Generosity

The surprising, personal and life-changing kind

January 1977 was exceptionally cold and snowy in New York City. To remind myself that warmth still existed, I taped a color photograph of the Spanish Steps cut from an old Gourmet magazine on the door of my fridge. One afternoon, an actor I’d been dating for a few months stopped by my apartment. Seeing the photo, he began reminiscing about his many adventures in Rome. When I told him I’d never been to Italy, or to Europe, he declared that unacceptable. “You have to go!”

I said I’d been hoping that 1977 would be my year, and Italy was at the top of my list. What I didn’t mention was that the reason I hadn’t yet gone was that I’d never saved enough money to travel outside the US.

The actor, Kevin, returned to California, where he lived part-time. But when Valentine’s Day rolled around, a mutual friend invited me for coffee. We spent time catching up, then as he stood to leave, he handed me an envelope. “I saw Kevin in LA, and he asked me to give you this,” he said. And with that he slipped out the door.

Inside I found a round-trip ticket to Rome.

No departure date was set (ticketing worked differently in that pre-computer era), but my name was on it. Along with a note from the travel agent who’d booked it saying that the trip must be of 3 to 6 weeks duration, and the ticket used within one year.

Kevin’s generosity astonished me. This was not how things were done in my Midwestern family, where money was tight and parental attitudes formed during the depression prevailed. My dad was a loving and generous-hearted man, but his idea of living large was letting us kids order milk with a restaurant meal rather than drinking it before we left the house.

I felt wild with excitement at the prospect of going to Europe, but also fearful. The whole thing seemed so improbable that I expected some disaster would prevent me from going. I was also keenly aware that, although I had a ticket, I didn’t have any money to spend while traveling. I didn’t even have luggage. The Samsonite I’d received for high school graduation had been stolen shortly after I moved to New York. Not surprising, given that this is a 70s story.

Nevertheless, I told everyone I knew that I was going to Rome that spring. When I informed Janie, one of my more practical friends, she asked what I planned to do about living expenses while there. I told her that I’d found some cheap hotels, and planned to eat soup in cafes or fruit and cheese from the markets. Although Janie was my age, she was an experienced traveler and said rather sternly that I would need to take money. The evening ended with her offering to lend me $2,000 and giving me some of her old luggage.

I accepted, and in early May I set off for Rome alone. Feeling flush thanks to Janie’s money and wanting at least to visit Florence, I booked my return for 6 weeks after departure. I brought along names supplied by writer friends and editors I had worked with. Everyone I called seemed to know someone.

One name that intrigued me was Harry Craig, an Irishman who had lived in Rome for decades. Although he had formerly earned his living writing radio dramas for the BBC (yes, there were such things), he later made a fortune writing screenplays for the film industry that Moamar Qadaffi, Libya’s tyrannical leader, grandly envisioned. Harry chose to spend the money from this enterprise holding a kind of nightly salon for young writers and artists passing through Rome at a glamorous and costly outdoor restaurant in the ancient Trastevere district.

I called Harry about a week after I arrived and he invited me to dinner that evening. I walked across the city along the Tiber and joined Harry’s 10 other guests– mostly Irish, English, and American. Afterward, as I thanked him he said “Come back any night. Or every night.”

The soirée had been dreamlike, festive, and the expensive fish a welcome switch from the bean soup I’d been living on since I arrived. So I made my way across the Tiber to join Harry and his friends almost every night I was in Rome.

Spontaneous invitations continued as I traveled up to Florence then down to Ischia, and I arrived home in July with $800 of Janie’s money unspent. When I returned it, I told her how lucky I’d been to have so many of my expenses picked up, often by people I had only just met. And I promised I’d repay the remaining $1,200 as soon as I could, though it might take a while.

She told me she’d prefer if I spent that money being generous to friends and acquaintances who had less money than I did. “That’s how you pay back people who’ve been generous to you. Didn’t you know?”

No, I did not. This had not been the lesson of my life thus far, but it struck me as a big-hearted and also very adult thing to do. So I resolved to follow Janie’s advice. I was fairly poor then, but I certainly had friends who were poorer.

A week later, Kevin called to say he was in New York. I told him I wanted to take him to dinner and tell him about the amazing adventure I’d had thanks to him. I named an excellent but modest Italian place in the Village that I could just about afford. As the evening approached, I realized I’d probably have a tough time wresting the bill out of his hand when it came time to pay. So I called the restaurant in advance and put the meal on the credit card I kept for emergencies.

When Kevin asked for the bill, the waiter murmured politely, “Sir, the charge has been taken care of.”

“By who?” Kevin asked, looking around. Because he was well-known, people in restaurants often surreptitiously paid for his drinks or meals.

“By the young lady,” said the waiter, smiling as he hurried off.

Kevin shook his head, I hoped in admiration of my having mustered the ability to respond in kind, in my own modest way. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s very generous.” Which was all I really wanted to hear.

Being introduced to what is now called “paying it forward” changed how I look at the world. Kevin, Janie, Harry, and a continuum of others showed me that generosity operates as a kind of magic, creating a flow of positive feelings that inspire wonder in the receiver while making the giver unforgettable.

Like what you’re reading? Click here to order my most recent book Rising Together, or How Women Rise, both are available from Amazon or from your favorite bookseller.