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The reason may seem far-fetched at first, but the more I thought about those thirteen years I spent working alongside and writing about the Los Angeles Police Department’s legendary homicide detective, John “Jigsaw” St. John – bearer of the LAPD’s Badge Number One – I found myself amazed at how those brutal, bloodthirsty killers he hunted, arrested and brought to justice in his beloved city often had the same friendly habits and relationships I did.

I realized my sweet coffee sanctuary had turned into an empty room half the size of a gymnasium that on this Friday morning had ten customers (I counted them) staring into or tapping on their laptops not far from four men lounging on couches staring at their cell phones.

Bonin was convicted of often of the murders linked to the “Freeway Killer” in two separate trials in 1982 and 1983. He spent fourteen years on death row before he was executed by lethal injection at San Quentin Prison 1996. He was the first inmate in California to die by this method. (California’s ‘Freeway Killer’ Executed.” February 23, 1996. Retrieved November 27, 2018.)

All of my guests had left but one – a friend I treasured because after our weekly doubles match, we’d find a shady spot under a tree and put down our rackets. Mary would fluff her sensible short haircut and light a cigarette. I’d take a sip of lukewarm coffee as we enjoyed the quiet space. The topics could range wild and free from books we were reading, the political scene, our goofy dogs or what our kids were up to.

Day One. Meeting Chef Laura was like shaking hands with the CEO of a large, multinational company. She managed to exude all at once an in-charge personality (even if the business was culinary), a pleasant Italian hominess with the edge of that tight-lipped fifth grade teacher who scolded you for keeping an untidy desk.

The drive to Casa Ombuto through the lush, magnificent countryside of Tuscany thrilled me: dusty, dirt roads, well-cared for vineyards, hundred-year-old estates brought up-to-date with swimming pools and tennis courts gave me hope that if the cooking didn’t pan out there was plenty to explore outside the classroom. I learned Casa Ombuto was owned by a wealthy, English businessman who used the cooking school as an investment he could also use to entertain clients.

The night before Jim and I departed Florence, I reminisced about our two-week adventure by reviewing photos wondering why my heart beat a little faster with some and why I wasted camera space with others. Why did I dig into my purse for photos of a construction site and only one of two monks conversing in Santa Maria Novella?

My love affair with books began before I could walk. The best part of the day was when my father would read to me. He’d help me turn the pages of a cloth book with buttons to button, shoelaces to tie and fuzzy creatures to touch. I was always more interested in my father’s questions than manipulating what was on the pages

On our fifth day in Florence, the sun shone bright and hot. Jim wanted to find a bench and read. I wanted to prowl and photograph. Across the street, half a block away I saw a walkway that led to a door, slightly open. I’ve never been able to resist an open door and peek inside. This time I went in.

By day two, our dream vacation to Italy felt more like Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown than a romantic interlude in our favorite city.
After almost an hour of Dominique’s grand tour of his Tiny Tim apartment, the moment had arrived for the presentation of his gift arrangement: a bottle of wine…