It was the sixties. San Pedro, California. I was married to Paul at the time, and we lived across the street from Paul’s parents, high on a hill with a wide view of the L.A. Harbor. My mother-in-law had immigrated from Russia and spoke fluent Russian, so whenever there was a Russian ship in the harbor, the harbormaster would hire her to translate for the captain. That was how Paul and I came to visit on a Russian ship. We had lunch with the crew, a greasy borscht. They gave me a red star pin for the Russian Revolution, and another pin that said 1918-1968. After lunch, they showed us around the ship and we got to visit in the crew quarters. A bunch of Russian sailors crowded with us into a little cabin with tiered bunk beds. We all huddled around a tape recorder. They inserted a tape, and we listened to “I Want to Hold Your Hand” by the Beatles, sung in Bulgarian. We all danced around.

Paul and I held hands, and it was our song after that.