PAMELA G. 2002

Pamela and I lived together at George Mason University in the spring of 1996. This picture was taken on October 2, 1996, at the start of my 21st Birthday Celebration. We began the night by cooking dinner at the School Street House as a preemptive apology for what we were about to do their home. This was one of the happiest nights of my life.

In 2001 she was living in Los Angeles.

Pamela sent this on September 11, 2002 from Florida where she was living with her husband.

September 10, 2001:

We decided to go out for dinner because my new roommate, Ali, was still unpacking (as if anyone actually needs a reason to go out for dinner in LA). My usually perfect, retro-style apartment was scattered with cardboard boxes full of Cornell memorabilia and balsa wood scale models of satellite attachments that Ali, a recent Electrical Engineering graduate, was working on for his new job at Boeing. My cat, Milo, was hiding behind the television, batting at the cord. It was a normal night, and my parents’ last night in LA. They were visiting from Florida, trying to convince me to move out of what they considered to be a "dangerous city" filled with "lowlifes" to Naples, where the most serious threat is being hit by a senior citizen that can’t see over the steering wheel. Mom and Dad weren’t exactly thrilled by the glitz and glitter (strippers and hustlers) of Hollywood, a surreal earthquake experience in their hotel room, or the fact that I was still limping from a serious motorcycle accident. They were somewhat heartened by the fact that I’d asked Ali to move in. After all, Ali was the type of guy that could be trusted. A good-looking French-Moroccan that used to live on the first floor of my building, Ali was intelligent, hard working and philosophical. His Muslim beliefs, and wonderful parents, kept him from drinking, womanizing and generally, experiencing "too much" of the real LA. In short, he was just the kind of guy that they wanted watching over their daughter, and the only reason that they didn't forcibly remove me from the city.

But back to dinner. We went to a great Italian restaurant down the street and stuffed ourselves with pasta, pasta and more pasta. I drank two glasses of red wine, which I normally reserve for the most and least special occasions, and immediately felt my eyes getting heavy. Oh no! I was taking mild painkillers for my broken knee, and forgot the doctor’s advice not to mix them with alcohol. Typical me. Regardless, we’d had a full week, I had to work in the morning, and my parents were due to at the airport at five a.m. to return their rental car and make it on time for their early-morning flight, so we decided to call it quits. We left the restaurant early. They put me, half-asleep, in their rental car, and took me home. I kissed Mom goodnight and told her to call me when she got home. Dad walked me in, joked with Ali about his rhyming first and last names ("What kind of parents name their kid Ali Squalli? That's mean.") and gave me a big Dad-style squeeze. I told him, out of force of habit, to have a safe trip (that’s what we always say in my family when someone is leaving, it didn’t hold any special meaning) and closed my eyes. I didn’t open them until the next morning, when my parents called from LAX telling me that their flight had been canceled, and oh my God, wake up my roommate and turn on the TV….