The small wooden casement window stood half open above the toilet, its four panes of thick glass barely held in place by the desiccated and cracked putty. Standing on top of the toilet seat, I reached toward the window and strained to turn the crank. I was confident that if I could get the window to open all the way, I could escape.

On the other side of the securely-locked bathroom door I heard the bustling sounds of one of Florence’s swanky restaurants. At a table for two, sat a hot-blooded Florentine gentleman, waiting for my return. I had inadvertently become his indentured date for the evening. I really had no one to blame but myself. As a seventeen-year-old spending the summer after high school studying painting and Florentine art history, my meager stipend did not provide the means to eat much more than bread, pasta, and maybe a salad now and then.

Many of the gaggle of men who followed me everywhere I went, whistling and flirting, let me know they were all too willing to take me to dinner. The thought of a multi-course meal sounded irresistibly tempting. It took me a while to understand that offers for dinner did not come out of pure generosity; they came with an unspoken price tag. The first two times, I managed to wiggle my way out of the price, explaining that I had a fiancé in Paris. Although my dinner suitors were none too happy, they let me off the hook.

This night, however, was a different story. I could find no excuse to protect me from the man waiting for me at the table, so I had no option but to flee. I studied the window above the toilet, scanning for the best route to get up onto its stone sill and then out the window— ironically a skill I learned from my father when he took me rock climbing as a young girl. I lifted my leg high above the toilet, with my mini skirt above my waist, and hoisted myself up to the window ledge.

From there I cranked the window open all the way and looked down, relieved to see it was a short distance to the ground. With my little red-leather Florentine heels in hand, I lowered myself to the street below and ran, not daring to look back.

After that episode, I stuck to bread and pasta.

Freshly graduated from high school in Germany and about ready to turn eighteen that summer of ‘66, I was blooming in a way I had never before. While I took painting classes and studied Renaissance art in Florence, there was still plenty of time for exploring the city. As I sauntered through the streets, a bevy of young men followed close behind. At first I found the attention flattering and dared to entertain the possibility that maybe I was more attractive than I realized. Those inflated thoughts evaporated in an instant when I observed how the paparazzi whistled at and followed any foreign female between the ages of fifteen to fifty. From then on, the attention became annoying.

One day, walking along the cobblestone streets, a man approached me and asked if I would agree to be filmed for a short soap commercial. When I hesitated, he said he would pay me a large sum of lira. Thoughts of eating something besides bread and pasta convinced me to accept the job. The filming took place on the old, romantic Ponte Vecchio Bridge, one of the city’s treasures. The director had me walk across the bridge in my mini skirt and heels, swinging my hips saucily, then turning around and throwing up my hands, head tilted coyly to one side, and saying in Italian, “Non so niente. I don’t know much about a lot of things. But I do know that this is good soap.”

By the 20th time, the director was finally satisfied and said it was a take. He handed me enough money to eat well for many weeks—and even enough to compensate for making a fool of myself and my gender.

In August I received a telegram from Jean Pierre (not his real name), urging me to join him in Turkey where he worked as an apprentice in international banking in a city called Izmir. I remembered from ancient Greek history class in the ninth grade that Izmir had been known as Smyrna when it belonged to the Greeks.

A plane ticket came in the mail. I packed my little blue suitcase and said good-bye to Florence, promising myself to return someday to this enchanting place. Ci vediamo, cara Firenze, la città più bella del mondo.

When I arrived in the tiny airport of Izmir, Jean Pierre was nowhere to be seen. I waited. And I waited. Maybe he had not received my telegram telling him of the change in the date of my arrival due to final exams for my classes at the University.

I had no idea where Jean Pierre lived or worked. To make matters worse, I couldn’t find my suitcase at the baggage claim and learned that it had been misplaced in Athens during the change of planes. As insurance, I picked up the remaining bag that had not been claimed; it was also blue and looked identical to mine. I figured it would give me more bargaining power in getting my own back. Beyond that, it wasn’t much use since it was locked.

As 10 pm approached, the small airport terminal began to close down for the night. I assessed my situation: no money, no address, no friend, no ability to speak the language, no knowledge whatsoever about Muslim countries. Not good.

I found a man behind one of the counters who spoke a little English and asked if he could help me. He listened to my plight then said, in halting and heavily accented English, that there was an American air force base in town where I might get some help from my compatriots. He pointed to a bus idling outside the terminal, saying it would be leaving for the base in a few minutes. I hopped onboard. To my relief, I found several American soldiers on the bus. I picked out one with a compassionate face and sat down next to him. When he heard my story, he took me to a hotel and bought me a room. I wonder if he’s expecting something sexual from me in return? Oh God, I’ll have to think up some way to avoid this. I did some fast-talking, saying I came to Izmir because Jean Pierre and I planned to get married soon.

It became apparent there was no need for pretense. The soldier gave me pure kindness, with no price attached.

The next day I got in touch with the police department and asked for help in tracking down Jean Pierre. My generous Air Force benefactor came to visit me for a couple hours to offer moral support. The rest of the time I spent roaming around the city alone.

Izmir, a beautiful port city bordering the Aegean Sea with mountains in the background, dates back to 3000 BC. The legendary Homer lived there in the Greek Ionian period. I walked along the palm-lined boulevards, watched the ships and yachts bobbing in the bay, listened to the periodic calls to worship emanating from loudspeakers in the minarets, passed tea shops with intoxicating smells of spices, and bazaars that sold exotic items.

The strange people and sights both fascinated and frightened me. The men who passed me in the street looked at me as though I had no clothes on. The head-scarfed women just looked away. I saw myself for the first time through their eyes—a young American woman, scantily clad in a flimsy Florentine blouse and a brightly-colored mini skirt that only covered three-quarters of her thighs, walking by herself—without a man. I became unbearably self-conscious. I had come to Turkey in an era long before easy international travel filled the city’s streets with tourists from around the world, clad in various styles of immodest clothing.

Since my below-the-knee-length skirts and pants lay neatly folded up in my errant suitcase in Athens, it seemed safer for me to return to the hotel and stay in hiding.

Meanwhile, Jean Pierre had received my telegram a day late. He too had put himself in touch with the police in an effort to locate me. After three days, we finally made contact. We were overjoyed at finding each other; our reunion was poignant and passionate.

After we managed to pull ourselves apart, Jean Pierre grabbed my hand and led me to the bank, right in the heart of the city, where he worked as an apprentice. We passed his office on the first floor and headed up the stairs to his little apartment on the third floor. Windows lined one wall with a view overlooking the Aegean Sea. Jean Pierre shared the suite of rooms with Alexandre, a Russian prince émigré residing in Paris who was also completing his apprenticeship in the same bank. Alexandre was a tall, thin reserved and serious young man whom Jean Pierre called “le prince” in jest to annoy him.

The next evening, Jean Pierre and I spent romancing in bed. He told me to take off all my clothes, that we should take a shower together. I felt terribly embarrassed and shy. What would Mummy and Daddy think if they saw me now? Maybe they wouldn’t object too much, otherwise Mummy wouldn’t have been so encouraging of the relationship in the first place. She must have known this would happen eventually. Besides, I was going to marry Jean Pierre. He had already said he wanted to marry me, so it was all right. In spite of my rebellious ways, basically I was still a “good” girl at heart, still under my parent’s influence.

After the shower, we rolled around together in the bed, twisted among sheets, arms and legs. Jean Pierre was passionate. I felt like a scared observer; this was uncharted territory for me.

As I watched Jean Pierre while his eyes were closed tight, I couldn’t tell if the contorted expressions and moaning came from pain or pleasure. His breathing became faster and faster; I could feel his heart racing against my chest. With all this intensity and concentration, I was positive something earthshaking must be about to happen—I just hoped it wasn’t a heart attack.

Unexpectedly, after some jerking movements that caused a sharp pain “down there,” Jean Pierre’s body became still and limp. I didn’t know what was happening or why he suddenly stopped. We lay quietly embracing as my mind churned. Is this it? Are we done? Geez, I’ve just been deflowered on the third floor of a bank in Turkey. Am I any different now than I was a few minutes ago? When people see me in the streets, will they be able to recognize that I am not a virgin? Is there some way you can tell?

As the days passed, through frequent and dedicated practice, I became less self-conscious and could begin to relax a bit and more fully participate, instead of leaving a watchful part of me on the periphery. My initial discomfort faded away, along with pretending that I was enjoying myself. There was no need to pretend—I was flooded with genuine pleasure. I especially loved the tender foreplay and wanted it to last even longer than it did.

After about four days in Izmir, during which time a successful suitcase exchange took place, we left to spend the rest of the time exploring the Turkish countryside in Alexandre’s Citroen Deux Chevaux, a tin-can car commonly driven by French students at the time. We were a quaint trio, filled with high spirits, sailing through the Turkish countryside with confidence, as if we had lived there our entire lives.

The exquisitely intense happiness I felt left me giddy and totally enraptured with Jean Pierre. We spent more time looking at each other than looking at the magical countryside all around us.

But when we did manage to take a break from gazing at each other, our eyes were further graced by the many Greek ruins, especially at Ephesus where the temple to the goddess Artemis stood and was considered one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Legend says that Amazon women warriors founded Ephesus in the 14th century B.C. St. Paul tried unsuccessfully to convert the goddess worshippers to Christianity in the first century AD. On the edge of Ephesus stood a small house that had been built for the Virgin Mary. St. John brought her there to live out the rest of her life after Christ died in 37 AD.

Certain images are forever burned into my mind: the many colorful gypsies we saw, the grieving Swedish man whose daughter disappeared in Turkey during their visit, the beggar children intentionally maimed to increase their earning potential, the bazaars in Istanbul, the Haggia Sophia and Blue Mosque, the dancing bears, our camel ride, the strange and exotic foods, faces, and smells.

That adventurous month with Jean Pierre, in August of 1966, was a truly enchanting time of my life in which I enthusiastically lost a part of my innocence.

At the end of the month, we began our journey back to France, through Greece and Italy in our rickety Deux Chevaux. We spent a few days at Jean Pierre’s elegant apartment in Paris and then drove to his family’s summerhouse in Étretat, on the coast of Normandy, noted for the dramatic cliff formations extending along the ocean and memorialized by Impressionist painters. It was truly La Dolce Vita, strolling along the beach, sipping brandy, and engaging in the art of good, French conversation—the height of sophistication.

Now the summer was slipping into September and coming to an end. Jean Pierre drove me to Paris where I caught the train back to Frankfurt, Germany. At the train station we had a tearful, heartrending goodbye, filled with last-minute promises. Jean Pierre gave me an engagement ring that had been a family heirloom.

My parents had already left Europe a month earlier to return to the States, so from the Frankfurt train station I took the trolley directly to the airport and caught the overnight flight back to the States. Lost in sweet reveries, the flight passed quickly. My father picked me up at the airport in Boston and drove me to Peterborough, New Hampshire, where my parents had rented a small, one-story frame house until they could find something more substantial to buy as my father adjusted to his new career as dean of students at Franklin Pierce College.

I settled in as much as possible in the short interlude before my next “mind blowing” experience began. It was a bittersweet time for me. I was pining for Jean Pierre. Yet at the same time, without any clear understanding of what awaited me, I readied myself to cross over a threshold and leave behind the life I had known in Europe. I flew to Ohio where I came face to face with the cultural tumult of mid-sixties America on the campus of one of the most liberal colleges in the country.