[1]Yesterday, stewing in Oscar traffic, I inched by the Beverly Hills Hotel. I’m rarely on this stretch of road, and it suddenly brought back a buried memory from when I lived in San Francisco. I’d flown to this storied hotel for romance, with a man I’d met the week before, while he was filming a commercial at my neighborhood restaurant. We’d kissed with meaning in the parking lot, and he urged me to come to L.A. for a rendezvous. I had such excitement in the cab ride to Beverly Hills. Could he be the one? Our room was swank and full of promise, but the weekend was a bust. He got drunk. Less than 12 unconsummated hours later, I called my trusted L.A. pal William to pick me up. Surrounded by shiny white limos outside the hotel, I waited, forlorn. 45 minutes later, my real Knight circled around in his white Mazda and rescued me.
Photo by Suzanna Scott [1]