in the classic "Top Hat." I walked around the Venice of "The Italian Job;" that of "Blume in Love;" the city as a backdrop for the famous Orson Welles version of "Othello." As I wandered, everywhere I looked I wished I could share with Anna. She was supposed to be here beside me. As sunny as Venice seemed, it was still a lonely, melancholy place and I was sad that I'd come. The last conversation I'd had with Gerhard hit me with a start. We'd spent a long time talking about my home. Mine--not Clarice's. I suddenly, chillingly, wondered whether he'd discerned my little secret. It ruined the mood of the evening, so I took my glass of wine and went back to my room. Too quickly it was time to retrieve the Crown Vic, leave the City of Bridges, and head down to Bologna. Crossing the causeway again was bittersweet, looking shoreward at Maghera, where a few days ago I'd begged Gerhard not to abandon me. I knew I had to go on. I was still alive and there was life ahead of me. Approaching Bologna wasn't really obvious at first, with its steady build-up of outlying industry, all so modern and businesslike. As I drove inward though, the ancient city began to appear, and with it the wonders of history and art I'd come so many thousand miles to see; and that made it irrelevant whether I was a man or a woman. At first, I didn't know where to start. There was so much to do and see and I had only a day to find it all. With my guidebook in my grip, I stalked down the streets until a hand on my elbow stopped me. It belonged to a stout, well-dressed man in his 40s. He gently took the guidebook out of my hands and informed me that he, Antonio, would be my escort. I thought to myself, yeah buddy, I'm young and good looking and you want into my panties. So I had my guard up at first. Taking me by the arm, he led me to the Piazza Maggiore, which I'd just learned was the center of a good walking tour--all the while chattering pleasantly. After I got used to having him with me, I was glad for the companionship. He had a wealth of facts on the tip of his tongue about art, literature, history, culture, economics, architecture, and a lot more; a walking trivia guru. That whole day, not once did he make any sort of romantic move on me, and gradually I relaxed. At the end of the tour, he took me to a quiet ristorante right in the heart of Bologna, in the crowded little inner city they called the Jewish Ghetto. He ordered a bottle of wine and then introduced me to the chef. The air was still, but warm and relaxing; and the wine gave me a pleasant buzz. As the evening drew on, in the yellow glow of the street lamps, he walked me back to the hotel and bowed to me. "Wait," I called as he turned to go. "I don't know why you were so nice to me. What do I owe you for the wonderful time, for the tour, for the dinner?" He bowed again and said, "All you need to do is to tell others that Italy is a marvelous place to visit." Flashing that disarming smile, he left me there, nursing the memory of a pleasant experience, a memory I hoped would last forever. I couldn't believe he hadn't tried to seduce me. Perhaps he was telling the truth that his motives were honest. Then I kicked myself. Of course they were--why should I doubt the evidence of my own senses? As I closed my eyes in bed that night, I reflected on the experience. In a way, he left me feeling surprisingly contented, like I'd spent the day at Disneyland. I was sound asleep when the telephone rang. It was a man asking for Clarice. I mumbled that I thought he'd missed her; lied that my name was Anna. As I hung up, I was bothered by the sinking feeling, even though I'd been groggy, that I knew the voice. So there was still an element of reality. Clarice was missing and someone was worried. I wondered how long it would take to confront me about the driver's license and passport, and then I would be a cooked goose. On that downer, in the morning I slunk out of Bologna to the place the guidebooks called Firenze but I had plotted on my itinerary as Florence. I thought about ditching the Crown Vic and finding a bus or something but decided that was a little drastic. Anna and Henry had scheduled only the day in Florence, so we never even reserved a hotel room between our morning arrival and our evening flight to Rome. The day was all to be spent savoring the medieval culture but we'd figured we'd burn out if we pushed more art at each other. Enough is enough. My time in the Medici art collection at Pitti Palace was nerve-wracking. I saw spooks everywhere and didn't enjoy myself. I visited the duomo-- the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, built by Filippo Brunelleschi in the 1500s--and then beat a retreat to the safety of the airport. It was hours before my flight, so I found a reasonably comfortable seat and dug out Anna's book. Breaking my promise to myself, I read on, finishing the second novel and starting the third. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder--a familiar hand. It was Antonio. Immediately, I accused him of stalking me, wondering if the telephone call had been from him. He denied it with a hurt look in his eyes. I apologized and explained my concern. He excused himself for a moment and then came back. He'd asked the gate attendant to change his boarding pass so he could sit with me. The memory of Bologna was still a pleasant sensation in my gut and he'd played such an integral part in it. Counting the time traversing the taxiway, the flight into Rome's Leonardo da Vinci Fiumicino Airport was only about an hour. The plane was cramped and the engines were loud. My ears rang for an hour after we landed. Antonio escorted me to his car in the parking lot. It was a darling little Fiat Barchetta, and I told him I was in love again as I ran my fingers along the cool smoothness of its paint. But we didn't go to my hotel. In fact, he never asked where I was registered. As we picked our way through Fiumicino's streets leading away from Rome, I started to protest. "My hotel's the other way. Please take me there." I began to cry. "I mean no harm," he reassured me, "but your tale of the trouble in Bologna and Firenze has me--I need you to trust me." He stopped at a hotel that had an American look to it, with the ubiquitous functionality of any business motel. As we checked in, I looked around, figuring out how I could escape from him. Across the lobby was a shopping area, but that didn't do me much good. Outside, clouds had moved in, threatening rain and making it gloomy. I didn't feel like walking away from the hotel with only the windbreaker, especially wondering where I would go when I didn't know the area and wasn't sure whether he would chase me down or not. I ordered myself to not start looking for spooks again. Antonio booked two rooms side by side on the ground floor and handed me one of the key cards. After he graciously carried my bags from the car to my room, we went to the bar. There he bought me a whiskey sour and told me I was lying. "Whoever you are, that is not your photograph on the passport." "I know," I hung my head. Under his steady eye and probing questions, I started to cry again. Before I could control myself, I told him the whole thing; told him how I wasn't Henry nor Anna nor Clarice but a weird mix of them all. I didn't know whether he believed me or not but it was too late to retract any of the story. "I knew, of course," he said at one point. "You said you're from Montreal. That is possible --- but I have doubts that you are Canadian. Your accent is American west coast." I asked what difference it made and he shrugged. I didn't want to tell him about Gerhard right then. But he knew I'd been frightened by someone who knew me and there was no use pretending there wasn't more to the story. "The worst thing is," I confessed remorsefully at the end of my explanation. "I slept with him. Twice!" "There is nothing wrong with that," he smiled. "This is Italy. Men are expected to sleep with younger girls." "You haven't yet." He sighed, telling me that I hadn't asked. In his words, there is a time and place, and until I asked, there is a ritual that must be followed. "Would you--if I asked now?" Antonio smiled again and shook his head. "No; of course not. This is not America. You have to understand that first." I stared at him. "Understand what? That I'm trapped in a sexy young body? That all I want is to trade everything I have now for what I had before. And that I made love to someone I didn't know. What am I supposed to understand?" "You tell me," he answered. "You said you felt the power of something beautiful, the warmth of a man's touch, the sensuality of being a woman, and yet now you are trying not to act like one." "I don't want to be one." "Yes. You keep saying that but I don't believe it. La vita ? piena di sorprese--life is full of surprises." I wanted to throw my drink in his face but I needed it inside me even more. As I slugged it down, I thought "I'm being unladylike," but I didn't care. Slamming the empty glass to the table, I gestured to the waiter. Holding up his hand, Antonio stopped the waiter. "Portare l'assegno. Andiamo ora." After he paid, he held my elbow and steered us to my room. As I sat on my bed, Antonio changed the subject. "Now, tell me, my dear- -did you use any protection? Any birth control? A condom?" I bit my lip. "N-no. How could I be so stupid?" Antonio looked right through me. "Did you even think about it?" "Yes, but not until later. Look, I have her body, not her mind. Some of the things are instinctive but others are so hard to figure out." I started to cry and he laid a blanket over my shoulders. The last thing I remember was hearing him on the telephone. The next morning, I decided I needed a sauna to relax, so I wrapped in a towel and went to the spa. After all the self-kicking I'd been doing, it felt so good just to close my eyes and soak in the steam. As I walked barefoot back to my room, I thought I saw a familiar figure farther down the hall. My heart rate elevated dangerously. The man in the hallway had his back toward me but he was tall and broad shouldered, and his short blonde hair was cut straight across the top. He had a small traveling valise slung over his shoulder that I recognized right away. As my knees threatened to buckle under me, my nipples stiffened. It was not the reaction I expected, considering that at that moment I hated him. I steadied myself against the wall as I watched him unlock his room and disappear inside. With my heart beating a marching tattoo inside my chest, I edged down the hall to my door, praying I was wrong, or tha