“He always ended up saying the same thing: IF you spend one penny less than you earn every month, you’ll be happy.  He’d look at me with those sad, dark eyes and lay this one on me.  That the secret of happiness basically is two cents.”—Barbara Kingsolver, Demon Copperhead

I photographed our Verona office today, November 9, 1999 — glass walls, neat desks, leather chairs, and magazines fanned on the table in the waiting area. It was perfect for us, though few clients visited. It gave us legitimacy, a headquarters, a place to gather focus. Still, both Alan and I knew we could just as easily run the business from home. Time would tell if we needed the space, but at that moment it felt grounding.

That evening, we drove downtown for dinner at Koo Koo Roo, then stepped into the Mark Taper Forum to see Tina Landau’s Space. A sleek, tech-heavy production, it told the story of a neuro-psychiatrist who becomes a reluctant confidant for patients claiming alien abductions. Landau balanced science and faith, skepticism and longing, while the Taper’s staging dazzled with lighting tricks and projections. Critics later called it ambitious yet muddled, but what stayed with me was its sense of dislocation — of humans peering skyward, searching for meaning.

November 10, 1999:  The gym was bright and alive, machines in neat rows, Pepsi banners looming from the walls. I snapped a photo of Alan bent over one of the Life Fitness machines, his gloved hands gripping the handles, his smile betraying both effort and humor. A small triumph in sweat.

That night we saw Mansfield Park. Frances O’Connor gave Fanny Price both resilience and fire. One line lingered in me: “I was quiet, but I was not blind.” A reminder that silence does not equal ignorance, and that strength often resides in observation.

11/11/1999:  On the Venice Pier, a seagull perched, gazing at the water with a wisdom I fancied belonged to someone I once knew. Perhaps absurd, but the thought clung to me as I lifted my camera. There was a stillness in its posture, a meditation in feathers.

That evening, Alan and I went to Lawry’s Prime Rib. Thick cuts of beef, creamed spinach and creamed corn, Yorkshire pudding—the kind of dinner that demands one has run earlier in the day, which thankfully, we had.

November 12, 1999:  A card arrived in the mail from Dorothy Rua, adorned with calla lilies — those sculptural blooms captured in black and white. Dorothy’s handwriting poured warmth and humor, recounting hot rod shows, road trips, and even the prospect of becoming a caregiver to a wealthy 90-year-old man. Her letters always balanced playfulness with poignancy, and this one was no different.

That night we saw Anywhere But Here, with Susan Sarandon and Natalie Portman. The mother-daughter tension was palpable, but softened by humor and love. I remember Sarandon’s line: “You don’t have to be like me, but the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” It stung with truth about family, expectation, and identity.

November 13, 1999:  Jack and Gloria invited us to their apartment. The table was laid beautifully — veal Milanese served with warmth, wicker baskets of bread, napkins folded with care. I captured a candid photo of them, smiling, hands clasped as if the dinner was not just about food but about the bond of friendship.

Later that night Alan and I went to see The Messenger: The Story of Joan of Arc. Milla Jovovich brought fiery conviction to Joan, with words that echoed long after: “I am not afraid… I was born to do this.” John Malkovich, steady and sly, embodied Charles VII with nuance.

November 14, 1999:  

A card from Monica Small arrived. She teased about “the tortured mother” on the cover, her children sucking the life from her, and then slipped in her real news: she’d booked a room at the Bonaventure for the LA Marathon 2000. “Are you running?” she asked. I smiled. Running, yes — but not 26 miles on concrete anymore. The knees remind you of limits.

Earlier that day, Alan and I went to Nate N’ Al’s, a Beverly Hills ritual. I photographed waitresses Kaye and Vicky, their sass and humor the soul of the place. Nate N’ Al’s wasn’t about the food alone; it was about the people who gave the deli its pulse.

By evening, we were en route to London, our timing uncanny after watching Mansfield Park earlier in the week.

This photo of Kaye and Vicky, immortalized behind the tables, their banter as iconic as the pastrami sandwiches and lox, eggs and onions they served.

November 15, 1999:  We landed in London around noon.   The purpose of this trip was to celebrate our 10 years from the day we met (November 20, 1989).  A new song drifted from the taxi driver's radio — Westlife’s Flying Without Wings.  One lyric captured the essence of love’s mystery:

  “You’re the place my life begins, and you’ll be where it ends.” 

Another, almost whispered: 

“Everyone’s looking for that something.” 

Earnest, yes, but it grafted itself onto memory, forever tying London’s cold gray skies to the warmth of that song.

We checked into The Hempel, a minimalist hotel where the bathroom sink was comically tiny. Alan and I burst into laughter. Sometimes travel delights in the absurd, reminding you that joy often comes from the smallest of details.

This week merged offices and theaters, letters and dinners, gym workouts and prime rib, seagulls and calla lilies. Dorothy’s lilies reminded me of constancy, Monica’s card pointed to the future, and London awaited with its songs and surprises. Mansfield Park’s quiet defiance, Anywhere But Here’s thorny tenderness, Joan of Arc’s unflinching courage, and Westlife’s yearning lyric — each left its mark.

Every detail, no matter how small, was part of the mosaic that defined not just what we did, but who we were becoming at the edge of a new century — grafting melody onto memory.

“I decide on running. Running time is thinking time.”
—Simone Buchholz, Blue Night