they both have boundless energy!
On the subject of “cougars,” I also became friends with Sylvester Stallone’s colourful mother, Jacqueline, who had married a surgeon, Stephen Levine, who is Sly’s age. I attended a few events with her, sometimes in the company of her other singer-songwriter son, Frank. Our friendship endures today, and at ninety-five Jacqueline is my role model for how to maintain a lively existence and never stop learning new things. Between her astrology, French, tap dancing, and piano lessons, this woman is a marvel!
Another friend, Lili Fournier, whom I knew from Toronto, invited me to a fundraiser at the elegant Spanish-style home of Antonio Banderas. There we were joined by Shirley MacLaine and Deepak Chopra, among others. I seated myself on Antonio’s patio and held his fluffy cat on my lap, but alas, Antonio, my dashing heartthrob hero of Desperado and Zorro, whom I had once conversed with in Spanish at a Beverly Hills fundraiser, was nowhere to be found. His wife, Melanie Griffith, chain smoking and looking terribly thin, remembered me from Acapulco and explained that her husband was out of town.
• • •
My time in California was not just a whirl of social events. Every day I diligently sang and played my guitar as, although not as tough as classical pieces, memorizing all my lyrics and songs required for a full program was still a challenge. In the fall Srdjan and I had a successful nine-city tour of Ontario, enjoying our new repertoire, the familiar visits to my parents’ Etobicoke home, and the warmth of our Canadian audiences. I was gaining confidence as a singer and kept thinking how much more fun I seemed to be having onstage compared to when I was a soloist. Of course I had enjoyed immensely the years as a purely classical player, but this was a lovely change.
Srdjan had been a godsend, helping me launch this exciting new chapter in my career, as had Peter Bond, who produced the albums and the tracks we often sang along to. They met each other for the first time at my parents’ house and we shared humorous stories over cups of tea and sips of my mother’s favourite sherry.
Regretfully, I knew that my time playing with Srdjan was coming to an end. He had a full-time job in New Jersey and had hinted that he was not always going to be free to come to California for rehearsals even though I had always paid for his expenses. I felt bad for him; I had been very aware that my moving west could jeopardize our performances. We had a short run of dates already booked, but I thought I had better make a back-up plan and try to find an alternative duo partner in Los Angeles, the city that I presumed would now be my forever home.
Unfortunately, after months of searching the huge metropolis it proved almost impossible to find a classical guitarist who also sang! I started to learn a few folksy songs, such as Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne” and Bob Dylan’s “Mr. Tambourine Man” with a former hippie, James McVay, who lived up in the hills of Topanga Canyon. We enjoyed making music together, but his voice lacked the husky richness of Srdjan’s, and James was not really a classical player. Inspired by my idea of perhaps forming a Peter, Paul and Mary–style trio with Jim, Srdjan agreed to fly out to L.A. and we all became excited hearing how wonderful our three blended voices and guitars sounded together. Peter, Paul and Mary had ceased to be since Mary’s illness, and there was no end of beautiful songs of theirs to arrange. But despite my efforts to find a good U.S. manager or agent to represent us, I failed to make the right connections. I also knew that the logistics of dealing with three schedules and geographical locations were going to prove an insurmountable challenge. Looking back, I realize just how impractical an idea this had been from the start. Our lovely folk trio, just like Alexandre Lagoya’s envisioned guitar quartet of the seventies, died an untimely death.
Finding a good booking agent and duo partner was proving impossible, and I was once again feeling unsettled. I concluded that I needed to find a new home. My inner conflicts about where to live began to gnaw away in both my waking and sleeping hours. The insomnia, which had plagued me for years, grew worse, and my family doctor prescribed the sleeping pill Ativan, to which I inevitably became addicted. After foolishly deciding to quit it cold turkey, sleep eluded me for four days, and I became agitated, weepy, and paranoid, convinced that I was about to lose my mind! I sobbed to my parents that I needed to come home. Something was definitely wrong with me. Only resuming Ativan and gradually reducing the dosage kept me sane and allowed me to wean myself off the drug. My family doctor confessed to me that he too was addicted to this particular sleeping pill, also known as Lorazepam, and had been trying unsuccessfully to quit.
What was I doing battling Los Angeles’ grid lock traffic, paying a fortune in rent, and living so far away from my family? After all my agonizing in Connecticut a year earlier, had I made a huge mistake in returning to this perplexing City of Angels?
10
My Father’s Passing
At around this time, my friend Helen Gurinow, who ran the Canadian consulate in L.A., invited me to the premiere of a new film about Glenn Gould. I had recently been asked to write a book review to be printed on the back cover of The Secret Life of Glenn Gould, by Michael Clarkson, so after immersing myself in Gould’s life for a few days I was keen to see the documentary by Canadian director Peter Raymont.
A specific moment in the film somehow triggered another of my life’s epiphanies. It showed Gould, whose phenomenal performances had conquered adoring crowds in Moscow, driving back alone to Lake Simcoe through the Ontario countryside. It all looked so very familiar to me. If Glenn Gould could tour the world yet still love coming home to Canada, why couldn’t I? That was the exact moment when I understood that I was destined to return home, and tears welled in my eyes. The very next day I composed a heartfelt song called “Home to the Shores of Lake Ontario.”
A month later, Srdjan and I had more concerts booked in Ontario. As usual, we also visited my parents, and I played the song for them. I sensed their approval — their eldest daughter would be returning home after twenty years of living in the U.S.
Although I felt it was time to return home, my plan was not to completely uproot myself from America. Rather rashly, I decided that I would buy a winter retreat in Florida. I could divide my art, clothes, and household goods in two and live the “Canadian snowbird” lifestyle — spending summers at home, close to my family, while still being able to escape the long Toronto winters.
I flew to Palm Beach, where I knew nobody, stayed at the Chesterfield Hotel, and gave myself and a randomly picked realtor three days in which to find the casita (small house) of my dreams. Somehow nothing felt right, and as my time ran out I despaired. Fortunately, at the very last hour of the last day, my future house materialized, thanks to a guided moment when I smiled at a realtor whom I spotted in her office window on Worth Avenue an hour after closing time. She returned my smile, which encouraged me to go in and introduce myself. Miraculously, something had just come on the market that was not yet listed!
It had been the former home of Mary Alice Fortin, a much-admired philanthropist and the mother of actress Stockard Channing and of Lesly Smith, the former mayor of Palm Beach. The fates were kind to me, or perhaps the dear old lady answered my constant prayers. Within a week, the house with its tiled floors, soaring ceilings, Spanish archway, and courtyard of agave plants, geraniums, cacti, bougainvillea, and white statuary was mine.
It was the first house I had ever owned in the U.S., and I knew it would make me feel good to own a small part of America. The special powers that had once helped me buy what I considered to be the most beautiful lakefront house in Toronto were obviously still working!
• • •
In April of 2011 I flew with Srdjan to perform in Hull, Quebec, and then to Cuba for some of Bill Evanov’s Jewel Radio–sponsored concerts in Varadero. My sister, Vivien, tagged along to Cuba, where we celebrated her birthday and had fun strolling around cigar-scented Havana, soaking in the unique
