Back in the day in London,

I preached from a soapbox, slamdanced with punks, and had sex in a fancy restaurant.

Life became one big fantastic blur when I started seeing Charles, and just a few weeks after we hooked up in Vegas, I found myself anxiously awaiting his arrival in an elegant London hotel room.

I still couldn't believe it myself - that a guy like him was with a regular girl like me, (not an heiress or supermodel as his friend Todd kept reminding was his usual type) but even so, as my eyes adjusted to The Dukes dark wooden walls and velvety smooth interior, I couldn't stop smiling. 

Charles would be landing at Stansted Airport soon, after stopping overnight in Iceland with Rob and Todd, while the rest of us had flown commercially from various places around the world. 

The initial group included:

·       Frank - sugary-sweet Southern boy, Charles' childhood friend, and now his personal assistant, 

·       Rob - laid-back California guy, Charles' business partner, and director/camerman for a series on eco-tourism they were producing, 

·       Suzanne - super-fit and chill, Rob the director's girlfriend, in charge of microphones and other sound recording equipment 

·       Joe - Charles' loud and obnoxious, somewhat disgruntled older brother, living mostly at their family home in South Africa, riding his younger brother's coattails 

·       Diane - polished, posh, and privileged, Joe's snooty South African girlfriend, usually grumbling under her breath, flipping her hair, or scowling

·       Todd – flashy, white-suit broker type, Charles' friend and business associate from Miami, blunt tagalong to most events

·       Charles - the man himself, super-hot, super-cool, super-smart; funding the entire trip for everyone, and also calling himself my new boyfriend (What!?)

·       Myself - clueless college girl from Boulder, trying not to fall too hard for Charles, grateful for the experience, enjoying every moment.

Our first night in London, Todd couldn't handle being the only single guy in the group besides Frank, and quickly rang up a model he had on speed dial, and when Emma showed up at the hotel, she stood a leggy foot taller than Todd.

With tickets to The Phantom of the Opera, we hopped into cabs to the historic Majesty’s Theatre, and of course, Diane and Joe left early since she was bored. When the show was over the rest of us walked around Picadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square, and in front of one of the big bronze guardian lions, I told Charles to,

"Kiss me for Africa"

He bent me back dramatically low over his arm like the Phantom, kissing my neck and lips to honor Africa. It was awesome. 

We easily fit in with the crowd of beautiful people at an after-hours place called 'Criterion', drinking fancy pineapple drinks lit with glowing pink and blue ice; and the next morning everyone rushed to get ready, on our way to see Charles and Joe's glamorous mother, Alaria, who happened to visiting friends and meeting in Hyde Park. 

I was super-nervous to be introduced to his mom, and as we toured the lush English gardens I hung back with Frank, self-conscious in the presence of such elegant, sophisticated, people. 

Pathways lined with roses, peonies, poppies, hosta, foxglove, astilbe, iris, bleeding hearts, and cranesbill (to name just a few) created interlocking screens of fragrance and color, stacked upon layers of cascading shrubs and flowering trees, beautifully framing marble fountains and statuary.

Being a Sunday, the legendary Speaker's Corner was in full effect, and down one side of a long concrete promenade, small groups of people gathered around everyday preachers and conspiracy theorists, where they stood on crates and makeshift soapboxes, loudly spewing political and religious ideology to whoever wanted to stop and listen.

For over a century, people have gathered on Sundays in Hyde Park, free to espouse their beliefs and concerns, but for some reason that day, a guy on a crate decided his biggest issue was in calling out my group.

“Oh look! Here come the lovely rich Americans!" Come to grace us with your presence 'ave you?”  He yelled with a heavy cockney accent.  “What’s wrong, can’t the beautiful Americans find nutin' to buy?"  

He threw his head back and spoke extra slow, staring with disdain, apparently trying to mimic an American accent.  

“I'm Ahhhhmeeeehhhricaaaaaan!  I can do whatever I waaaant!”

We crossed to the other side, trying to avoid his verbal attack, but he continued singling us out, yelling louder and more aggressively, making a scene for his gathered crowd.  I couldn't understand why this random guy had chosen to haze us, just minding our own business, strolling through the park.

But then he sardonically added, 

“What’s this?  What's wrong? The beautiful Americans 'ave nutin’ to say, I thought you blokes always had to stand for sumpin'?  Okay lovelies, move along then, go shoppin'. That’s all you pretty pretty Americans are good for anyway!

Without thinking I stopped dead in my tracks, and impulsively hollered back.

“What’s wrong with you dude?   We’re just out enjoying this nice spring day.  I take it you don’t like Americans?”

He looked surprised and then angry, pausing for a quick second before yelling back, 

“You can’t talk if you’re not on the box!  That’s the rule of Speaker’s Corner. No one talks if they’re not on the box!” 

“Then I guess you better let me on the box.”

I honestly don't know what compelled me to cross that promenade, make my way through the tightly spaced crowd, and step onto the upside-down milk crate next to his, but when I turned around my heart was beating out of my chest, and I blankly wondered what the fuck I thought I was doing.  

Thirty or so people took a step closer, and I glanced over to Charles, standing with his mother and the others, looking worried and confused.  

“I’m really not sure why I’m up here. I guess it kinda' seemed like I needed to defend myself - and my friends - and my country. We were just out enjoying a beautiful spring day like the rest of you, but for some reason this guy wants to yell mean things at us, and judge us because of the way we look? Or I guess because of where he thinks we’re from? A few of those people over there are actually British but so what right? He seriously hates us because we’re too beautiful? Isn’t that the same as hating on someone because they’re too ugly? Or because of the color of their skin, or hair, or eyes? It’s all superficial. He doesn’t know a damn thing about us, but somehow feels he has the right to yell at us because how rich he thinks we are? What if we were on our way to try and stop poaching in Africa, or something really great like that? But of course he wouldn’t know. He’s decided to hate us without cause, and I guess he's trying to make the rest of you hate us too? To me that’s just not right. People should be judged by how nice they are, not for superficial reasons – on either end of the spectrum. So, if you ask me, this guy is nothing but a bully. But he's right about one thing. I AM American, and in America, we’re taught to never to sit quiet to bullies. So yeah, I guess that’s really all I have to say.”

The crowd broke into loud spontaneous applause and someone yelled, “Hooray for the blonde, hooray for the American!”

“Hooray for the girl, the American's left him speechless!” someone else taunted.

When I looked back over to Charles, he was standing tall, beaming with pride, and people in the crowd parted a path and clapped me on the back as I returned to my group.

“Oh my god I can’t believe you just did that!” Suzanne said, shaking her head in disbelief, grinning from ear-to-ear. 

"That was amazing!” Rob agreed. "Did you really just come up with that on the spot? God, I wish I had the camera with me!”

Charles squeezed my hand and whispered in my ear, “That was awesome peanut.”          

Even Joe and Diane seemed mildly impressed, and the glamorous Alaria and her English friends kept quoting parts of my impromptu speech, saying in all their years of visiting Hyde Park and Speaker’s Corner, they’d never seen anyone get up and challenge another person’s box like that.  I was just relieved I’d pulled it off without completely embarrassing myself or Charles, and over a lovely lunch at a place called Maxfield’s, my patriotic oratory was the main topic of conversation.  

Drinking champagne cocktails, noshing toasted bread and warm pear salad, seated at the center of the universe among such intelligent, well-traveled people was one of the greatest moments of my life, only slightly surpassed by our naughty escapade at dinner that night.  

When everyone broke off in different directions, Charles and I wandered around Covent Gardens, perusing antique stalls, sifting through dusty bookstacks and boxes of WWII medals, before heading back to the hotel. 

Suddenly a raucous noise disturbed the peace, when spiked-mohawked, black-leather punks, cranked an amp to bust out a cover of Pretty Vacant by the Sex Pistols. I quickly jumped into the small mosh circle; pushing, shoving, laughing, and screaming every word, while Charles and even the punks seemed legitimately surprised. 

(Thanks to Kenny, Pat, Sonny and Danny, my punker friends from high school who taught me right.)

"You're so pretty, oh so pretty-ahhhhhhh, VACANT!"

That night’s dinner reservations were at the hottest place in town, a restaurant called Quaglino’s, which was a hip honeycomb of multi-tiered platforms in an orange-lit cavern, buzzing with tittering laughter and clinking glassware. 

Charles and I were completely smitten, focused only on each other, and I lost count of how many bottles of Cristal had been emptied when I took a quick trip to the ladies’ room, surprised to find him waiting in the hallway when I came out. Right away he pulled me into an empty handicap bathroom and began kissing my neck. 

“But what if we get in trouble? I asked.

He rolled his eyes and hiked up my skirt, “Oh you’re in trouble alright.” 

I had never had sex in a public place like that, and afterwards we took turns slipping back to the table. By the time I returned, Charles was well into lighting fire to his usual after-dinner snifter of Sambuca, (garnished with three floating coffee beans) and as he stood to pull out my chair, our smug smiles and guilty dispositions basically gave it away. Everyone began teasing us for doing something naughty while we were gone, except for Diane, who just scowled and flipped her hair more violently than usual. 

"You two are absolutely disgusting." She snorted.

But we laughed it off and toasted another drink, and in my head, Sid Vicious and Johnny Rotten chanted, 

"Problem - Problem - The problem is you - What you gonna do, problem?"

Seriously good times.

Back in the day in Lakewood,

I got hazed on Colfax, helped embarrass Cherry Creek, and made friends for life.

In the 80s, growing up in Lakewood, THE west-side suburb of Denver, Colorado, seventh graders took field trips to Red Rocks and Rocky Flats, and high school initiation rituals on West Colfax, were way worse than ‘Dazed and Confused’.

Hoping to make the pom squad, (cheerleaders who perform to music at halftime) I'd worked incredibly hard on my individual routine, choreographed to Billy Idol's; "Dancing with Myself".

Judging would be in categories of:

• group routine

• individual routine

• jumps & kicks

• school spirit,

• splits & overall flexibility,

  
  

The week following try-outs, prospective poms went to bed in cute new pajamas, anxiously hoping to be abducted during the night.

Then, around 4am on a Thursday it happened.

My parents laughed and took pictures from the front porch, as a pack of older girls bust into my room, grabbed me from a dead sleep, and rushed me into the hard bed of a pickup. A few other initiates were already there shivering in the pre-dawn cold, but we grinned at each other with relief, knowing we'd made the Lakewood High School Pom Squad.

A couple of stops later to snatch a few more, and our captors lined us up in a Safeway parking lot, taking turns one by one, voraciously smearing us with:

• honey,

• oatmeal,

• baby oil,

• molasses,

• eggs,

• flour,

• and anything else they could think of.

It was disgusting, but we had to just stand there and take it, while seniors cracked eggs over our heads, followed by a heavy pour of baby powder, turning hair into sloppy raw ropes of dripping slime, covering necks, backs, and shoulders with itchy nastiness.

Wearing homemade sandwich-board signs written with phrases like:

"I'm a Lakewood Rah-Rah!"

or

"Honk to Make Me Cheer!"

we were marched through traffic onto the medians of Kipling and West Colfax, and forced to do high kicks and dance sequences for early-morning commuters who couldn't stop honking.

By lucky chance, I was a pom during the legendary 1985 season, when Lakewood played Cherry Creek in the (largest at the time) 4A State Championship Football game - a matchup dubbed 'David vs. Goliath'.

Cherry Creek was the heavy-favorite; a huge school from the rich part of town, versus the Lakewood Tigers, an undersized blue-collar team listing just twenty-seven guys on the roster, many playing both sides of the ball.

Our super-cool gym teacher, George Squires, was Lakewood's Head Coach, and it was a miracle the “Tenacious Tigers” had even made it to the big game, overcoming seriously tough opponents along the way, in large part I think due to the popular Survivor song:"Eye of the Tiger" which got played incessantly at pep rallies, banquets, and to rile up the boys locker room.

The morning of the championship game we woke to bitter five degree weather, and snowdrifts covering CU Boulder’s Folsom Field.

Because of their stronger record, the Bruins had earned homefield advantage, meaning halftime was Cherry Creek's, while the 'visiting' Tigers were given the opportunity to perform before the game.

With snow past our ankles, freezing in leggings and short skirts, our cool-as-shit pom squad knocked out our best competition routine, (which by that time had been rehearsed well over a hundred times) to Steve Miller's ‘Jungle Love’, causing the amped up Lakewood crowd to go wild in the stands.

Then all of a sudden it was halftime - and the Tigers were up 31-0 (!)

WHAT?!

The underdogs came to PLAY -

Mark Robinson, Gary Vigil, Quinn Cochran, Brett Quigley, Terry Elliot, Darren Muilenburg, Jimmy Cluck, Doug King, and John Metcalf (to name just a few of the standouts) DOMINATED the favored Creek team, sending them to the locker room after two quarters with zero points, and one of their star players ejected for bad sportsmanship, resulting in local sportscaster, Tom Green’s comment:

"It's one thing to lose, it's another thing to lose your cool."

And then the lame Cherry Creek poms decided it was too cold, (and likely they were losing too badly) so instead of providing any kind of halftime entertainment, they just sat it out under blankets.

With nothing happening on the field, our Lakewood squad wasted no time resetting the music, and lining up to face the opposing side's bleachers - the ultimate DIS performing for another team's crowd - and we embarrassed their poms by showing we weren't afraid of falling in a little snow for our perfectly sequenced roll-offs and transitions on icy hashmarks.

The day was ours, and those beloved boys I'd known since junior high, had just made Colorado history, taking down the powerhouse of the state, (final score: 47-8) and making us forever proud to be a Lakewood Tiger.

After Lakewood destroys Cherry Creek, Vaughn Laudner, Jeff Brito, Gary Greenwald, and other unidentified players carry victorious Coach Squires off the field.

I keep in touch with many of them, and it really does seem like yesterday we ran those suburban streets blasting Van Halen and The Violent Femmes , on our way to Holbrook Park, with twelve-packs of Coors Lights, and spiked slurpees.

So in these strange, disconnected days, I'm extremely grateful to still have so many Lakewood True Blues.

Starting of course with:

• Jules - the hardest working girl in all of Washington (green balls and Cheeley Camp forever)

  
  

• Jeanne - love you like a sister (Rupert's brunches and mimosa dreams)

  
  

• Greg - the hardest working guy in Costa Rica (Thank you for somehow giving me the best Beatles birthday wishes every year of my life since 8th grade. You are truly amazing!)

  
  

• Chuck - the fastest talkin', smoothest sellin', absolute nicest person in all the world (Don't forget: I taught you how to ski - even though it was in jeans.)

  
  

• Joe - Made me forever better when you played NWA in the tunnel of South Lakewood Elementary, and my most cherished Bowie and Beasties consort. (Nothing but love since Ms. Meyer's second grade, and Riggs' fresh fruit and vegetable breaks.)

  
  

• Jean - the most hilariously cool chick I know, and one of the strongest (shrooms and volleyball marathons, Stones and wet eye forever!)

  
  

• Sasha - Flashdance & field studies, solos & Sanibel (thanks for giving me the best advice of my life when I needed it the most)

  
  

• Tammie - a friend from the get, through broken bottles and broken hearts, sleeping bags and slurpees (No worries girl, you got this.)

  
  

• Kimmy - the kindest, cutest, most creative person I know, (and without even trying, putting us all to shame)

  
  

• Quinn - the smartest, most loyal friend anyone could ever have, (guaranteed the first person to call in an emergency, or for advice in general)

  
  

• Dave - sweet Dave, the first boy who ever gave me flowers, (thanks for making me veggie green chili, and for letting me listen to the entire Diver Down album over the phone whenever I asked - you da' best)

Yeah, Lakewood was a great place to grow up:

• doing the limbo at Roller City,

• hangin' out all day at Villa Italia Mall,

• walking to Showbiz Pizza Parlour after

• leaving the Mann Theater Six on Union

• graduation ceremonies at Red Rocks, as well as our first concerts, (back when you could just walk-in and camp overnight to claim general admission seating)

*Shout out to Brad Hunt for scoring those front row seats to my first show ever, as The Kinks wisely said through song:

"Girls will be boys and boys will be girls / It's a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world" so "Come dancing, it's only natural."

Back in the day in Thailand,

I found weed in the closet, opium in the jungle, and nirvana at the Bangkok Oriental.

One random day in '97, (when I was living in NYC) my good friend and former boss, Tra-Ling, called on the landline.

"Hey you know what?" She asked in her adorably hard-to-understand Taiwanese accent.

"You know where you need to go?" (She didn't wait for an answer) ... "Thailand!"

"Yeah sure Ling, everyone should go to Thailand ... maybe someday."

"OK, I call you right back."

Ten minutes later the phone rang again.

"Hey okay get pack, I told client, I need "horticultural consultant" for to check the orchid pots. I go next week, now you come too! It gonna' be so much fun!"

"Huh? But I'm not a horticultural consultant."

"Sure you are! You plant girl in New York! But don't matter, I already know, pots gonna' work, I just need way for you come too!"

"Well hell to the yeah Ling! Are you serious? You're so fucking awesome!"

"I know that!" She squealed back laughing, "Tee-hee-hee-Tee-hee-hee. What airport you want?"

A week later at JFK, I boarded a fourteen hour flight to Tokyo, connecting with a seven hour flight to Bangkok, and it was the middle of the night when the plane made its final descent.

Following signs written in letters like flourished sprocket parts, I thought I was heading to ground transportation, when someone ran up from behind and grabbed my arm.

"Hey, where you goin'? This way."

"Ling! Oh my god! You scared me!"

"Tee hee hee hee - C'mon, I got surprise for you."

 "Dude, I can't believe I'm in Bangkok!"

Ling had already been there a few days, as well as a couple of trips prior, making deals for her Asian Manufacturing Sourcing company, and had no problem maneuvering us out of the airport to a waiting car, directly to the Erawan Grand Hyatt Hotel.

Despite standing just under five feet tall, Ling is a straight up FORCE OF NATURE, masterminding every situation before anyone even notices she there, speaking half a dozen Asian languages, and running countless successful companies since arriving in America on her own at seventeen.

***SIDE NOTE: I first met Tra-Ling at the Fox Theater in Boulder, when she thought I was standing too close to her boyfriend Doug/Charles, who happened to be a co-worker of mine at a cafe on Pearl Street. Halfway through a Big Head Todd song, a very well-dressed, very tiny Asian woman, started poking me HARD, reaching up to stick her finger in my chest:

"HEY, you wanna' tell me WHAT THE FUCK you doin' talkin' to my boyfriend?"

"Geez Ling, calm down!" Doug/Charles told her. "It's just Brooke, we work together at Pour La' France."

And somehow, by the end of that first night, Ling and I were tight, and I'd decided to take a few shifts waitressing in one of her Boulder restaurants: The Pleasant Street Cafe, where even though she was my boss, our friendship became uniquely close.

***

Inside the cushy Bangkok hotel room, Ling couldn't stop giggling, excited to show me her big surprise.

"Tee hee hee, look in the closet. I got you a present!"

Pulling open the slated wooden door, I caught whiff of a shrub-sized portion of Thai Stick wrapped in newspaper like a bundle of dried flowers (which of course it was) taking up the entire top shelf of the closet. The buds were the biggest I'd ever seen, literally enough to last a hardcore stoner like myself a year, and I gasped out loud at the giant green bundle.

"Holy shit Ling! That's a lot of weed! Where'd you get it?"

"Tee hee hee, I know you like to smoke that stuff, so I ask around and got it in the market."

"They sell giant bushels of bud in the market here? Damn! And we won't get in trouble for having it?"

"I don't think so... pretty sure just get in trouble for heroin here."

If Ling said it was okay, then it was okay by me, and I constructed an impromptu pipe out of a soda can poked with a safety pin, and lit up real Thai Stick my first night in Thailand.

The next day I hurried along, trying to keep up through Buddhist temples, open-air markets, noodle stands, and some random lady's apartment for an uncomfortably twisted massage on a floor mattress, as Ling charmingly captivated everyone she met, quickly learning their names, and gathering recommendations for everything under the sun; constantly fostering new business relationships.

Her recent boyfriend, Jeff, had also made the trip, and that evening the three of us took an overnight train to Chiang Mai, a main northern city close to the borders of Laos and Mynamar, referred to as The Golden Triangle,

Jeff was a super-chill, laid-back, ex-hippie/sailor, and also a successful Boulder restauranteur, making him the perfect match for Ling.

(Proof positive they're still together- 28 years later!)

In Chiang Mai, we toured the orchid pot factory that we were officially there to see, as well as the temple of Wat Phra That Doi Suthep, where an army of bald-headed, orange-robed, monks protected the sacred Buddhist site made entirely of gold.

Ling had planned an overnight trek to a hillside village, and we joined a nice young couple traveling from the Netherlands, to hike up a dusty trail guided by a local man named "Stumpy" Sawat.

Pacing myself, I'd stopped next to a clump of palms when Ling caught up and poked my side.

"Look what I found?' She said, a bit more subdued than usual, handing over a wad of something wrapped in plastic and brown paper.

"What is it?"

"Tee hee hee hee - I think it might be opium."

"Opium?! No way! You just found it?"

"I don't know... maybe... tee hee hee hee."

And then she scrambled off to catch up with Jeff.

We eventually made it to a misty hillside village nestled in rolling green vegetation, where a group of Lahu people welcomed us into their homes with kindness and smiles. I emptied my bag of anything remotely interesting to give the sweet children who were excited about everything, including :

• a notepad from the hotel,

• a few pens,

• some pieces of melted chocolate,

• half a box of tic-tacs,

• and even stickers from airport baggage claim

  
  

  

  
  

***SECOND SIDE NOTE: The following year Tra-Ling returned to the same Lahu village with crates of art supplies for the children. The year after that, she went back and had a school built for them, its continued operation guaranteed through a deal she'd brokered with Whole Foods - agreeing to sell Lahu woven bags in all its stores, with proceeds going directly back to the tribe. Now, thanks to my friend Ling, the Lahu children have a school, and guaranteed future operations. (Like I said, straight up force of nature.)

***

Even though it was in a cold raised hut, and beds were hard wooden planks, we slept like rocks, and the next morning scarfed down eggs and coffee prepared over an open fire.

Once the morning air warmed, a Lahu man led us through the forest to meet his faithful working-companion elephant, who graciously permitted us onto his back and gave us a ride to the river. As the incredibly smart animal responded to his handler’s hand signals and vocal commands, his large gentle eyes conveyed innate wisdom and grace, and I thanked him telepathically, trying to show my love and respect.

Soon we were balanced on makeshift bamboo rafts floating miles downstream, eventually getting packed onto benches in the back of a covered truck to make a quick stop at the Mekong River.

Back down in the southern part of the country, after an adventure with the 'found' opium, a missed ferry, and a night with an International Jamboree of Boy Scouts, we ended up on the heavenly island of Koh Chang, which is part of a protected marine archipelago where the sand is baby powder soft, and the trees drip with orchids.

(FYI: Thailand is known as: The Land of 10,000 Smiles, but they also say, although someone might be smiling, it doesn't always mean they like you.)

After a few days in paradise, we headed back to the crazy hustle of Bangkok, just as the country was experiencing a major national currency crisis, causing the Thai baht to be astronomically devalued compared to the US dollar.

In other words, our American money went hella far compared to a few days before, and we wasted no time checking into the elegant, exorbitant, Bangkok Oriental Hotel.

With three-hundred dollars suddenly going as far as three-thousand, Ling and I booked an entire day at the Spa at the Oriental, (arguably one of the best spas on Planet Earth) where we got the works as androgynous staff repeatedly:

• applied treatments of salt scrub, body polish, mineral mud, or kelp wrap

• between trips to a multi-headed shower where they would rinse me off and do it all over again

• followed by massage to every inch of my body, while laying on a bed suspended over moving water and floating flowers

Leaving the private spa island in a speechless state of bliss, nearly incapable of functioning after being so pampered, the seats of the boat seemed extra hard, the motor obnoxiously loud, and the sun uncomfortably bright - but we survived.

And so here's to Tra-ling ... for being an inspiration to women everywhere, and a true blue!

Nothing but love. (Tee hee hee)