It was just past 8 am on a sunny, chilly Beverly Hills morning, when my feet stopped across from my childhood home. I stood, staring at the front lawn, in borrowed gym shoes, black workout pants, and a pink Target T-shirt with a colorful parrot on the chest pocket. Should I cross the Rodeo Drive bridal path and invite myself inside? And then I stepped off the curb.

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I had not been back to Beverly Hills in 8 years.  Long stretches between visits were deliberate. I argued with myself. I can’t stand the place.  It’s too expensive. It’s become a Kardashian joke. It’s a City of greed. Despite the less than glowing report card ,  I relented and booked a ticket to ride.

I reserved the week at a charming, boutique Hotel called The Crescent. The price was right and the location was perfect –  in the hub of 90210 retail and eateries. Still bleary from a time change and early morning flight, I greeted a lovely lady at the front desk.

“Your room is still occupied. Would you be interested in staying in another room?”

I saw no reason not to. So up we went. Famous film and concert photographs lined the walls in black and white. They felt much larger than life-sized. We paused by a photo of Raquel Welch crucified on a cross. And then we opened the door next to it. What had I gotten myself into?  

The room was tiny and dark. The bed was near the floor, garnished in purple velvet and a floor-to-ceiling photo of Dean Martin.

“I can’t sleep with Mr. Martin!”  She looked at me, puzzled. I had spent many teenage years in the Martin home with my friends and his son Dino.  I didn’t bother to tell her that, as I contemplated racing out without my luggage. Instead, I found Henry, the manager who quelled my anxiety and led me into a larger room with a bird of paradise hanging behind the king-sized bed. A poster of Tina Turner and the Ikettes graced the wall. I decided I could live with Tina.

From there, my week turned into one giant reunion. I had meals from noon to midnight with grammar school buddies and coffees with old friends in between. Marymount High School pals gathered for a wine-infused salmon dinner in one of their elegant Benedict Canyon homes. The moment I walked in the kitchen, years of distance dissolved. There was no pretense or awkward  pauses. We immediately launched into hugs, laughter, and glowing memories. It had been so long since I felt so enriched with women whom I cherished and admired. A bittersweet feeling filled my heart as the last visit came to an end, and I headed back to the hotel.

The morning before I left, I headed out for a walk feeling light and a bit giddy. The sounds, buildings and air felt so familiar, it seemed I could stroll these streets with my eyes closed. I waited for the green light on Santa Monica, crossed over and began to walk up to the residential area. Homes of my youth. Those of my friends. Ones where we played,  grew, and partied hard. Many still standing graciously, handsomely, nestled amidst manicured lawns with gardens of flowers as if painted and framed. Others had been torn down and rebuilt like ostentatious, gaudy fortresses with iron gates. Yet no architect, builder or designer can erase the underbelly of a City that was known for sophistication not glitz .

The journey was, in truth, for one reason: to confront the ghosts I left behind. I I turned left onto Rodeo Drive.  My steps quickened. The trees on both sides of the street had merged together into a tunnel of lush green that lead to a shadow of the childhood house I remembered. The exterior was unkempt, disheveled, and unloved.

I crossed the street to take a closer look. There were four or five dusty cars in the driveway.  My heart quickened. I peeked over the wooden gate and saw the little guest house. The paint had peeled off long ago. I walked up to the front door and rang the bell, but no one answered. So I knocked. And knocked again. Finally, the front door opened just enough to see the eyes of a frightened Asian woman.

“I used to live here. May I come in?”

She mumbled incoherently but not before I got a quick peek. There was no furniture in the living room.  Just long, wooden tables with an array of computers and wires. Four Asian women worked furiously. They didn’t look up.   

The door slammed. I stood shocked, frozen in place. What the hell was going on?  Human trafficking? My imagination was spinning. Damn it. The Dudley’s had an open door, never locked, come on-in  policy. Our dining room overflowed with  family and guests. My father, Duke, always sat at the head of the table conducting raucous dialogue, political debates and film critique while my mother excused  overdone leg of lamb. Martha Stewart she wasn’t especially after her second Dewars and water. Three phone lines constantly ringing, our annoying cocker spaniel barking, friends swimming in the pool and someone passing out in the back den after one too many.  Never a dull moment should have been engraved above the fireplace.

After my father’s untimely death my mother sold the house, perhaps too emotionally and hastily. She and I were the last to walk through the empty rooms.  I believe we collected two bags of pennies, dimes and quarters that had fallen into the chair and couch cushions. We were quiet, very, as we we turned, gave one another a hug, and didn’t look back.  

I guess you really can’t go home again. That taste is bitter.  

But you can go to your hometown again. Turns out, that’s unexpectedly, deliciously, sweet.   

 

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