Love on the fly - author's trysts with other women when traveling for her job as a film critic

Travel is what I do. As a film critic I climb on and off airplanes heading to film festivals and lecture tours with a repetition that some would say qualities my life as glamorous. But believe me, the perks can pale beside the stress of packing suitcases, negotiating gate changes, and withstanding airborne oxygen deficiency. The one certain bonus in my travels is that I've always learned some important lessons about girls, whether one of a kind or one of a tribe.

Lesson 1: Location, location, location. My best stories date from my single days more than a decade ago. Imagine Cuba, for instance, in the early '80s, when the country was just starting to open up and homosexuality seemed an enticing taboo. One night a conspiratorial young man approached me on the patio of the old Hotel Nacional. He'd noticed me admiring his wife and offered to share her if he could watch. No thanks, companero.

But who could resist? In the end she and I hid in the back of the hotel gardens, where a steep drop overlooked the Malecon, Havana's bayside boulevard, deserted in the early-morning darkness. Out of sight of festivalgoers and husband, we enjoyed our own celebration--until a police car broke down on the road below, radioed for help, and quickly created a police roundup just 30 feet below our fevered kisses. With that, alas, the tryst abruptly ended.

Lesson 2: It's not as easy as it seems. The next year found me in Brazil, where the new Rio Film Festival was celebrating the country's imminent freedom from military rule, unspooling films as the congress ratified a new constitution. It was a thrilling time, and if I arrived with visions of sexy Cariocas dancing in my brain, I was not disappointed. My Brazilian friend Eunice took me out dancing with a posse of girls to an amazing place called the Seagull, its huge dance floor filled with gorgeous women sambaing. There were more women socializing at the surrounding tables, in the farther, more-intimate alcoves, and beyond, in the walled garden.

No gardens for me this time. I hooked up with a girl from our group on the dance floor and soon found myself patronizing one of Rio's many respectable rent-by-the-hour motels that cater to transient couplings--whatever their gender mix. There I was, in the middle of a round bed with a round of caiparinhas (the national cocktail) and a gorgeous woman who said, "My name is Susana." At least, I think that's what she said. At night everything was debonair; with the morning came the nightmare: She wasn't single, and she was already late for a tennis date with her girlfriend.

We spent the rest of my stay trying to get back together, while Susana's jealous lover guarded her full-time. My friend Eunice, disgusted with me, took me out for a drive and a lecture: "Don't you know the difference between sex and relationship? One is to blow off steam, get rid of that extra energy; the other is to get entangled but not with the same person you pick for fun! What's wrong with you Americans?" Ah, if only Eunice could be imported as a sex counselor for our U-Haul lesbian nation.

Lesson 3: Don't ask, don't tell. Older and wiser today, I still attend film festivals but find milder ways to blow off steam. In Toronto last year I sighed indulgently when awakened in the middle of the night by groans and moans next door. As screams escalated, though, I got scared. What was that man doing to that woman, anyway? I contemplated calling the concierge at 4 A.M. but in the end gave myself a stern talk about consensuality and fell back asleep.

In the morning, though, they started up again. This time, dressed and in daylight, I was determined to act. I found a young housekeeper in the hallway: "What kind of couple is this?" I asked. "Does the man look threatening? Did you see them this morning?" The girl looked at me in wonderment: "But it's two ladies there," she explained. "It's the Filipina actress and her manager!"

Argh! My do-good concern had led me to out two women. That night I told the story to my pals at the festival's Gay Flambe party and suffered the reactions to my behavior: Too little! Too much! Too late! Failing miserably by everyone's standards, I realized that this old warhorse has something left to learn.

COPYRIGHT 1999 Liberation Publications, Inc.
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