by a remarkable couple, Brian and Anna Maria Clement. The previous year, in the company of a friend from Toronto, I had spent a few days on the beautiful island of St. John, where the aquamarine Caribbean waters and white sand beaches were a welcome escape from the Connecticut winter, but this visit to Florida was to be a learning experience and not exactly a holiday.
At Hippocrates, the food was completely raw, vegan, and all organic. Its menu emphasized fresh sprouts, some of the best enzyme- and vitamin-packed food a human being can eat. I found it amazing how delicious their buffets were and how energized such a diet made me feel! I still try, as much as possible, to adhere to their principles, minus the wheat grass juice, which personally I dislike. But whenever I travel it becomes virtually impossible to resist less than perfect food … and what is life without gelato!
At Hippocrates I hung out in the saltwater pools with Broadway star Tommy Tune, and we quickly alternated dips in the icy pool and the steaming hot tub. Apparently I had missed Anthony Hopkins by a week. At the institute’s farewell dinner I bravely plucked up the nerve to sing “Little Seabird” alone and without Srdjan to accompany me, and to this day my framed photo is hanging on the wall in the HHI gift shop.
Srdjan and I continued to rehearse our repertoire, and a few months later we were hired to perform at a private event in Las Vegas where we were treated royally. At a March of Dimes fundraiser in Toronto, Srdjan and I entertained the packed ballroom after I had given a lecture about disability, focal dystonia, positive attitudes, and reinvention. We played a couple of concerts in Ontario and participated in a large international guitar festival in the unlikely town in northern Quebec called Rouyn-Noranda. Each time it seemed to me an absolute miracle that I was actually singing onstage. After all our struggles Srdjan and I were finally on our way as a duo, and we both eagerly looked forward to a fall tour that was being put together.
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As in Miami, I had made several new friends in New York and even shared the odd dinner or lecture with an occasional would-be suitor. But I met nobody I had any desire to date. Making music with Srdjan and Peter still topped my list of most satisfying activities.
During my years living so close to New York, I often attended classical music concerts and the opera, and my good friend from Los Angeles Jamie Rigler escorted me to the Met Gala. Jamie and his uncle Lloyd Rigler, who had founded the Classic Arts Showcase, were two of the important sponsors, so we were treated like VIPs. We chatted with Plácido Domingo and his wife, Marta, reminiscing about the magical times in Acapulco with our dear mutual friends, the Baron and Baroness di Portanova — how fortunate we had been to have enjoyed so many incredible times at their splendiferous home, Arabesque. By chance, at intermission, I ran into my former fiancé, Joel Bell, who introduced me to his wife, Marife Hernandez. I met the talented Willem Dafoe, and also Jeremy Irons, who was all smiles and compliments about my updo hairstyle. He invited me to attend his new play, but sadly I was flying up to Canada that week. What potential friendship with an amazing actor had been lost! I kicked myself for not at least handing him my business card.
I certainly enjoyed New Canaan’s proximity to New York; however, there were also some serious downsides. The years I spent in Connecticut happened to produce especially tough winters. One particularly fierce ice storm felled trees throughout the state and left my driveway blocked by a huge oak that I actually witnessed come crashing down. Amazingly, mine was the only house in my area to retain electricity. I volunteered to look after my neighbour’s rabbit and cat while they escaped to relatives whose houses had power.
Life in New England was proving worse than Miami, with its hurricanes, which at least gave one some warning and time to escape! Shovelling driveways, constantly trudging back and forth to the village with groceries, and driving the snowy roads into Westport and Norwalk was getting old. Even shivering on the train platforms to commute to New York for some cultural experiences was becoming tiresome, and I observed that the commuters usually had grim, unsmiling faces. Was this really where I wanted to spend my life?
The prevalence of Lyme disease in Connecticut made me uneasy, as even petting an animal, sitting on the grass, or brushing against shrubs could risk a tick bite. Ticks cling to the hides of deer, those lovely creatures that roamed freely into my garden! Half the people I met had at some time or another been infected with this complex and not easily diagnosed disease that causes pain in the muscles and joints and can eventually enter the brain.
All of these concerns weighed heavily upon me. Should I move to a kinder, gentler, spiritual place such as Sedona, Big Sur, the peaceful Napa Valley, or return to L.A. or Toronto, or perhaps relocate to the Big Apple, as friends there were always suggesting? Something told me I would not thrive in the frenzied, abrasive metropolis of Manhattan, in spite of its bountiful cultural offerings. After spending a lonely week in a friend’s empty Upper East Side apartment, where I taught myself to play guitar using a fingerpick, I made up my mind that New York would always suit me best in small doses compared to taking up residence there.
My time in New Canaan had served its intended purpose and allowed me to experience life in one of the most charming New England towns, as well as spend time in New York. I knew I would miss my girlfriend Joanne and the proximity to Srdjan, but after three years and the completion of both albums I once again began to crave new scenery, warmer weather, and a different life.
In 2010 months of agonizing about my next move — and how it would affect the new duo I had formed — led me to give Southern California one more chance, even though I knew the logistics would prove challenging. My friend Olivia Newton-John suggested Santa Monica, which I had always enjoyed during my Beverly Hills years, so my search began for a house that was within walking distance of the beach. If California were going to fall into the ocean, I might as well be there to enjoy its pleasures while it lasted! After a month of indecision and insomnia, I flew out and decided to lease a white two-bedroom Spanish-style house just off Montana Avenue, with arched hallways and a huge guava tree in the back garden.
Next came the massive task of packing up my entire household into boxes. This moving business had become all too familiar and, even now, whenever I hear the rasping sound of adhesive tape, memories of my frantic days of moving house come flooding back. Stan, the guitarist who had set up my YouTube, MySpace, and Facebook sites, generously came to help parcel up boxes. My bookkeeper, Valerie, a sweet-natured girl who lived behind me with her young family, gave me a hand from time to time and, along with my friend Pam, helped organize a “tag sale.” It was amazing how much stuff I had accumulated over three years of living in New England!
Finally I was packed and ready for the big move. To give the moving truck and flatbed for my Lexus time to make it to California, Joanne invited me to stay a couple of days in her guest house and we took some nostalgic walks together around New Canaan. Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I spent an additional two days with David, the friend who had previously lent me his empty New York apartment, in his home on a private island off Norwalk, and a day with my friends Mark and Joan in their Westport house. The daffodil days of my white-picket-fenced Connecticut chapter had come to an end, but my time there had produced several new friendships and two beautiful albums.
• • •
At the same time as I was preparing to leave New Canaan, I decided to fly back to Toronto to be with my father. He had been having some health challenges, and in April of 2010 his surgeons operated after detecting cancer in his bladder. Since his youth my dad had developed a calm spiritual philosophy, which always enabled him to accept whatever fate dished out to him. He was the envy of many people, including those with whom he had been volunteering as an art therapist and self-appointed philosopher at the Dorothy Ley Hospice. Now that cancer had entered his own life, my father had become an ideal patient and very appreciative of the wonderful health care he was given in the Toronto hospitals.
My mother had broken her hip twenty years earlier, but together they still enjoyed the weekly rituals of Saturday night movies, parties at Ann and Eli Kassner’s house, and daily routines: tea at eight a.m., ten a.m., one p.m., and four p.m., and coffee and hot cross buns at eleven a.m. My dad, with his dry British wit, calculated that he had served my mother forty-four thousand cups of tea! And I thought it was only T.S. Eliot’s Prufrock who measured out his life in coffee spoons!
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